Fearless (2 page)

His eyes darken for a moment, and then a slow smile lights up his face and I am powerless to do anything but smile back.

“Alright, fair enough,” he agrees. “But in that case, you must call me Beckett instead of Dr. Black.”

“Okay…Beckett,” I say, trying it out. I like the way it sounds. “You can call me Emma.”

“Is it Emma, or Emmaline? If I remember correctly, your business card says Emmaline.”

“Well, my given name is Emmaline, but I mostly go by Emma.”

“Emmaline suits you,” he says, his gaze intent. “Old-fashioned, yet feminine and flirty.”

“Old-fashioned?” I ask, horrified. I have possibly become even more pathetic than I'd thought if men I barely know think I'm old-fashioned. I can't even begin to process the fact that he also just called me feminine and flirty. The incredibly hot but quintessentially professional and unemotional doctor couldn't possibly be flirting with me.

“Not in a bad way,” he adds seriously. “You just seem like the kind of woman who's confident enough in herself to let a man be a man.”

I think about Tim, who took advantage of my confidence, independence, and sense of responsibility to hop from job to job trying to “find himself,” partying the night away with friends while I was the major breadwinner and primary caregiver for our daughter, before ultimately ending our marriage when he met a woman whom he said “completed him” in a way that I had never been able to because I was too uptight.

“Some men don't appreciate that,” I say lightly.

“Well, some men are idiots,” he replies with a hard edge to his voice.

He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing carefully, and then says, “So, Emmaline, do you write books?”

“I've always wanted to,” I say, “but I've never really had the time for it. I'm always too busy juggling article deadlines. Now that I'm a single mom, it seems even less likely. But I love what I do, and I'm lucky I get to write for a living.”

Beckett looks at me thoughtfully. “My father is looking for someone to ghost write his memoir. Like me, he has a medical degree, but instead of working with patients he has devoted his life to research, particularly cancer research. Now that he's retired, he's interested in telling the story of his colorful life and career.”

“That sounds pretty technical,” I say. “I'm not sure I'd be the right person for the job.” Too late I realize I have just assumed he's suggesting me for the job when in reality he's probably just making conversation. “I'm sorry. For a second I thought you were asking me if I'd be interested in doing it, but obviously that's not what you're suggesting at all.” There's an empty silence and I add, “Well, this is awkward.” I flush and look down.

Strong fingers lift my chin until I'm looking at him.

“That
is
what I was suggesting, Emmaline,” he says gently, removing his hand. “There is a technical aspect to it, but I'm sure you'd be fine given the way you handled the brochure you did for our office. Besides, he wants it to be more of a narrative of his life as a researcher rather than a technical journal. He spent years doing research in the Amazon and made some ground-breaking discoveries that have been largely ignored by the media and pharmaceutical companies. It could be a compelling story in the right hands. Of course, you would have to sign a confidentiality agreement. But he's willing to pay a pretty big advance as well as a percentage of the sales once it's published.”

“Does he already have a contract from a publishing company?” I ask, nervously fiddling with my straw and trying not to act too eager. It sounds like a dream job.

Beckett nods and reaches across the table for the salt shaker, casually stilling my hand with his in the process. I blush again as the heat from his hand travels through my body, causing my stomach to clench before seeming to drop down to my toes. I sincerely hope he doesn't notice the effect he has on me.

“Yes, and an agent. He's a very well-respected researcher and a great storyteller. But he's getting older and refuses to learn how to use a computer, and no one can read his handwriting. It would require a fairly extensive time commitment, but if you think you might be interested I'd be happy to facilitate a meeting between the two of you.”

He pulls a pen and a business card from his pocket, scribbles a number on the back of the card and then places it in my hand, closing my fingers around it. He keeps his hand on mine for a moment longer than necessary, looking me directly in the eye. “Plus, it would give me a chance to see more of you, which I think I would enjoy. Think about it.”

He glances at his watch and stands up.

