Читать книгу Going to Extremes - Dawn Atkins - Страница 8

HIS AGENT had declared it a coup, but Dan McAlister wasn’t happy about this book tour with Kathleen Dubinofsky. Make that Valentine. She’d changed her name. Probably for her career, but maybe just for fun, knowing Kathleen. Kathleen had fun built into her soul. And whimsy. For Kathleen, anything worth doing was worth overdoing.

But Valentine? That was kind of silly. When he’d known her, she’d wrung every ounce of delight out of every moment, but she’d never been silly.

He checked out the view from the window of his New York hotel room. This place, world-famous for its luxury, had no doubt been selected with Kathleen in mind, since she’d built a career out of her passion for extravagance. Smart of her, really, to turn her inclinations into a source of income. He’d always admired her savvy, her directness, her purposefulness, even when she was making him nuts.

And now she was famous enough that his publisher wanted her on his book tour.

He became aware that his heart was racing again. Every time he thought about her, his system flooded with adrenaline. Being with Kathleen had brought him face-to-face with a side of his character he disliked—his wild side—and which he’d successfully wrestled to the ground. Just thinking her name brought it all back.

They were to meet their agents and his publisher’s publicist for dinner in two hours, but he wanted to speak to her privately first, confirm what they’d agreed upon via an e-mail—that they’d keep their past a secret.

She’d sent a quick reply. “The irony of our relationship would certainly detract from our credibility.” The oddly dispassionate words made him wonder if she’d changed from when he knew her. She’d always been fiery and outspoken. The irony of their relationship? Even he, whom she’d called Ice Man, wouldn’t use that word to describe their affair. Wrenching and life-altering maybe, but never ironic.

He hadn’t been crazy about the book tour even before he’d heard Kathleen would be with him—too much fuss and hassle—but his agent insisted it would build “buzz,” whatever that was. So, he’d agreed. If he gained more readers, reached more people with the ideas that had saved him and helped so many of his clients, then it was worth every bit of awkward embarrassment.

In his practice, he specialized in overcoming self-defeating patterns, and he found it extremely rewarding. He’d developed checklists that allowed his clients to analyze the sources of immoderation in their lives, along with willpower boosters and self-control builders—tools with which to reshape their behavior in more positive directions.

Grateful clients had urged him to write a book, and over the past two years he’d done so. He’d been honored when first an agent, then a top publisher had seen the value of his work. Publishing The Magic of Moderation was an opportunity to reach more people with his ideas. Fame made him uncomfortable, but it was a means to an important end.

Then he’d learned about Kathleen and the world had shuddered to a stop for a while. He knew about her work, had even bought her first book, but seeing her was the last thing he’d expected. Or wanted.

The e-mail exchange had been too impersonal and brief. He had to see her, get the first meeting over without witnesses. They were adults, of course, and college was a decade ago, but their relationship had reverberated through his life and he wasn’t sure how normally he could act around her.

Again his heart sped up and his breathing went shallow. Get a grip. There was no reason to expect the worst. In fact, the trip might be healing for them both. He could apologize for his immature behavior, how out of control he’d been and the abrupt way he’d broken it off. They could acknowledge the power of what they’d shared, experience closure and, perhaps, end up friends.

He straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair—God, he was primping—and stepped out into the hall.

Her room—a named suite, actually—was unnervingly next door. He saw that a waiter was attempting to drag a cart with an ice bucket of champagne into the room. Champagne had been her favorite liquor, he recalled—not easy to afford on a student budget, but she’d managed. Some things are worth the sacrifice, she’d say. He smiled at the memory. To this day, the bubbly liquid made him think of her.

These days, he rarely drank, and never champagne, which gave him an instant headache. Or it had since Kathleen—a psychosomatic reaction no doubt.

Dan held the door for the waiter, stepped in after him and found himself in a large sitting room, dotted with huge arrangements of exotic flowers. He could hear water running. Kathleen was in the shower. She loved water.

“It’s Dan,” he called out, not wanting to startle her.

“Be right out,” she called back, not sounding surprised. Maybe she’d expected him to drop in.

