Be My Valentine (6 page)

“J
ason,” Dianne said, closing her eyes in thanks that it was her son who'd answered the phone and not Jill. Her daughter would have plied her with questions and more advice than “Dear Abby.”

“Hi, Mom. I thought you were at aerobics.”

“I am, and I may be here a whole lot longer if you can't help me out.” Without a pause, she continued, “I need you to go upstairs, look in my underwear drawer and bring me the extra set of car keys.”

“They're in your underwear drawer?”

“Yes.” It was the desperate plan of a desperate woman. She didn't dare contact the auto club this time for fear they'd send Port Blossom Towing to the rescue in the form of one Steve Creighton.

“You don't expect me to paw through your, uh, stuff, do you?”

“Jason, listen to me, I've locked my keys in the car, and I don't have any other choice.”

“You locked your keys in the car?
Again?
What's with you lately, Mom?”

“Do we need to go through this now?” she demanded. Jason wasn't saying anything she hadn't already said to herself a hundred times over the past few minutes. She was so agitated it was a struggle not to break down and weep.

“I'll have Jill get the keys for me,” Jason agreed, with a sigh that told her it demanded a good deal of effort, not to mention fortitude, for him to comply with this request.

“Great. Thanks.” Dianne breathed out in relief. “Okay. Now, the next thing you need to do is get your bicycle out of the garage and ride it down to the community center.”

“You mean you want me to
bring
you the keys?”

“Yes.”

“But it's raining!”

“It's only drizzling.” True, but as a general rule Dianne didn't like her son riding his bike in the winter.

“But it's getting dark,” Jason protested next.

That did concern Dianne. “Okay, you're right. Call Grandma and ask her to come over and get the keys from you and then have her bring them to me.”

“You want me to call Grandma?”

“Jason, are you hard of hearing? Yes, I want you to call Grandma, and if you can't reach her, call me back here at the community center.” Needless to say, her cell phone was locked in the car.
Again.
“I'll be waiting.” She read off the number for him. “And listen, if my car keys aren't in my underwear drawer, have Grandma bring me a wire clothes hanger, okay?”

He hesitated. “All right,” he said after another burdened sigh. “Are you sure you're all right, Mom?”

“Of course I'm sure.” But she was going to remember his attitude the next time he needed her to go on a Boy Scout camp-out with him.

Jason seemed to take hours to do as she'd asked. Since the front desk was now busy with the after-work crowd, Dianne didn't want to trouble the staff for the phone a second time to find out what was keeping her son.

Forty minutes after Dianne's aerobic class was over, she was still pacing the foyer of the community center, stopping every now and then to glance outside. Suddenly she saw a big red tow truck turn into the parking lot.

She didn't need to be psychic to know that the man driving the truck was Steve.

Mumbling a curse under her breath, Dianne walked out into the parking lot to confront him.

Steve was standing alongside her car when she approached. She noticed that he wasn't wearing the gray-striped coveralls he'd worn the first time they'd met. Now he was dressed in slacks and a sweater, as though he'd come from the office.

“What are you doing here?” The best defense was a good offense, or so her high-school basketball coach had advised her about a hundred years ago.

“Jason called me,” he said, without looking at her.

“The traitor,” Dianne muttered.

“He said something about refusing to search through your underwear and his grandmother couldn't be reached. And that all this has to do with you going off to war.”

Although Steve was speaking in an even voice, it was clear he found the situation comical.

“W.A.R. is my aerobics class,” Dianne explained stiffly. “It means Women After Results.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” He walked around to the passenger side of the tow truck and brought out the instrument he'd used to open her door the first time. “So,” he said leaning against the side of her compact. “How have you been?”

“Fine.”

“You don't look so good, but then I suppose that's because you're a divorced woman with two children and a manipulative mother.”

Naturally he'd taunt her with that. “How kind of you to say so,” she returned with an equal dose of sarcasm.

“How's Jerome?”

“Jerome?”

“The butcher your mother wanted to set you up with,” he answered gruffly. “I figured by now the two of you would've gone out.” His words had a biting edge.

“I'm not seeing Jerome.” The thought of having to eat blood sausage was enough to turn her stomach.

“I'm surprised,” he said. “I would've figured you'd leap at the opportunity to date someone other than me.”

“If I wasn't interested in him before, what makes you think I'd go out with him now? And why aren't you opening my door? That's what you're here for, isn't it?”

He ignored her question. “Frankly, Dianne, we can't go on meeting like this.”

