Crazy in Chicago (2 page)

Roberta shut her eyes, then forced herself to open them again. She had to be wrong. Another look would surely prove her wrong. Swallowing, she turned her attention to the man taking notes at the back of the room.

The reporter was tall, at least six feet, about the same height and build as her neighbor had appeared to be in the few seconds she'd seen him this morning. In addition, the man at the back of the room had those careless good looks she associated with the Mediterranean—the olive complexion, eyes as black as night, rich sable hair, and a full, sensuous mouth. But was he the man next door?

Roberta groaned inwardly. She forced her gaze back once more. Maybe she was wrong. After all, she'd been so surprised and embarrassed she'd hardly looked at her neighbor. What she remembered most was the hint of banter in his deep voice. And that wasn't something you could tell just by looking.

The man at the back of the room raised a tanned hand to cover a yawn. Yawning meant he was tired. And hadn't her neighbor said he couldn't sleep? Roberta grimaced.

Nervously she continued to watch for anything that would reveal the truth. She nudged her glasses farther up her nose and patted the blonde hair slicked back from her face. Well, even if it was him, he wouldn't recognize her. After all, Roberta Vandenburg, with her neutral makeup, trim business suit, glasses and severe hairstyle was about as far removed as you could get from Bobbi, the half-dressed, embarrassed girl her neighbor had enjoyed teasing. Perhaps looking like a teenager when you weren't dressed for work had its advantages after all.

Roberta relaxed a little. Even if it was him, he'd never recognize her. She turned her attention to the panelists only to discover Garnet had finished and was staring at her impatiently.

She jumped up and introduced the hypno-therapist. During the spattering of applause, she noted the man at the back hadn't spared her a glance. She sat down, relieved.

Soon Roberta lost herself in the hypno-therapist's comments on hypno-regression. Hypno-regression was a process whereby a hypnotist helped someone regain blocked or forgotten memories. In his investigations, Garnet often used it to help uncover the details of the commonly blocked experience of alien abduction. But what Roberta found disturbing was the woman's contention that not only forgotten memories but forgotten fantasies could be recovered through hypnosis. The question was, of course, how did one distinguish between fantasy and true memory?

The chemist's talk about analysis of soil samples and vegetation growth patterns near UFO landing sites was more clinical, but certainly supported the society's contention that aliens had been visiting Earth for centuries. The psychiatrist presented a number of common character traits among abductees, though he was careful to refrain from committing himself to a belief in UFOs or alien abductions.

As usual, the question period included everything from scientific questions to descriptions of strange experiences thinly disguised as those of a “friend.” After fifteen minutes, Roberta cut it off, thanked the panelists, and reminded everyone of the lunchtime speaker.

As the room emptied, Roberta packed papers into her briefcase. She had to get back to the conference office. At least two tracks of workshops ran throughout each day, and it was her job to ensure they proceeded without a hitch. There were a thousand details, each crucial to the success of the conference, and all lacking in glamor or recognition. Not that she cared, she reminded herself. But it would be nice once, just once, if someone noticed how much or how well she did her work. Perhaps one day she'd lead an investigation into a fascinating case of alien abduction. Then everything would be different. She visualized an attentive audience hanging on her every word as she outlined how she had doggedly pursued and proven every aspect of an extraterrestrial abduction.
 

“Miss?”

The mellow voice cut into her imaginings and set off a shudder of recognition. With great reluctance Roberta raised her head—and looked directly into the smiling black eyes of the man she knew she most wanted to avoid.

“It's . . . it's Miss Vandenburg,” she stammered.

The beginnings of a smile she didn't think she was going to like played around the corners of the full, sensuous mouth she had noted earlier.

“Can I help you?” She rushed on. “If it's Dr. Jones you'd like to speak to, I can—”

He didn't let her finish. “I could have sworn you were my neighbor.” His eyes, a brown so rich and dark it appeared almost black, danced with laughter. “Bobbi, isn't it?”

The use of the childhood name she'd reverted to in her embarrassment this morning made her feel as if she were standing there in her tank top and boxers all over again. A flush raced up her neck.

“No one calls me that any more,” she sputtered.

“But you are the Bobbi I met this morning?” he persisted. “In your garden right beside mine? About four a.m.?”

Roberta almost groaned aloud. “Yes,” she muttered. “Now, if you'd like I can—”

“My name is Cody. Cody Walker.”

He put out his hand. Roberta stared at it, then finally she reached forward. His tanned hand closed around hers, quickly and crisply, then released it.

He bit his full lower lip. He was laughing at her again, damn him! Before she could say anything, he continued.

“I'm a reporter with
The Streeter
. I'm attending the conference, but it's really just a starting point for a series I plan to write about UFOs, aliens, and conspiracy theories.”

Roberta's sinking heart hit bottom.
The Streeter!
It was bad enough a newspaper reporter had caught her venting her frustrations. But a reporter from
The Streeter
, a paper that always played up the most sensational angles? She didn't even want to think about what that might mean.

If her dismay were visible, he ignored it. “So what's your role here? Besides moderating this panel?”

“I'm Dr. Jones's assistant,” she said stiffly. “Among other things, my job is to organize this conference each year.”

“So you're the one to ask if I have any questions, right?” He smiled, with a charm that could melt steel. It certainly did strange things to her stomach.

“Yes . . . but . . . oh!

Roberta's voice rose in alarm. Before her eyes, all color had drained from Cody's face. He staggered towards her. Her hand shot out to steady him.

“Are you all right?”

“No . . . yes.” He straightened, shook his head, and blinked. He ran one hand over his face, then blinked again as the color began to return. “I'm . . . I'm fine now.”

