The Miracle Twins. Lisa Bingham
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to you again.”
“I can see that.” He worked on fastening his buttons, needing to finish at least that much before he let her inside.
“I have a telephone, you know,” Nick said, hoping for a halfhearted apology at the very least. But he was doomed to be disappointed.
“I hate talking on the phone.”
He looked at her questioningly. “Doesn’t that prove difficult as a reporter?”
Irritation flashed deep in Lucy’s eyes and she proudly tilted her chin. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
Nick briefly debated the merits of telling her to go away, but dismissed the idea just as quickly. If there was one thing he’d learned about Lucy, it was that she was tenacious. It was a quality that made her a top-notch reporter. Unfortunately, it didn’t go well with the weary throbbing of his head.
“Fine. Come in.”
Nick turned and strode into the kitchen. He had no doubt that she’d follow him.
The bang of the front door being slammed made his lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile, but he immediately wiped the humor from his expression.
“How long have you been skulking in my bushes?” He continued his lighthearted baiting as he flipped on the kitchen light.
“I have not been skulking in your bushes.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Frankly, I’ve got better things to do than spy on you. I just arrived.”
“Uh-huh.”
He opened the refrigerator, then scowled. Other than an inch of milk left in the jug, a whole shelf of condiments and a single slice of bologna, he was out of food.
“Listen, Nick, I’d like to have you—”
“Are you hungry?” he interrupted.
Lucy gaped at him, clearly nonplussed at his inability to sense her urgency. “I haven’t come to you to talk about—”
“Are you hungry?” he cut in again. “It’s a simple question.” Closing the refrigerator door, Nick allowed his gaze to slide down her frame, then back up again. “Because, frankly, you look like a bag of bones.”
Her face froze in response. “Don’t be rude,” she said when she recovered from the initial shock of his words.
“I wasn’t being rude. As I said the other day, you look like hell.”
A glint of temper appeared in her green eyes. “I’d forgotten how ill mannered you can be.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“I had some vegetable—”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not talking about rabbit food. I’m talking about a hot, fill-up-your-stomach meal.”
Her lips pressed together in a tight line, answering that question well enough.
Nick turned away to search through the pantry closet, hoping he might find something that could be pulled together into the semblance of a meal. But it’d been so long since he’d gone to the grocery store, he knew that nothing short of a miracle could help him now.
“I didn’t come here to eat.” Lucy said, her tone conveying her impatience. “I came to talk to you more in-depth about the twins.”
“A hotshot reporter like you can’t talk and eat at the same time?”
She folded her arms tightly beneath her breasts—and for a moment, Nick was distracted.
“I don’t want to eat.”
Knowing now wasn’t the time to be distracted, Nick dragged his eyes away from Lucy’s chest. “Are you hungry or not?”
She opened her mouth and hesitated, so he took it upon himself to answer for her. “Hell, yes, you’re hungry.”
He brushed past her on his way to the staircase. “Wait here while I get my wallet.”
“But I don’t want—”
“If you want me to talk with you, you’ve got to eat. That’s the deal.”
He was midway up the stairs when he glanced down at her. From this height she looked especially thin and vulnerable.
“Agreed?”
She clenched her jaw stubbornly then finally acquiesced. “Agreed.”
Chapter Three
Lucy had expected Nick to take her to an eating establishment where the menu was bolted to the wall. When they’d dated, he’d had a penchant for mom-and-pop hamburger joints, old-fashioned drive-ins and diners.
He surprised her by driving to a secluded Italian restaurant in the heart of the city. It was located in a renovated warehouse on a block populated by up-scale boutiques and legal offices.
Inside, the atmosphere was quiet and sophisticated. Tables laid with heavy linen cloths were situated in intimate niches lined with potted plants. Muted murals adorned the walls and waiters wearing crisply starched shirts, black vests and ties circulated around the room.
As they stepped through the door, Lucy hung back, feeling decidedly grubby in her timeworn jeans and white button-down shirt.
“What’s the matter?” Nick inquired.
“I’m not dressed for this place,” she whispered.
“You look like you have plenty on to me.”
“But I’m not…fancy enough.”
Nick took her hand and pulled her toward the maître d’. “You’re fine.”
It was obvious that Nick was a regular customer. The maître d’ greeted him effusively and ushered them to a table near the window. Outside, a courtyard garden had been strung with fairy lights and strategically arranged spotlights.
Lucy was entranced. She’d nearly forgotten that there were places like this in the world. Places where people could feel as if they’d stepped into a fantasy.
“Will this be all right?” the maître d’ asked. Nick glanced at Lucy and she nodded.
“Yes, thank you,” he said.
When the man moved toward Lucy, Nick intercepted him to pull out Lucy’s chair. Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on the receiving end of such gentlemanly courtesy.
“Thanks,” she murmured, sinking onto the cushioned seat and allowing him to push her closer to the table.
Nick’s hand touched her shoulder, his fingers brushing against her hair as he went to his own chair.
Her mood softened even more at the gesture. When Lucy was on assignment, she made sure her gender wasn’t an issue. She carried her own equipment and stoically put up with rough conditions and the lack of privacy. Nevertheless, she couldn’t deny that Nick’s attentions made her feel special.
Feminine.
Alive.
As Nick settled into his place, she grabbed her menu and held it up in front of her, praying he wouldn’t see the moisture that had suddenly gathered in her eyes.
Dear sweet heaven, what was wrong with her? She’d spent most of the day sleeping, so she couldn’t blame her sensitivity on jet lag.
Telling herself she was just feeling stressed, she fastened her attention on the list of appetizers. Even so, she couldn’t seem to control the letters that swam before her eyes.
“Everything here is good,” Nick said, oblivious to her distress. “But if you order a salad, I’ll personally sic the chef on you.”
His comment made her