FIRE AND ICE (5 page)

Crazy. It had to be crazy. Still …

“Yes, all right, I’ll have dinner with you, but …”

“Yes?” he asked eagerly.

“We’ll have dinner here at Cosmo’s. Seven-thirty, Monday night.”

“No, no, I don’t want to eat here. I want to take you to a five-star restaurant. Perhaps Nuvay or J’Adore. They’re both excellent. Give me your address and I’ll have a driver pick you up at seven. Don’t you worry,” he added with a wave of his finger, “I can afford to take you to dinner anywhere in the world.”

She remained unimpressed. “As enticing as that sounds, I still prefer eating here at seven-thirty or not at all, William. Take it or leave it.”

“I don’t like bar food,” he pouted.

While Sophie would have loved to dine in a great restaurant, she felt safe at Cosmo’s, and she didn’t know much about William Harrington except that he seemed totally into himself.

He must have figured from her silence that she wasn’t going to budge.

“Oh, all right. We’ll eat here,” he conceded. “If you weren’t so pretty, I wouldn’t bother with you, but I’m a sucker for curvy blondes, and those gorgeous blue eyes of yours …” He looked away as he said almost offhandedly, “You’re stunning.” He shrugged. “I guess you’ve heard that before.” His glance shifted to her feet and slowly moved up her body. “You know, Sophie, women don’t usually play hard to get with me.”

She decided to ignore his lascivious smirk. “Where would you like to meet tomorrow before the race?” she asked impatiently.

It took another ten minutes for him to settle on a time and place, and then she was finally free to head home. He stood and offered his hand as she slipped out of the booth.

“Until tomorrow then,” he said.

She shook his hand. “Good night.”

Glancing at her watch, she walked toward the door. Almost three hours now. Unbelievable, she thought. If there wasn’t the possibility of another story here, there was no way she would spend another second with this man. He was insufferable. And what did he mean by “curvy”? Was he telling her he thought she looked healthy? Wholesome? Chubby? Or overly endowed? He’d been glancing at her chest every other minute since they’d sat down. And the comment that he wouldn’t bother with her if he didn’t think she was pretty? Was that supposed to be a compliment? The man was unbelievably rude, and his ego was somewhere in the stratosphere.

Sophie had calmed down by the time she’d reached home and was bolting the door behind her. It was rare for her to be home on a Friday night. The truth was, she couldn’t remember the last time she had stayed in, and she planned to take advantage of her down time. She would catch up on her e-mails and go to bed early.

But time always seemed to get away from Sophie, and tonight was no exception. She didn’t get to bed until well after one a.m., which would have been fine if she didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn for her second round with William Harrington.

H
ARRINGTON HAD BEEN INSISTENT THAT THEY MEET TWO
hours before the race. He was waiting for her at the designated spot in front of a fountain that was one of Sophie’s favorites. It was shaped like a weeping willow with water gently cascading down from the top branches.

He was doing stretching exercises as she approached. True to his word, he wore his uniform: white running shorts, which she thought were a little too form-fitting; a red T-shirt; black running shoes; and red socks with a thin white band around the top. She snapped quite a few photos while he chatted away and made suggestions for poses. Sophie wasn’t much of a morning person, but Mr. Self-Involved seemed not to notice or care that she wasn’t saying much. How could he possibly notice? He never stopped talking … or giving directions.

“Are you sure you’ll have your camera ready at the finish line? Do you know where you’ll wait? I think the steps across the street from the finish line would be the best spot. It’s important that you get a good picture, don’t you think? Especially since it’s going to be on the front page.” His tone sharpened as he asked, “It is, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check—”

He interrupted. “I was promised the front page.”

“You were? Then I guess—”

Again he interrupted. “It was implied.”

“I see.” She didn’t, but it was all she could think to say. Oddly enough, her response seemed to placate him.

“Now about the photos,” he began. “You have to be ready. A professional photographer would know that. I honestly don’t understand why
you’re
taking the pictures. You should have brought one of the photographers from the paper with you. Do you even know what you’re doing? Be sure to snap at least one of me at the starting line, and you have to get just the right angle with the sun behind me when I cross the finish line. Not exactly right behind me, mind you, or you’ll get a glare, and we don’t want that, do we? But you need to be ready or you’ll miss the shot.”

She swore that if he told her she needed to be ready one more time, she was going to start screaming. “Yes, you mentioned that.”
About twenty times now,
she silently added. “And I assure you, I’ll be ready.”

He acted as though she hadn’t spoken. “I know what we can do. Do you have any of your business cards with you?”

She found one in the bottom of her purse and handed it to him. She didn’t have a logo or a business address on her cards, just her name and her cell phone number. She’d had them printed after she had left her old job. Trying to stretch every dollar, she was determined to use all of them before she had more made.

