Together Again: Spirit Travel Novel - Book #4 (Romance & Humor - The Vicarage Bench Series) (20 page)

“Hello. Can I help you? Hel-lo! Who’s speaking?” She plainly heard a smile in his voice. Gathering her senses, not an easy task, she blocked out her nervousness and answered. “Sorry, it’s Ellie. Ellie Ward. I’m calling to offer you the interview you wanted about the bank incident in Chicago. I’ve changed my mind. I guess you’re right, and people are interested in what happened that…”

“Hold it! You were perfectly clear. No way were you comfortable sharing your story. I respect you for your stance and wouldn’t dream of taking advantage. But thanks for the call.”

“No, wait! Hold it! I’ve changed my mind.” What is wrong with the man? All he’d raved on about for the whole time she’d lived with him was getting this interview, and now he was spurning his golden opportunity?

“Actually, Ellie, I’m run ragged with the work I’m doing on the fire victims. The stories are going international, and I’m up to my ears getting the articles ready for the Chicago presses. Your section, what we discussed yesterday, will be the final segment.”

“Hold it! You’d actually give up the chance to break this sensational piece yourself—allow another to get the inside scoop?” She crossed her fingers after bringing out the big guns.

“We-l-l, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

Was that chagrin she heard in his voice?

“There’s a rather lovely restaurant, the Rhapsody, not far from your hotel. I thought we could meet there tomorrow, say at seven, for drinks and dinner, in a relaxed atmosphere, so to speak.”

“I could come to your office. No problem. It would be much better.” He spoke very quickly, the words shooting across the lines like projectiles from a Gatling gun.

“Troy! I hardly ever get a chance to go out for an evening, to dress up for a change. You’d be doing me a great favour by escorting me.”

A rather long hesitation followed. “Well, since you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

Exactly! “I’ll look forward to it. Ta-ra.”

His distant manner worried her, because she knew it went against his nature. But her persistence had worn him down. He would be hers for the evening. She hung up the phone and wiped her perspiring hands over her jean-clad knees. Now, she needed to find the perfect dress.

And let her bosoms do the rest.

Chapter Thirty-Three

While Troy walked Buddy before his dinner date with Ellie, he plotted the casual approach he would use later. She’d talked him into the coming date against his better judgement. He wished now that he hadn’t succumbed to the insecurity he’d heard in her voice. A woman with her looks? What the hell was that all about?

A man approached him. “Mr. Brennan, can I possibly have a minute of your time?” The fellow looked familiar.

“What can I do for you?” Troy’s pleasant attitude stemmed from his childhood lessons of the golden rule—treat others the way you’d like to be treated.

“My name’s Philip Butcher, Mr. Brennan.” His hand extended to Troy with the obvious intention of starting the conversation on a good note.

Troy shook the hand and then stepped back, his arms crossed as he waited.

“I’m a reporter with the
Manchester News
. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the fire at the Kingsly Boarding House, and how you saved Mary Conway from being burnt to death. It was a pretty heroic act—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it. I—”

“Mr. Brennan, most folks would have waited until the firemen arrived rather than take a chance on being injured themselves. People want to know what made you risk your own life to save an old woman, and furthermore a stranger.”

“I don’t care what people want to know. It’s my business, and I’m not sharing.”

Who the hell cares what others want to know,
he thought before he realized the irony. He could never explain the reasons for doing what he did. First of all, who would believe he had a sixteen-year-old angel lurking inside him, encouraging him to take the plunge and be a hero? And secondly, all his life he’d gotten into these kinds of situations where he’d jump in first and worry about the consequences later. Why would he share any part of this information? He’d look like an idiot who couldn’t mind his own business.

“Mr. Brennan, I don’t want to hound you, but I’d really appreciate a quote and some idea of what transpired during the rescue. If you don’t want to get too personal in the interview, that’s fine, but like I said, people are interested in what you were thinking and how it felt to be in a burning building.”

People are interested. They have a right to know
. How many times had he used those same words? Now he found himself on the other end of this particular spectrum. It was his turn to feel the discomfort and anger at having his affairs investigated. At having a perfect stranger approach him and take for granted his private feelings should be an open book.

