Surrender to a Donovan. A.C. Arthur
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dinner,” he said, his fingers touching the edge of her desk as he leaned forward slightly.
He was a very tall man. And Tate considered herself tall for a woman, at five feet nine inches. Even so, she had to look up at him, into those eyes that seemed so deep and so assessing.
“No,” she snapped. “I can’t go to dinner with you.” She spoke quickly and moved her arms for some unexplainable reason. The action sent her hands flailing until one smacked into a picture frame on her desk, sending it toppling over.
Of course it would fall right in front of him, and of course he’d pick it up and look at it instead of just setting it upright. Or just leaving it alone and getting out of her office.
“Who’s this?” he asked, examining the picture.
Now she was flustered and offended all over again, even though she’d never really calmed down. He’d asked the question as if he deserved an answer. He was her boss, not her man. She took one deep inhale and slowly released the exhale. Okay, she was overreacting. He was only asking a question. Actually, he was asking a lot of questions, but he was the boss, so he could do that.
“It’s my daughter,” she said, reaching for the picture. It took everything in her not to snatch it from him.
“She’s cute. How old is she?”
He didn’t give her the picture.
“Two.”
He looked up at her, one eyebrow arching as he asked, “And you’re not married?”
“You don’t have to be married to have a baby. But for the record, yes, I was married to her father when she was born. Now, I’m not.” There, he could go now. She touched the edge of the frame in an effort to take it from him.
He held firm.
“So you’re divorced?”
“Yes. I mean, almost. I mean, was there something I could do for you, Mr. Donovan?” She snatched the picture from him and wasn’t really sure she cared what he thought at that moment.
“You can call me Sean. I’ll let you get home to your daughter. But I’d like to talk to you about the column. I’ll have my secretary call you with some available times for us to meet.”
He’d already stepped back from her desk and was headed to the door when she said, “That’s fine.”
Her words stopped him, and he turned back to look at her. “Yes, that’s very fine,” was his parting reply.
Tate dropped into her chair, clutching the picture of Briana to her chest and let out another deep breath. That was a tension-filled meeting. A confusing meeting. A “damn-oh-damn, that man is too damned fine” meeting.
Chapter 3
They’d tried mashed potatoes for dinner. That had gone over well, Tate thought with a smirk. At two years old, Briana already had plenty of personality. And along with that personality came a pickiness with foods. Tate had mistakenly assumed that any type of baby food would do as long as she didn’t have an allergic reaction to anything. She was sadly mistaken.
Briana did not like any of the green vegetables. The result was green splatters all over the kitchen floor, the high chair and whatever Tate was wearing that day. Miraculously, Briana herself remained untouched by the ill-smelling guck. Tonight Tate had tried another tactic—she’d whipped up some homemade mashed potatoes and mixed them with the ingredients from her mother’s chicken soup recipe. Briana wasn’t a fan of the broth, so Tate’s plan was to see if she’d eat the chicken and vegetables if they were submersed in another texture. The first few spoonfuls had gone okay, so Tate had relaxed and let herself enjoy the bonding time with her daughter.
Then Briana made a face that originally Tate thought was funny but soon became concerned about. She looked like she wanted to cry but couldn’t quite get it out. Afraid she might be choking, Tate hurriedly scooped her out of the high chair and began patting her back. Maybe her windpipe had been clogged. But as soon as Tate began patting Briana’s back, there was an explosion—both from her mouth and inside her diaper. It had taken the last hour and a half to clean all of Briana and put her to bed and clean the kitchen.
Now Tate was ready for some “me time.” Only there was nothing to do. She’d thought of running a hot bath and soaking with a good book to read, but the thought of going back into the bathroom made her temples throb. Opting for a quick shower instead, she entered her bedroom and was about to switch on the television when something caught her eye. Tate looked toward the two windows on the side of the room. The blinds were pulled up to the halfway mark, and navy blue valances that matched the comforter on her bed covered the top.
Before she could stop herself, Tate yelped at the sight of a masked face pressed against the window. Moving quickly to her nightstand, she picked up the softball bat she kept against the wall between the stand and the bed. She’d played second base in high school and now gripped the bat in her hands as if she were ready to hit a home run. Nervous legs carried her closer to the windows, but as she approached she felt a tingle of relief. There was no one there. Hurriedly, she pushed the blinds farther upward to check the locks on each window and then pulled on the blind strings until they were completely unwound and the edges were dangling on the floor. She could do without sunlight tomorrow morning.
With a sigh and a nervous chuckle, she berated herself for overreacting. As tired as she was, she could have seen sheep running around her room. She went to the television and turned it on.
Tate had only been in Miami for six months and had just recently gone over to the dark side and ordered cable. So far, so good.
She climbed into the full-sized bed she’d finally purchased after sleeping on a futon for the first five months of her time here. The first thing that caught her eye on the screen was that vaguely transparent DNT logo at the bottom left of the screen. Donovan Network Television.
“Can’t get away from them, huh?” she said fluffing her pillows and positioning them so she could sit up and watch television until her eyes demanded she sleep.
Tate never slept well, hadn’t since the last night Patrick was with her. She convinced herself it was because she was in a strange town and didn’t know anybody. What if Briana cried out in the middle of the night? She had a baby monitor in her bedroom, and the transmitter was hooked up in Briana’s room. Still, she couldn’t shake the edgy feeling of being in a new place.
She had no idea what she was watching on television, but she didn’t change the channel. The program went to a commercial with a gorgeous woman wearing a stunning dress. She was on a fashion runway, and then the camera panned over to the guests of the fashion show and a smiling Regan Donovan. Tate knew her from work. Regan was the only female Donovan working at the magazine. She was as pretty as the model, especially when she smiled, which she was doing right now as she announced a new show coming to DNT.
“With photography by Lyra Donovan and judging by Camille Davis Donovan of CK Davis Designs, one lucky woman’s dreams will come true. The Fashionista promises to bring you everything you’re looking for in reality television—beautiful women, great clothes, sexy men and drama, drama, drama!”
Music followed Regan’s pitch with the date and time of the show’s kickoff running across the bottom of the screen.
Tate smiled, wondering just how it would feel to have her own dreams come true. Growing up she’d dreamed of going to college, getting a good job as a writer and having a family. It wasn’t much, but it was her dream. And once upon a time she’d had it.
Then she didn’t.
And that pissed her off. She snapped the television off and plopped down in the bed, pulling the sheets up over her shoulder. But when Tate closed her eyes, she didn’t see the normal memories from her past. The usual aching in her chest at what had been lost or what had never been hers in the first place wasn’t there. All of that was replaced by one set of intense brown eyes, one solemn look and the name of one man: