Come Fly with Me (6 page)

She glared at the door. If that man thought for one single second that she was his for the taking, then he was in for one mighty rude awakening. He might make her heart pound a little faster than usual and her nerves might be a little more easily rattled, but he also infuriated her. Lindsay knew anger was a very good weapon to use when someone was trying to get under your skin...or into your bed. After a few days under the same roof, he'd discover that she might have a smile like the warmth of a summer sun, but she could be colder than a Denver morning if she wanted to be.

The difficult part was going to be adjusting the temperature just enough to get his name on that contract before she froze him out of her life.

W
hen they walked into the still-crowded hotel coffee shop twenty minutes later, the young, attractive, brunette hostess blatantly surveyed Mark from head to toe. He was wearing what Lindsay had decided after two encounters must be his standard man-of-the-wilderness uniform—snug-fitting jeans, wool plaid shirt and impressive, hand-tooled boots. Despite the casual outfit, he looked exactly like some sort of westernized Greek god just descended from Mount Olympus. The hostess
nervously grabbed her entire supply of menus in her rush to accommodate him with what Lindsay knew would be the best table in the room.

She did all that before he smiled.

Once he'd given her one of his heart-tumbling, dimpled grins, the poor woman practically fainted dead away. Lindsay had a feeling the bewitched hostess never even noticed her as she trailed along in her prim little suit like some docile, royal retainer who'd been trained to stay ten paces behind.

“I have a wonderful table right back here,” the hostess gushed with a fairly dazzling smile of her own. She started toward a large, comfortable table in the back of the room, her slim hips swaying provocatively.

If Lindsay had been the jealous type or, for that matter, if she'd even had any claim to Mark at all, the woman's clear invitation would have made her madder than hell. As it was, she thought she knew exactly how the woman felt. Mark had the same impact on her. His mere physical presence provoked a purely feminine response in her that she was astounded at and not the least bit thrilled about having.

Before they could reach the table the hostess had chosen, Mark stopped and gestured instead toward a much smaller table for two.

“How about that one?”

When Lindsay and the other woman both looked at him oddly, he shrugged and said innocently, “It's by the window.”

“Not a smart move,” Lindsay retorted. “I'll be able to see all the people slipping around on the ice.”

“They've cleared the sidewalks,” he countered reasonably.

She glared at him. “There are still little flakes of white stuff coming down and you'll never convince me someone's scattering rose petals. Besides, every time somebody says something out there the words freeze in midair. Have you ever thought about what happens to all those words when it thaws?”

Mark just shook his head and it wasn't until they were seated that Lindsay realized he didn't give a hoot about the weather, the view or their impact on her already-dismayed psyche. He'd had another strategy entirely in mind. It was not the least bit innocent or subtle: the table he'd chosen was so tiny that their knees were bumping, rubbing together
in an intimacy that provoked an instantaneous response inside her, just as he'd known it would. Unless Lindsay twisted around until her feet were poking out in the aisle, she was stuck with the little curls of heat that wound their way from their touching knees right straight to her abdomen. She thought about making the quickest escape possible, then glanced outside at the swirling snow and shivered.

Damn Trent Langston! And Mark Channing! She was not going out in that horrendous, subhuman weather. She didn't even own any boots, for crying out loud. She was staying right here as long as she possibly could. She'd figure out a way to ignore those damnably enticing knees brushing against hers if it killed her.

She concentrated on the menu with a certain amount of desperation as she tried to figure out what would take the longest to prepare and even longer to eat. Normally, if she ate at all in the morning, she grabbed a quick danish and coffee at the office and ate while she read through a stack of contracts on her desk, but today she ordered eggs Benedict, a side order of hash-browned potatoes, a large orange juice and a large pot of tea.

Mark's dark brows lifted over eyes that were glittering with tolerant amusement. Okay, she thought. So it's not the order of a five-foot-one woman who'd worried only twelve hours earlier about the calories in some candy. She caught that insufferable, knowing gleam in his eyes and defiantly asked for a side order of bacon as well.

