Ladies' Man (2 page)

“Look, it’s easy to remember—555–2356,” he called after her. “The numbers are in sequence, just skip the four. I’m in the 212 area code.”

Ellen couldn’t resist looking back.

Sam wasn’t following her. He was standing in the doorway of the newsstand, watching her walk away. “Call me,” he mouthed, miming a telephone with his hands. “555–2356.”

She tried to fill her mind with information, not wanting to remember Sam’s phone number. She tried to crowd her brain with trivial wonderings: Was there going to be enough time for her to stop at the market tonight? They were out of watermelon, and this time of year she lived on fresh fruit. And Lydia. Her daughter had an audition for a commercial on Monday. Ellen had to remember to look at that big street map of the city that Bob had on the wall of his home office to pinpoint the location of the casting agency holding the audition.

No, there was definitely no room in her head for remembering any numbers. Even ones in an easy sequence like 555–2356.

E
llen wasn’t going to call him.

Sam knew that as well as he knew the sun was going to rise in the morning.

She hadn’t told him her last name, but he’d heard her paged. Layne. Ellen Layne with a Y. That was a step in the right direction. But still, knowing her full name wouldn’t help him find her local phone number. She was staying in town for only a few months. Wherever she was staying, the phone probably wouldn’t be in her name.

She wasn’t going to call him, and he couldn’t call her. And it was a damned shame, because he’d honestly liked Ellen Layne.

Sometimes he had short-term relationships with women he didn’t have more in common with than a healthy case of mutual attraction. But as he was talking to Ellen, he’d found himself looking forward to seeing her again, to going out with her, to learning more about her.

She was the first woman he’d ever met who had actually admitted she didn’t like art museums.

Yeah, he liked her. A lot.

Of course, the fact that she was a total babe didn’t hurt.

She had thick, shoulder-length strawberry blond hair. And her eyes…She had the kind of dark brown eyes that seemed as if they were giant, bottomless pits to fall into.

And that body underneath those prim clothes…She was slender and trim with soft curves in all of the right places. Her clothing was nice too. Quality.

In fact, everything about her was quality.

She was classy.

But that wasn’t why Sam was drawn to her. His attraction to Ellen Layne was more than his usual case of Uptown Girl Syndrome—probably because after he’d had a chance to talk to her, it was clear that she wasn’t a girl,
and
she wasn’t actually from the wealthy part of Manhattan, despite the fact that she looked the type. Although, if T.S. were here, no doubt he’d be prepared to argue that Connecticut was, in fact, simply an extension of the Upper East Side.

But T.S. wasn’t here. Actually, it was
because
T.S. wasn’t at the airport right now that Sam was here instead.

T.S. had called Sam this morning in a panic. The writer had agreed to wine and dine an elderly relative of Bob Osborne’s tonight—forgetting that this evening was also his three-year-old daughter’s first ballet recital.

From what Sam could gather, T.S. was in the middle of negotiations with the famous talk show host. T.S. wanted to write Bob Osborne’s authorized biography, covering everything from his well-to-do childhood to his three-year stint in Vietnam to his battle with substance abuse and all the way up to his recent rise in popularity on network television. Bob had called T.S., asking him to have dinner with his aunt, and in return, he said he’d go ahead and give his approval for the book.

T.S. had tried to call Bob back to explain about his must-attend prior commitment, but the talk show host was unavailable, unreachable—totally out of touch.

That was when T.S. had called Detective Sam Schaefer of the New York City Police Department.

They’d been best friends since fifth grade, and Sam was more than willing to help out his buddy.

He hadn’t thought it was important to tell T.S. that tonight was his first night off-duty in close to three weeks. He didn’t mention that he and his partner had been working a case that had given him a mountain of overtime hours and little time to relax. Or socialize. In any way.

It was just bad luck that he had been between relationships these past few weeks. Of course, he spent most of his time between relationships, since none of his relationships ever lasted more than a week or two. Some were even shorter.

