Isn't it Romantic? Page 5

  “Didn’t figure him for a one-night stand. Maybe you were too easy, Mom.”

  “Shelly,” Katrine choked. “I … we didn’t, how do you know about one-night stands or being easy?”

  Her daughter placed hands on her hips, presenting a confusing picture as to which person in the room was the adult. “Sex is everywhere, Mom. Eleven year olds know a lot more than they did when you were a kid. There’s no reason to get bent about it. Considering the statistics on teen pregnancy, and now the AIDS issue, I’ve decided to stay a virgin until I get married. If I get married,” she quickly added.

  “Y—You have?” Katrine stammered. “I mean, yes, that’s a very mature attitude. You should wait. And for the record, Mr. Westmoreland and I didn’t—well, you know.”

  “Oh.” Shelly gathered up the tray. “That explains the edginess. You’re sexually frustrated.”

  As her daughter eased her way out, Katrine stared blankly at the empty doorway. What would Shelly know about sexual frustration? The child didn’t even have hormones yet! What exactly was sexual frustration anyway? A tight feeling in your gut? The inability to concentrate on anything but blue eyes, broad shoulders, dark hair…

  A jingling noise scattered her thoughts. Katrine forced herself to wait until the third ring before lifting the receiver. She answered with a calmness contradicting her shaking hands.

  When a New York accent sounded in her ears, she ignored her immediate disappointment. She hadn’t really expected it to be anyone but Craig. Certainly not a columnist who’d finally gone too far with his opinion. As always, it took her a few minutes to adjust to Craig’s fast-paced dialogue. She wasn’t certain, but she thought he said something about making an agreement with the paper that would be more profitable than a retraction. Something he believed would satisfy her readers as well as get her free press. Finally, his suggestion penetrated her understanding. Surely she hadn’t heard him right.

  “You want me to do what?”

  Chapter 4

  “You want me to do what?” Trey bellowed in disbelief.

  “Write a feature with her,” Jerry Caldwell answered. “Hey, we got off easier than I thought we would. Kat Summers’ readers might question her involvement with a man who doesn’t respect romance. Craig Martin and I decided to go with the research thing. Although the picture is still incriminating, we hope to take everyone’s mind off of what the two of you were really doing in that cab, and channel their interest toward the feature.”

  Trey walked away from the door, approaching Jerry with catlike grace. He’d been waiting for four hours to hear from Jerry. “Let me get this straight. First you crucify me for reviewing Kat Summers in my column again, but now you want me to generate interest for the paper with the very person I’m supposed to avoid? Give one good reason why I should team up with her on a feature?”

  “Financial security,” Jerry answered sternly.

  “You can’t afford to lose this job. You’ve got a loan in process on a house and I hear your Jag’s in the shop. Besides, you owe it to the paper to boost our ratings. This whole affair is your fault.”

  It wasn’t the first time Trey wanted to walk out on Jerry since coming to work for the paper. Caldwell was a typical businessman. If you made him money and provided subscribers, you were an asset. If you bucked the system, said the wrong thing, or did the wrong thing, you were a pain in the ass. Trey felt like being a pain.

  “Don’t threaten me,” he warned softly. “I’ll go back to editing copy in Philly before I submit to blackmail.”

  “Would you?” Jerry smiled his doubt. “You’ve made a name for yourself in Dallas. If you aren’t too popular with a portion of our women readers, your honest approach at review is respected by most of our male subscribers. We might even get national exposure on this thing. That certainly wouldn’t hurt your career.”

  “Not everything boils down to career,” Trey countered. “A man should be allowed his pride even in the cut-throat business of ratings.”

  “Pride?” Jerry scoffed. “There’s not a journalist alive who wouldn’t send his mother down the river for a good story or to see his name in print. I bet your ex-father-in-law would be interested in carrying the story. If you consider him a part of the past, I keep up with any man who privately owns the largest newspaper in Philadelphia. I hear your ex-wife is single again. It might soothe your pride to show Linda Tate how far a Philly boy can travel on his own fuel. I’d be willing to bet she’d find a story about her ex and a romance novelist intriguing.”