Roberta realized she still clutched his arm. She dropped it.

Cody looked at his watch. “Gotta go. Want to catch that session on UFOs throughout history.”

He winked at her. “See you around.”
 

Roberta watched as he hurried from the room, his confident stride showing no sign of the fleeting faintness. She was worried, though. What did he mean, “See you around?”

Her imagination went into overdrive.

* * *

At five minutes to midnight, Roberta limped off the elevator to her apartment, her pumps in one hand, her briefcase in the other. The Adam's Mark Hotel might not be the largest convention hotel in Chicago, but she felt as if she'd walked twenty miles. After next to no sleep last night, she was exhausted.

She dropped her shoes onto the carpeted floor outside her door and fumbled in her shoulder bag for the keys. She could almost feel the mattress rising to greet her. Nothing would keep her awake tonight.

Key in the lock, she paused to listen to the strains of music filtering into the hallway. Yes, that was Jackson Browne, singing Lives in the Balance. She'd always loved that song. She returned her attention to the door, then realized the music came from her next door neighbor's apartment. Cody Walker's. The reporter!

She checked out his door. A line of light shone from under it. Between the music and the light, he must still be up—and she had to talk to him. She'd tried unsuccessfully all afternoon and into the evening to reach him, first at
The Streeter
, and then at the home number directory assistance had given her.

Wavering, she looked at his door. She was tired. She didn't feel like talking. But this was important. Visions of the sensational headlines that might result if she didn't act now flashed through her head. She groaned. Maybe she was already too late.

Gritting her teeth, she opened her door and threw the briefcase inside. She stuffed her swollen feet back into her three-inch heels. She had to do it, and she might as well do it now. Garnet would kill her if anything happened to turn his beloved conference into a laughingstock.

She tapped on Cody's door. She waited, five seconds, ten, fifteen. She raised her hand to knock again when the door was flung open. Thrown off balance, she teetered on her heels before grabbing for the door frame.

She righted herself to find Cody staring at her in surprise. Only this wasn't the Cody Walker of this morning, the confident professional doing his job and taking a moment to tease her. Nor was it the earlier Cody, a distressingly sexy shadow in the morning darkness. This Cody looked tired and edgy, from the mussed hair and the circles under his eyes, to the dark stubble on his less-than-welcoming face. To make matters worse, he was all but naked.

Roberta's eyes zeroed in on his black nylon running shorts. Tiny, black nylon running shorts. His muscled chest, about six inches from her face, was covered with a whorl of black hair arrowing down to his shorts. She dropped her gaze, to his long, tanned legs, and to his equally bare feet. Then realized she hadn't a clue how to return her gaze to his face without making it obvious that she'd just taken an extended tour of his body—and enjoyed the sights.

Gulping, she raised her flaming face. He smiled, the change of expression transforming him from tired and grumpy to tired and seductive. Far too seductive.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

His apparent lack of recognition irked her. Could he have forgotten already? Maybe she wasn't his female equivalent in the tall and sexy department, but she wasn't chopped liver either. And they had talked for several minutes this morning.

“I'm your next door neighbor, remember? You met me at the SUFOW conference this morning. If it's all right, I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

He grinned tiredly. “Bobbi. Sure. Come in. There's no reason to stand out in the hall.”

There was every reason to stay in the hall, Roberta thought, but it was probably smarter to do as he said. She had no idea how this conversation would go. She didn't want a full-blown fight out in the hallway.

Roberta entered and he closed the door.

“So what did you want to talk about?”

“Maybe I'd better sit down.” She needed time to marshal her thoughts. She glanced around the apartment, a mirror-image of her own, yet so different. Where hers was cozy and cluttered with items of sentimental and comfort value, his was sparsely furnished in a cool, masculine, but almost unlived-in style. She chose a single straight-back chair from which to launch her discussion, rather than one of the deep burgundy Italian leather couches surrounding a coffee table topped with polished granite.

Cody leaned against the bar separating the kitchen from the rest of the living area. He reached for a half-full glass of water and took a gulp. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No. No thanks. Actually I'm surprised you're still up.”

He rested his forearms against the bar, unself-consciously giving her the opportunity to view his lean, tanned body in all its splendor. “Oh. Why is that?”

“It's just—well you mentioned something about not sleeping last night. And for a moment there this morning you looked as if you were going to pass out. Are you all right now?”

He took another swig of water. Was it her imagination, or had his expression suddenly become guarded?

“I haven't been sleeping too well for the last week. That's all.” His raven eyes narrowed. “But I don't think you came here at midnight to inquire about my health.”

“No. You're right.” Roberta hesitated. “What I wanted to ask was what kind of story you planned to write about the conference, and about SUFOW.”

He threw back his head and laughed. Disconcerted, she stared at him. What was so funny?

He stopped laughing and smiled with undisguised amusement. “Ah, yes. You don't trust me, do you? Smart girl. You should never trust a reporter.”

Roberta frowned. She liked his comment even less than his laughter. But she'd come this far, she might as well persevere. “So what did you write?”

He raised the glass of water to his lips again before replying. The corners of his midnight eyes crinkled attractively. “You know, I could tell you to phone my editor. That's the stock answer we give to queries of that sort. But I won't.”

His expression relaxed. “You're my neighbor after all, and a rather interesting neighbor, too. So I'll tell you. I haven't written anything yet.
The Streeter
has another reporter covering the conference and writing stories on some of the better-known speakers and topics. I'm just there to pick up information and leads for the series I'm working on. You're unlikely to see any stories from me for a couple of weeks.”