The waiter handed him the bill, which he signed, distracted by the complex scents that filled the room—creams, perfumes, powders, candles and mists. So Kathleen. He searched for her smell underneath all the commercial fragrances. He’d liked that scent best.

The waiter departed and he waited for Kathleen by the champagne. Condensation dribbled down the silver bucket like the sweat sliding down his body inside his shirt.

This was a familiar situation. In the old days, he’d spent lots of time waiting for Kathleen.

Waiting heightens the intensity, she used to say about sex. All true, of course. She would slow down, pull away, make him wait until he was nothing but pounding lust, his focus narrowed to her breasts, her mouth, her moans, her softness, being inside her…all the way. Around her, he was as shaky and enthralled as a kid on his first time.

An erection threatened. Over a memory, for God’s sake! Relax. Settle down, he coached himself, squeezing his eyes tight. Focus on what matters.

Which was his book—and figuring out how he and Kathleen would approach this tour. He was a professional therapist, dammit, but he felt like Tom Hanks in Big—a thirteen-year-old abruptly swimming in an adult’s baggy suit and grown-up life.

“Dan!”

He jerked open his eyes and saw Kathleen—naked, dripping and shocked. Embarrassment shot across her face, but she banished that with a sharp smile. She’d always pushed through awkward moments with bravado. She gave a light laugh that squeaked at the end, betraying her distress.

Heat and ice washed through him at the sight of her body, just as she’d appeared in so many guilty dreams. He turned away quickly, but he’d caught it all—her round, high breasts, pink nipples and that triangle of hair, golden against her pale skin. At least his mortification had iced down his erection. With his back turned, he explained himself. “I came in with the waiter. I called, but you must not have heard me. I’ll let you get dressed.” He started for the door.

“Don’t go. It’s fine.” She had the same husky voice—a whiskey voice in the vernacular of detective novels—and it warmed him like a quick shot. “I thought you were my agent JJ. I just popped out for my robe.”

He stayed with his back to her while a suitcase zipper scraped, a clasp rattled and fabric rustled.

“There. All covered, Dan,” she said, sounding amused.

He turned and found her wrapped in a black silk robe that clung to her breasts and ended high on her thighs. She was a voluptuous woman with a figure that rivaled Marilyn Monroe’s, except she was taller. She was a presence, a gathering of female energy that drew male eyes wherever she went.

He had the familiar impulse to touch—her skin, her silk-covered breasts, her shiny golden hair, loosely swept up on her head. Completely insane, of course. But the way he felt about Kathleen had never made much sense.

“I just wanted to touch…base…before we officially got together.” He felt himself redden.

“Good idea,” she said, her eyes restless on his face, then gone. That wasn’t like her. She’d always contemplated him carefully, soaking up every detail, every reaction.

He held out his hand to shake—as stupid as that seemed.

“Oh, please.” She lunged forward and threw her arms around him. But she held her body away from his and kissed the air beside his cheek—a gesture for show.

He was relieved. And stupidly disappointed.

She moved to a sofa thick with overstuffed pillows and patted a spot beside her. “Let’s talk. We’ve got time before JJ gets here. She’s always late. Just like me.” She laughed nervously again, which made him want to say something reassuring.

“You look the same. Beautiful as ever.”

“You look good, too. Losing the glasses was a good decision.”

“Thanks. They got in my way.” He was preoccupied with trying not to look at the curve of one breast visible through a gap in her robe. She had great breasts. A firm handful with nipples that had tightened into plump knots whenever he touched them. She’d loved him to spend time there. He’d loved it, too. What was not to love?

He moved his gaze, only to have it sink to the dark space between her legs, where the hem of her robe separated. Control yourself, man. “Why don’t you get dressed? I can wait.”

“No, no. I’ve got time,” she said, “Unless I’m making you uncomfortable…?” She was acting cool, sliding a red-painted nail along the edge of her robe, but the finger trembled and her breath was shaky and she still wouldn’t quite meet his gaze.

“If you’re fine, I’m fine,” he said, determined to manage his reactions. Her toenails matched her fingernails, he noted inanely, watching as she curled her toes around the edge of the table’s glass.

