Isn't it Romantic? Page 2

  Non-fiction, sports writing, reporting and outstanding work in the field of features and columns. Katrine inwardly groaned. The banquet promised to be boring and time consuming. A frigid blast reminded her of an added annoyance.

  “Fairmont Hotel,” Trey instructed.

  The cab lurched forward. Katrine stared out the frosted window at the bleak winter night, still in shock over her out-of-character behavior. Her ‘escort’ hadn’t donned a coat. Probably afraid to wrinkle his perfectly starched shirt, or … perhaps he had hot blood. She shifted against the seat, uneasy over the wicked thoughts running through her head.

  “Cold?” He pulled her closer. “There seems to be a draft around the doors.”

  Dry air from the heater vents fanned her face. The warmth creeping into her bones at Trey’s nearness might easily be rationalized as a result of the other. Both were man made.

  “A–About the ceremony,” she stuttered. “You’re right, we should pretend to know each other.”

  “I’ve already explained about this being my first time. I’m curious to know why you want the charade and curious about something else, as well.” His lips brushed her ear before he whispered, “Is sex better when the passion is paid for? When the pleasure’s predicted? When there’s no room for inhibition and no strings attached? Is it the simplicity of the concept that makes it so appealing? Lust, pure and simple … and paid for.” His mouth inched closer to her lips with every question. Perspiration broke out between Katrine’s breasts. Visions flashed inside her mind. Scenes of steamy sex with Trey Westmoreland, imaginings of pleasure without the worry of where it might lead—what she might say to him in the morning. A business arrangement and nothing more. It couldn’t appeal to Katrine, could it?

  Assurances she wasn’t the type who’d want sex without commitment refused to leave her lips in the form of a protest. Hesitation proved costly. Once again, his mouth fastened on hers. Desire immediately coursed through her veins.

  Until tonight, Katrine had been a third party to lust. Her heroines lost their wills to the insistent throbbing in their lower regions, and felt their breasts swell with an aching need to be fondled. Her heroines, at least, had morals and an ability to tell the hero no before true love made surrender acceptable.

  A suitable heroine, she was not. Katrine’s fingers stole up his neck to tangle themselves in his hair. She wanted only a taste—a nibble of passion to help her understand the concept behind her writing.

  She got more than she bargained for. Trey savored her lips, teasing and tormenting until he had her squirming against the seat. When the cold vinyl beneath her gave way to the warmth of soft, fine wool, she regained enough faculties to realize she’d crawled into his lap and now straddled him. His lap sported something that shocked Katrine right back into the twentieth century.

  “We can’t do this,” she broke from him to whisper.

  “I’m certain, as you can plainly feel beneath that nice round bottom of yours, we can.”

  He silenced the weak protest gathering on her tongue with the intrusion of his. This is wrong,

  Katrine tried to reason. Terribly, indecently, deliciously, wrong. She moaned as Trey pushed the jacket from her shoulders and slid the straps of her dress down.

  “You taste as sweet as you look,” he said huskily, trailing a hot path from her neck to the valley of her breasts. “You’re also a pro at making a man desperate. Name your price, and maybe I’ll regain my senses.”

  “Do what?” Katrine’s spine jerked ram-rod straight. “My price? You’re the one with a price tag!”

  His head lifted abruptly. The overhead light blinked on as the cab door opened.

  “Didn’t think I’d get you here in time,” the man whispered, his face a bright red. “Lucky the two of you are at a hotel.”

  “Oh my God,” Katrine croaked. She tried to disentangle herself from Trey’s lap, but the pointed heel of her shoe lodged itself in the front seat’s back. A ripping noise followed.

  “My shoe’s caught!” she shouted in panic.

  “What did you mean by that?” he demanded.

  “It’s caught. You know? As in stuck—”

  “No,” he interrupted irritably. “About me being the one with a price tag?”