“Funny, very funny.” She crossed her arms defiantly.

“Actually I came here to talk some sense into you,” he said after a moment.

“According to my mother, you won't have any chance of succeeding. I'm hopeless.”

“I don't believe that. Otherwise I wouldn't be here.” He walked over to her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “Maybe, Dianne, you've been fine these past few days, but frankly I've been a wreck.”

“You have?” As Dianne looked at him she thought she'd drown in his eyes. And when he smiled, it was all she could do not to cry.

“I've never met a more stubborn woman in my life.”

She blushed. “I'm awful, I know.”

His gaze became more intent as he asked, “How about if we go someplace and talk?”

“I…think that would be all right.” At the moment there was little she could refuse him. Until he'd arrived, she'd had no idea what to do about the situation between them. Now the answer was becoming clear….

“You might want to call Jason and Jill and tell them.”

“Oh, right, I should.” How could she have forgotten her own children?

Steve was grinning from ear to ear. “Don't worry, I already took care of that. While I was at it, I phoned your mother, too. She's on her way to your house now. She'll make the kids' dinner.” He paused, then said, “I figured if I was fortunate enough, I might be able to talk you into having dinner with me. I understand Walker's has an excellent seafood salad.”

If he was fortunate enough, he might be able to talk her into having dinner with him? Dianne felt like weeping. Steve Creighton was the sweetest, kindest, handsomest man she'd ever met, and
he
was looking at
her
as if he was the one who should be counting his blessings.

Steve promptly opened her car door. “I'm going to buy you a magnetic key attachment for keeping a spare key under your bumper so this doesn't happen again.”

“You are?”

“Yes, otherwise I'll worry about you.”

No one had ever worried about her, except her immediate family. Whatever situation arose, she handled. Broken water pipes, lost checks, a leaky roof—nothing had ever defeated her. Not even Jack had been able to break her spirit, but one kind smile from Steve Creighton and she was a jumble of emotions. She blinked back tears and made a mess of thanking him, rushing her words so that they tumbled over each other.

“Dianne?”

She stopped and bit her lower lip. “Yes?”

“Either we go to the restaurant now and talk, or I'm going to kiss you right here in this parking lot.”

Despite everything, she managed to smile. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

“No, but I doubt I'd be content with one kiss.”

She lowered her lashes, thinking she probably wouldn't be, either. “I'll meet you at Walker's.”

He followed her across town, which took less than five minutes, and pulled into the empty parking space next to hers. Once inside the restaurant, they were seated immediately by a window overlooking Sinclair Inlet.

Dianne had just picked up her menu when Steve said, “I'd like to tell you a story.”

“Okay,” she said, puzzled. She put the menu aside. Deciding what to eat took second place to listening to Steve.

“It's about a woman who first attracted the attention of a particular man at the community center about two months ago.”

Dianne took a sip of water, her eyes meeting his above the glass, her heart thumping loudly in her ears. “Yes…”

“This lady was oblivious to certain facts.”

“Such as?” Dianne prompted.

“First of all, she didn't seem to have a clue how attractive she was or how much this guy admired her. He did everything but stand on his head to get her attention, but nothing worked.”

“What exactly did he try?”

“Working out at the same hours she did, pumping iron—and looking exceptionally good in his T-shirt and shorts.”

“Why didn't this man say something to…this woman?”

Steve chuckled. “Well, you see, he was accustomed to women giving him plenty of attention. So this particular woman dented his pride by ignoring him, then she made him downright angry. Finally it occurred to him that she wasn't
purposely
ignoring him—she simply wasn't aware of him.”

“It seems to me this man is rather arrogant.”

“I couldn't agree with you more.”

“You couldn't?” Dianne was surprised.

“That was when he decided there were plenty of fish in the sea and he didn't need a pretty divorcée with two children—he'd asked around about her, so he knew a few details like that.”

Dianne smoothed the pink linen napkin across her lap. “What happened next?”

“He was sitting in his office one evening. The day had been busy and one of his men had phoned in sick, so he'd been out on the road all afternoon. He was ready to go home and take a hot shower, but just about then the phone rang. One of the night crew answered it and it was the auto club. Apparently some lady had locked her keys in her car at the community center and needed someone to come rescue her.”

“So you, I mean this man, volunteered?”

“That he did, never dreaming she'd practically throw herself in his arms. And not because he'd unlocked her car, either, but because she was desperate for someone to take her to the Valentine's dinner.”