“How about some champagne? I was going to drink it with JJ, but she won’t mind if we get started. This is a kind of celebration, after all. The first time we’ve seen each other in, what, ten years?” She jerked the champagne bottle brusquely from the bucket, spilling ice on the floor, betraying her nervousness. This was new, too. Above all else, Kathleen had always been confident.

With her so jittery, he couldn’t refuse the drink. “Sure. For old time’s sake.” He leaned forward to help her hold the bottle that was now shaking in her hands.

“This is so symbolic,” she said. “We’ve taken different paths and now, ten years later, they’ve converged.” She popped the cork and her green eyes jumped at the sound. “Seems like kismet.”

He smiled. Or karma. A chance to make up for hurting her. He watched her pour the liquid into two tall, elaborate glasses.

“Don’t you just love these flutes? Hotels use those terrible saucers that allow the bubbles to zip away. I travel with these.” She was obviously chattering out of that nervousness.

“Very beautiful,” he said, feeling protective of her.

“Aren’t they?” She admired her brimming glass. “Made from a single piece of blown glass in a little shop in Italy. Perfect weight and balance. Just holding one of these makes me feel better.” She did seem calmer and she gave him the glory of one of her open smiles. This one almost lit her eyes, but not quite.

“To us,” she said, extending her glass. “To the past…which shall remain our dark secret.” She regarded him over the bubbles that misted above the rim. What did she want? She used to grab him with a look. He should be beyond that now, but he felt the tug like pain in a phantom limb.

I’ve missed you. The words formed in his head, but there was no point in saying them. It would just make things more awkward. “To the next two weeks.” He intended to tap her glass with his, but instead their fingers bumped.

Her eyes widened, and he felt a surge of heat, which he attempted to douse with a quick swallow of champagne. The stuff tasted almost otherworldly. Kathleen had that power over things. When they were at Arizona State together, she used to make every moment a celebration. Mimosas for the first sweet blast of citrus blossoms in March, a desert walk after every rain, marshmallows toasted in a chimnea for the first winter chill, the entire apartment filled with candles for something called Candlemas, homemade brownies—complete with a whipped-cream fight—for the end of finals.

She arranged every detail to intensify the moment, to make everything seem more significant than it was. He’d asked her about the source of that inclination—were her parents so celebratory? It’s just me was all she would say. But there was more to the story, he knew. With Kathleen, there always was.

“So, what do you think?” she asked him, playful now.

“I think it’s great you’ve done so well.”

“I meant the champagne. But thanks. I’ve been lucky.”

“It’s very nice. Very pink.”

“Exceptional, really. The tiny bubbles are the mark of a fine champagne. This one’s been fermented slowly in wood for a fuller bouquet, allowing the pinot to turn it rosé. It’s a myth that rosé champagne is sweet. This is a brut, which I prefer. You?”

“Champagne’s your drink, Kathleen. What did you used to say? ‘I am drinking stars’?”

“Actually, that was Dom Perignon. I just happen to agree.”

“I hope this isn’t as expensive as it tastes. I have plebeian preferences, you remember. An occasional beer does me fine.”

“It’s never too late to refine your palate.” Some devilment flashed in her eyes. “Actually, what would people think of the Master of Moderation swilling champagne before five? Très extravagant.”

“No doubt.” He’d only been in the room with her for ten minutes and he was acting out of character. He put the glass on the table.

“Come on, enjoy it, Dan. I’ll never tell.” She touched his hand, just a brush of fingers, but a feeling shimmied through him like tires on ice.

“So,” she said, “you wanted to get together to get our stories straight?” She raised brows as delicate as Japanese calligraphy. “That we met for the first time here? That we know each other’s work…not each other’s…everything?”

He grimaced at the deception. “I know that sounds bad, but I thought it would be best.”

“You’re right.” She gave him a steady look. “If people knew about us, the focus would shift to us as a couple, not us as authors, which is what matters on this tour.”

He’d always liked the way Kathleen cut to the chase.