  Katrine felt a more important matter should he addressed. She glanced toward the hotel lobby and groaned. Sure enough, a crowd had gathered. Those milling about were the smokers, the gossips, people totally bored by the ceremony who used any excuse to escape the tedious banquet hall Elise Pennington, a woman Katrine recognized from awards ceremonies past, a woman who happened to work for one of the local gossip rags, actually had her nose pressed against the window. The reporter began fumbling in her purse and Katrine went into hysterics.

  “Don’t just sit there! Help me get my shoe loose! Pull up the straps of my dress. She’s looking for her camera!”

  Trey’s eyes widened, his head turned and he cussed rather loudly. He lunged for the cab door, tumbling Katrine to the seat beneath him in the process. A bright flash, the sound of her shoe tearing free, and several colorful oaths from the gigolo’s too-tempting lips preceded darkness.

  Chapter 2

  The banquet room was a welcome sight. Tastefully decorated and dimly lit; the hum of conversation emitted a feeling of comfort Katrine had yet to experience since a paid escort darkened her door.

  After entering the lobby, she’d bravely marched past the gaping mouths of those involved in one way or another with her profession, hoping to appear as if nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired. Clay Barns, director of the ceremony planning committee, greeted her and quickly escorted them to a table. Katrine had every intention of ignoring her ‘date’ for the remainder of the evening. What had he meant by ‘name your price’? She started to turn and demand an explanation, but the sound of a loud voice booming around the room refocused her attention.

  Jerry Caldwell, an editor for one of the area’s top newspapers, stood at the podium on stage, hosting the event. Katrine resented the choice. Before this year, the award ceremony strictly paid homage to the fiction genre. As far as she was concerned, journalism didn’t have anything to do with true literary art. Anyone could write the facts or express opinion. It didn’t require talent.

  “Due to a time problem, I’m afraid those honored for the remaining categories must share the lime-light,” Caldwell announced. “I’ll present two awards at once and help end what’s become a long evening. Someone’s got to keep the presses rolling.”

  Jerry’s last comment generated the fake laughter Katrine imagined he anticipated. The editor wasn’t one of her favorite people. Not that she disliked him so much, but rather, one of his prized possessions—a certain columnist who wrote a slam article on romance writers three years ago, her in particular.

  Enraged over the columnist’s callous remarks concerning the genre, Katrine contacted her attorney. Only a smooth-talking lawyer on the paper’s behalf kept the incident from the media. The columnist paid through the teeth and Katrine received compensation for his overrated opinion.

  “I know this is boring you, but at least pretend to be interested.”

  When she glanced at her companion, Katrine found his gaze fastened on her mouth. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. He smiled.

  “You’re the one who should be feigning an interest,” she countered lowly.

  “Oh, I’m interested.” His gaze returned to her lips. “Very interested.”

  He leaned closer. Their breaths almost mingled before the sound of her name being announced broke the spell.

  “So with pleasure, I present the prestigious Silver Heart to Kat Summers and the coveted Golden Lion to T. West.”

  T. West? Katrine stiffened, narrowing her eyes in search of a man she’d never had the misfortune to meet, but whose name brought anger boiling to the surface. “Bastard,” she mumbled just as she heard her escort growl, “Bitch.”

  Her startled gaze locked with Trey’s. Slowly, he rose from h
is chair. Katrine did the same. A hush fell over the noisy crowd. The spotlight found them.

  “Kat Summers as in Katrine Summerville,” he accused.

  “T. West as in Trey Westmoreland,” she spat.

  “I thought you were a whore.”

  “I thought you were a gigolo!”

  “Cynthia Lane is a friend of mine,” he defended.

  “She’s my best friend!”

  “I’ll kill her!” both promised in unison.

  “T. West and Kat Summers, come on down.” Jerry attempted a poor imitation of a game show host.

  When Trey rudely walked away, Katrine had little choice but to follow him. She held her head high, despite the humiliation she felt over consorting with the enemy. How degrading that she’d been crawling all over his lap only minutes ago.

  T. West who claimed romance novels gave women a warped expectation of love—T. West who’d viciously demeaned her talent and cost her a loss of projected sales for the novel he reviewed.

