Fast Courting (7 page)

“Was today the first time you’ve met the man?”

“Yes.”

He lifted a hand to stroke his jaw. “That’s interesting.”

“What is?” she countered on impulse, sensing his drift only when he turned back to face her.

“That…conversation you just had with him.” He darted an insinuating glance at the phone. “I would have thought you were talking with an old friend, perhaps a lover …despite that ‘Dan who?’ you threw out at the start.”

Nia’s blush deepened with her consternation. “He’s not an old friend
or
a lover. But he does have this…way…of getting to you.”

“To
you
, perhaps. Not
me
. That was very definitely a feminine response he drew from you just now.”

“Then
you
interview him, Bill,” she implored gently, desperately. “I’ve had problems with this one from the first. If you feel that I’m too susceptible to him,
you
do it. You know how I feel about anything to do with basketball.”

It wasn’t often that Bill Austen, or anyone at
Eastern Edge
, for that matter, saw Nia Phillips quite so disturbed. Taking momentary pity on her plight, he spoke more kindly. “Still that bad?”

“Uh-huh.” She emphasized each syllable with suitable disgust.

“But you did like Strahan…as a person?”

Nia could see the wheels of his mind turning and didn’t like their direction. “Bill…”

Sympathy was a thing of the past; Bill had reached his decision. “Stick with it, Nia. Just a little longer. See if you can get him to come around.”

“Bill,” she readied for the fight, “I don’t think—”

“Now, about this collegiate item.” He cast a pointed look at his watch. “We’ve got an hour to get it downstairs.”

Courting danger, she stared at him, then shook her head and sighed, suddenly tired. Nothing had been settled, but at least Bill knew where she stood. When the Strahan interview fell through, as she was sure it would, she would have given Bill fair warning. If they were pinched at the last minute in finding a replacement, it wouldn’t be
her
fault. If Bill was content to let the matter ride for the time being, so was she. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple.

Daniel Strahan was a bug in her ear, impossible to dislodge. She found herself thinking about him that night as she drove home in the dark, across the Charles River to her Cambridge home.
Had
he called her from the arena? Or had he been at home? Where was home—in Weston, as he had implied?
What
was home—a house, an apartment, a condominium? Surely he was at the arena now; the game would be starting within the half hour. Was he, at this moment, preparing to face the press?

Nia lived in an older, quiet section, on a residential street just beyond the central Harvard University crush. Most days she walked the ten minutes into the square, hopped the rapid transit, and was downtown in a matter of another ten or fifteen minutes. If it rained, she could get a bus at the end of her street. On days like today, with appointments away from Boston, she took her car.

Pulling into the gravel drive of the two-family house, she parked alongside the battered Volvo owned by her tenant, Frederick Maxwell. Dr. Max, as he was affectionately called by the academic community, was professor emeritus in history at Harvard. A remarkable man despite his almost eighty years, he went to “work” every day, spending hours reading and gathering his thoughts for the masterpiece he still planned to write. Friends and colleagues indulged him both his eccentricities and his age, picking up papers he unknowingly dropped in his shuffle down the hall, flipping light switches off after him, seeing that the tail end of his car was tucked safely alongside the curb.

Now Nia smiled as she stepped from her own car to turn off the headlights Dr. Max had left on, saving him the hassle of a dead battery the next morning. As his landlord and friend, she was glad to do things for the old man whenever she could, though his pride and determination kept him from asking. He had lived in the house when she and David had bought it ten years ago; he was as unobtrusive a tenant as one could hope to have.

Briefcase in hand, shoulder bag in place, she climbed the porch steps and unlocked her front door. From the lower apartment came the faint sound of the evening news. It was a noise akin to the occasional distant siren, one she had easily learned to ignore. On this night, however, it sparked thoughts of another program shortly to go on the air. He had asked her to watch the game; should she? The very thought sent ripples of tension through her, a purely reflexive response conditioned by years of waiting and wondering. David had never wished to include her in his professional life, preferring that she remain at home on the grounds that he was working and couldn’t be distracted. On occasion she’d turned on the television set to catch sight of him; finally, she gave that up as well and sought refuge in her own life, gradually basing a full-time career on her writing skill. Eventually she had no time to watch televised games …much less the desire to do so.

