Seducing His Heart (10 page)

Dumpling barked as Bess entered the
apartment. She leashed the small dog and immediately took her for
her nighttime walk.

* * * *

Whit closed the door and
yanked at his tie.
God, I hate these
things.
He pulled it off and unbuttoned
his shirt.
Can’t believe I’m getting
undressed alone after a dinner like that. She’s so hot, but off
limits. She wants it all. Marriage.
He
pictured a messy house with screaming infants, toddlers running
wild, pots overflowing on the stove, and Bess long gone. A shiver
ran through him.
No way!

He took off his clothes
and sat in T-shirt and boxers in his living room with the newspaper
and a glass of brandy. After skimming the headlines for anything
new and finding nothing, he put it down.
Saw it all at the station.

An image of a beautiful, buxom Bess in an
immaculate house, holding a gorgeous, golden-haired infant danced
through his head. She was beaming, her blonde hair shining. He
entered to a big welcome from her and the baby, who cooed and
smiled at him. Bess gave him a sexy kiss and put the child to bed.
He envisioned a romantic dinner for two in their cozy home and an
amazing strip tease by her afterward before he jerked back to
reality. He laughed at himself.

Was Bess right? Do I want the family I never
had? Maybe. If I could get a guarantee. If a wife could swear she’d
never leave or die before her time. That might be different. But
that’ll never happen. Besides, who could live with a confirmed
bachelor like me?

He snorted once and grinned. After washing
up, he stretched out on his king-sized bed, folded his arms behind
his head, and stared out his floor-to-ceiling windows. The moon was
full. The lights of Manhattan twinkled at him, mocking him, shining
out from hundreds of thousands of homes, many with families. His
mind wandered to the apartment next door.

Is she in bed? What does
she sleep in? What color was her underwear tonight? Was it lace?
Did she wear a thong? Is she naked and alone right now?
He couldn’t stop thinking about her and fell
asleep wondering how it would feel to make love to Bess.

In the morning, Whit arose at six, showered,
dressed, and grabbed a bowl of cereal with his coffee before
heading to work early. Though he wasn’t expected until noon, he
often showed up before then to work on his book or write a few
freelance stories for publication in magazines. His producer didn’t
object, and he had all the services of the station at his disposal.
He was all business, listening to the news on the radio to get a
jumpstart on his day.

At seven thirty, he opened
the door.
Bess doesn’t take Dumpling out
until eight.
He glanced at her door and
smiled. He had enjoyed talking to her at dinner. She was a better
listener than any other women he had dated.
Models, always so full of themselves. Steer the conversation
around to them, their next job, who stole the cover of
Cosmo
from under their
nose, and what clothes they’ve bought. Damn boring.

When he entered the studio, the place was
buzzing. Seemed as if there had been a big fire in Brooklyn, a
shooting in Newark, and the whisper of a scandal in the police
department. Whit greeted his fellow workers and settled down at his
desk. As an on-air person, he had a small office with a door
instead of a cubicle. His phone rang.

“
Pickford Williams, here,”
came the introduction when he answered.

“
Hey, Pick. What’s
up?”

“
Hey, Whit. How many women
d’you fuck this week?”

“
We’re not at the
fraternity house, Pick. I never kiss and tell.”

“
Who’s talking about
kissing?”

Whit laughed. “What’s up? Any news on the
job?”

“
That’s why I’m
calling.”

“
Oh. Thought you were
interested in my sex life.”

“
I’m interested in having
a sex life like yours myself. Never happen. I’m only the
editor-in-chief of
New York News
Review
, not a hot broadcaster, like
you.”

“
Cut the pity
party.”

“
Okay, okay. Charlie, our
guy in Asia, is retiring. The job opens up in a few months. I’d
like to send you there a couple weeks early so he can introduce you
to his contacts. You have to move slowly in Asia. Protocol,
manners, who you know, and all that bullshit. Will you be ready in
a few weeks?”

