“What happened to your flute?” he asked quietly.
She stiffened, not wanting to go down that road. “Nothing. It still plays just fine.”
“You didn’t join an orchestra after all?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because I went into communications instead,” she said briskly and changed the subject. “How did you find me?”
He didn’t answer right away. She could see him calculating just how far he could push her before she chased him out. Finally, he said, “Coincidence. A colleague on the paper happened to mention you. Don’t worry,” he added with a quick smile, “I didn’t let on about our ‘past.’ She said I might talk to you about publicity. Here for the past ten years I’ve been picturing you in a concert hall with your flute and a black dress, and it turns out you’re a publicist.”
Mollie wasn’t sure if she detected a note of disdain for her profession or if she was simply being defensive. Jeremiah was hard news all the way. He would consider publicists roadblocks thrown between him and the truth.
“She warned me your client list is a little weird,” he said.
“Weird?”
“She said unusual. Same difference.”
Mollie set her mug in the sink and regarded him with a cool, measured look. He was lying. Flat out, one hundred percent, no doubt in her mind. The only question was, what was his motive? He would, she knew, have a reason. “So why would a hard-hitting, award-winning investigative journalist like yourself want to join such a list?”
His eyes narrowed on her abruptly, a shock, an almost physical reminder of this man’s relentless drive and intensity. Then it was gone, and he sat back, everything about him relaxed and even somewhat amused. “Seems you doubt my sincerity, Miss Mollie.”
“And why would I?”
“Because you hold a grudge against me for ten years ago,” he said flatly.
“No, because you didn’t come here to hire me, you came here because you couldn’t stand not to. You saw me last night, and you couldn’t resist. You did your reporter thing, found out I’d set up shop as a publicist, and had to see for yourself.” She took a breath. “And I haven’t thought about you in ten years.”
“Ah. Then you don’t believe a colleague put me onto you.”
“Jeremiah, I want to be there the day, one, you want to hire a publicist, and, two, you find one who’d take you on as a client.”
He grinned, entertained. “Think you know me pretty well, don’t you?”
“Some lessons I never forget.”
The phone rang, and Mollie snatched up the kitchen extension, prepared to get rid of whoever was on the other end. But it was Boca Raton magazine returning her call, and she knew she had to take it. She looked at Jeremiah. “This is someone I’ve been trying to reach for two weeks. I need about two minutes. Would you mind-”
“No problem.”
He slid off the stool and headed into the den off the back of the kitchen. It was usually off-limits for business, but she didn’t bother directing him to her living room-office. Instead she put him out of her mind and focused on her call. “Hi, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been-”
The den!
Mollie choked and gripped the phone, calling upon every ounce of professionalism and her limited experience as a performing artist. “Excuse me, something’s just come up. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
She hung up, steadied herself, and rushed into the den.
She was too late.
Jeremiah glanced back at her from his position in the middle of the room. His eyes gleamed with humor, and his straight mouth twitched. “Haven’t thought about me in ten years, have you, Mollie?”
She stood very still. The den was small and cozy, with simple, comfortable furnishings. She’d added a few personal items brought down from Boston: two photo albums, photographs of her family and Leonardo, movie videos, her CD player and CD collection.
And her dartboard.
She’d nailed it to the wall above a rattan chair in the corner. She’d started playing darts shortly after her Miami spring break and first and only fling on the dark and dangerous side. The game relaxed her and helped her process her emotions, even think.
Two weeks ago, something had possessed her-she now couldn’t imagine what-to enlarge a black-and-white photo of Jeremiah and staple it to her dartboard. It was a candid shot from a South Florida magazine piece on Miami’s star reporters. He’d refused to pose for the story, preferring to be the one doing the interviews, not giving them. And he had no patience with celebrity.
“That was just…I was just amusing myself.” She tried to sound as if she wasn’t choking from embarrassment. If he’d changed in any significant way-gained weight, lost some of his intensity, started wearing dopey clothes, anything-she might not have felt so exposed. “I was bored one night, and I saw that picture, and…” She took a breath, summoning the last shreds of her dignity. “I have no animosity toward you.”
“That why most of the darts landed between my eyes?”
She forced a laugh. “I’m a good shot.”
He settled back on his heels, glanced again at the dartboard, having a hell of a good time for himself. “I guess I should consider myself lucky you aimed for my forehead.” He shifted back to her. “At least most of the time.”
“Look, don’t go thinking that just because I threw a few darts at your picture that I’ve been carrying a torch for you or plotting revenge or even thinking about you for the past ten years. I haven’t. I saw your picture, and it amused me, and-”
“And you stuck it up on your dartboard.”
“Yes. Exactly. You shouldn’t feel flattered or insulted.”
“What was on your dartboard before me?”
“Nothing. It was just a regular dartboard.” She licked her lips, feeling somewhat less self-conscious. “No one comes in here but me. I’d never leave your picture up for company to see.”
“Because I’m your deep, dark secret,” he said, taking a step toward her.
Before he could come any closer, she gave up trying to explain and charged back into the kitchen. Why had she agreed to let him make his case? He’d never meant to hire her. She’d known that. He’d just had to see for himself if she’d gone to pieces after he’d admitted he was a heel who’d used her to get a story and then sent her home to Boston. This little visit was an exercise in male ego. Nothing more.
He rejoined her in the kitchen, and she flew around at him. But before she could get a choked word out, he picked up his sunglasses. She noticed the blunt nails, the dark hairs on his forearms, the taut muscles. And the eyes, probing, assessing. “Coming here was a bad idea, Mollie. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
Her anger went out of her even before it had a chance to take firm hold. She brushed back a strand of hair that had come loose in her mad dash from the den. “You haven’t, not really. You never meant to hire me, did you? You just wanted to see what’d become of me?”
“I’m a reporter,” he said dryly, heading for the door. “I have an insatiable curiosity. Good seeing you again, Mollie.”
“You, too.”
He winked. “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
“Maybe.”
The door shut, and he was gone.
Mollie let out a long, slow, cleansing breath and collapsed onto a bar stool. There. She’d survived. The encounter she’d dreaded since agreeing to Leonardo’s proposal had come and gone, and here she was, intact, sane, her own curiosity satisfied. As she’d predicted, Jeremiah hadn’t changed at all. Not in ten years, not in a million.
And he hadn’t figured out the impact he’d had on her life. After their affair, she’d returned home questioning herself, her life, her commitment to music, everything. She could no longer just drift along in currents not of her own making. So she had dropped out of the conservatory and given up her dream of becoming a world-class flutist. She simply didn’t have the drive, the talent, the desire. Her week with her dark and dangerous reporter, for all its drama, had forced her to look inside herself and see what was there.