  After reading the review, Katrine had called her editor and asked if they could sue the columnist. In a private arrangement, the paper agreed to compensate her losses and T. West hadn’t reviewed her since, an oddity that soon became a curiosity among the tight-knit group of authors in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

  If the paper managed to keep the episode hush-hush, Cynthia Lane knew the truth, Katrine made no secret of her dislike for the columnist, even if Cynthia considered him a friend. Dammit, she’d found the perfect opportunity to set them up.

  “Don’t they make a handsome couple?” Jerry gushed, placing his beefy arms around the award winners.

  A splatter of applause followed. Trey glared and Katrine growled. The editor quickly released them.

  “Are you a couple?” Elise Pennington asked, tapping her camera as if it held a treasure.

  Quiet expectancy blanketed the room. “No,” Katrine answered, a bit too loudly.

  Elise lifted a brow. “You looked like a couple … earlier,” the woman’s voice trailed suggestively.

  “Research,” Trey supplied. “Ms. Summers and I were discussing the over-rated element of romance lacking in relationships between men and women of the twentieth century.”

  “Westmoreland,” Caldwell warned under his breath. “We can’t afford this.”

  When Trey stared straight ahead, a muscle beginning to twitch in his jaw, Katrine suspected Jerry was responsible for her generous settlement, and certainly not the columnist.

  “Even an opinion can he expensive in this day and age,” she said softly. “If I were you, I’d do what I do, listen to my editor.”

  “Craig Martin,” Trey said with a laugh. “I should have recognized the name. He’s your editor, not your pimp. Your daughter had me going. Do you think it’s fair to give Shelly the same shallow expectations of love you give your readers? You’ve obviously taught her to judge a man by the tightness of his butt and the size of his—”

  “How dare you!” Katrine interrupted. Slandering her writing abilities was one thing, attacking her ability to mother was another. “Only a shallow man would assume to know what I have or haven’t given my daughter. Shelly is very well adjusted.”

  “Accept your awards and move on,” Jerry said after clamping his hand over the microphone. “Don’t speak to her, Westmoreland. Not another word.”

  Trey ignored his superior. “What you write is sexist against men,” he argued quietly.

  “Then it’s about time something was,” she hissed under her breath. “And in case you don’t live in the real world, let me tell you something. Women deal with sexism on a daily basis. What do babes in bikinis have to do with beer? What sport does the swimsuit issue of Sports illustrated promote? Men have butchered romance and the media has helped them do it. The message being sent is a disheartening one. If a woman isn’t built and beautiful, she doesn’t deserve to be loved. I give women the romance they can’t find in today’s society, and I don’t care what they look like, or what they do for a living!”

  Jerry removed his hand from the microphone long enough to shout, “How about a round of applause for our winners!”

  Applause did not follow, Katrine noted. She imagined if not all occupants of the room could hear what transpired on stage, most could tell by her and T. West’s expressions, that all was not well.

  “Are you implying that looks aren’t important to you?” Trey asked, lifting a brow.

  “Not particularly,” she clipped.

  “So, you didn’t tell Cynthia to send someone tall, dark and handsome?”

  “Of course not,” she lied.

  He laughed in response. “I’ll at least be honest. Since I assumed Cynthia’s agency employed either out-of-work models or prostitutes working under a legitimate guise, I asked for a slinky blonde with nothing between her ears and legs all the way up to her ass.”

  “And you call me sexist,” she accused. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you requested.”

  His gaze traveled her slowly. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  Before she could stop herself, Katrine slapped him. The collective gasp of the audience merged with her own. Horrified, she stared at the ugly, red imprint of her hand against his cheek. What had she done? Katrine Summerville didn’t let passion rule her senses or anger cloud her judgment. My God, she’d reacted like one of her feisty heroines. Mortified, she snatched her award and ran off the stage.

  Outside, the night swirled around her, freezing the teardrop perched on the edge of her cheek. Katrine breathed a sigh of relief when a cab pulled up, hurriedly wrenching open the door. She couldn’t understand how one man could so easily crack her control and put her on the defense.