“That part about her falling in your arms is a slight exaggeration,” Dianne felt obliged to tell him.

“Maybe so, but it was the first time a woman had ever offered to pay him to take her out. Which was the most ironic part of this entire tale. For weeks he'd been trying to gain this woman's attention, practically killing himself to impress her with the amount of weight he was lifting. It seemed every woman in town was impressed except the one who mattered.”

“Did you ever stop to think that was the very reason he found her so attractive? If she ignored him, then he must have considered her a challenge.”

“Yes, he thought about that a lot. But after he met her and kissed her, he realized that his instincts had been right from the first. He was going to fall in love with this woman.”

“He was?” Dianne's voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

“That's the second part of the story.”

“The second part?” Dianne was growing confused.

“The happily-ever-after part.”

Dianne used her napkin to wipe away the tears, which had suddenly welled up in her eyes again. “He can't possibly know that.”

Steve smiled then, that wonderful carefree, vagabond smile of his, the smile that never failed to lift her heart. “Wrong. He's known it for a long time. All he needs to do now is convince her.”

Sniffing, Dianne said, “I have the strangest sensation that this woman has trouble recognizing a prince when she sees one. For a good part of her life, she was satisfied with keeping a frog happy.”

“And now?”

“And now she's…now
I'm
ready to discover what happily-ever-after is all about.”

For Virginia Myers, my mentor—thanks for your friendship and encouragement!

T
he man was the source of all her problems, Bailey York decided. He just didn't cut it. The first time around he was too cold, too distant. Only a woman “who loved too much” could possibly fall for him.

The second time, the guy was a regular Milquetoast. A wimp. He didn't seem to have a single thought of his own. This man definitely needed to be whipped into shape, but Bailey wasn't sure she knew how to do it.

So she did the logical thing. She consulted a fellow romance writer. Jo Ann Davis and Bailey rode the subway together every day, and Jo Ann had far more experience in this. Three years of dealing with men like Michael.

“Well?” Bailey asked anxiously when they met on a gray, drizzly January morning before boarding San Francisco's Bay Area Rapid Transit system, or BART for short.

Jo Ann shook her head, her look as sympathetic as her words. “You're right—Michael's a wimp.”

“But I've worked so hard.” Bailey couldn't help feeling discouraged. She'd spent months on this, squeezing in every available moment. She'd sacrificed lunches, given up nighttime television and whole weekends. Even Christmas had seemed a mere distraction. Needless to say, her social life had come to a complete standstill.

“No one told me writing a romance novel would be so difficult,” Bailey muttered, as the subway train finally shot into the station. It screeched to a halt and the doors slid open, disgorging a crowd of harried-looking passengers.

“What should I do next?” Bailey asked as she and Jo Ann made their way into one of the cars. She'd never been a quitter, and already she could feel her resolve stiffening.

“Go back to the beginning and start over again,” Jo Ann advised.

“Again,” Bailey groaned, casting her eyes about for a vacant seat and darting forward, Jo Ann close behind, when she located one. When they were settled, Jo Ann handed Bailey her battle-weary manuscript.

She thumbed through the top pages, glancing over the notes Jo Ann had made in the margins. Her first thought had been to throw the whole project in the garbage and put herself out of her misery, but she hated to admit defeat. She'd always been a determined person; once she set her mind to something, it took more than a little thing like characterization to put her off.

It was ironic, Bailey mused, that a woman who was such a failure at love was so interested in writing about it. Perhaps that was the reason she felt so strongly about selling her romance novel. True love had scurried past her twice, stepping on her toes both times. She'd learned her lesson the hard way. Men were wonderful to read about and to look at from afar, but when it came to involving herself in a serious relationship, Bailey simply wasn't interested. Not anymore.

“The plot is basically sound,” Jo Ann assured her. “All you really need to do is rework Michael.”

The poor man had been reworked so many times it was a wonder Janice, her heroine, even recognized him. And if
Bailey
wasn't in love with Michael, she couldn't very well expect Janice to be swept off her feet.

“The best advice I can give you is to re-read your favorite romances and look really carefully at how the author portrays her hero,” Jo Ann went on.

Bailey heaved an expressive sigh. She shouldn't be complaining—not yet, anyway. After all, she'd only been at this a few months, unlike Jo Ann who'd been writing and submitting manuscripts for more than three years. Personally, Bailey didn't think it would take
her
that long to sell a book. For one thing, she had more time to write than her friend. Jo Ann was married, the mother of two school-age children, plus she worked full-time. Another reason Bailey felt assured of success was that she had a romantic heart. Nearly everyone in their writers' group had said so. Not that it had done her any good when it came to finding a man of her own, but in the romance-writing business, a sensitive nature was clearly an asset.