But Sam had learned through experience that starting a relationship took more time and energy than continuing or ending one. And he hadn’t had time to start a new one while working overtime. This particular in-between-relationships period had been dragging on for months now.

But now that his case was over, he’d been toying with the idea of “coincidentally” bumping into the precinct’s pretty new administrative assistant as she was leaving work. He had been thinking about inviting her out for drinks and, if that went well, dinner. And if
that
went well, the possibilities were endless.

The truth was, he could have done that last night. In fact, the girl had lingered for a moment at his desk on her way out the door. But Sam had chosen to spend the time finishing up the last of his paperwork.

He’d looked up at the girl, and in a split second he’d played out the time they’d spend together right to the very end.

And it ended ugly.

It ended with tension in the office, with angry words and recriminations, with tears near the water cooler and dark looks in his direction from the precinct captain.

In the past he might have been desperate enough to endure all that for the sake of hot sex with a pretty girl. But these days, knowing that the relationship was going to end badly was the psychological equivalent of throwing a bucket of ice water on his desire.

And it was powerful ice water. He’d been celibate for many months now, and yesterday, when he hadn’t asked the AA out, he’d felt convinced that he could easily handle many more months without sex.

And then Ellen Layne had walked into the airport newsstand. And he’d been just as convinced that he wouldn’t last another day without getting it on with this incredible woman. He’d had a solid case of lust at first sight.

Thinking back on their conversation, Sam knew without a doubt that he’d never truly had a chance with Ellen. She’d flirted with him, sure. But that’s all it was. An insignificant flirtation.

She’d probably already forgotten his name—let alone his phone number. She’d never call him. Why should she? He was just some potential psycho killer she’d met at the airport.

He’d probably never see her again.

Allowing himself a moment to feel totally depressed, Sam rested his forehead against the glass window, watching Alma’s jet maneuver into place near the gate. He wasn’t sure why he felt so bad. He met beautiful, vibrant, sexy women all the time. So what if Ellen Layne was more beautiful, vibrant, and sexy than most? She was also—as far as he could tell—a little bit older than most of the women he usually went out with. And from his experience, older women were far more often interested in commitment. And in the past, even just a hint of the C-word was enough to send him running for the hills.

He should be glad she’d walked away. Anything he started with her—even just a single night—had the potential to be incredibly messy and complicated.

But unlike the AA, Ellen Layne didn’t work in his office. He could easily walk away from the ugly end of their relationship, couldn’t he?

He scoffed at himself. What relationship? The lady clearly wasn’t interested.

And that was a shame, because he’d
really
liked her….

“Hello, Sam. Don’t tell me you’re waiting for this flight too?” The voice was unmistakable.

Startled, Sam jerked his head up so quickly, he smacked his nose against the window.

It was her. It was Ellen Layne.

He cared more about not looking foolish than he cared about the spears of pain that were shooting through him. He tried to straighten up in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner as he turned toward Ellen, hoping she hadn’t noticed that he’d damn near broken his nose again.

Her brown eyes were brimming with amusement and concern. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean to startle you. Your poor nose.”

So much for her not noticing. “I broke it about two months ago,” he admitted, letting himself wince as he gingerly touched his face. “I think it’s just really sensitive.”

“I’m sorry.”

He started to open his mouth, but he didn’t even get a chance to speak before she cut him off.

“I’m not going to make it up to you by giving you my phone number, so don’t even ask.”

“Why don’t you give me your post office box number,” Sam said, “and I’ll go in for a psychological evaluation and have the doctor send you a copy of the report. Will that be proof enough for you that I’m not some deranged killer?”

She laughed. She had a low, husky, musical laugh that stirred his blood. “I’ve heard of people asking other people for blood tests, but sanity tests?”

“Hey, this is New York City. Get used to everything and anything, babe.”