“I'll have the same, except for the tea. I'd like coffee. Lots of it,” he said calmly, as the bored waitress made her notations without blinking an eye. She probably assumed they were honeymooners who hadn't left their suite in three days and were bordering on starvation. The intriguingly seductive idea set off another round of fireworks in the pit of Lindsay's stomach. It was a reaction that didn't bear too much scrutiny.

While they waited for breakfast to arrive, they maintained what, for her at least, was a decidedly awkward silence. Lindsay was never at her best in the morning, anyway. She liked to ease into the day as quietly as possible, preferably after a minimum of eight hours of restful sleep. Not only had she tossed
and turned most of the night, this man had awakened her several hours before she was even likely to start thinking about being at her best. He, on the other hand, seemed not only well rested, but perfectly content to just sit and stare at her, which made her gulp and look around for something interesting to focus on.

Unfortunately, she finally decided that, like it or not, Mark Channing was the most interesting thing in the room. She met his dark-eyed gaze and her insides melted, even as she again gave herself a staunch lecture on willpower, backbone and resistance. It didn't work any better today than it had on the plane.

When the food finally came—and not a moment too soon—Lindsay's lips quivered in amusement. Just looking at the over-burdened tray reminded her of one of those comedy acts at the circus, when a seemingly impossible number of clowns all climbed out of one very tiny car.

The waitress studied the tray and the table with a practiced eye. In a single smooth motion, she removed the small vase of fresh flowers and the ashtray from their table and
plopped them on the next table, dumped the bacon on the plates with the eggs Benedict, moved the orange juice glasses and the cups closer together and then squeezed in the plates of potatoes. They teetered slightly, but with grim-faced determination she maneuvered them in by another fraction of an inch. Lindsay didn't have a doubt in the world that everything would stay right where she put it.

“I'll be back with more coffee in a minute,” the waitress muttered, eyeing Mark's empty cup. She might have the ritualized personality of an efficiency expert, but she clearly knew her business. She also knew enough not to make wisecracks about the odd eating habits of her customers. Wisecracks cut into tips.

“I'm starved,” Mark said, digging into his breakfast like a lumberjack with a hard day ahead. Lindsay toyed with hers.

“Great juice,” he noted. “Fresh squeezed. You can tell.”

“Umm.”

“Have you tried the hash-browns? They put in a little bit of onion.”

“Great.”

“Lindsay, your eggs Benedict will get cold
if you don't eat it. You're going to need all your energy for this afternoon. Besides, I thought you were hungry.”

She was nibbling on a strip of bacon. “I am,” she swore solemnly. “I'm just a slow eater.” She offered him a dazzling smile that she hoped would convince him that she could hardly wait to get to all this awful food she'd managed to pile up in front of her. She took another sip of her juice. A very small sip.

When she glanced across the table, she noted that Mark was more than halfway through his entire breakfast and wasn't even slowing down. Talk, Lindsay, she instructed herself. If you want to drag this out, you have to get the man to talk, not eat. He is a fascinating enigma, after all, and admit it or not, you do want to know more about him.

No, she quickly corrected. You
need
to know more about him in your professional capacity and that's all! Now's your chance. Think of it as research.

Her gaze drifted outside and she shuddered. Think of it as salvation.

“So,” she said with only slightly feigned curiosity. “What made you decide to live in Boulder? Were you born in this area?”

He shook his head and polished off the eggs.

She tried again. “Have you lived here long?”

“Five, almost six years,” he said and finished his last strip of bacon.

“Where are you from originally?”

He swallowed the last sip of his orange juice and gestured toward her glass. She sighed resignedly and nodded. He drank the last of that, then said, “New York.”