Bailey prayed that all her creative whimsy, all her romantic perceptions, would be brilliantly conveyed on the pages of
Forever Yours.
They were, too—except for Michael, who seemed bent on giving her problems.

Men had always been an enigma to her, Bailey mused, so it was unreasonable to expect that to be any different now.

“Something else that might help you…” Jo Ann began thoughtfully.

“Yes?”

“Writers' Input recently published a book on characterization. I read a review of it, and as I recall, the author claims the best way to learn is to observe. It sounded rather abstract at the time, but I've had a chance to think about it, and you know? It makes sense.”

“In other words,” Bailey mused aloud, “what I really need is a model.” She frowned. “I sometimes think I wouldn't recognize a hero if one hit me over the head.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a dull object smacked the side of her head.

Bailey let out a sharp cry and rubbed the tender spot, twisting around to glare at the villain who was strolling casually past. She wasn't hurt so much as surprised.

“Hey, watch it!” she cried.

“I beg your pardon,” a man said crisply, continuing down the crowded aisle. He carried a briefcase in one hand, with his umbrella tucked under his arm. As far as Bailey could determine, the umbrella handle had been the culprit. She scowled after him. The least he could've done was inquire if she'd been hurt.

“You're coming to the meeting tonight, aren't you?” Jo Ann asked. The subway came to a stop, which lowered the noise level enough for them to continue their conversation without raising their voices. “Libby McDonald's going to be there.” Libby had published several popular romances and was in the San Francisco area visiting relatives. Their romance writers' group was honored that she'd agreed to speak.

Bailey nodded eagerly. Meeting Jo Ann couldn't have come at a better time. They'd found each other on the subway when Bailey noticed they were both reading the same romance, and began a conversation. She soon learned that they shared several interests; they began to meet regularly and struck up a friendship.

A week or so after their first meeting, Bailey sheepishly admitted how much she wanted to write a romance novel herself, not telling Jo Ann she'd already finished and submitted a manuscript. It was then that Jo Ann revealed that she'd written two complete manuscripts and was working on her third historical romance.

In the months since they'd met, Jo Ann's friendship had been invaluable to Bailey. Her mentor had introduced her to the local writers' group, and Bailey had discovered others all striving toward the same ultimate goal—publishing their stories. Since joining the group, Bailey had come to realize she'd made several mistakes, all typical of a novice writer, and had started the rewriting project. But unfortunately that hadn't gone well, at least not according to Jo Ann.

Bailey leafed through her manuscript, studying the notes her friend had made. What Jo Ann said made a lot of sense. “A romance hero is larger than life,” Jo Ann had written in bold red ink along one margin. “Unfortunately, Michael isn't.”

In the past few months, Bailey had been learning about classic romance heroes. They were supposed to be proud, passionate and impetuous. Strong, forceful men who were capable of tenderness. Men of excellent taste and impeccable style. That these qualities were too good to be true was something Bailey knew for a fact. A hero was supposed to have a burning need to find the one woman who would make his life complete. That sounded just fine on paper, but Bailey knew darn well what men were
really
like.

She heaved an exasperated sigh and shook her head. “You'd think I'd know all this by now.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. You haven't been at this as long as I have. Don't make the mistake of thinking I have all the answers, either,” Jo Ann warned. “You'll notice I haven't sold yet.”

“But you will.” Bailey was convinced of that. Jo Ann's historical romance was beautifully written. Twice her friend had been a finalist in a national writing competition, and everyone, including Bailey, strongly believed it was only a matter of time before a publishing company bought
Fire Dream.

“I agree with everything you're saying,” Bailey added. “I just don't know if I can do it. I put my heart and soul into this book. I can't do any better.”

“Of course you can,” Jo Ann insisted.

Bailey knew she'd feel differently in a few hours, when she'd had a chance to muster her resolve; by tonight she'd be revising her manuscript with renewed enthusiasm. But for now, she needed to sit back and recover her confidence. She was lucky, though, because she had Jo Ann, who'd taken the time to read
Forever Yours
and give much-needed suggestions.

Yet Bailey couldn't help thinking that if she had a model for Michael, her job would be much easier. Jo Ann used her husband, Dan. Half their writers' group was in love with him, and no one had even met the man.