He bent to pick up the whining pup that sensed his master’s ire. Cradling the furry mutt close, he faced the other man. He shook his head once, twice, and then sighed. But he still didn’t speak.

“Look, sir, it’s my job to ask you questions. We’ve gotten an interview with Ed and Mary. Therefore, we’ll run the story anyway, but it seems only proper to get your input before doing so. In my experience, fear makes most people react in a specific manner, like calling for someone else to help them rather than take a risk themselves. You didn’t do that. You acted on your own.”

“I didn’t act alone…” Troy stopped.
This guy is good.

Softness descended over the other fellow’s homely face, a face that again struck a chord somewhere in Troy’s memory. “You had help from above, sir?”

“You could say that.” Troy had to smile at the look of wonderment on the other man’s face.
He probably thinks I’m loony-tunes
, popped into Troy’s head. But the man surprised him.

“Wait’ll my son Archie reads this story. He keeps on about a man who turned out to be his angel, over a week ago. Seems the bloke saved him and a stray dog Archie was trying to protect from a bunch of hooligans. He told me how big the Yank was, and that he wore a leather…” A sudden light of recognition and gratitude flooded his face. “It were you! You saved my boy.”

“And ended up with the dog.” Troy’s large hand gently soothed the animal, giving lie to the tetchy tone in his voice. “Your Archie took off the minute he’d passed me the animal. Said his mom was
algeric
.” Troy’s grin took the sting from his words. “I’m still stuck with the bloody mutt.”

Shared laughter broke through the barriers. Philip Butcher sheepishly began. “Mr. Brennan—”

“Call me Troy.”

“Troy, then. My wife
is
allergic; Archie got it right. We can’t own a pet. The lad knows this to be true, because there’s a cat lives next to us and periodically sneaks into our garden. My wife has a terrible reaction, gets sicker than a dog—no pun intended. Otherwise, we’d likely end up with a whole kennel if Archie had his way. I could try and find a home for the doggy, if it’s a real bother.”

“Actually, I think I have found a good home, but thanks for the offer. Philip, about the story, I did what I had to do. If you had seen the agony on the old man’s face when he begged for help to save his wife, no doubt you would have done exactly the same. Please, write the article, but I’d rather not say anymore.”

“Thank you, Troy. I will write it, and as hard as I find it not to elaborate, I will respect your wishes. Oh, and I’ll tell me boy I’ve had a chat with you.”

“Thanks for understanding. Tell Archie not to worry. His little buddy will be well looked after.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Holy Cow! She looked gorgeous! Trouble with a capital
Oh-oh!
stared him in the face.

He’d been waiting at the bar and watching the entrance, on his second bottle of courage when a stunning lady arrived. Casually, he’d glanced her way, and then swivelled back toward the counter, not recognizing her. However, unable to resist looking at any beautiful woman, he’d double-checked in the mirror and realized his mistake. The doll in the low-cut, slinky black dress was his date for the next few hours.

It was going to be a long night.

His thoughts rioted while sweat accumulated in his hands. His collar shrank one size.
This is one mean joke!
Hesitant to turn and collect her, he didn’t move. She’d done something different with her hair. The rioting red-gold curls were piled on top of her head and secured with black ribbons. At various places wavy strands had been allowed freedom to frame her face.

Her beauty transformed from lovely to dramatic. Luminous amber eyes, the very ones that held him mesmerized the day before scanned the place. Many people waved her way to acknowledge the town’s star. Troy’s overpowering instinct screamed
Run—Fast.

A pep talk seemed necessary. Get a grip, Troy. That gorgeous creature is your date. Act the man, not a scared chump, and while you’re at it, get the story you’ve been after all along. He squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and approached her cautiously.

The smile she flashed in greeting all but took him to his knees.
Oh, shit! He was in big trouble.
Her hand gracefully lifted towards him. He gripped hard, pumping it like he would another man’s. Then he dropped it quickly, just barely stopping himself from shaking off the sparks resulting afterward.

His eyes fixated on the wickedly enticing neckline of her dress. He felt positive the garment had been seeded and cultivated right on her body. How else could she have gotten into it? Her breasts beckoned—soft luscious globes of pure sweetness. “Miss Ward. Pleased to see you.”

