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“So are we going to drive around aimlessly or shall we develop a plan?” Cleo asked.
“I already have a plan,” Alec said as he made a left turn. “It’s nearly eleven. I figure we grab an early lunch. Then I’ll call Nigel and see if the coast is clear. If it is, we’ll go back to the office. If not, we’ll find someplace else to work.”
“Do I need to worry about Linny?” she asked.
“No. When she calms down, she’ll figure out it wasn’t your fault. But she’ll calm down faster without you there. What sounds good for lunch?”
She didn’t want to eat lunch with him. Especially not out. Her budget didn’t stretch to nice lunches. Hell, her budget barely covered a bucket of fried chicken once a month. And then there was the suit. That she’d had a mental breakdown and worn the slut suit on the first day at her new job was bad enough; she didn’t want to be seen in some “happening” downtown restaurant wearing it. “You know, I’ve been craving pizza for a week―”
He grinned as he reached for his phone. “Pizza you want, pizza you got. I know a great place.”
“Why don’t we get it to go?” she said as he punched a number on his speed dial.
He gave her a cheeky grin. “Don’t want to be seen in public with me, huh? Okay. Where do you want to eat?”
Her nervous titter sounded phony even to herself, but she plunged helplessly forward with a denial anyway. “I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you. Why would you even think that? I just thought, since it’s such a pretty day”—and it was, especially after Tucson’s ungodly summer heat—“it would be fun to picnic in a park. Somewhere.”
His eyebrows hiked in disbelief. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” But he didn’t wait for her answer because his attention shifted to the phone that had apparently been answered.
Cleo leaned her head back on the headrest and gazed out the window as he ordered a large meat pizza with extra toppings. She mindlessly watched the buildings go by until his car eased off the street. According to the dashboard clock, she’d zoned out for nearly twenty minutes. She appreciated that he’d allowed her a quiet refuge for her mind when he could have grilled her about her decision to leave The Sun to work at a tabloid. Maybe he had more to recommend him as a human being than a killer tush and socks in his crotch.
While he got the pizza, she stayed in the car and eyed the bank on the corner, wondering if she had time to run in and deposit the bonus check. She had no idea if he knew about it, but she didn’t want to give him a reason to resent her if he didn’t. She decided not to risk it. When he returned, he put a six-pack of soda behind his seat and handed her the box to hold while he drove.
“It smells wonderful.” The aroma of tomato sauce and—was that bacon?— filled her nose. She was starving, which shouldn’t have surprised her since her nervous stomach had discouraged her from eating breakfast. She lifted the lid and filched a piece of pepperoni.
“Hey!” he barked. “No starting without me.”
She sighed and closed the box.
Five minutes later, he pulled into a parking spot at the park. “Stay there.” He jumped out and came around to her side of the car.
“For heaven’s sake, I’ve never met a guy who held so many doors for me.” He not only held the door, but took the pizza and offered a hand to help her out. When she took it, she discovered it wasn’t merely a gesture. His tug gave her the oomph she needed to get her center of gravity moving up and out of the car.
“I’ve gotten enough grief from women about how hard this car is to get out of that I do my best to counter it.”
“I can see why. After all, you wouldn’t want to give up a car that . . . compensates so well.” Argh. She was supposed to be nice to him, to get him on her side. Why was that so hard?
Politeness dictated he step back once she had her feet under her on the asphalt, but he didn’t. He stood in her personal space, his eyebrows shooting upward. “Compensate? I don’t have anything to compensate for, honey.”
“Keep calling me honey and you will.” The hell with acting nice.
“Ooh. You’re one of those women, huh? You think me calling you honey keeps you in the pink ghetto?”
“No. But it’s demeaning. I’m a colleague, not your ‘main squeeze.’” Standing so close, their gazes locked in some ridiculous test of wills, she caught the full impact of his dark eyes. Those damned bedroom eyes. The kind of eyes she wanted looking into hers in the heat of passion. They tempted her to fall into them, and she could almost feel herself sway toward him. She countered the impulse by bracing her feet and leaning away. “How would you like it if I called you ‘stud’ instead of your name?”
His eyes half closed. Her pulse jumped. “I’m okay with that.” He was close enough that, when he leaned ever so slightly toward her, she could feel the heat of his body against hers. “I can be a lot of fun.”
That wasn’t hard to imagine. “Have you got testimonials to that fact?”