Reading Jo Ann's words at the end of the first chapter, Bailey found herself agreeing once more. “Michael should be determined, cool and detached. A man of substance.”

Her friend made it sound so easy. Again Bailey reflected on how disadvantaged she was. In all her life, she hadn't dated a single hero, only those who thought they were but then quickly proved otherwise.

Bailey was mulling over her dilemma when she noticed him. He was tall and impeccably dressed in a gray pin-striped suit. She wasn't an expert on men's clothing, but she knew quality when she saw it.

The stranger carried himself with an air of cool detachment. That was good. Excellent, in fact. Exactly what Jo Ann had written in the margin of
Forever Yours.

Now that she was studying him, she realized he looked vaguely familiar, but she didn't know why. Then she got it. This was “a man of substance.” The very person she was looking for…

Here she was, bemoaning her sorry fate, when lo and behold a handsome stranger strolled into her life. Not just any stranger. This man was Michael incarnate. The embodiment of everything she'd come to expect of a romantic hero. Only this version was living and breathing, and standing a few feet away.

For several minutes, Bailey couldn't keep her eyes off him. The subway cars were crowded to capacity in the early-morning rush, and while other people looked bored and uncomfortable, her hero couldn't have been more relaxed. He stood several spaces ahead of her, holding the overhead rail and reading the morning edition of the paper. His raincoat was folded over his arm and, unlike some of the passengers, he seemed undisturbed by the train's movement as it sped along.

The fact that he was engaged in reading gave Bailey the opportunity to analyze him without being detected. His age was difficult to judge, but she guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. Perfect! Michael was thirty-four.

The man in the pin-striped suit was handsome, too. But it wasn't his classic features—the sculpted cheekbones, straight nose or high forehead—that seized her attention.

It was his jaw.

Bailey had never seen a more determined jaw in her life. Exactly the type that illustrated a touch of arrogance and a hint of audacity, both attributes Jo Ann had mentioned in her critique.

His rich chestnut-colored hair was short and neatly trimmed, his skin lightly tanned. His eyes were dark. As dark as her own were blue.

His very presence seemed to fill the subway car. Bailey was convinced everyone else sensed it, too. She couldn't understand why the other women weren't all staring at him just as raptly. The more she studied him, the better he looked. He was, without a doubt, the most masculine male Bailey had ever seen—exactly the way she'd always pictured her hero. Unfortunately she hadn't succeeded in transferring him from her imagination to the page.

Bailey was so excited she could barely contain herself. After months of writing and rewriting
Forever Yours,
shaping and reshaping the characters, she'd finally stumbled upon a real-life Michael. She could hardly believe her luck. Hadn't Jo Ann just mentioned this great new book that suggested learning through observing?

“Do you see the man in the gray pin-striped suit?” Bailey whispered, elbowing Jo Ann. “You know who he is, don't you?”

Jo Ann's eyes narrowed as she identified Bailey's hero and studied him for several seconds. She shook her head. “Isn't he the guy who clobbered you on the head with his umbrella a few minutes ago?”

“He is?”

“Who did you think he was?”

“You mean you don't know?” Bailey had been confident Jo Ann would recognize him as quickly as she had.

“
Should
I know him?”

“Of course you should.” Jo Ann had read
Forever Yours
. Surely she'd recognize Michael in the flesh.

“Who do
you
think he is?” Jo Ann asked, growing impatient.

“That's Michael—my Michael,” she added when Jo Ann frowned.

“Michael?” Jo Ann echoed without conviction.

“The way he was meant to be. The way Janice, my heroine, and I want him to be.” Bailey had been trying to create him in her mind for weeks, and now here he was! “Can't you feel the sexual magnetism radiating from him?” she asked out of the corner of her mouth.

“Frankly, no.”

Bailey decided to ignore that. “He's absolutely perfect. Can't you sense his proud determination? That commanding presence that makes him larger than life?”

Jo Ann's eyes narrowed again, the way they usually did when she was doing some serious contemplating.

“Do you see it now?” Bailey pressed.

Jo Ann's shoulders lifted in a regretful shrug. “I'm honestly trying, but I just don't. Give me a couple of minutes to work on it.”

Bailey ignored her fellow writer's lack of insight. It didn't matter if Jo Ann agreed with her or not. The man in the gray suit was Michael. Her Michael. Naturally she'd be willing to step aside and give him to Janice, who'd been waiting all these weeks for Michael to straighten himself out.