The airline passengers were starting to disembark. Any minute now Ellen was going to meet whomever she was waiting for. And then this time she
would
vanish from his life permanently.

“You know, I’ve lambasted men for calling me that,” she remarked matter-of-factly.

“What?
Babe?
”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Lambasted, huh? Sounds incredibly erotic.”

Ellen smiled sweetly. “Oh, trust me, it’s not.” She stood on her toes, trying to get a look at the people getting off the plane.

He had to do something. And fast. “I swear to God I’m harmless, Ellen,” Sam said, talking quickly. “In fact, I’m a cop—a police detective.” He took out his badge and handed it to her. “I’d show you my gun, too, but I’m off-duty, so I’m not carrying right now.”

He’d managed to surprise her. He took that as a good sign.

“A cop?” She took his badge and looked at it more closely, lightly running her finger over the gleaming gold. “This thing looks real.”

“It
is
real. I’m telling you, I’m one of the good guys.” God, what was wrong with him? He was standing there with his heart in his throat, praying that she would believe him, praying that she would…what? Go home with him? That wasn’t going to happen. She was waiting for someone, and
he
was waiting for someone, and…

Sam saw Alma. She was wearing a bright red raincoat—exactly as T.S. had described her. Except, wait a minute. There was no way this woman was nearly ninety years old, was there? She
was
about five feet tall, the way T.S. had said, and she
was
wearing a navy blue sweat suit under her raincoat, the way T.S. had said, but this woman couldn’t have been a day over seventy, if that.

Still, the woman in the raincoat was looking around as if uncertain as to who exactly was meeting her.

“Excuse me,” Sam said to Ellen, sidling his way through the crowd to approach the older woman. Ellen was still holding his police badge, so he had to believe that she wouldn’t just disappear on him. At least, he hoped she wouldn’t. “Are you Alma?” he asked the woman in the red raincoat.

“Yes, I am,” she said, giving him a broad smile. “And that must make you T. S. Harrison, my
favorite
author. Zounds, am I thrilled to meet you!”

“Alma? It
is
you.”

Sam turned in surprise to see Ellen enfold the diminutive older woman in an embrace.

“Ellen! Bobby told me you had some sort of acting class,” Alma exclaimed. “What a surprise to see you here!”

“I have an even bigger surprise for you,” Ellen said, her brown eyes sparkling as she smiled at the elderly woman.

Sam couldn’t hold it in any longer. “
You’re
here to meet Alma?
I’m
here to meet Alma.” He turned to Alma. “And you can’t be Alma—Alma’s eighty-nine years old. You’re too young.”

“Fiddlesticks,” Alma was saying to Ellen. “What could be a bigger surprise than having dinner with my favorite author?” She smiled at Sam. “Thanks for the compliment, young man, but I’m definitely Alma Osborne. And you can check my driver’s license for my age if you want.”

“She’s going to be ninety next May,” Ellen told him. “Longevity runs in the family.”

“You’ve gone blond,” Alma said to Ellen. “Let me look at you.”

“Something came over me last winter,” Ellen admitted, “and I decided to start the new year as a blonde—in hopes of having more fun.”

“I like it,” Alma proclaimed. “It works for me.”

“Works for me too,” Sam murmured.

“Did you two come together to meet my plane?” Alma asked.

There was confusion in Ellen’s dark eyes. “
You’re
here to meet Alma too?” she said to Sam.

“Do you know who this is?” Alma asked her, pointing at Sam.

“His name’s Sam.” Ellen glanced down at the police badge she still held in her hands. “Detective Samuel Schaefer.” She handed it back to him. “Right?”

“Maybe Sam Schaefer is his given name,” Alma told her, “but his pen name is T. S. Harrison. Bobby told me he’d made arrangements for T. S. Harrison to meet my plane, and here he is.”

TWO

U
m,” said Sam, hesitating as he tried to figure out the best way to explain without too badly disappointing the elderly woman.