Kneeling gracefully, she scooped up the mail from the floor and thumbed through the pile as she mounted the stairs. One more key in the lock at the top and she was home free.

Her briefcase and bag landed softly on a chair as she passed through the living room; the mail sailed on to the dining room table. Shrugging out of her coat, she hung it in the hall closet, then proceeded to her room to change.

Within minutes she was barefoot, wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater, rummaging through the contents of the freezer for the steak she was sure remained. Then she paused, closed the freezer, opened the lower refrigerator door and extracted two eggs and a slice of American cheese. A simple omelet would be all she’d need, what with the large lunch she’d had with Daniel.

Daniel. Her eye flew to the small television set propped at the end of the kitchen bar. She rarely watched, save for the news, and then only if she happened to be eating at the time. Her slim gold watch read seven twenty-five. Nearly time for the opening jump-off. Would the pregame interviews be over? Would Daniel be back at his bench by now?

Gnawing on that same overworked lower lip, she fished a frying pan from the cabinet, dug for the butter, then put them both down with a muffled curse. Her arm snaked toward the television, her fingers turned the knob to “on,” then roughly twisted the channel selector until she hit on the proper one.

The arena was darkened; the spotlight was at mid-court. Standing reverently atop the blue Breaker emblem was a dark-haired woman with a mike. Relative silence prevailed for an instant, to be broken by the woman’s rich soprano as she sang the national anthem.

Nia slowly exhaled the breath she’d been holding, flicked the switch to an unpatriotic “off,” and slumped against the high wooden stool by the counter. She had missed the pregame interviews. The game itself was about to begin.
That
wasn’t what interested her. Rather, it was Daniel. Why had she hesitated? Why hadn’t she turned the set on sooner? Had it been pure stubbornness on her part? Even arrogance? Then why was she disappointed now?

It occurred to her that she would very much have liked to have seen him on the air. Their lunch together had given her a glimpse of him off-court, even though he had been studiously closemouthed about his private life. What was he like in his official capacity as head coach of the New England Breakers?

Well, she acknowledged with a drawn-out sigh, she’d blown it again. Twice in one day…poor show. Better to chalk this day off and move on. After all, Daniel Strahan was nothing more than an assignment, was he not? When he called to give his final “no,” they would have no more to do with one another.

So she reminded herself at intervals all evening, each time she took a break from her reading. Her attention was supposedly focused on the Amish feature for which she was scheduled to travel to Pennsylvania the following week. This preliminary work was imperative if she hoped to make maximum use of her time in the field.

With the spate of interruptions that characterized life in the office, she often saved such reading for home. Tonight, however, the interruptions were of her own making. Was it halftime? Was it over? Had he won? Or lost? Was the locker room aswarm with reporters devouring his postgame comments? Had he left? Where was he now? What did a coach do when the stadium emptied and the lights went out? What did
Daniel Strahan
do?

Breakers Topple Bullets, 112–94
. The triumphant words exploded from the sports page the following morning, hitting Nia in the face as she peered over the shoulder of a man on the subway. Chivalry had vanished with the quarter token. This stranger sat; Nia stood. She had no qualms at all about reading his paper.

They had won. Ten in a row. Not bad. Perhaps, riding high on this string of victories, Daniel might be favorably disposed to grant her the interview. Once again she wondered whether that was what she wanted. But it was out of her hands; it was
his
decision now. When would he contact her?

It happened when she least expected it. She was tired and just the slightest bit miffed at the thought that, given the extent of her own preoccupation with the man and this assignment, he should not be conscientious in reaching a decision.

The subway was particularly crowded on her way home, the crowd particularly restless. When Nia reached the square she peered from the kiosk at the pouring rain that had not been forecast…and the bus that had just pulled away from the curb and sailed down Brattle Street oblivious to her plight.

A treat. That was what she needed. It would be a good ten minutes before the next bus rolled in. Ten minutes. In silent calculation, she looked toward The Lobster’s Claw at the far end of a side street. Did she have time? Did she have enough cash? Could she make it there and back without a total drenching?