“I have to get back to the office,” he says. “I hope to hear from you, Emmaline.”

Speechless, I watch as he walks out of the deli, admiring the way his shoulders fill out the white coat. I glance down at the number scribbled on the back of the card. Is this his dad's number? His personal number? There are a million reasons not to do this, but that's the old, fearful me talking. I already know I will call him. Career wise, it's a great opportunity and one that doesn't come along every day. It would be nice to focus on one long-term project rather than scrambling to find enough projects to pay the bills. More importantly, I think with a little surge of excited anticipation, he wants to see more of me! I'm feeling reckless and bold. What better way to flirt with danger than getting to know the decidedly dangerous and intoxicatingly sexy Beckett Black?

Although I had planned to wait a couple of days before calling, I ultimately cave the next day and call the number Dr. Black had scrawled on the back of the card, my heart thumping. Not surprisingly, a computerized voice directs me to leave a message, and I leave my name and number.

Two hours later he calls me back. His voice is unbelievably sexy over the phone, with a deep, gravelly edge to it. How had I not noticed that before?

“Emmaline,” he states unquestioningly as I answer, as if he knew without a doubt I would answer.

“Yes?”

“What did you decide?”

Well, so much for the chit chat. Somehow he makes it sound like I'm deciding to accept more than a potential job offer.

“I'd love to meet your dad and find out more about the project,” I say with as much professionalism as I can muster with my heart racing in my chest.

“Excellent,” he replies. “Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Sure,” I agree, grateful for once that Nikki spends Wednesday nights with her dad and his new wife. It will be easier knowing I don't have to rush home. “Where would you like to meet?”

“I'll pick you up,” he says.

“That's okay,” I protest. “You don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't have to,” he says patiently in a tone that indicates he won't accept no for an answer. “What's your address?”

I give it to him, along with some general directions.

“I'll find it,” he assures me. “I'll pick you up at seven o'clock.”

The following evening, I dress in a black sundress and black sandals with a chunky cork heel that add three inches to my five foot, five inch frame. I figure Dr. Black is at least six feet tall; he won't be intimidated by a woman in heels. I add a pair of silver hoop earrings, a silver watch, and quick squirt of perfume. After scrutinizing my reflection in the mirror, I carefully twist my dark brown hair into a loose chignon, securing it with a few hair pins.

Nikki is perched on my bed watching me.

“So you're sure this isn't a date?” she asks teasingly.

“No, it's not a date!” I retort. “I already told you, it's a business meeting for a great book project that I really want. It's with one of the doctors I recently did some work for and his dad, who's probably ancient for goodness sake. I'm trying to look professional.”

“Well, you look pretty hot if you ask me,” Nikki says, laughing. The doorbell rings and Nikki nimbly jumps off the bed, grabbing the backpack she had dropped near the doorway.

“That's Dad. Do you need to talk to him?”

“No, thanks. Just make sure you go to bed at a decent time. You have school tomorrow,” I say, giving her a crushing hug. “And call or text me if you need anything.”

Knowing my ex-husband, he'll let Nikki stay up until midnight. Just once, I wish I didn't have to always be the responsible one.

“I will,” she promises, dancing out of the bedroom. “Have fun tonight!”

I can hear the front door open and the sound of Tim's voice as he asks Nikki if she's ready, and then the door slams shut and I'm alone in the small bungalow Nikki and I moved into six months ago. After Tim moved out of the two story house we bought together in the suburbs, I hated being alone on the nights and weekends Nikki was gone, but I've grown more comfortable with the silence of our new house in an older neighborhood. It's small but cozy, and perfect for the two of us. It also helps that I have a 9mm Glock that I keep in my night table that I bought and learned to shoot shortly after we moved in. I still hate Tim for taking my daughter from me every other weekend, but I've learned to make the most of the time I have to myself to do whatever I want, even though it doesn't feel quite right until Nikki's back home. Tonight is the first time I've actually been excited about an evening to myself. I'm nervous, but it's a good kind of nervous, like when you're about to embark on a new adventure. It's been awhile since I've done anything besides work and spend time with Nikki and Lainey, and it feels kind of nice.

