Dream of You (3 page)

She laughed, picturing asking the management
team at Aspire if they wanted to pull espresso and serve cookies.
If they knew their former CEO and founder was doing precisely that,
they'd have panicked, wondering if their stock was devaluing.

It wasn't. The company was as healthy as
ever. She didn't work with them any longer, in any capacity, but
since she still owned a hefty chunk of stock in Aspire she kept
track of how it did.

Not that she needed to—she had more money
than she knew what to do with. But as much money as she had, she
didn't have the one thing she really wanted.

"Call me if you need help out here," Eve said
as she headed back to the kitchen.

Kristin waved at her and smiled at another
patron. She chatted amiably with the woman as she prepped her
latte—skinny, with vanilla syrup.

She loved it at Grounds for Thought. The
patrons were nice, she loved Eve, and Eve's friends had taken her
into their fold. She felt like she belonged. At Aspire, she'd
always been the boss. Here, she was one of the girls.

She liked that. She hadn't been one of the
girls since high school. She was thirty-eight now.

Which meant she didn't have that much time
before her window of opportunity for having a child closed. She'd
do whatever she had to—even a turkey baster, if that was what it
took. But
she
wanted to pick the man who'd father her child.
In person, not from a catalog. She wanted to get a feel for him and
know that he was smart and kind.

Rob Cray was the one.

It was her own fault that she'd reached this
desperate point. From the time she'd dropped out of college she'd
been engrossed in building and growing Aspire, a high-end web
development company. Now Aspire had offices around the world and
was known as the best at what they did.

But the cost had been great. In her twenties,
her biological clock had begun ticking. Instead of looking for a
guy to mate with, she'd stifled her clock, ignoring its
increasingly manic ticking.

Now it was a time bomb, set to self-destruct
at any second.

It was completely illogical, driven by a need
so deep and elemental that even though she didn't understand it,
she couldn't question it.

In her circles, it was completely un-PC to
want to be a mom. She'd been groomed to work hard and be a career
woman, ruling the world one keystroke at a time. But she was done
with that. Her heart told her it was time to move on to the next
challenge, and that was being a mother.

It'd be the greatest thing she'd ever do,
too. She was going to rock it.

She just needed to get pregnant. With Rob
Cray's help, if she had anything to say about it.

Jennifer breezed into the sound booth,
looking like the cat that ate the canary. "Are you ready for
Ladies' Night
, Taylor?"

It was only because Sam knew he'd put himself
into this situation that he didn't tell her where she could stick
her program. Instead he glared at her and went over the lineup one
more time. The highlight was Lola Carmichael, a romance
novelist.

Jesus H
.

Jennifer punched his shoulder. "Don't mess
this up, Taylor, or you'll never see sports ever again."

"I love incentives," he said as she walked
out.

If only he could be angry with her. Problem
was, this was his fault, so all his anger was directed at
himself.

His cell phone rang. Fishing it out of his
pocket, he answered when he saw it was Madison. "Hey, honey. What's
up?"

"I just called to wish you good luck with
your new show."

His heart swelled. She'd done that to him
constantly since the moment she'd been born. "Thanks. You can't
listen."

"Oh, yeah, I can." She lowered her voice.
"Steven is over, so she won't notice."

Steven was Chelsea's new boyfriend. Frankly,
Sam didn't care what his ex-wife did, except when she did it around
his daughter. The guy seemed nice enough, but he wished Chelsea
would be more discreet around Madison. Madison was already
precocious enough on her own. "Are you in your room?"

"Where else would I be?" There was a pause,
and he pictured her rolling her eyes. "So I've been thinking about
your new show."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"I have to. You're my dad. Anyway, I think
this is a good thing."

"You do," he said flatly.

"Well, yeah. It'll help you get in touch with
your feminine side. I love you, but sometimes you're all football
and man stuff."

"Have you been watching Oprah?"

She laughed. "Oh, Daddy, you're so retro
sometimes."