  Jerry’s news momentarily staggered Trey. He quickly recovered. “I’m not interested in impressing my ex-wife. I won’t do the feature.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll quit before I let you fire me over Katrine Summerville. Consider this my resignation.”

  Jerry’s smugness faded. “You can’t quit! All right, that was uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

  Trey kept walking. He moved past secretaries who paused in their typing to watch him storm by, oblivious to their soft sighs of appreciation. Glass rattled as the door to his office slammed shut. He took deep steadying breaths to bring his anger under control.

  Damn Jerry! Damn himself. For one irrational moment, Trey wished Linda could see how well he’d done for himself. He wanted her to regret leaving him. How ironic if Linda were to believe he’d become involved with a romance writer, especially since she’d claimed the man she left him for stepped right from the pages of a romance novel.

  That was six years ago, and Trey admitted he hadn’t gotten over the blow. His wounds were more easily irritated in the dark days when he’d done the review on Kat Summers. Maybe he hadn’t been unbiased. When he spotted one of her novels, all he remembered envisioning was his wife with another man.

  Linda surfaced inside his memory. Dark hair, velvet-brown eyes, small, petite figure. His thoughts shifted and the hair became blonde, the eyes green, the figure slender and tall. Before the ripe fullness of Katrine Summerville’s lips took shape in his consciousness, Jerry barged into the office.

  “At least listen to what we’ve got planned. Any journalist in the country would give his eyeteeth to do this article.”

  “I’m listening.” Trey removed an original painting of a glorious Southwest sunset from the wall. “Talk away. It won’t do any good.”

  “The feature is, of course, on romance.”

  “End of conversation.”

  “B–But, b–but,” Jerry stammered, “the two of you get to spend four weeks on the town, compliments of the paper. All you have to do is write the realistic opinion of the date while she writes the romantic side. We’re calling the feature Does Romance Still Exist In The Twentieth Century? A Date With Reality.”

  Trey smiled. “I had the distinct impression my opinions were responsible for landing me in hot water to begin with, Caldwell.”

  “That was before the ‘rag’ picture and your suggestive review created a charged outbreak of curiosity concerning T. West and Kat Summers. Craig Martin thought matching the two of you against each other would be good publicity for her. Rationality versus romance.”

  “Sounds too easy.” Trey purposely narrowed his gaze on Jerry. “What’s the catch?”

  Caldwell began picking imaginary lint from his jacket. “You’re supposed to gradually fall under the spell of romance, you know, become a believer? Craig thought it would be nice if you wrote something mushy in the last feature.”

  Silence for a moment while Trey tried to mentally count to ten. He only made it to seven “I’m not believing this!” he exploded. “I told you I wouldn’t back down. Find yourself another stool pigeon.”

  A whine escaped Jerry’s throat. He blocked the door as Trey moved toward him. “Think of the publicity. Imagine spending four nights on the town with a knock-out like Katrine Summerville. Doing this article might set you up with babes for life, and all you’ve got to do is produce a little thrust and slobber of your own when it’s all said and done. What’s so bad about that?”

  “F
irst of all,” Trey ground out, “I’ve learned my lesson about being set up. Secondly, but most importantly, I don’t write gush. I’m a journalist! Gush is Katrine Summerville’s department. Why did she agree to do the feature, anyway? I thought you said she’d go for our throats.”

  His editor flashed a lewd grin. “Play your cards right, and she might go for yours before the romancing is finished. Kat Summers can’t do anything to us, not this time. Thanks to Texas Trash, and your steamy review, it would be her word against yours. I imagine she knows the cabby can testify to her being in that cab, and from all appearances, very willing to give you something to write about. She needs a way out.”

  The anger simmering in Trey’s veins rose to the boiling point. “Dammit, Jerry! If she can’t do anything to us, why are we messing with her? Why didn’t you just tell Craig Martin to go to hell and forget the whole thing?”

  “Forget it?” Jerry echoed incredulously. “This feature could boost our ratings sky high. Forget it?”

