Breakfast At Bethany's. Kathleen O'Reilly
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heading straight for the good stuff. She began rifling through her lingerie drawer, looking for her sexiest sleepwear. Slowly she pulled on the transparent peignoir, brushed her hair until it shone, then put on the necessary skin-care regimen. She stared in the mirror, pleased with the siren that appeared.
Finally, she retrieved the phone. “Spencer, you wanted to come over now?” she asked, making her voice low and husky.
He coughed. “It’s best to strike while the information is right there at the top of your head.”
She played with the silk ribbons, even daring to touch herself through the thin material. “I’ll see you in the morning. Nine a.m., just like we planned,” she said, still smiling.
“If that’s what you want.” She heard her own regret echoed in his voice.
Metaphorically speaking, he was the biggest slab of dark chocolate ganache she’d ever seen, a total caloric nightmare. She’d polish him off and be left with nothing more than fat thighs and an empty plate.
Tempting, but no.
After he hung up, she turned on the television in her bedroom and collapsed onto her bed. It wasn’t until two hours later, when Cary Grant kissed Ginger Rogers, that she finally fell asleep.
HE WAS THERE EARLY the next morning. Not surprising, since he’d never really got to bed. After discovering work was useless, and then tossing and turning, trying to sleep, he’d finally taken matters into his own hands and dispensed with the aftereffects she had left him with. Then he’d managed to sleep, for a full three hours.
Joy.
The morning was cold and the sidewalks were damp with post-Thanksgiving slush. If he wasn’t really excited about his article, he wouldn’t be trudging through the mess at 9:00 a.m. Or so he told himself.
Eventually she showed up at the coffee shop, looking fresh and well-rested and with that damn smile on her face. Why was she always smiling? What the hell did she have that made her so happy all the time?
He stood when she came over and joined him.
“Good morning,” she said, as if birds were perched on her shoulder, waiting to burst into song.
“If you’re into those sorts of things,” he said, surlier than usual.
“Are those circles under your eyes? Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”
Spencer, whose sense of humor was absent on most days, had almost no patience for her games right now. “Are you trying to tease me just to see how far I’ll go? Do I look like the neighborhood mongrel who you’re going to poke at with a stick until he bites back? You’ve never been bitten, have you?”
The smile cooled a few degrees. “No.”
“Then I suggest you take your stick and put it away.”
Her eyes cooled, as well. It could have been guilt he was experiencing, or so he told himself.
“That little lapse is best forgotten—pardon the breach. So where do we start now? You want to know about the date?” she asked, then proceeded to tell him every detail about the previous evening. He took notes, paying close attention to the exact moment when the smile crept back onto her face.
“When’s your next date?” he asked, hating date number one with an unexpected passion.
“Tuesday evening. The Morton Arboretum is having a talk on flowers that bloom in the winter.”
“Sounds very educational,” he replied, thinking a root canal would be more fun. Chicago men seemed to be lacking in panache and creativity. If he were taking her out…
Damn.
He packed away his notebook and pen and took care of the check. “Great work. I’ll see you on, when, Wednesday morning or Wednesday afternoon?”
“I’ve got to open up Wednesday morning, at 6:00 a.m.”
“What about Wednesday evening?”
She winced. “Can’t. Have a date. What about Tuesday night?”
He raised a brow. “I thought the post-date postmortem was off-limits?”
“Since it’s my schedule that’s causing the problem, I’ll make an exception. Where do you want to meet?”
“There’s a restaurant a few blocks from here.”
“You know, why don’t you just come over to my place? That way we don’t waste time with the commute, and I do have to be up early the next morning.”
The words were innocent enough, and her eyes showed no sign of ulterior motives, but he was fast learning that she was a much better actress than anyone could guess.
Little Bo Peep did nothing without an ulterior motive. Maybe it was another one of her little poke-the-dog games. Maybe he didn’t care.
The room got very quiet and an electric current began to crackle in the air. A gazillion megawatts. Enough to light up the shoreline of Chicago—and Detroit, too.
Spencer stood, and if she noticed the electric charge that was currently tenting his pants, well, good for her.
She picked up her purse and followed him out. “I’ll see you Tuesday night.”
He met her eyes, but chose to remain silent. A man lived by his words, but he could die by them, as well.
3
Have you got what it takes? Sexy blond female wants to meet a man, and not just any man will do….
THE FLOWER TALK WAS cancelled due to inclement weather, so instead Beth and date number two, Michael Becket, ended up walking in the snow and looking at all the storefront windows that were decked out in their holiday finery.
Michael was a wonderful conversationalist, prone to burst out into bits of Broadway songs whenever he felt like it. At first she was embarrassed, but then she was charmed. He was nice. Everyone, including her parents, would approve.
The snow began to fall in earnest and he planted a kiss on her nose.
“You had a flake there,” he said, by way of explanation.
Then his dark eyes got serious and dropped lower. “Uh-oh, I see another one.” And then he kissed her mouth. It was a thorough kiss, presented with a skill that a woman should admire.
He certainly must kiss a lot—the kiss was a definite four stars on the Von Meeter meter. Yet he did nothing for her. Instead of being an active participant, she was the aloof observer. Her pulse didn’t speed up, her heart didn’t skip one beat, and that was a damn shame.
When he pulled back, he gave her a soft smile, which should have sent her heart reeling.
Unfortunately, it didn’t.
MICHAEL ACTED AS IF HE expected an invitation to stay, but Beth didn’t feel up to company. And Spencer would be there soon, anyway. That was a situation she didn’t want to explain.
After Michael left, she fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate, adding two extra marshmallows—one point—as an added self-pity bonus, and that was when she saw the answering-machine light.
A message. Spencer was calling the whole thing off.
If she were a smarter woman, she would have felt relief rather than regret, because she knew he was strictly hands-off.
She pushed the button.
Beep. “Bethany, this is your grandmother. I have a little present for you that we need to discuss. Call me tomorrow. Ta-ta.”
Beth smiled at the familiar voice. Her grandmother was always thinking up new schemes to get Beth involved in the family interests, but that wasn’t Beth’s road.
She wanted to go her own