“I can get them.”
What an ego. She couldn’t believe she’d fantasized about this guy for two seconds. “Well, until you do, my name is Cleo, not honey.” She placed a palm against his chest and applied pressure. He gave way and she started for a table.
The sun was out but it had rained overnight, and the ground was still soft. Her heels kept sinking into the soil, resulting in an awkward gait that pretty much undermined walking away from him with anything resembling dignity.
He caught up with her in time to see her wobble so badly she half expected to twist her ankle.
His face tightened. “That’s good thinking, wearing shoes that aerate the soil.” He shoved the pizza box into her hands then, before she realized what he was about to do, he bent, and suddenly, she was folded nearly in half over his shoulder, staring at the grass as he carried her to the table.
She shrieked and nearly bobbled the pizza box. Afraid her delicious-smelling lunch would end up on the ground, she tightened her grip. “Hey! Put me down!”
“Quitcher bitchin’. I wanted to be a fireman growing up, so you’re helping me live out the fantasy.”
She started to reach back and clamp down the hem of her skirt, so it at least covered her ass, but the pizza box twisted, and she had to grab it again to keep it stable. With her dignity already damaged beyond repair, she stopped protesting; he’d only ignore her anyway. That didn’t keep the heat from his hands where he held onto her legs from spreading all the way to her face as a whole different sort of fireman fantasy intruded on her mind.
Her heart pounded as he carried her to the table. He shouldn’t have this effect on her. He was a frigging tabloid reporter. To her colleagues at The Sun, he was the equivalent of a whore.
Since she now had the same employer, she’d been trying to avoid thinking in those terms, but not thinking about it didn’t improve the way she saw him. She feared she was a hypocrite for counting her extenuating circumstance as an excuse, but she wouldn’t let herself examine her exemption too closely either.
Past the swings and slide and an area for skateboarders, the first picnic table was about fifty yards from where they’d parked. Alec didn’t let that he was carrying her slow him down. He’d pay for that, she thought, and she was right. Before they reached the table she could tell from his breathing that he was feeling the strain.
He dumped her ass a little harder than absolutely necessary on top of the Crayola green table.
“Is this the part where I swoon over how strong and manly you are?” she asked in a sweet-as-honey voice as she grabbed a napkin to clean the mud from her shoes.
She suspected the noncommittal shrug she got in lieu of a response was because he was trying to recover his breath without letting her know she’d winded him.
“I’m a big girl, Alec. I stand five-foot-ten in bare feet. My weight is, well, it’s proportional. So you don’t have to pretend I’m light as a feather. That you didn’t drop me on the way has me properly impressed with your manly virtues.”
As though he’d been waiting for her permission, he bent forward, braced his hands on his knees, and drew in a whopping deep breath.
While he got his wind back, she opened the pizza box. The pizza was slightly mangled from the trip, but the aroma wasn’t damaged at all. She took advantage of his disabled state and grabbed a slice.
The flavor of perfect pizza sauce hit her tongue. “Mhm.” She closed her eyes in ecstasy. “This is fantastic,” she said through a full mouth. Whatever his other faults were, the man knew good pizza.
As they ate, he talked about the tabloid, its circulation, and the demographics of its readership.
When they were nearly done, he said, “Nigel’s starting you out on celebrity stories,” as though she’d pulled the short straw and had to mop up after a drunken frat party.
In recent years, tabloids had become gossip-centric, focusing more and more on celebrities. The Word had followed the others’ lead to an extent. To her, writing a sensational story about whoever was the flavor de jour instead of one about an alien love child made coming over to the dark side a little less dark. Clearly, Alec didn’t agree.
“What’s wrong with celebrity gossip?”
“It’s gossip.” His tone left no confusion about his distaste.
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.
“But at least it’s real.” As opposed to another Elvis Lives! story.
“That’s the problem.”
She shook her head, frowning.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to gossip?” he asked. “That it’s not a nice thing to do?”
Cleo couldn’t help laughing. Her mother? “Sorry. My mother thrives on gossip. In―” Cleo caught herself. “Where she works, gossip and backbiting are job skills. You can’t get ahead without them.”
“That’s my point,” Alec said. Her blank expression clearly told him she still didn’t get it. He leaned away from her, giving himself the space to rake her up and down with his eyes. “How old were you when you got tits?”
“What?” He hadn’t really asked that, had he?