  It had come down to ratings. It always did when a man’s pride tipped the scales against fame and fortune. “I see.” Trey seated himself before snatching up his name plate. “I’m supposed to gallantly save her reputation? I’m supposed to let her spread ludicrous, flowery, nauseating nonsense around for the sake of romance? I’m…” Trey paused, his building outrage fading to a simmer while his mind snagged on a catch to trip up Katrine Summerville.

  “Humph.” Jerry reinstated his presence after a few moments of silence passed.

  “What if she doesn’t find anything romantic about our dates?”

  Footsteps heralded Jerry’s approach. “She’s got to, that’s her part of the bargain. Kat Summers is to write the romantic interpretation of your dates, and T. West is to write the realism. Hell I’m giving you the key to the city. The opera, the finest restaurants—how could she find any of those places unromantic?”

  A soft scraping noise filled the room as Trey unconsciously slid the smooth surface of his name plate along the length of his desk. Would getting even with Katrine Summerville be worth the humiliation of agreeing to do the feature? The possibility he’d like to see her again was cleverly rationalized as revenge. “All right, Caldwell.” He smiled slightly. “Let the games begin.”

  ———

  “Well, what do you think?” Katrine glanced past her reflection to ask.

  Shelly, sitting Indian-style on her mother’s rumpled bed, nodded. “You’re a fox, Mom. Where’s he taking you that you’ve got to get all dressed up?”

  Unconsciously running a hand over her hair, Katrine leaned closer to the mirror, wondering if her lipstick might be a shade too dark. “I’m not sure, Honey. Dinner and drinks, but he didn’t say where. Mr. Caldwell told Craig we have the key to the city. I assume we’ll go to Chez Fred’s and then maybe to The Baron’s.”

  “I knew you’d see him again,” Shelly said with a satisfied smirk. “It’s fate.”

  Her daughter became the subject of Katrine’s reproachful glance. “It’s business.” She ignored the tattle-tale shake of her hands as she lifted a brush to her already perfect hair. She couldn’t believe Craig got her into this mess. Her editor and Trey Westmoreland. “I told you about the article. This is nothing but an assignment for T. West and Kat Summers. Don’t confuse the issue.”

  “Right.” Shelly snorted. “It’s taken you five hours to get ready for this assignment. I don’t think I’m the confused one.”

  Katrine summoned an excuse for her meticulous preparation and came up void. The soft sound of chimes filled the air and saved her the unwanted bother.

  “He’s heeere,” Shelly drew out in an eerie voice, mimicking the child in Poltergeist. “Want me to get it so you can make a grand entrance?”

  “I want you to get it so I can find my shoes,” Katrine said calmly. “Are your things packed to spend the night with Melissa?”

  “Ready and waiting by the door. I’ll get out of here just as soon as I see his mouth water.”

  “Young Lady,” Katrine warned. “No references to any part of Mr. Westmoreland’s anatomy.”

  “I’ll keep my opinions to myself,” Shelly conceded reluctantly. “Don’t make me stand down there and suffer in silence too long. And, Mom, wear the red-sequined heels with that jumpsuit. Put on a little more perfume. After five hours, you’re fading.”

  Once Shelly disappeared, Katrine scrambled toward her closet. The huge walk-in housed at least twenty pair of shoes, all bunched in a pile on the floor. That she wasn’t the tidiest of people registered as her gaze roamed the cluttered confines of her closet.

  Clothes hung, half on, half off hangers like a trapeze artist waiting to make the fatal plunge to the ground below. Her belts were all twisted together, forced to share one peg, some knotted beyond restoration. Purses, bulging with tissues gum wrappers, and weighted with pennies, were thrown in one corner. “Someday,” she promised for the tenth time in a month.

  Locating the red-sequined heels beneath the wadded blouse she’d put out a search and rescue call on two years ago, Katrine emerged from the closet with a frustrated sigh of relief. Trey probably assumed, like any woman, she’d be up here primping for him. “Well, I’m not,” she assured her reflection, squeezing into the sparkling shoes, then unscrewing the lid of her favorite perfume.

  “Mom! You can hold up on the primping and come down!” Shelly shouted with the healthy lung capacity of an eleven year old.

