Julie Kenner – Starstruck (страница 4)

At first, she’d been dating some guy—Bob, Bill, something—who had never been good enough for Alyssa. And Chris didn’t put the moves on attached women, no matter how sexy they were.

But even when that happy day had come and she’d kicked Bob to the curb, Chris still hadn’t made a move. Hadn’t even hinted how he felt.

She’d come to him, told him about the breakup, and suggested they watch something fast-paced and mindless on his big-screen television.

He couldn’t say no, of course, and though she’d seemed fascinated by the car chases and explosions, he’d spent the movie wondering how to tell the woman who’d become one of his best friends that he’d fallen hard and fast for her. And then, when the movie had ended, she’d smiled at him with sad eyes and reached for his hands. There’d been a window of opportunity right then. A single short window during which he could have done what Max Dalton would have so smoothly done—leaned in and kissed her. Told her in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be more than friends.

But while Chris might write Max Dalton, that didn’t mean he walked the walk. Especially not where women were concerned. A sad reality that was cemented when she’d said, “Thanks for letting me hang out with you. I really need a solid friend right now.”

He’d swallowed. Her words had felt much the way he imagined a knife to the heart felt like. Sharp and painful and totally deadly.

He knew then he had no chance with this woman. Not as a rebound guy. Not as anything.

It was, he’d thought, one hell of a crappy wake-up call.

Still, he needed to do something. More and more, she was on his mind. Creeping into his dreams. Into his books. Hell, Max Dalton was not a one-woman kind of guy. He got in, he got out, he did the job, and he blew shit up. He didn’t turn all gooey for a girl.

Except lately, he did. And Chris had a feeling that unless he got Alyssa out of his system, Max Dalton was going to turn into a one-woman man, and then where would Chris be? Probably writing a romance novel instead of the second testosterone-laden spy thriller he’d told his agent was in the works.

Max Dalton wouldn’t let thoughts of a woman torment him like that. He’d just sidle up to her, whisper in her ear and take her to bed.

A nice fantasy, but that’s all it was. A fantasy.

Chris wanted more. Warmth and reality and lazing around in bed with the paper on Sunday morning. Shoving jeans and T-shirts into backpacks and taking off for Paris on the spur of the moment. Hiking along a beach at sunset, especially a white-sand beach in some exotic location.

And damned if he didn’t want that with Alyssa.

Frustrated with himself, Chris got up from his desk and stretched, his eyes wandering to his door as he did so. He needed to get his ass in gear and start packing. He had to catch a flight first thing in the morning.

The phone rang, and though he considered ignoring it, he knew he had to answer. Technically, he was already on assignment, and if it was Greg, his editor at Tourist and Travel, then Chris really did have to take the call.

Caller ID showed only a New York area code, and he snatched it up, expecting Greg and instead hearing the harsh, cigarette-soaked voice of Lilian Ashbury, the powerhouse agent Chris still couldn’t believe he’d landed.

“How fast can you finish the second Max Dalton book and get me an outline for the third?” she asked without preamble.

“Happy holidays to you, too, Lil.”

“Bah humbug. It’s slush and ice up here, not a damn thing to be happy about.”

“Is that why you’re working on a Saturday?”

“I’m tireless in my efforts to represent you,” she said, deadpan. “I had lunch with Roger Eckhard,” she said, referring to a senior editor at Main Street Books, Chris’s dream publisher. “I pitched him the book, and he loves the concept. He’s leaving on the fifth to start the New Year with two weeks in Italy, and I want him to take both manuscripts and an outline for the third with him. We want him looking at this series like a franchise, and you as the next Ian Fleming. If he does, I think we can expect the kind of offer that will make you a very happy man.”

“I—”

“Just say ‘Thank you, Lil.’ And ‘No problem, Lil.’”

“No problem, Lil,” he said, fighting a grin. He’d make it work. No sense telling his agent that the proximity of his next door neighbor was keeping his head in a decidedly un-Max-like mode. But that was okay. Because he was about to go spend a week in New Mexico in a flashy, splashy resort. He’d shift between writing the article for Tourist and Travel and writing pages of Max Dalton’s next installment. He’d hole himself up in his hotel room, crank out the pages, and produce some fabulous shit.