“With that rack, I’ll bet you weren’t even in high school yet.”
Her face flushed hot. He had half the story of her life already nailed down.
“Tough time for you, I bet.”
She picked up a piece of orphaned pepperoni lying in the box, focusing on it so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze.
“Did the girls spread rumors about what a slut you were? I guarantee the boys lied about having felt you up. Some probably even claimed they slept with you. Unless, of course, you really were―”
“Yes.” She had to stop the recap of her school years. “Yes, they lied about me.”
“It wasn’t fun, was it?”
“No.”
“So now we’re adults. Don’t you think we should have grown out of all that trash talk by now? For crying out loud, how long can people care about Jennifer, Brad, and Angelina? God knows I’m bored with them. They’re celebrities, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real people. They’re capable of being hurt like anyone else. I’m sure the gossip rags have destroyed more than a few Hollywood marriages.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his. And yes, his eyes were already there, waiting for her to look back. “Okay. I see your point. But you can report on celebrities without making the stories vicious.”
“Not if you want to make a living at it.”
She knew he was right.
“And where celebrities are concerned,” he said, “taking the high road is just as dangerous.”
His compassion surprised her. Now she wanted to know if his intellectual ability measured up. “Why?”
“Hollywood. The music industry. Our sports teams. We put them on pedestals and make them role models for our kids. How many times has the media made a fuss about some celebrity because they caught him acting like a decent human being? Give up your seat to a woman on a New York subway? It goes viral on the internet. See an accident and call the police? Get mentioned on TMZ. Alerting the authorities when someone tweets they’re suicidal doesn’t mean you fart air freshener.” He snorted in disgust.
“But you know what?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Not one of those celebrities was ever in jeopardy. Acting like a decent human being doesn’t make someone a hero. Even if you’re Harrison Ford and fly your helicopter on search and rescue missions, you’re not doing anything hundreds of other people aren’t doing for no acclaim. So good for him. But he’s still not a hero. Heroes are more than that, and it’s dangerous when we set up celebrities—and God forbid, most of our grossly overpaid athletes—and call them heroes. What does that teach our children about honorable behavior?” He took a breath, and she thought he was going to continue. Instead, he glanced away, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to go off on a tirade. I’ll get off my soap box now.”
“That’s okay. You’ve obviously given it some thought.” She meant it as a compliment, but his lips tightened.
“Yeah, well, it’s not a Pulitzer-caliber story.”
It wasn’t a story at all. It was a philosophy. One she could respect.
Damn.
She didn’t want to like him. She sure as hell didn’t want to respect any of his justifications for working in this journalistic sewer.
He pulled out his phone and hit speed dial. The conversation was over.
She picked up their soiled napkins and the crust she hadn’t eaten from the last two pieces of pizza, put them in the empty box, and dumped it in the trash receptacle.
Alec was still on the phone when she returned. He made a face that indicated the news wasn’t good, then terminated the call and pushed off of the picnic table, heading for the car. “It’s still nuclear winter outside Nigel’s office.”
She felt a wash of guilt. “You know I didn’t ask for Marge to hit on me.” She cringed internally with how childish she sounded.
He seemed to have forgotten her shoes made walking on the soft ground difficult. Her spiked heels sank deep with each step, and she fell further behind. “I didn’t mean to encourage anyone.”
He stopped then turned to look disbelievingly at her as she wrenched a heel from the sod. “I’m sorry,” he said as though he’d misheard her. “Did you look at what you’re wearing?”
Cleo felt her face go red, embarrassed by her spastic appearance as much as by his assessment of her clothes. She attempted to stand casually, but her heels sunk into the ground and her stance grew awkward as she compensated.
“Look, far be it for me to criticize your wardrobe choices. I’m just saying . . .”
When he didn’t finish, she finished for him. “That I shouldn’t be surprised when I get what I’m asking for?” There was no way he could miss the sour note in her voice, but he couldn’t know it was directed at herself.
A slow smile crossed his face. It was like watching night’s shadows retreat before the rising sun. “Honey, if you got what you were asking for in that suit, Marge would’ve had to take a number.”
His open appreciation caught her off guard.
“And she wouldn’t be at the front of the line yet.”
Especially since his gaze never once flickered from her face.
She almost wished he would look at her cleavage.
Totally inappropriate. This wasn’t the train of thought she should be entertaining about a colleague on her first day of work.