  She jumped. The bottle slipped from Katrine’s grasp and her efforts to catch it resulted in disaster. Hands held out in front of her like a zombie she moved toward the bed. A towel received the wasted indulgence of a hundred-fifty-dollars an ounce perfume. The room reeked. She reeked! Waving her arms wildly in hopes evaporation might render her only sweetly nauseating, Katrine left her room and walked across the landing. An unusual silence struck her immediately. Shelly wasn’t babbling. Something is wrong.

  The oddity so unsettled her, she forgot to cease the flapping of her arms while descending the stairs into the huge living area. Katrine suddenly found herself a prisoner of Trey Westmoreland’s steely-blue stare.

  “Is that a nervous condition, or are you planning to take off?”

  Silk-clad arms fell limply against her sides. Heat suffused her face. Whether the reaction stemmed from embarrassment or anger, proved debatable. Standing before her was no tux-encased hunk, but a Levi-straining, leather jacket packing, T-shirt sporting, grubby tennis shoe wearing grease monkey! His hair, that glorious mane of ebony waves hanging to his shoulders, appeared as if it hadn’t seen a comb for the better part of a week!

  “Sorry,” he said, glancing down at himself. “My mechanic and I were working on the Jag. The time got away from me.”

  “Did the grease gun overpower you as well?” Katrine mumbled the only question seemingly appropriate.

  “Maybe you should change, Mom,” Shelly said quietly from her station at the door, overnight bag slung across one shoulder.

  “Unfortunately, all my dirty clothes are clean.”

  “I’ll fix it so you won’t be embarrassed to be seen with me.” A smile touched Trey’s lips. “Don’t get your feathers in a ruffle.”

  Reference to her bird-like entrance inspired a giggle from Shelly. “He’s witty, isn’t he, Mom?”

  “Witless,” Katrine said under her breath. “Why don’t you go home first and clean up, then come back for me?”

  He frowned. “I live on the other side of the city. We’re talking two hours if I drive over there and back again. It’ll save time if you go with me now.”

  “Lighten up, Mom.” Shelly opened the coat closet. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Maybe it flew out the window.” Trey turned to Shelly and winked, procuring another laugh from her as she pulled a red, wool cape from the closet.

  Katrine felt a slight resentment over their easy manner with each other. Shelly shouldn’t feel comfortable around a man she hardly knew, especially since Katrine’s senses
went on the alert the moment her eyes met his. Grease monkey or not. Trey brought an overwhelming essence into her female-dominated home. Maleness.

  Odd, Carl had spent time in her home, and yet, she never noticed a change in the very air around her. A charge of electricity that made her feel breathless and filled her with a sense of forewarning—an uneasy suspicion her previously mundane existence had just been threatened.

  “Where’s your purse?” Shelly asked.

  “On the sofa.” Katrine moved to the sofa and retrieved a leather shoulder-strap bag. “Run along, Shelly. I’ll see you in the morning.” She flinched when her daughter delivered the finest wool money could buy into the greasy hands of her date.

  “Have fun, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Shelly grinned before easing the front door open.

  “Hold it.” Trey stopped her. “Where’s your coat? It’s cold out there.”

  “I’m just going next door,” Shelly explained.

  “You might decide to play outside before it gets dark. Take a coat.”

  Her eyes traveled upward. “I’m eleven. I don’t play outside. I don’t play at all.”

  Draping the cape over his arm, Trey took it upon himself to open the coat closet. “When I was your age, there wasn’t much I liked better than a game of stickball on a cold winter day.”

  “What’s stickball?” Shelly sounded less mature than she had a moment earlier.

  Trey mimicked her, rolling his gaze heavenward. “What’s stickball? You poor, mistreated girl. Listen, wear a coat to go next door and I’ll come over some morning and teach you.”

  “Promise?”

  He shrugged before removing a small goose-down jacket from the closet. “Sure.”

  “All right.” Shelly accepted the coat. “Mom, have you got your key? I don’t want you waking Melissa’s mother up at two in the morning, asking for mine again.”

  Stunned at her daughter’s curiosity over stick-ball, it took a moment for the question to register. “Y—Yes,” Katrine stammered. “I checked before I put my purse on the sofa earlier. Besides, I haven’t done that in a long time.”