That probably wasn't a compliment, but he'd
take it to hear her laugh. Her laughter was the greatest sound in
the world.

"I just want you to be happy, Daddy."

He closed his eyes and breathed. She always
did that to him—made him feel that softness right in the middle of
his chest. "I'm happy. Don't worry about me, honey."

"I can't help it."

It was moments like this when he worried that
the divorce had made her grow up too fast. Sometimes she sounded
more sophisticated than he was. A kid wasn't supposed to worry
about her parent, right? But how the hell was he supposed to know
what a kid sounded like?

She suddenly said, "I hear Mom."

"Go. I love you, Madison."

"Love you too, Daddy!" And the connection
ended.

That was it. He had to make this work, even
if it meant pandering to lovesick women all week. He tucked his
phone in his pocket and studied his program notes.

The door to the sound booth opened, and a
blonde with big blue eyes poked her head in. He couldn't see
anything below her shoulders, but everything above looked
right
.

"Excuse me, is this
Ladies' Night
?"
she asked.

Did the rest of her match that sexy voice? He
sat up at attention. "Yeah. I'm the host."

"You?" She looked him up and down.

What? He frowned. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you. If I wanted
someone to beat up my ex-boyfriend, you're the one I'd call."

It should have been a compliment, but coming
from her bowed lips, it sounded more like a slam. Which was damn
disappointing, because he really liked the look of her.

"I thought Sam Taylor was a woman," she
said.

"I'm all male, sweetheart."

"I can see that." She gave him an all-over,
candid appraisal that would've had a lesser man blushing.

Okay, she wasn't immune to him either. That
was good.

Although he didn't know why it was good. He
shouldn't have cared one way or the other. If this thing with
Jennifer had taught him anything, it was to stay away from
women.

He had a feeling that'd be a hard resolve to
keep around this blonde. "Look, I have a show to run, so if you
tell me who you're looking for I can help you find him."

"I'm looking for you." She stepped
inside.

He'd been right—she was
hot
. Tall.
Curvy in all the right places and then some. She wore white jeans,
a red top, and heels that made her already long legs obscene.

They were the type of legs that men imagined
wrapped around their waist.

Sam moved his tongue in his mouth to make
sure he hadn't swallowed it.

As if she could read his thoughts, she heaved
a sigh. She sounded more exasperated than flattered—and why not?
She was the type of gorgeous that probably dealt with men ogling
her all the time.

He didn't like that thought.

Then she surprised him by saying, "I'm Lola
Carmichael, your guest."

"The romance writer?"

She rolled her eyes. "Duh."

He grinned, liking her spirit. For the first
time all day he felt hopeful. Maybe this program was going to be
more entertaining than he'd thought. He pointed to the chair across
from him. "Please have a seat."

She arched her brows at his polite request.
He expected her to make a wise-ass remark, but she surprised him by
taking the chair, all calm grace. She looked around the sound
studio. "What do I do?"

He gave her a quick rundown, pointing out her
microphone and telling her he'd ask a few questions and then they'd
take calls. He hoped she couldn't tell how her soapy scent made him
want to burrow his face into her skin and inhale her. Or the way he
became a blathering idiot every time she focused her blue eyes on
him.

There was a knock on the door. It opened to
reveal a gloating Jennifer again. "Are we all set?"

"This is Jennifer Simmons, the program
manager," Sam explained, leaving out some of the other titles he'd
given her this past week. "Jennifer, Lola Carmichael."

Jennifer came in and shook Lola's hand.
"Lola, I'm a big fan of your books. I loved the end of
Time
After Time
, when Jesse kidnapped Sarah and held her hostage
until he convinced her he really did love her."

Seriously? Sharkie Jennifer, in her
conservative suits, was a romance reader? He shook his head, not
because he didn't believe it, but because he hadn't known it and
he'd been intimate with the woman. She was right—he really was a
jerk.

Lola smiled warmly. "I loved writing that
scene. Too bad guys aren't really like that, huh?"