On impulse she made the break, darting from doorway to doorway until she reached her destination, returning in similarly sporadic fashion with a half-pound of fresh-cooked lobster meat tucked safely beneath her arm.

As though on command, the bus appeared. Boarding quickly, she savored its warm, dry haven, if only for the few minutes’ ride to the top of her street. Anticipation of the gastronomical treasure she carried lightened her gait as she ran down the street and up her front steps. It was there that she found Daniel.

T
he relentless spatter of the rain masked the extent of her alarm at finding a tall interloper on her dark front porch. It took her a minute to catch her breath.

“Daniel!” she cried. “You frightened me.”

The dull glow of the nearby streetlamp illuminated his damp khaki trenchcoat. “I’m sorry. I was about to leave when I saw you running down the street. Where’s your umbrella?”

She cocked her head toward the door. “Inside. Keeping the hall closet dry.”

His face was in the shadow of the overhanging roof, but Nia could feel his wry smile. “Makes sense. Have you got a key?”

Groping in her pocket for the large brass ring, she handed it to him. “The yellow one.”

“You can see it in the dark?”

“Yes.”

So did he, quickly singling out the key with the rubber identifying ring glowing yellow around its head. As soon as the door was opened Nia rushed inside, shaking the rain from her sleeves as she flipped on the light and climbed the stairs.

“Next one’s green,” she called over her shoulder. Directly behind her, Daniel skimmed the key ring, found the proper one, and let them, at last, into her home. Dropping her things onto a chair and draping her sodden coat over its back, Nia ran her fingers through the dampness of her hair, then turned to face Daniel. Having taken her lead, he had thrown his own coat over a chair to dry. Now he stood across the room, with two chairs, a sofa, and a glass coffee table as buffers between them. He looked unconscionably handsome in a gray tweed blazer and darker charcoal slacks. His black vee-neck sweater contrasted with the white of his oxford cloth shirt, both extremes tempered by the very gentle expression he wore.

For an instant Nia didn’t know what to say. Was this a business call…or a personal one? “I…I never expected to find you
here.”
She finally forced herself to break the vibrant silence.

“I tried calling,” he explained softly. “There was no answer, so I thought I’d take a ride over.”

She smiled shyly, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Lovely weather you brought.”

“How far did you have to walk?”

At the mention of walking she grew suddenly aware of her wet feet. Without thought of the consequence, she stepped out of her shoes and knelt to pick them up. It was only when she straightened that she realized the disadvantage she had unwittingly emphasized. At five eight she was above average in height and willowy, but flat-footed before this man she was nearly petite.

“Uh…it wasn’t far. Just from the top of the street.”

“I’m sorry.” He offered a second apology, though he neither moved nor looked away. “If I’d known, I could have picked you up there.”

“No problem.” She scoffed away its import with a crinkle of her nose, all the while wondering where they were to go from here. “How…how did you know where I live?”

He shrugged. “The book.”

“The phone book? There must be at least eight A. Phillipses listed.”

The corner of his mouth quirked knowingly. “Six. Three in Cambridge, two in Boston, one in Charlestown.”

He stood with one hand in his slacks pocket, the other hanging casually by his side. On the surface he was relaxed, yet Nia couldn’t help but sense his alertness. Was he, too, recalling their last meeting and its finale?

“You stopped at the other two Cambridge addresses?” She pursued the potentially inane line of questioning only for lack of sure footing. Her ground was truly shaky when it came to Daniel Strahan.

His smile spread in slow accompaniment to his approach. “No,” he crooned, rounding the sofa to stand before her. “I checked with
our
book.”

His proximity forced her to look more sharply up. “
Your
book?”

“The one kept by the PR man with names, addresses and phone numbers of, among others, the sportswriters. This address may have been crossed out, but it was still legible.”

“I see.” So the contact had indirectly been traceable to David. How fitting. And ominous. “No game tonight?” she asked more coolly, partly in defense of his nearness, of which she was acutely aware.

Daniel raised a chiding brow. “We can’t play
every
night. The schedule is exhausting for the players as it is.”

“A shame,” she mused, feeling little sympathy at the moment, knowing only her need to put space between them. He
was
handsome. She could feel the magnetism of his masculinity and was frightened. “Look, would you excuse me?” She grimaced at her spattered stockings. “I’d really like to change into dry things.” If it was a subtle invitation for him to leave, he promptly overlooked it.