“
You’re
T. S. Harrison?” Ellen was looking at him as if she’d been suddenly struck by lightning. She was clearly impressed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Now, this was definitely tricky. While Sam enjoyed the wonder and respect that he could see in Ellen’s eyes, the last thing he wanted to do was pretend he was something or someone he was not. And as close as they were, he was
not
T.S.

“Well, if you want to know the truth,” he started, but was quickly drowned out.

“Alma!” Bob Osborne, surrounded by a team of bodyguards, swept down upon them. “Look at you! You look gorgeous, you old thing, you. How the
hell
are you?”

“Bobby! You’re supposed to be in Boston!”

“This is your surprise.” Ellen was beaming at Alma as Bob swept the tiny woman into his arms and gave her a solid kiss on the cheek.

“Excuse me, but I’m not T. S. Harrison,” Sam said, but no one paid any attention at all.

“Harrison! How are you, pal?” One arm still around Alma, Bob turned to shake Sam’s hand. “Good to finally meet you in person. All those phone calls. We’ve been talking, what, for two months? It’s a pleasure to be able to look you in the eye.”

“Actually,” Sam said, “T.S. couldn’t—”

But Bob wasn’t listening. “Have you met my niece, Ellen Layne? She’s staying with me for the summer. El, Harrison here is going to be writing my biography. Get used to his face, kiddo. You’ll be seeing a lot of him over the next few months.”

“I’m sorry for the confusion,” Sam started. “But—”

But Bob had already turned back to his aunt. “Alma, old thing! While I was waiting for your plane, I had
the
most incredible idea. See, I just got a call from my staff in Boston—I’ve got to get up there pronto. I’ve got a chartered plane ready to go. But—here’s my great idea—why don’t you come with me? Postpone your trip to London, call your pals and tell ’em you’ll be delayed a few days. Tell ’em you’re going to Beantown with your favorite nephew.”

“My luggage is already on its way to Lon—”

“They sell sweat suits in Boston, don’t they?” Bob looked toward Ellen.

“Of course,” she said.

“Of course,” he repeated. “I’ll buy you whatever you need, put you up at the hotel—it’s a
nice
hotel. My treat. Room service, everything. I’ll pay for your new airline ticket to London too. Come on, Al, don’t say no.”

“Well, I wanted to have dinner with T. S. Harrison,” Alma said slowly, then grinned at the look on Bob’s face, “but I’d much rather go to Boston with my favorite nephew. Unless…” She turned to Sam. “How about you come along too? You could interview him on your show, Bobby.”

“But I’m not—”

“Harrison’s got some revisions to deal with,” Bob told Alma. “Besides, he doesn’t do television interviews—although with a face like that, the camera would love him. Don’t you think, El?”

Ellen just smiled.

“He couldn’t possibly come to Boston right now,” Bob continued. “He was doing me one hell of a favor just by coming here tonight.”

Sam gave up trying to explain. How could he explain when Bob wouldn’t even let him get a word in edgewise? Instead he smiled, taking his cue from Ellen. Obviously, she’d learned it was hopeless to try to interrupt.

“Take the limo home,” Bob commanded Ellen. He turned to Sam. “Do you have a car and driver waiting?”

He wasn’t T. S. Harrison, so of course he didn’t have a car and driver waiting for him, but there was no use in trying to explain. He just shook his head no.

“Give Harrison a ride, too, would you mind?” Bob asked Ellen.

“Not at all,” she murmured.

“See you in about a week. Tell Lyd break a leg tomorrow.” Bob turned to Sam. “I’ll have my agent call your agent, get the book deal ironed out.”

“It was an honor to meet you,” Alma told Sam as she gave Ellen a kiss.

And just like that, they were gone.

Compared to the double chaos of Hurricane Bob and Hurricane Alma, the airport gate was now nearly tomblike in its quiet.

Sam looked at Ellen. “Is it my turn to talk yet?”