The mischief returned to her green eyes. “I mean, we wouldn’t want anyone to know that Dr. McAlister once spent an entire weekend in bed, only going to the door for pizza, right?”

“Lord, no.”

“Or that he once had sex in an apartment hot tub?”

“That either,” he said, wincing at the memory.

“No one would believe it if I told them.”

“I hardly believe it myself.”

“Exactly.” She paused, unfathomable emotion in her silence. “Talking about what happened wouldn’t help my credibility, either.” She snatched her lip between her teeth—a sign of hurt—and guilt seized him.

“I’m sorry, Kathleen, about how it ended. I was abrupt and I know that I hurt you.”

She held up her hand. “Don’t apologize, Dan. It was time. We were done.” She stuck her chin up, pride bright in her eyes. “I know I was too intense for you.”

“We were young.”

“And clueless.” She managed a choked laugh. He tried to read her expression, but she wouldn’t hold his gaze. She tipped the delicate glass to her lips and swallowed fast—also not like her. Kathleen took her time with champagne.

He watched her pretty throat undulate, felt the old desire rise in him. Ten years had passed, but he felt the same.

They’d brought out the worst in each other, gotten completely swept away. The whole world shrank down to the size of the two of them and their bodies. Toward the end, Kathleen had gotten irritable and elusive, which had made him even more single-minded in pursuing her. He’d failed classes, let his practicum patients down, couldn’t think of anything but being with her. Not even academic probation had scared him. In the end it had been an inappropriate jealousy that made him realize that he’d let his life spin out of control.

He remembered it all, sitting here, watching her put down her empty glass, lick her soft lips and give him that look—the one that held both challenge and promise, the one he’d sunk into, lost himself in.

He yanked away his gaze and drained the glass as if it held beer on a sunny day. He extended it for a refill. He shouldn’t be drinking so much—and certainly not champagne—but this was a special occasion, right? He’d cut himself some slack this once.

She poured champagne into both their glasses, lifted hers and looked him straight in the eye. “To being older and wiser.” She ticked her glass against his, the delicate ring a warning bell in his head. “And to keeping our secret.”

As the champagne headache kicked in, he wasn’t sure the first was true or the second would be easy.

JUST DESSERT to go, Kathleen thought, gritting her teeth as the dinner with Dan, their agents and Rhonda Lockhart, the publicist from Dan’s house, eased to a close. She’d achieved her goal—behaved with her usual flair and kept JJ off the trail of any dynamic between her and Dan. Dan had managed just fine—cool as gazpacho fresh from the fridge. Sometimes she’d kill for some of his restraint. Her skin itched, her stomach jumped and her heart skittered in her chest like a hockey puck.

At least she didn’t have that hollow feeling that had started that night with Troy, the last man she’d been with. Something was definitely amok with her, which added another knot to the string of knots she’d been tying in her stomach since she’d agreed to this book tour.

Rhonda—their scheduler, media hound and general gofer for the tour—had chattered nonstop, which helped Kathleen hide her feelings. Rhonda reminded Kathleen of Reese Witherspoon—all perky and bouncy and blond, a regular publishing cheerleader. Kathleen could practically hear her pom-poms swish. Go, book tour, go. Win, book sales, win.

Rhonda had gushed over their books, passed out the tour itinerary and asked Kathleen to choose, then sample, her entrée as well as make dessert selections for the entire table.

Which Kathleen was happy to do, since it reminded her of all the joys in the world she loved. Once the desserts were ordered, she excused herself for the ladies’ room for some recuperation time.

Inside the flower-filled, mirrored anteroom, she flopped onto an elegant chaise. Just a few moments all alone was all she needed.

As if on cue, JJ strode in.

Damn.

“Oh, my God, that man has such a thing for you.” JJ plopped into the facing chaise and lit a cigarette, its end glittering like her eyes, hot with her scoop.

“Dan’s agent? Not my type,” Kathleen said, attempting a feint.

“Please.” JJ snorted smoke and flicked the mouth-end of her cigarette with her thumb.

“You mean the waiter?” Kathleen tried, all innocence.