They both looked at him like he was lacking.
He knew they were right, but still. "Hey. I resent that
remark."

Jennifer made a derisive noise, but Lola
couldn't hide her grin.

"I'll leave you two at it." Jennifer gave him
a death stare. "Don't screw this up."

"Thanks for the pep talk," he called after
her.

Lola leaned back in her seat, arms crossed.
"Did you guys date before?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Because she's angry at you for more than
taking the last candy bar from the lounge vending machine."

As if he didn't feel bad enough about the
situation. "How can you tell?"

"I build characters." She shrugged. "Some
things are obvious. Like it's obvious you're a stereotypical
playboy."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You go through women without any regard for
their feelings. You make them feel like they're the center of your
world, get them to believe you want to spend forever with them, and
then you dump them and move on."

He didn't know how to react. Should he be
indignant or ashamed? One thing was sure: she'd hit a little too
close to home. "And writing pulp teaches you this?"

"My books
rock
," she said proudly. "I
may not write the Great American Novel, but people enjoy my books.
I write for entertainment, just like Shakespeare."

"I hear they can train monkeys to produce
Shakespeare."

Her stunning eyes narrowed, and she leaned
forward. "You are a cretin."

"We're on in thirty," he said, knowing that
if he grinned she'd really get pissed. He couldn't help it—he felt
energized and alive, which was shocking after dreading the new
program all week. He put on his headphones. "Speak into your mic,
and this will be over soon."

"That's what
she
said." She adjusted
her seat closer to the console.

"Welcome to
Ladies' Night
," he managed
to say without gagging. "I'm your host, Touchdown Taylor—"

"Touchdown?" Lola repeated incredulously.

Only she said it right into her microphone,
just like he'd instructed. He frowned at her. "And this is Lola
Carmichael, writer of bodice rippers, friend of Fabio, and our
guest for tonight's show."

"Thank you,
Touchdown
." She stuck her
tongue out at him.

God save him from high-and-mighty women. "It
was a college nickname."

"It's just if you're hosting
Ladies'
Night
, maybe you'll want a different nickname. Touchdown gives
the wrong impression. Unless you score a lot." She leaned into the
microphone. "Don't you think so, ladies?"

He pulled her microphone away from her.
"We're here to find out about you, Ms. Carmichael, not to talk
about me."

She grabbed the microphone back. "But I'm
sure your audience wants to get to know you too. Isn't this your
first show?"

"For
Ladies' Night
? Yes."

"So what's a macho man like you doing in a
place like this?"

He had the urge to shake her—or push her down
and kiss her to shut her up.

Before he could reply, she turned her husky
voice into the microphone and said, "It's too bad you can't see
him, ladies. He's just like a hero from one of my novels. Tall,
dark, and handsome. His hair is mussed up enough to be sexy without
being unkempt, and he has those broad shoulders that make all of us
sigh in lust."

He only wanted one woman to sigh in lust, and
she was seated across from him.

"He has a strong chin too." She looked at him
thoughtfully, but then she shook her head. "I'm telling you, he's
wasted in radio."

"And you?"

She blinked at him, suspicious. "Me?"

"You don't look like any writer I've ever
seen."

"And how many romance writers have you
seen?"

Actually, none. "Danielle Steele lives in San
Francisco. You don't look like her."

"Of course not. She's old enough to be my
mother." Lola wrinkled her nose. "So what do I look like?"

Like his own personal heaven and hell. "Like
a showgirl, yellow feathers in your hair and a dress cut down to
there."

She leaned forward and pointed a threatening
finger at him. "Do
not
quote Barry Manilow to me."

He grinned, wondering if he could find that
track to play sometime in the next hour. "Is Lola Carmichael your
real name?"

"Yes, Lola Carmichael is my real name."

He could tell it was a sore subject for her
by the way her eyes went both icy and hot. He felt bad for poking
her in a soft spot so he changed the subject. "Tell us about your
latest book,
Here and Forever
."