  She had climbed on her soap box over something she no more believed in than did T. West. For a moment, she wanted to believe in unconditional love, in happily-ever-after. She wanted to, but life had stolen the ability from her years ago. Now, Katrine dreamed for others, but never for herself.

  ———

  Red taillights were swallowed by the mist. A chill cut through Trey’s tuxedo and ruffled his dark hair. He stood before the hotel clutching his award in a white-knuckled grip, silently cursing the woman who sped away. Kat Summers—a thorn in his side since he wrote the review on her. She made him look like an idiot three years ago, and she’d done it again tonight. You deserved it, his conscience warned. At least this evening, he reluctantly agreed.

  He couldn’t conjure a single excuse for his behavior with her. A groan of more than embarrassment escaped him as sleet began to fall from the sky. Trey searched for any excuse that might explain his overactive hormones and his unnecessary insults. None occurred. None but one, and he hated to even acknowledge it. Chemistry, the cursed thought surfaced. Illogical, irrational, undeniable attraction. Lust at first sight. All the makings of a torrid romance novel. “Dammit,” he swore, stomping his feet to keep his blood from freezing.

  “You waiting on a cab or trying to catch frost-bite?”

  Glancing up, he was surprised to find a cab sitting in front of him. Trey bent, squinting through the half-open window at the shadowy figure inside. “I’ve got a couple of stops to make. Is that all right?”

  “Hey, if you’ve got the money, I’ve got the time.”

  Irony twisted his mouth into a semblance of a smile. It was something he might have wished to hear from a certain pair of mind-altering lips earlier. A fresh wave of humiliation washed over him as he got inside the cab. She’d cast a spell over him. There was no way he’d have even considered paying for sex, not in this day and age, not ever, he corrected. Not until tonight, his disgusted conscience spoke up.

  “Where to?” the cabby asked.

  “The nearest book store,” he answered, distractedly brushing bits of sleet from his lapel. Earlier, he meant to pick up a novel for next week’s review, but a last minute scramble to find a date took longer than he anticipated. The price of asking a woman out once or twice and failing to contact her again left him in a bin
d. Four of the women he phoned had actually gotten married since he last dialed their numbers. Cynthia Lane and her dating service were a last resort. A short vacation to hell, he mentally added.

  “What kind of bookstore you looking for?”

  Trey glanced toward the driver. The man needed a shave and wore a shapeless cowboy hat perched on his head. “How many kinds are there?”

  The cabby shrugged. “Two. You prefer floors your feet stick to, or not?”

  “Not,” Trey assured him.

  “Good, I can pick up something for my ol’ lady.”

  “Good,” he mimicked dryly. “You can turn off the meter while you browse.”

  “All right, but if I get back to the car before you, it starts ticking again.” The man eyed Trey’s award. “You a writer?”

  “A journalist.”

  “Oh.” The cabby frowned. “I thought you might be somebody.”

  “I’m T. West,” Trey ground out.

  No recognition lit the cabby’s eyes. He turned, smiling broadly. “I’m Charlie Grimes. Pleased to meet you. Every year I work the awards ceremony. Nadine, that’s my wife,” he informed. “She reads a lot. Well, most all the time now. She’s gonna have a baby soon and the doc said if she stayed off her feet, her ankles wouldn’t swell up so bad. Nadine’s home anxiously awaiting my return, hoping I might have picked up someone famous this year. Guess she’ll be disappointed.”

  “Guess so,” Trey said dryly. “A few minutes earlier, and you could have driven Kat Summers”

  “Kat Summers!” Charlie exploded in disbelief “She’s my favorite! I mean, Nadine’s favorite,” he quickly amended. “My wife’ll be down in the mouth when she hears I almost gave Kat Summers a ride. Hey, she wasn’t that leggy blonde standing outside the hotel a few minutes before you came out, was she?”

  “Unless you want your face slapped, I wouldn’t describe her with those particular words, at least not in her presence. But yes, that was Kat Summers.”