“Don’t insult my vibe meter. I’m talking about you and Dan McAlister. Sparks were flying both ways, hon. I may be a narcissistic workaholic, but I’m not blind. Besides, the waiter was gay and Dan’s agent is dullsville.”

“We were just being polite to each other.”

“When you passed the rolls to him, your fingers touched and you practically dropped the basket.”

“I was weak from hunger.”

“And when you were tasting everyone’s food—”

“That was Rhonda’s idea, not mine.”

“Whatever. The point is that while you were doing it and moaning, he stared at you like you were having a climax.”

That made her breath hitch. JJ had hit on something. She did make similar sounds when she came. And, of course, Dan knew that. Which explained that extra gleam in his eyes.

“Speaking of that, does Dr. Moderate approve of recreational sex? Oh, who cares? Just sleep with the man. I don’t buy all that serenity bullshit.”

“JJ! Are you crazy? Why would I want to sleep with him?” She sat on her hands to hide the way they’d begun to shake.

“To show him he’s human. On general principles. Though…you know…what a book that would make. Kathleen Valentine, Pied Piper of Hedonism, converts Dr. Moderate to her religion of the senses. Herman would be ecstatic.”

“You’re insane, JJ.” Her heart tripped into double time.

JJ took a deep puff of her cigarette and blew it out through her smile. “Come on. You have to admit he’s hot.”

“If you go for that type.”

“The handsome, brilliant, sensitive type? What’s the prob?”

“JJ…we’re supposed to be opponents, polar opposites, remember?”

“Where there’s friction, there’s fire.”

“Even if I were interested, which I’m not, he would never do it.” Her heart started a rolling rumba.

“He’s a man. What man can resist Kathleen Valentine?”

“You’re flattering me.”

JJ shrugged.

“If you’re so hot for him, JJ, come on the tour and you sleep with him.”

“If only…”

“Come on. You hate tours as much as I do.” Kathleen would never sleep with Dan, but she was annoyed to notice that the rumba her heart was doing had added a maraca rhythm.

“You’re thinking about it,” JJ said, a dog with a bone. “You’re all pink.”

“That’s the wine. Wine stimulates circulation. You’re flushed, too. Just look at yourself.”

JJ stared into the mirror, then ran her fingers roughly through her bobbed hair. “God, I look like an ancient diner waitress. I should start calling everyone ‘hon.’”

“You already do.” Kathleen leaned in to study her agent’s face. “There are incipient wrinkles developing. Let me give you my cell-plumping cream.” She extracted the excruciatingly expensive tube from her satchel and handed it over to JJ. “The Web site’s on the label to order more.”

Wrinkles weren’t JJ’s only problem, she saw. “You need more vitamins.” She picked up a strand of her hair and rubbed it between her fingers. “Not enough protein. Are you eating?”

“Not so much. Barry and I are on the outs.”

“Barry the Brooder? No wonder. You have to take care of yourself, JJ. You’re in charge of your own happiness.” That was one truth she knew from the inside out.

She took out her business-card holder and extracted a card she gave to JJ. “This is a food delivery service—homemade stuff, all fresh and vitamin-rich. Set yourself up for a month to see how you like it.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Then consider it an early birthday gift from me.”

“I just had my birthday. You’re making me feel guilty. Here I send you on this book tour and you’re giving me gifts.”

“Just take care of yourself and forget the guilt. Guilt is unhealthy. Talk about producing wrinkles. Oh, and here's that hypnotherapist's card. For the smoking.”

“You’re too good to me,” JJ said, taking the card, her face warm with an affection that made Kathleen feel uncomfortable.

She liked JJ a lot, but it was best to keep things professional. “I’m buttering you up so you’ll get me an even better deal on my next book.”

“Easy breezy if you do a Converting Dr. Moderate book. Let’s get back to the table before somebody scarfs up my bananas Foster. Bananas have calcium, right?”

“Potassium. But that’s good, too.”

“What’s with you, Kathleen?” JJ said. “You look funny.” She stubbed her cigarette in one of the pots of cut flowers. Kathleen grimaced.

“Just feeling the pain of those poor blooms. Let’s go.”

She went for the door before JJ saw right through her.