Lindsay was thankful she wasn't an investigative reporter hell-bent on a juicy, extensive exposé. This man was less responsive than the Statue of Liberty. At least
she
had a prepared speech about the tired, the poor and the hungry masses yearning to be free.

Right now, Lindsay could identify with some of those immigrants to whom that speech was addressed. She wasn't poor and she certainly wasn't hungry, but at the moment she was tired as hell and very definitely yearning to be free of this very determined man seated across from her before he dragged her out into that awful weather. With a sort of horrified sense of wonder, she noted that the cold had actually frozen the condensation
on the inside of the coffee shop's plate-glass window into little streams of ice that glittered in the sunlight. She ran her finger along one of the icy rivulets and shivered. It was a shiver that went straight through her bones.

Mark watched the gesture and asked suddenly, “What is this thing you have about snow?”

Lindsay tried to think of some way to explain. Nothing she could think of made much sense. “It's just so...cold.”

His eyes lit up, warming her. It was not quite enough to compensate for the weather, but it was a terrific try. “Not if you're sitting in front of a cozy fire with a snifter of brandy.”

“But that's not what you have in mind, is it? You're determined to take me skiing.”

“Skiing is invigorating, Lindsay. You're going to love it. And the fire feels even better after you've been out in the fresh mountain air.”

She eyed him skeptically with very reluctant green eyes.

“You'll see,” he promised.

With a sudden flash of inspiration, she said, “But I don't have the right clothes for skiing.”
That was certainly true enough. She'd brought an extra suit, one sweater and a couple of silk blouses.

“So I noticed,” he said dryly. “What on earth were you thinking of when you packed?”

“I was thinking that I was going on a business trip,” she retorted sourly. “How was I to know that I'd be conducting my business in the middle of a snow drift?”

“Well, never mind,” he soothed. “We'll take care of that. I'll take you shopping.”

He surveyed the table and noted that she'd barely touched her food. One dark eyebrow arched quizzically and she quickly lifted a forkful of hash-browns to her lips in a futile effort to prolong the pretense. It didn't fool him for a minute.

“You don't really want the rest of that, do you?” he said quietly.

She shook her head guiltily and thought of all the starving people in Africa. Her mother would be horrified at the waste.
She
was horrified at the waste.

“Then why did you order it?”

Before she could answer, he added, “For
get it. I know exactly what you were thinking.”

“You're a mind reader now?”

“No. You're just painfully transparent.” He sighed and leaned toward her. A finger tilted her chin up so he could look directly into her eyes. “Stop fighting me. We're going to Boulder and we're going to go skiing. I want to share that experience with you for the first time. I want to share a lot of things with you. You're only postponing the inevitable.”

Lindsay regarded him plaintively. “What I'm still trying to figure out is how it became inevitable. Why do you want to do this?”

“Ask the gods.”

“I was thinking of calling Trent. Or maybe a psychologist.”

“They won't have the answer. Not on this one.”

She studied Mark curiously. He was lounging back lazily on his chair now as though it were designed for his personal comfort. It irritated the dickens out of her that he was perfectly at ease, while she still felt like some fluttery teenager who'd stumbled into something that was thoroughly enticing but far beyond her experience. He appeared totally confident,
sure of himself and, for that matter, of her. The latter puzzled her. How could he be so certain about all of this, when she hadn't the vaguest idea what was happening between the two of them?

“I asked you something last night and again a minute ago, but you still haven't given me a straight answer,” she said at last. “Why are you doing this?”

“Having breakfast?” he asked innocently.

“Don't be cute,” she retorted. “Why are you practically kidnapping me? You're an attractive man—”

“Thank you.”

She glared at him. “You're intelligent. Maybe a little crazy, but that turns a lot of women on. I'm sure there are any number of sexy, attractive, available women who'd be thrilled to pieces if you invited them to spend a weekend secluded in your mountain hideaway.”

“I don't want them.”

“Why not?” she asked, trying to keep an edge of desperation out of her voice.