Harrington unzipped a pocket in the back of his running shorts and pulled out a thin leather wallet. He opened it to slip her card in but stopped as though he’d just had a second thought. Stuffing the wallet back into his pocket, he said, “I think I’ll give this to someone on the film crew.” He knelt down on one knee and tucked her card in his right sock. “He can call you when I get close to the last hill. You know, so you can be ready.”

Ready for what? She was dying to ask that question just to see
how he would react. Not well, she guessed. He didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, and normally this early in the morning, neither did she.

He stretched his arms over his head, rolled his shoulders as though he were trying to get rid of a crick in his neck, then said, “Okay, I’d better get going. I like to be the first to sign in, and I’ll need to limber up even more. I allow thirty minutes for stretching.”

“Exactly thirty minutes?”

“Yes, of course. I don’t like to be surprised, so I plan down to the last detail. I believe it’s important to be precise. You might want to mention that in your article about me.”

“You’d better get going then … if you want to keep on schedule.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

He was jogging down the path when she called out, “Good luck.”

He glanced back at her. “I don’t need luck. See you soon.”

Sophie was happy to be rid of him for a little while. She backtracked to a coffee shop three short blocks away, drank two cups of hot tea, and, feeling human again, headed to the starting line to watch the race.

Runners were milling around the street with numbers safety-pinned to their shirts. She had her camera ready to take the photo of Harrington as he started out, assuming that he would be in the front of the pack, but she couldn’t find him anywhere. She circled to the other side of the starting line, found an empty park bench, and stepped up on it, craning her neck to find Harrington in the throng. Still no sign of him. His red T-shirt should have made it easier for her to pick him out of the crowd, but who knew that so many people would be wearing red today?

The loud pop of the starting gun sent the runners scurrying for position. A sea of faces streamed before her, but none of them belonged to William Harrington. She had missed him.

Irritated, Sophie slumped down on the bench with her camera
in her lap. If Harrington was so adamant that she get a shot of him at the beginning of the race, why wasn’t he in front? He had been one of the first runners to arrive at the park, even before the organizers had set up their tables, so he’d had ample time to get a good spot. Why would he let others take off ahead of him? With thousands of runners swarming down the street like some massive colony of ants, there was no way for her to see every one.

She looked around the crowd of spectators for some sign of a film crew and couldn’t see any.

There was nothing to do now but wait. The course of the race wound through the streets and ended half a block from where she was standing. She made her way to the finish line to watch for the winner to appear.

Minutes later she saw a figure rounding a corner a couple of blocks away. The crowd cheered him as he drew closer.

Okay, here we go,
Sophie thought. She raised her camera, ready for the shot at the finish line.

The runner came closer and closer, and was within a hundred yards of the line as the other competitors came into view far behind him.

Sophie lowered the camera slightly to get a better look. Uh-oh. The winner wasn’t William Harrington. It was a man she’d never seen before. She quickly glanced back at those now approaching. Harrington wasn’t among them either.

Runner after runner came across the line, but still no Harrington. He wasn’t first—nor last—nor anywhere in between.

The man had simply disappeared.

I
T WAS SOPHIE’S TURN TO PAY FOR DINNER.
Regan insisted on eating at The Hamilton, the flagship of her family’s five-star hotel chain. She reserved one of the private dining rooms adjacent to the atrium. The two-story windows looked out over Lake Michigan.

As Regan led the way to the table with Cordie and Sophie trailing behind, Sophie said, “I don’t understand why you insisted on eating here.”

“I told you. I was in the mood for scallops, and I love the way Chef Eduardo prepares them,” Regan declared.

Sophie wasn’t buying it. While it was true that Eduardo’s scallops were outstanding, she knew the real reason Regan wanted to eat there. If they ate at her family’s hotel, a bill wouldn’t be presented. Convenient, since it was Sophie’s turn to pay.

“You’re just doing this because you know I’m poor,” she said.

A waiter pulled out a chair for her. Sophie flashed him a smile, thanked him for the menu he offered her, then turned to Regan again.

“Admit it.”

“You don’t like dining here?” Cordie asked. She was looking at Sophie over the top of her menu.

“I love dining here, but that isn’t the issue. I simply want Regan to admit—”

“That you’re poor? Okay. You’re poor,” Regan said cheerfully.

Cordie nodded. “Yes, you are. Very poor. I’d say you were dirt poor, but you know, that expression doesn’t make any sense to me. What’s dirt poor?”

Sophie frowned. “Not being helpful, Cordie. Regan, I want you to admit that my being poor is the reason we’re eating here.”

“Of course it’s the reason,” Cordie said.

“Yes, it is,” Regan agreed amiably.

Cordie put her menu down. “You aren’t going to get huffy, are you, Soph?” Her smile indicated she wasn’t too concerned about the possibility.

“My being poor is all your fault, Regan, and yours, too, Cordie. I was perfectly happy going along with my life, buying whatever I wanted. I had a beautiful car, credit cards without limits, amazing clothes, and I didn’t have a single worry line.”