At seven o'clock sharp the doorbell rings and there's Beckett standing on my small porch wearing black slacks, a black shirt loosely unbuttoned at the collar, and a casual black jacket. I'm suddenly glad I opted for a dressy sundress.

His eyes travel up my body appreciatively, making me blush. I think I've blushed more in the past three days around this man than I have since high school when I finally learned how to control the embarrassing habit. Or at least I thought I had.

“You look nice,” he says without a smile, but the way he says it, like it's a caress, makes me feel like he just called me a goddess.

I smile and say, “So do you. You don't look so doctorly tonight.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Doctorly? Is that a professional writer's term?”

“Absolutely,” I say with a laugh, turning to lock the door. “We writers typically only use it with each other so we don't confuse the less literate general population.”

Am I really flirting with him?

“Is that so?” he says, placing his hand on the small of my back as we walk down the sidewalk.

The electricity I felt when his hand touched mine at the deli wasn't a fluke. His touch sears my skin like a brand beneath the thin fabric of my dress. A sleek, dark gray sports car is parked at the curb, and he opens the door for me, waiting until I'm settled in the leather bucket seat before closing the door. I can't remember the last time someone has opened a car door for me. It's weird, but nice. He drives the same way he seems to do everything, confidently and proficiently. As Coldplay plays on the car's stereo system, I try to surreptitiously study his profile.

“Do I meet with your approval?” he asks, not taking his eyes from the road.

“No! I mean, yes. I mean, sorry. I didn't mean to stare.”

I blush again and look down at my hands in my lap. Why am I not better at this?

“Be my guest,” he says placidly. “I plan to do some staring of my own later.”

“Okay, well.” Flustered, I look out the window. “Where are we going?”

“The Capital Grille. I made reservations for seven thirty.”

When we arrive at the restaurant, he pulls up to the valet stand and is out of the car and opening my door before I've even located the door handle. He holds out his hand to help me out of the car, and as I place my hand in his firm grasp I realize I could get used to this. His mannerisms and the confident way he does everything make me feel desirable and taken care of.

He guides me toward the door with his hand at the small of my back again. Another thing I could get used to, although maybe I just like the feel of his hands on me. I try not to gape at the sumptuous decor as we enter the restaurant. Rich mahogany paneled walls, crisp white tablecloths, leather upholstered booths, and tables lit by small lamps suggest an air of luxury that explains why I've never been here before.

“Is your dad already here?” I ask.

“He's not coming tonight,” Beckett says. “I wanted to tell you a little more about the job before you talk to him. Also, you will need to sign the confidentiality agreement before we go any further.”

“Oh, okay,” I say slowly, noticing the papers in his hand. From what I've been able to determine from the research I did on his dad, he is, or at least he used to be, one of the preeminent cancer researchers in the country. It only makes sense I'd have to sign a confidentiality agreement.

The waitress seats us at a small booth and without even glancing at me, Beckett orders a glass of Merlot for each of us. As the waitress leaves, I stare at him, dumbfounded. Did he really just order for me without even asking what I wanted? Or even if I drink? I can't believe his presumptuousness. Before I can stop myself I blurt out, “Merlot is perfect! I haven't had a glass of wine since the intervention last year. And let me tell you, I have missed that stuff!”

Beckett looks at me, stricken.

“You're a recovering alcoholic?” he asks in horror.

I can't believe I really just said that! What is wrong with me? It has clearly been too long since I've been on a date. It's definitely not like me to just blurt out what's on my mind. To think it? Yes. But to actually call him out on it? There's just something about his formality and seriousness that makes me want to goad him. And it was a pretty arrogant move. Maybe there's a bolder and more self-assured version of me just waiting for the opportunity to shine after all.