“
Damn straight. Perfect
timing.”
Get out of New York before I fall
for Bess.

“
Okay. I’m writing your
name in pen. I’ll get you a letter when I have a firm date.
Okay?’

“
Dream come true. Thanks,
Pick.”

“
Don’t thank me. Do a
fucking great job.”

Whit had applied for the
position six months earlier. After his disappointment with Gemma,
he’d known he’d have to leave New York.
Too many temptations here.
He’d been
waiting for this call, biding his time, keeping the opposite sex at
arm’s length—not always an easy task. Lately, it had become almost
impossible, with the luscious Bess on the same floor. Why wasn’t he
more elated?

I’ll pop the champagne
when I get the letter. Until then, anything can happen. Pick can go
down in a plane. Best not to celebrate until I have the offer in
writing.
He pushed the feeling of
disappointment out of his mind and heart and conferred with his
producer, Samantha Jones.

“
Usual bullshit, Whit,
protestors at the mayor’s office—parents up in arms with the
School’s Chancellor. That fire in Brooklyn netted a couple of local
heroes, at least one in the fire department. Two firemen
hospitalized. Police are investigating the shooting of a kid
robbing a bodega in Newark. Some tip about police corruption. Same
old, same old,” she fired off.

“
You’re jaded,” he
said.

“
Been doing this too long,
I guess. Everything’s covered except this.”

“
Police
corruption?”

“
Here’s the tip.” She
shoved a piece of scrap paper at him. “Doesn’t look like
much.”

“
I’ll follow up anyway.”
Whit took it back to his desk.

He got nowhere with the informer and shelved
the task as other, more urgent stories poured in. It was November
first, and he couldn’t believe how many newsworthy things were
happening in New York City. As fast as people dropped printed
copies of emails and Associated Press wires in his inbox, he
organized each into a thirty-second story and typed it up. Copyboys
picked up his printed stories and delivered them to Sam.

Whit and Sam had bumped heads right from the
start. At first, he wasn’t sure if it was a flirtation thing. He
wasn’t at all attracted to her and worried it might hurt him on the
job. But then, as he had observed the nasty way she treated others,
he had discovered she was plain mean. He tried to avoid her to make
his day more pleasant, but before each broadcast, they had to come
together. That’s when the fighting always began.

Whit wanted to do human interest angles, and
Sam couldn’t care less about people. She was all for splashing
scandals across the screen, and not above embellishing a few, if
necessary. “Scandals bring viewers, Bass, not that bullshit, crap
you write,” she had once announced at the top of her lungs. She
didn’t give a damn who was humiliated, as long as she got her
way.

The ratings were pretty
steady, tending to back up her theory. But Whit’s stories drew
letters and phone calls, convincing him people were watching. He
cringed every time he walked into Sam’s office.
Not for much longer, Ms. Number One Bitch. Soon, I’ll be
overseas, and you’ll only be an unpleasant memory.

After his broadcast, Whit loosened his tie
and closed his office door. Once again, he dialed the tipster with
the info about police corruption. This time he made a connection
and quietly scribbled down the information while the person on the
other end of the wire talked. He placed his hand-written notes in
the top drawer of his desk and locked it. Then, he grabbed his
jacket and headed home.

A Philly cheesesteak and a
beer from the deli made his mouth water as he went up in the
elevator. The smell of something buttery baking tempted his nose,
switching his taste buds from meaty to sweet.
Wonder what she’s making over there. Will I get a chance to
sample it?

He plopped down at the
small, round table in his spacious kitchen and unwrapped his food.
Sifting through the mail while he ate, he saw a postcard from a
real estate agent in Rye, New York.
Damn!
The stone cottage.
He flipped it over to
read the other side. It suggested he put the place on the
market.