She laughed. “Bob can be a little overpowering. Come on, let’s leave quickly—before they change their minds.”

As they walked, Ellen took a cell phone from her handbag and dialed. “Hi, Ron, it’s me,” she said into the receiver. “Will you please pull the car around to the front entrance?”

This couldn’t be happening. Sam was about to get a ride home from the airport with Ellen Layne. It was like some kind of miracle or sign from God.

But he wanted more than just a ride into Manhattan. Maybe if he played his cards right, he could stretch a short ride into an entire evening. Dinner. Neither of them had eaten yet.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, jogging slightly to catch up with her as they headed toward the escalators that would take them to the terminal’s main lobby. “Can I talk you into stopping for something to eat?”

She gave him a look. “Not at one of the airport’s restaurants, thanks.”

Damn, she was pretty. He pulled back slightly for a moment to admire the way the overhead lights made her reddish blond hair seem to gleam. “We could go wherever you want. I bet when you go out to dinner with your uncle, that’s not always an option.”

“You’re right.” Her brown eyes sparkled as she laughed, and Sam felt his stomach flip-flop. It was going to take them at least forty minutes to get into Manhattan from the airport at this time of night—maybe even longer. Worst-case scenario had him sitting cozily next to her in a limo for all of that time.

Best-case scenario had him gazing into her eyes over a four-course dinner that lasted until well after midnight.

“But I’m a little bit tired,” she added. “I’m not sure I’m up to fighting the crowds, waiting an hour for a table. It’s Friday, and everyone and their twin sister will be trying to eat out.”

“Then how about we stop at a deli, get takeout? We could have a picnic in the limo—have the driver take us for a ride around the city while we eat.”

She stepped onto the escalator, turning slightly to look at him. “That sounds like fun,” she said. “But—”

“But nothing.” He moved onto the step directly below hers. It put them exactly eye to eye. “Come on, it barely even qualifies as outrageous behavior.” He played his trump card—the magic word, combined with the truth. “Please, Ellen? I’d love to have a chance to talk to you some more.”

Ellen shook her head ruefully as she looked at him. As long as this man was involved, there would be a certain element of outrageousness in any situation. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Of course you should. Come on, we both need to eat.”

She gazed into Sam’s eyes, knowing that she should simply turn him down, right here and right now. Not only was he too young, but he was also too famous. He was T. S. Harrison, for crying out loud. He was the twenty-seven-year-old wunderkind who’d had his first book hit the
New York Times
list before he was even out of college. He was going to be writing a book about her uncle. He was going to be working closely with Bob all summer long. He would be visiting the town house at all hours of the day and night. She would see him all the time—whether she wanted to or not.

It was one thing to share a friendly ride home, but dinner would change the entire tone. Dinner—especially an intimate picnic for two in the back of the limo—would add a gossamer-fine layer of romance onto the evening. And once it was there, it couldn’t be removed without crumbling and ruining everything it touched.

Dinner would be a major mistake.

Ellen stepped off the escalator. She could see Bob’s limo waiting outside the glass doors. “Oh, good, it’s already here.”

As she approached, Ron, the driver, quickly slid out from behind the steering wheel and opened the passenger door.

“You’re not going to believe who we’re driving home tonight,” she said to him. “This is T. S. Harrison.” She turned to Sam. “Ron’s bought all your books—including your most recent hardcover release. Now,
that’s
a dedicated fan, don’t you think?”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Actually, my name’s really Sam Schaefer,” Sam said as he shook Ron’s hand. “I’m not—”

“T. S. Harrison is a pseudonym,” Ellen told the driver as she climbed into the limo.

Sam climbed in after her and Ron closed the door behind him, sealing them into the muted, shaded privacy of the limousine’s belly. The limo had two soft bench seats, facing each other. He could have sat across from her, but he didn’t. He sat down next to her. Now, why didn’t that surprise her?

