Dream of You (4 page)

For a moment he didn't think she'd reply, but
then she said, "It's the story of a man and woman who are rivals
for the same job, but in their competition find love."

Sam snorted.

"What?" She frowned at him.

"Who got the job?"

"What does that matter?"

"No guy is going to hook up with a woman who
wins out over him."

Lola stuck her pretty nose in the air.
"That's not true."

"Yeah, it is. You might as well cut his balls
off. But then I doubt you write about real men."

"I do, too."

"Sure, sweetheart, whatever you say. They
probably bring flowers and candy in order to woo women," he said
scornfully.

"What's wrong with that?"

"It's bull"—he cleared his throat and pulled
back—"it's
hokey
, is what it is. You're giving women a false
sense of reality."

"I write about romance and true love. That's
real."

"Right." She looked like she might leap
across the table and strangle him, so he turned to his mic. "Let's
take some callers and see what they think. On line one, we have
Gina from Berkeley. Hello, Gina."

"Hi Gina," Lola echoed brightly as she shot
him an evil look.

"Lola, oh my God, I can't believe I'm
actually talking to you. This is so awesome. I've read all your
books, and I'm a huge fan."

"Gina, you obviously have excellent
taste."

Sam would have thought Lola was being serious
if he hadn't seen the self-deprecating smile on her face.

"When is your next book coming out, Lola? And
who's starring in it? I hope it's Louise." Gina sighed. "I've been
waiting for Louise to find her soul mate forever."

"Haven't we all?" Lola muttered. But into the
mic she said, "It's Louise this time, Gina. I think you'll like the
story a lot."

Sam frowned. She didn't sound convinced about
that. He wanted to point it out, but the look on her face bordered
on miserable. For some reason, he didn't have the heart.

So much for hard-hitting Touchdown Taylor.
Shaking his head, he said, "Thanks, Gina. Our next caller is
Jessica from Walnut Creek. Welcome, Jessica."

"Lola, is Sam really as hot as you
described?"

Smirking, Lola gave him a slow once-over. "If
you're into the Neanderthal type, he's as good as it gets."

Jessica gave a lusty sigh over the line.
"Sam, are you single? Because I think I could rock your world."

"Thanks for calling, Jessica," he said
quickly over Lola's laughter. "Next we've got Mike from San Jose.
Mike?"

"I had to call in, Touchdown," the gravelly
voice said. "Dude, what's this love crap you're talking about? When
are you going back to what really counts?"

"Some people think love
is
what really
counts, Mike," Lola said mildly.

Both he and Mike scoffed.

Lola pointed at him. "Love is the most
important thing in the world. That's why I write romance, to give
people hope and to remind them that it's possible to find
happiness."

"Sweetheart, you're profiting off people by
selling them a fantasy that doesn't exist."

"How dare you? I don't care about profits."
She sat up, her cheeks flushed.

She'd look like that while making love, but
he didn't need to dwell on that—at all. He shifted his legs, trying
to distract the part of him that
did
want to dwell on it.
"Of course you care about profits. You wouldn't do this if you
didn't make money."

"Yes, I would."

For some reason, he believed that she
actually meant that. "Then you're doubly delusional, for lying to
people as well as yourself."

"I'm not lying to anyone."

"About soul mates?" he said, spitting the
words out.

"Soul mates exist," she insisted. "My parents
were soul mates."

"Do you have a soul mate?"

She recoiled as if he'd slapped her.

He instantly regretted putting that pained
look in her eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologize when
she said, "It's obvious your idea of a soul mate is someone who'll
fetch your slippers for you."

The regret evaporated. "Nah. I'd rather her
fetch me a beer and the remote."

Lola leaned toward him. "Did I mention you're
a cretin?"

"Yes, and I'm sure you will again."

The caller cleared his throat. "Um, guys,
wouldn't it just be better to get a room?"

"
No
," he and Lola exclaimed at once.
They glared at each other as he patched through the next caller
without looking at the information. "Hello"—he looked at the
ID—"
Madison
?"