He smiled ruefully as his mind drifted back
to the day he had bought the place. It was exactly what he’d always
wanted—quaint, old, sturdy, and located near the water in Rye, a
small, charming town on the Long Island Sound. It was near enough
to the city, so he could be at the studio in less than an hour in
an emergency. It was perfect.

The house had two stories, three
bedrooms—plenty of room for a wife and children. A half-smile
stretched his lips. Gemma Timmons, top model. He’d been dating her
for a year. Had it been love? He wasn’t sure, though he had spent a
ton of time with her. She had catered to him. Anything he had
wanted was okay with her, in the bedroom or the kitchen. Yeah, a
model who could cook. And she had said she wanted marriage.

Whit had decided to ignore the warning bells
in his head, the doubts in his heart, and proposed to her. He’d
hoped to escape the past and create the family he’d never had.
She’d accepted. That’s when he’d found the house. Sure, he’d been
wrong to buy it without her. But he had fallen in love with it. The
stone fireplace. The view of the Sound. And it was old. French
doors to a small patio in the back added charm he couldn’t resist.
The large, sunny bedroom had made it perfect. He had been sure
she’d love it too. So, he had sprung the place on her as a
pre-wedding surprise.

But Gemma didn’t love it. She wanted
something larger, grander. She called it “cramped,” “musty,” and
“ancient.” She craved something modern, like Whit’s apartment, with
a black leather sofa and stark, white walls. He was sick of the
coldness of it. For a family, he’d envisioned something warmer,
cozy, and told her so. Something exactly like the stone house. He
and Gemma’d had their first serious fight over it. Then, the idea
had come to him.

He had wondered all along if she’d been more
interested in his salary than him. So, he had contrived a test. He
lied and told her he’d been fired. He had wanted to see what she’d
do. She had been sympathetic for the first day or two. When he had
said he might take a newspaper job for a lot less money, she had
drifted away. She had booked more modeling dates out of town.

It had become clear that if he wasn’t going
to make big bucks and be famous, she didn’t want him. He had broken
their engagement, with no complaints from her. In the media, she
had said it was friendly, but it was anything but for Whit. His
bubble had burst. His intended wife had bugged out, deserting him
even before the wedding. Nervous enough as a fiancé, once her true
colors had shown, that was the end for him. He had vowed never to
consider marriage again. He had hardened his heart against the
concept.

He had been depressed for a few weeks. He’d
gotten used to the idea that he was going to cheat Fate, turn back
the clock, and have the warm, loving family he had missed. A new
happiness had entered his heart. But when it all crumbled like
week-old bread, he had been crushed. Once again, he was left with
his nose pressed against the glass, watching other happy families,
other men have wives and children that he had been denied.

He had become bitter for a while and stopped
dating then philosophical, deciding that not everyone was meant to
have everything. He had a successful career and financial security,
what more could he want? He had stuffed away his desires for his
own family, resigned to his fate as a single man, and closed his
heart off to any possibilities of commitment.

But he had never stopped loving the stone
house. Decorating had only gotten as far as buying a couch and a
bed before his engagement had died. Broken-hearted, Whit had never
finished furnishing the place. Never went to see it. It represented
everything he’d wanted all his life, but would never have. While
he’d given up the dream, he couldn’t bear to give up the house.

He’d made up his mind to
sell it two months earlier, but never notified the agent. Now, he
made a note to call her in the morning.
Time to unload it, since I’ll be leaving for Asia
soon.

His heart was heavy, yet he refused to own
up to the real reason, even to himself. He picked up the book he
was reading from his nightstand and lost himself in an adventure
with Nero Wolfe until sleep came.

He was woken up at four o’clock by the most
God-awful noise he’d ever heard. A cross between a squeal, a bark,
and a scream, the sound pierced his ears, making him alert
instantly.

What the hell? Is someone
getting murdered? Bess!
He leaped out of
bed, grabbed his terry robe, and raced to the hall. When he flung
open the door, his mouth dropped at the sight that greeted
him.