With over six hundred miles between him and Alyssa, how hard could it be?

3

“GEORGE BAILEY, I’LL love you ’til the day I die.”

“Awww.” Alyssa sank down into her overstuffed sofa and dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

Claire tossed a handful of popcorn at her. “The movie’s barely even started.”

“I know,” Alyssa said with a sniffle. “But I know what’s going to happen.” She sniffed again, then blew her nose. “It just gets me every time.

“And the alcohol’s probably not helping.”

“You’re the one who insisted on peppermint schnapps and hot chocolate.”

Alyssa couldn’t argue with that. And, hey, the libations had done their job. They’d both come home from the carriage ride in a funk. The original plan had been to pick out a handful of the many invitations they’d both received and go party-hopping, hoping they’d slide gracefully into the holiday spirit.

But after they’d climbed into Claire’s car, neither one had the energy, and they’d ended up at Alyssa’s apartment, trying to drown their depression in schnapps-laced hot chocolate and a hefty dose of Frank Capra.

“Why can’t we be like Mary Hatch and get a guy like George Bailey?” Alyssa asked.

Claire lifted a brow. “You don’t want a guy like George Bailey. He wants to travel and never has money to fix up his house.”

“It’s a movie, Claire,” Alyssa said, even though her friend was absolutely right.

“You want Sam Wainwright,” Claire said, exhibiting perfect understanding. “The hardcore businessman to George Bailey’s laid-back guy.”

“Alas, there are no Sam Wainwrights in Dallas.”

“Russell Starr,” Claire said, then sat back looking proud of herself.

“What about him?”

“Not two hours ago you told me he was your fantasy man.”

“So?”

“So do something about it.”

Alyssa gaped. “You are seriously crazy, you know that, right? We went out for drinks. One kiss—”

“An amazing kiss.”

“—but just a kiss,” Alyssa said. “It’s not a great romance, Claire.”

“Of course not, since you didn’t call him the next day and push for an actual date.”

No, Alyssa had to admit, she hadn’t. And that was something for which she was still kicking herself. He’d known about Bob, of course, and so she could totally justify in her mind why he hadn’t called her. She was taken. And it was that same reason that had prevented her from calling him. Considering she’d broken up with Bob only a few months later, perhaps she should have rethought that decision.

“You need to learn to go after what you want, Al,” Claire said, frowning as she concentrated on her words. Their mugs were filled with more mint than chocolate, and it was clearly going to their heads. “If there were sparks with Russell that night, you should go for it.”

“The only thing I’m going to go after right now is that partnership. If I don’t bring new business to the firm in the next couple of weeks, my chance takes a nosedive. I already know that Bayne is gunning for the slot to go to Roland. He wants a new partner with SEC experience. He figures that since Prescott’s specialty is mediation, that makes me extraneous.”

Although Alyssa had a number of clients for whom she did general litigation work, more and more she was taking on mediation jobs, setting herself up as an arbiter of disputes and trying to help the sides negotiate their way to a settlement and avoid the financial and emotional toll of a trial. She loved the work, believed in its value, and it irritated her that Roland got partner points simply because he focused on securities law.

Still, she couldn’t ignore reality, and if partnership at Prescott was off the table, that meant that she’d have to start looking for a new job, because she wasn’t about to stay at a firm that was a dead end. The idea of job-hunting gave her hives, and she took another sip of minty chocolate to dull the pain caused by the mere potential.

“Who says you can’t do both?” Claire said, lifting her brows. “A little business…a little pleasure…”

“Claire!”

“Don’t you at least owe it to yourself to try?”

“Fine. Maybe. I will concede that Russell Starr would be a great catch. But he’s taken. The man’s dating a United States senator’s daughter.”

“Not anymore.” Claire took a sip from her mug, her eyes dancing. When the mug came away, a chocolate mustache highlighted her upper lip. “Broke up last week. Your boy’s single.”

“Oh.” The schnapps in Alyssa’s stomach started doing a Riverdance kind of number. “You’re certain?” She didn’t really have to ask, though. As the daughter of a Texas state senator herself, Claire always had the political/social gossip at her fingertips.