Last Chance at Love. Gwynne Forster
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he’d better take his mind off the matter, because the more he thought about her, the more she intrigued him. When the odor of fresh, perking coffee wafted into the cabin, he inhaled deeply, savoring its aroma, grateful that it overrode Allison’s tantalizing scent.
“I’d like some coffee. Sugar and cream,” he told the flight attendant.
Allison asked for plain black coffee and didn’t reply when he commented, “Unadorned, huh?”
She also hadn’t moved her hand from beside his fingers. What was he supposed to make of that?
Trying for a reaction, he teased, “Scared of gaining weight? From where I sit, you’re perfect.” He wouldn’t have thought that a simple blush could give him so much pleasure, but he relished the sight of her embarrassment as evidence that his compliment pleased her.
He sensed her uneasiness, too, but he didn’t think she’d want to be questioned about it, so he opted for impersonal conversation. “My network appearances will be taped at seven-thirty in the mornings and aired at nine-thirty,” he said, “and I have to be there an hour early. You want to go with me, or would you rather—”
That did it; immediately she removed her hand. “You’re not losing me, Mr. Covington, so please don’t try it. If I had wanted to watch you on television, I could have stayed home and done so in the comfort of my bedroom.”
His left hand went to his forehead. How did a man deal with such suspicions? He decided to ask her.
“Do you distrust everybody? Or just me? Allison, I cannot and I will not spend the next six weeks tiptoeing around your tender feelings.”
He watched her lift her chin in a display of aristocratic disdain. For heaven’s sake, not a stuffed shirt, he said to himself.
“My feelings are not tender,” she corrected him. “I want to make it clear that I won’t let anything or anybody prevent my carrying out this assignment, and that includes you.” Tired of hassling when he wanted to be gracious, he resorted to silence.
“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” she said after a time. “I’m not usually so touchy, but you seem to... I don’t know... I haven’t been my best self this morning.”
He rewarded her with an obliging smile, though it wasn’t what he felt. She’d glanced up at him for his reaction, and he’d smiled because she needed to be absolved.
* * *
Allison hadn’t considered that the simple business of registering at their hotel could prove embarrassing. After determining that they really did want separate rooms, the Drake Hotel registration clerk asked if they were traveling together. Jake said no, but she said yes, not realizing that they were being asked if they wanted adjoining rooms with a door that opened between them.
“Which is it?” the clerk asked. Heat singed her face when Jake replied that they didn’t want to be together. Flustered, she looked everywhere but at him and cringed before the clerk’s knowing gaze. She’d rather neither of them had known that she’d never checked into a hotel in the company of a man, not that it was their business.
“I’ll be ready in twenty minutes,” he said when she walked out of the elevator. “Can you make that? We’re going first to my publisher, then lunch, after which I sign at Barnes and Noble. Okay?”
She nodded. It was one thing to be attracted to him, but if she wasn’t careful she’d like him more than was healthy. Her reaction to him in the Washington Airport had distressed her, and when he’d sensed her unease and almost covered her hand with his, he’d told her more about himself than she needed to know right then. She changed into a burnt-orange suit and brown accessories, refreshed her makeup, and met him in the lobby with minutes to spare. His smile of approval had nothing to do with business and everything to do with a man liking the looks of the woman who approached him.
He held the taxi door for her and took his seat beside her. “I may not be in this evening, Allison; bright lights hold a lot of fascination for a country boy.”
She turned her body fully to face him. “Did you say you’re a country boy?”
“Surprised?”
She nodded. “I am, indeed.”
He winked. Voluntarily or not, she couldn’t tell. “Yep. I was born in Reed Hollow, Maryland, about a mile from the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. I was wondering when you’d get around to asking. Couldn’t be that you intend to stick to my present daytime activities, as you promised?”
She glanced down at her long, perfectly manicured fingers. “As a man of the world, you ought to know the folly of whetting a reporter’s appetite. The obvious is far less interesting than that which is obscure or hidden.”
She felt the tension in him, as one feels a speeding object just before it hits, and wondered at his anxiety. “Don’t get antsy. I promise to write nothing but the truth.” She watched in astonishment as he withdrew.
“Another person’s truth isn’t necessarily yours to tell. A man’s privacy is sacred.”
She refused to give quarter. “Public figures have to forgo some of their cherished privacy.”
He eased into the corner, away from her. “And the public has a right to know, damn the individual and what disclosure does to him. Right?”
Stunned, her breath lodged in her throat, and she stared at him. When she regained her equilibrium, she told him, “I’m not a monster, and I never write lies. Never.”
But her words evidently didn’t placate him, for he stared straight ahead, his expression grim. “That’s more than I’ve come to expect from reporters. Some of you can twist the truth to the point that...that love of country seems like a crime. I want to see your text as you go along, and if at any point it’s out of line, this deal is off.”
“In your dreams, mister,” she sputtered. “Not even my editor sees my copy until I’ve finished it.”
“We’ll see about that” was his dark reply.
Allison figured she’d better check in with her boss, though as always she dreaded talking with him.
“Jenkins.”
“Just checking in, Bill. We’re at the Drake.”
“We? Now you’re talking. Squeeze everything out of him. I’ve never yet seen a man that couldn’t be had if a woman played her cards right.”
She swallowed hard. Didn’t he ever elevate his mind? “I called to let you know where I am. My room number is eleven-B, and I believe Mr. Covington is in sixteen-H.”
She imagined his look of incredulity when he said, “You’re joking. I gave you credit for more than that.”
“I hope I didn’t misunderstand what you said, Bill.”
His snort reached her through the wires. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m in the business of scooping other papers. Play it any way you choose. Just bring me a good story, and if you find out that the guy smokes opium or sniffs coke, it had better be in your story.”
She didn’t know why she laughed, because his words hadn’t amused her. When she could control it, she asked him, “Have you ever met Jacob Covington?”
“No, and never wanted to. Why?”
“He’s a gentleman. If he’d heard your reaction to our room arrangements, he’d probably cancel this deal; he doesn’t trust The Journal. If you want this story, you’d better ease up and let me handle it my way.”
His long silence told volumes, but she waited. “I’ve been in this business thirty years,” he said at last, “and you’re a lamb born yesterday, but you know it better. Do what you please, but you get me that story just like I want it.”
A sense of foreboding seeped through her, and she wished she hadn’t called him.
While