Aware of where his eyes lingered, and that his particularly dim-witted choice of words had brought a wicked smile to her lips, his composure crumbled. He blushed and felt sixteen again.
What a schmuck!

“Call me Ellie, Troy. You did at our last meeting. I feel as if I’ve known you for a very long time, so let’s not be formal.”

“I wouldn’t presume, Miss Ward. After all, you’re famous and I’m, uh, just me. It’s best we keep focused. The maître d’ promised us a table by the fountain as soon as he knew you were my guest. I believe it’s this way.”

He waved his arm in the direction of the ornate marble statue decorating a huge birdbath in the middle of the spacious room. Water jetted to the centre of the bowl from three or four different directions. Hidden lights shone on the sprinkles and in the dim setting turned them into sprays of effervescent diamonds.

Before he could say another word, the restaurant owner himself approached Ellie to fawn. He guided her to their table, pulled out her chair, and blathered on about how she graced his premises.

Troy grinned and watched her frustration heighten. He had to give it to the classy lady; she didn’t let on how uncomfortable this over-the-top treatment made her feel.

“Henry, thank you. My friend Mr. Brennan and I have looked forward to eating your wonderful food and enjoying your restaurant’s discreet ambience. Troy, this is Henry Scott, an old school chum and a wonderful restaurateur.”

The two men shook hands, and Troy’s antennae picked up on the other man’s attraction to Ellie. Pulling out his own seat, he turned to her, stunned by the hunger he happened to catch in her glance before she lowered her head to the large leather menu.

God, he hoped food sparked that craving. As a man of the world, he knew better.

He waited until they were alone and asked, “Can you recommend anything?”

She didn’t answer.

Her soft skin glowed from the fountain’s special effects. The illumination filtered a miasma of flickering light that mesmerized, enhancing the white skin of her graceful neck and shoulders, and especially the ivory valley between her pronounced breasts.

His fingers worked at the collar of his shirt, and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for deciding against wearing a tie. His dress shirt and leather jacket constricted him enough without the discomfort of even more tightness. He removed the jacket, hung it on the chair, and, without thinking, began rolling his shirtsleeves up.

Enough time had passed since he’d asked his question, and he cleared his throat.

Catching his hint, she looked at him and spoke, her low voice husky and, for some strange reason, oddly familiar.

“Everything here is good.” She put the menu down and dazzled him with the full effect of her avid gaze, her eyes a soft green weaving throughout dreamy brown. Her smile, inviting his response, captured, beguiled—enchanted.

“I’m glad you agreed to come with me tonight. After rushing to finish my last book, get it edited and to the publishers for deadline, I haven’t had many chances to relax. When we’re in the final phase of publication, my life gets pretty crazy. Also, I’ve been doing some plotting for my next novel, but so far the ending eludes me. For the first time in my life, I’m blocked.” The twinkle in her eye, and her wry grin let him know it didn’t concern her terribly.

“Dr. Troy’s diagnosis is meltdown from overwork. It’s happened to me once or twice in my career, so I get it. No one in our business goes unscathed, but professionals always work their way through, and you are an expert in your genre. How many best-sellers have you written so far?”

“I knew you’d make me feel better. You have a wonderful way with words.” Not wanting to sound like a braggart, she ignored the last part of his question. Instead, she reached across the expanse of white linen, moved the candle, and stroked his hand.

He jumped like a scalded cat, gave her hand one clumsy pat, and swiftly put both of his under the table where he could white-knuckle them.

He glanced up and saw the hurt flare in her previously flirty eyes. Ranging through his mind for a different subject, he finally spoke. “I understand you’ve spent many hours with the old folks lately. They’re full of stories about how you’ve been coming to visit each of them, along with the contractor you’ve hired. It’s a great plan, asking for their preferences before rebuilding.”

“I’m astounded by these people. After losing everything they own, at their age, you’d think they’d be devastated, but it’s just not so—not with most of them, anyway. They mourn their precious items and irreplaceable photographs somewhat, but their biggest sorrow is the heartache from missing their mates who passed on. It’s like they were all one big happy family. And they’re grieving for what matters most—not things, but friends.”