“I was hoping to take you to dinner.”

“You were?” She peered up at him, half-skeptical, half-pleased. Again her pulse skipped—was it work or play?

Daniel’s expression remained calm and controlled, giving nothing away. “Can I tempt you?”

“No.”

“No?”
He was obviously taken aback by the bluntness of her rejection. “Why not?” he asked, but without indignance.

“Because I’ve already made dinner plans.” She glanced toward the chair where she’d dropped her bundle, just as he glanced at his watch.

“You have a date?”

“No. I’m staying in. There’s no way I’m going back out in
that
rain!” Natural impetuosity had taken over for a minute, leaving Nia’s caution behind. “I’ve got my dinner planned here.”

“Oh,” he said baldly, not quite understanding. “You’re eating alone?”

It was the odd and unexpected note of regret in his voice that restored her own composure fully. Her mind on the lobster meat, she grinned. “I had planned to.”

With a silent nod he looked away, back toward his coat, as though wishing he didn’t have to go back out into the torrent either. In that moment something struck Nia—something strangely akin to a fleeting glimmer of loneliness in Daniel’s mien—and she was touched.

“You can join me if you’d like,” she burst out on the spur of the moment. Her tone had that same soft, feminine lilt that Bill had commented on the day before. It also held sincerity; she wanted him to stay.

His dark head turned back cautiously. “You’ve got enough?”

She smiled freely, already envisioning the meal. “I think I can scrounge something up. But first,” she scowled in mock upset, “I’ve
got
to change.” Without another word she escaped to her room, closing the door behind her and stripping off her skirt and blouse to climb into jeans, a sweater and moccasins. Despite the discrepancy in their height she felt suddenly stubborn. If Daniel Strahan planned to eat here, he’d do it on
her
terms. She wore frills and high heels all day long; at night, she deserved a respite.

Taking a towel to her damp hair, she rubbed it vigorously, then went to work with a brush, coaxing the multiple layers into a semblance of glorious mahogany order. With a final touch of blusher and a dab of pale apple lip gloss, she stood back to survey the end result.

Her mirror reflected a comely sight. She was slender but shapely, the gentle swell of her breasts creating the feminine effect denied by the slim stretch of her straight-legged jeans. Her hair, at its longest, fell to her shoulders, its soft layering gentling her sculpted features. Of the latter, it was her eyes that dominated, violet, and gay now as they hadn’t been in a very long time.

For an instant Nia frowned at herself. What
was
she doing? But, damn it, she had her lonely times, too. Was it wrong to share dinner with a …a…a friend?

When Nia returned to the living room Daniel was not there. Reaching down for the package of lobster meat, she heard a noise in the kitchen, a noise that instinctively brought crushing and infuriating thoughts to her mind. Fueled by dismay, she ran toward the kitchen, only to find her guest calmly rummaging through the drawer in search of a corkscrew with which to open the bottle of wine he’d removed from the counter rack.

“Oh!” she gasped in relief, a hand on her chest to ease her breathlessness. “I thought you were at the television set.” Her gaze narrowed in warning. “If you have any intention of watching a basketball game from
this
house, you can just forget it.” As he closed the drawer and came toward her, she blustered on, determined to make her point. “There is
no
basketball here—high school, college
or
professional. Got that?”

Before she could gather her senses, much less her scattered wits, Daniel raised his hands to her face. His fingers slid into her hair, their length curving to fit her head. His eyes held a spark of fire that matched hers. Too late, she realized that its origin was different.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, her anger forgotten under his gentle headhold. All too near were the endless length of his body, the firm texture of his skin, the scent of aftershave. Her breath caught in her throat as he answered.

“Kissing you,” he said, but he hesitated, his eyes touching each of her features in a sensuous visual foray. If he sought a sign of resistance, she was too stunned to offer it. Then, at last, he lowered his lips to catch her breath with a warm, strong kiss. It was undemanding yet enticing, exactly like the man himself.