"Hi, Daddy."

Lola whirled in her chair to face him, brows
arched in question.

He shook his head. "Madison, this show isn't
appropriate for you."

"I know, but I'm eleven so you know I'm going
to rebel. Besides, I have a question for Lola."

Lola chuckled softly. "Go ahead,
Madison."

"Do your books have lots of sex in them?"

Jesus H
. Sam waved manically at
Lola.

Lola winked at him devilishly and then said,
"Yes, there's a fair bit of sex in my books. If you're eleven, I'm
not sure they'd be appropriate for you, but that's for your parents
to decide. Do you like to read?"

"Yeah. I read a lot of different things."

"But you're not reading Lola's books," Sam
interjected.

Madison gave the kind of exasperated sigh
only an eleven year old could. "
Daddy
."

"Goodnight, honey." He hung up, shaking his
head. God, he loved that kid, even when she tested him.

But he didn't want her head filled with
nonsense about true love and soul mates. He'd worked hard to keep
that Disney princess crap from infecting her. He wanted his
daughter to be strong and independent, not someone who needed to be
saved or who believed in fairy tales.

Lola watched him. He could practically see
the wheels churning in her head.

He didn't like it. It was like she was
measuring him—like she could see into him—and he didn't need Ms.
Romance going there. So he said, "Where do you get your
inspiration? Where do the ideas for your characters come from?"

She rolled her eyes, but when she answered,
it was gracefully. "From life. People I know, people I meet."

He snorted. "Manly paragons like the ones you
write about don't exist."

"Have you read my books?"

"Enough to know what I'm talking about." He'd
read the excerpt that was in the press packet.

"I suppose your idea of a real man is one who
grunts and scratches himself in public."

"My idea of a real man is one who takes care
of his responsibilities and protects the people he cares
about."

She blinked. "Well, I can't argue with that,
can I?"

"A smart man would end the show on that note,
and my momma didn't raise no dummy." He cued the awful theme music.
"Thanks for joining us, and until next time I'm Touch—Sam Taylor
with
Ladies' Night
."

As soon as the sappy theme music came on,
Lola shoved the microphone away. She should have felt irritated and
upset, but, truthfully, she felt exhilarated. She hadn't felt so
alive in forever.

She knew it was partly because he looked like
one of her heroes come to life. She hadn't been exaggerating when
she described him to that caller: Sam Taylor was knee-weakening,
panty-dampening
hot
.

Not that she was going to let him know she
thought that. So she stood and glared at him. "Is that how you
treat all your guests?"

He shrugged. "Yeah."

"You're a jerk."

"Was that in question?" He stood up, dropped
his headphones on the console, and reached out a hand. "Thanks for
coming by. Good luck with your book."

The
book
. She groaned. She didn't hype
it the way she was supposed to. Paul and her publisher weren't
going to be happy. "You didn't let me talk about my book!"

"Sure I did." Shrugging, he lowered his hand.
"You chose to attack me instead."

"I didn't attack you." She punched him in the
arm.

He didn't even flinch.

She knew the way these macho types worked—she
wrote about them, after all. "Don't think that by standing there
and looking hot you can get away with being a jerk."

"You think I'm hot?"

"Well, I'm not blind."

He stepped closer to her. He didn't touch
her, but she felt him all over. "You're not bad either."

What was she talking about? Oh, yeah. "The
interview was a mess. You barely asked me any relevant
questions."

"That's not true, sweetheart."

He said the endearment like a soft caress,
and she shivered at the feel of it. "Don't try to distract me."

"Trust me, sweetheart, if I were trying to
distract you, you'd definitely know it."

She snorted. She believed him, but he didn't
need to know that. He was cocky enough as it was. "So how did
Touchdown Taylor end up hosting a love line for women?"

His face was suddenly shuttered. "The execs
thought I'd raise the ratings."