“You know, there was something I wanted to talk to you about without Bob around,” Ellen told Sam. “I know you’re going to be writing about Bob, and I know that his experiences in Vietnam are an important part of what makes him the man he is today, but—”

“Ellen, I have to tell you—”

“No, wait, let me finish, please. I was there when he came back from Vietnam. I was only twelve years old, and I didn’t know much about it at the time, but Bob suffered post-traumatic stress syndrome, and when I say suffered, I mean
suffered
. I remember days when he just disappeared—my mother was his oldest sister, and he was living with us because no one else wanted him. I would have to search the woods around our house, looking for him, and…” She took a deep breath. “It took him a lot of hard work and a long time to deal with everything that he went through, and I just…I’m very protective of him when it comes to this, so I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t you dare push him too hard with your questions. In fact, maybe what you should do is just talk to me, ask
me
about what he did in Vietnam. He lived with us for five years, and I learned how to get him to talk to me about it. It was pretty awful, and I’d just as soon he never had to think about any of it ever again.”

He was silent, just sitting there looking at her, a bemused smile playing around the edges of his mouth. “Bob’s a lucky man to have you on his side,” he finally said.

Ellen held his gaze. “He may have been my uncle, but he was also my best friend. It’s been a while since we’ve been close, but…” She smiled. “When you get to know him, when you find out the road he’s taken to get where he is today, you’re really going to be impressed.”

Sam smiled too. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to reading the book, but I’m not going to write it. I’m not really T. S. Harrison.”

It took Ellen a moment to make sense of his words. “You’re not?” If he wasn’t T. S. Harrison, then…“Who are you?”

“Like it says on the police badge—Sam Schaefer, NYPD.” His blue eyes were filled with chagrin. “I told you in the bookstore, T.S. is a friend of mine. My best friend. Bob asked him to pick up Alma, and he agreed before he remembered his kid had a ballet recital. So he called me. I tried to tell both Bob and Alma that I wasn’t T.S., but they wouldn’t listen.”

Ellen had to laugh. “I thought you were just being modest and cute—you know, telling me at the newsstand that you know T. S. Harrison really well, and then, surprise, you
do
know T.S. intimately—in fact,
you’re
T.S.”

“If I were T. S. Harrison, I would have told you who I was right away,” Sam countered. “I would have used it to get your phone number—you better believe that, ba—” He stopped himself. “I was going to say ‘babe,’ but I knew if I did, I’d get lambasted.”

“Ooh, a fast learner. I like that in a man.”

He grinned. “Although being lambasted still sounds incredibly tempting.” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me the truth—would you have given your phone number to T. S. Harrison?”

Ellen adjusted the air-conditioning vent away from her face. “T. S. Harrison already has my phone number, because my phone number is Bob’s phone number—at least for the next few months.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

She smiled. “I know.”

“Do you forgive me for not being T.S.?”

“Actually, I’m glad you’re not T.S.” She was relieved that this man, with his quicksilver smile and bedroom eyes, wouldn’t be spending hour upon hour in her uncle’s house. “But I’d appreciate it if you could tell the real T.S. all that stuff I just said, you know, about Vietnam?”

Sam nodded. “I will. How about if I have him call you directly too?”

“Thank you.”

The phone rang; it was Ron calling from the front seat. Ellen put him on the speakerphone.

“Where to, Ms. Layne?”

She glanced at Sam. “Where are you headed?”

“Hopefully to dinner with you.”

Ellen looked into Sam’s Paul Newman–blue eyes and made herself face the awful truth. Now that she knew he wasn’t T. S. Harrison, and now that she knew he was a police detective and not some weirdo who hung around airport newsstands, she had to admit that she truly liked him. He was funny and smart and incredibly attractive. She
wanted
to have dinner with him. She
wanted
to spend an evening with the dazzle of that charisma focused on her. She wanted to be just a little bit wild. She wanted to take this lighthearted flirtation one teeny little baby-step further.