Thrown by the sudden force of it all, Nia was numbed, momentarily robbed of the ability to respond. She could only stand before him and experience him in larger-than-life vividness. His mouth was rich as it sampled hers; his lips were firm and sure. The aura he cast was one of burgeoning masculinity, making a mockery of her temporarily blunted response. He was close and straight, seeming to draw her up to meet him. His hands held her face in uptilted imprisonment; his fingers were gentle yet unyielding.

Beneath his tender persuasion she felt her stupor melting, giving way to a far greater force within, that of her own femininity. Whatever faults she could find with Daniel Strahan’s affiliations and loyalties, he was the only man in years to reach this core.

With a small sigh of surrender she gave herself up to the headiness of him, savoring the increasing force of his kiss as he responded in turn to her awakening. His slanting lips were hungry, but hers were as eager to please. In the heat of excitement she opened mindlessly to him, welcoming the invasion of his tongue as it drove her responses higher. She was stunned now by a different force, that of desire, raw and overwhelming.

When Daniel dragged his lips from hers she felt the loss instantly. It was a throbbing disappointment to her newly roused senses, the withdrawal of a luxury she had enjoyed to the fullest. It had been no different for Daniel, if the unsteadiness of his breathing was proof. Holding her back, he looked down at her face, flushed, now, and warm. Then, as though sensing her emotion in its entirety, he brought her against him, into the fullness of his embrace for the very first time. It was a symbolic gesture; he had admitted her to his inner sanctum, had brought her past that wall of detachment that separated the inner man from the world. Nia sought the closeness without analysis, simply indulging in his strength. The sweetness of the moment was made more poignant by the tremor of his arms as his hold tightened. Then, with a final parting squeeze, he moved back.

It was Nia who first managed a shaky whisper. “What was
that
for?” Her violet eyes held a twinkle that spread quickly to sparkle beneath Daniel’s roguishly arched brow.

“Hunger… ?” he drawled in innocent suggestiveness.

Slowly shaking her head, she laughed. “So we’re back to that, are we?”

“Actually,” he grew more serious, “you seem to have this way of stimulating it. Like sugar in the bloodstream. I’ve thought of you since yesterday.”

“Not last night,” she took quick exception. “Not during the game.”

“Did you watch?”

Her look held a touch of guilt that instantly quelled his excitement. “I…almost…”

“What does
that
mean?”

“It means,” she sighed, “that I couldn’t quite get myself to turn on the set until it was too late.” It was a small part of the story. How much easier it would have been to simply say she hadn’t been home! But something in Daniel commanded the truth. Responding to his silent order, she further incriminated herself. “I…made it through the first couplet…”

“The first couplet?” he croaked uncertainly.

“You know,
‘Oh, say, can you see …’”

“Ahhh,” he threw his head, facetiously mocking his own denseness, “
that
first couplet.” Then, as understanding dawned, he frowned. “What you’re saying is that you couldn’t bring yourself to watch the game.”

She shrugged in helpless admission, diverted her gaze, then skirted him to open the freezer. “Are you angry?” she asked, pushing aside several packages of vegetables to unearth the steak she had vetoed last night.

“No.”

“You
could
be…” she goaded experimentally.

“No, Antonia.” He took her arm and turned her around, shoving the freezer door back in place. “
I
couldn’t be. You owe me nothing, certainly not a love for my game. Moreover,” his dark brown eyes absorbed her attention, “knowing what little I do about you, I can begin to understand the way you feel. Rightly or wrongly, you associate the game of basketball with your past unhappiness. Although I’m sorry that that’s the case, I can’t begrudge you your honest feelings. Now,” his face broke into an abrupt smile, lighting hers reflectively, “I
would
have been angry had you told me you weren’t home last night….”

A smile found its way to her lips. Thank goodness, she mused, recalling her thoughts of earlier. The coincidence of hearing him echo them blinded her to a possible second meaning in his vow. “I
was
home. And I do know that you won. Congratulations.”

With a shrug, he released her. “Where
is
that corkscrew?”

But if Nia thought that the matter of her conditioned response to basketball was to be dropped, she was mistaken. For no sooner had Daniel uncorked the wine and filled the glasses she handed him than he leaned back against the counter, crossed his ankles, and stared thoughtfully ahead. Nia put a wad of butter in the frying pan to melt, then set to slicing onions.