Ah—it had to do with Jennifer. She almost
felt sorry for him. He was an idiot—what man wasn't?—but after
hearing him talk with his daughter, she knew he wasn't cruel. So
she said, "Your execs must be smoking crack."

The spark came back into his eyes.
"Careful."

For some reason, she didn't want to be
careful. She felt reckless, like she wanted to poke at the lion. "I
bet this is like time-out for you. What did you do? Come in to work
late? Piss off the wrong person?"

He reached out and hauled her into his chest,
his mouth on hers before his arms were around her.

The kiss was urgent.

Physical.

All-encompassing.

His hands clenched her to him, and for the
first time ever it felt just like how she wrote about it. Her toes
even curled.

He lifted her from her butt. Without thought,
she anchored her legs around his hips and grabbed his hair.

Whirling around, he pressed her to the wall.
She was surprised that he took care not to slam her. Then the only
thing she was aware of was the insistent ridge of his hard-on
against the vee of her legs.

It felt
good
. She wanted to feel more,
with less layers of clothing.

His hands slid up under her shirt—

And then her phone rang, the nuclear alarm
ring tone she'd assigned to Kevin after he'd broken up with her. He
called constantly, even though she never answered. She’d like to
think he was desperate to get back together, but she suspected his
insistent phone calls had more to do with him being desperate to
reunite with his favorite T-shirt, which still resided in her
closet.

She broke the kiss. Panting, she looked
around. They were one step away from getting it on in a sound room
without locking the door. "Stop."

He let her go like a hot potato.

She caught her balance on the wall, glaring
at him. He didn't have to be so eager about it. "Do you molest all
your guests?"

"Historically, my guests have had no necks
and were covered in hair. So, no." He raked his hand through his
hair. "And I didn't molest you. You molested me."

"You wish." She grabbed her purse and shot
him one more glare. "You are a cretin."

"You said that already. Twice."

"Well, I'm reaffirming it. See you never."
She lifted her head and marched out, aware of him watching her
leave. She put an extra swish in her hips, just so he knew what he
was missing out on.

When the door closed behind her, she slumped
against the first wall. "Oh. My. God," she muttered, shaking her
head to clear the still present drunkenness his kiss caused.

Sam "Touchdown" Taylor was dangerous. Good
thing she was never seeing him again. She'd already trusted one
selfish man with her heart—she wasn't foolish enough to repeat that
mistake.

Kristin kneeled on her hands and knees and
made kissy sounds.

There wasn't the faintest hint of response
from behind the trash cans, even though she'd seen the puppy duck
behind there, skittish, when she'd brought the garbage out.

It was the fourth sighting she'd had in the
past week. The poor thing looked thin and bedraggled—not like the
pampered Laurel Heights pooches with manicured paws and little
sweaters. She felt so sorry for it, instead of going home after
work, she'd come out here to look for it.

A stray? Abandoned? She didn't know because
she couldn't get close enough to check for a collar. He ran away
every time she got close.

Yesterday she had the brilliant idea to lure
him out with food, so she'd stopped at the
chi-chi
pet
boutique down the street and bought organic, homemade dog food.
What starved creature could resist a handout, much less a gourmet
one?

Kristin opened the bag and smelled it. Good,
actually. She popped a small piece in her mouth and chewed. She had
two older brothers—she'd eaten worse things in her life.

And the puppy food wasn't half bad. She
sprinkled a line of it out from the garbage cans to a foot away
from where she crouched. Then she made more kissy sounds, wiggling
her butt for good measure. Dogs did it—it must have meaning in
canine vocabulary. "Come on, big boy. I've got something here that
you want."

"What, precisely, is that?" a deep voice said
from directly behind her.

Startled, she tried to spin around but fell
on her butt instead.

Rob Cray stood above her. He didn't look as
kempt as he did in the mornings. His tie was missing, and his shirt
was unbuttoned at the collar. His normally impeccable hair was
rumpled, as if he'd run his hands through it countless times. Had
he had a hard day? She had the urge to embrace him and press a kiss
to his neck to wipe away the stress.