Meet Your Mate (A Good Riders Romance Book 1) (3 page)

“If you say so.” Carly took a small
step back, as if reluctant to give them the benefit of the doubt. “Please take
a seat in the living room. Anna said to offer you something to drink and let
her know when you got here.”

A footstep at the top of the stairs
alerted Max to his date’s presence before he could decline the offer. In spite of
himself, he watched Annabel descend.

A nervous smile flickered and
softened her expression before it dimmed and faded into the more familiar lines
of stern disapproval. And he hadn’t even done anything to annoy her yet. That
he knew of.

Roger stepped forward. He adjusted
the camera to zoom in and capture her entrance.

Waiting at the foot of the stairs,
Max assessed her appearance. She’d reverted to full-on Ice-Princess mode. Black
suit jacket buttoned up to her chin, and skirt hem hanging down past her knees.
Sensible, boxy looking shoes. Hair slicked back so tightly at the nape of her
neck he was surprised her eyes didn’t cross.

“Anna, I thought you were going to
wear your hair down.” Carly’s artless comment inserted a drop of sweetness into
the awkward moment.

Annabel smoothed her fingers over
the sides of her hair, as if to harness any rebellious strands that dared to
escape from their prison. “I’m more comfortable with it up.”

“You look gorgeous.” Roger panned
the camera between the woman and girl. He nudged Max in the ribs, then pulled
back to record Max and Annabel’s first greeting. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous?
Give her a little kiss.”

Max’s gaze skimmed over Annabel’s
body again. The classy, understated style suited her.
Too prim and proper
for my taste.
Although the suit did hug her figure nicely. The slit up one
side of her skirt showed an enticing bit of shapely leg and thigh when she
walked. And that mouth with the peek-a-boo smile playing around the edges
almost begged for a kiss.

But the expression of alarm that
crossed her face sure didn’t. Or the backpedaling she employed as he reached
for her.

“Oh, my.” She fluttered her fingers
like crazed bats. “I guess I’m not very good on this side of the camera.”

“Just pretend I’m not here,” Roger
said as if it would be possible to overlook a supersized gorilla with a
forty-thousand-dollar camera glued to his face.

“Then quit trying to direct
everything,” Max told him. “Just let things happen. And don’t worry,” he said
to Annabel. “I’ll make him stay ten paces behind us at all times.”

“No, no, he’s fine. He’s just doing
his job. Getting a taste of my own medicine will make me more sympathetic to my
subjects in the future.” She flashed the cameraman an elusive smile.

She excluded Max from the offering
of goodwill. Okay, he got the message. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You
ready to go?”

“Yes.” She turned to retrieve some
kind of flimsy wrap from the closet. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“Nope. I was only told where and
when to show up—and what to wear.” He pulled at the knot on his necktie again.
Damn thing. He hated having to wear one on his day off.

“We have a reservation at Ernesto’s
at six.”

Ernesto’s
. The kind of
restaurant Max tended to dodge. A stuffy, over-priced, pretentious place in Mt.
Adams that served prissy little portions of nouvelle cuisine. Sighing, he
resigned himself to the choice and tried not to yawn.

“From there, we’ll go to the
symphony. I hope you like Wagner.”

He chuckled, assuming she was
kidding. But when he checked, her expression revealed nothing but seriousness.
“Wagner? Really?”

“His music’s quite stimulating. My
husband and I used to have season tickets for the symphony. I gave them up when
he—” She stopped and bit her lip. “I gave them up a few years ago.”

The symphony. Stimulating?
Ri-ight
. She must be older than he guessed. What decade had
she been born in anyway? Oh, well, maybe he could catch up on his sleep.

And he’d given up his poker night
for this.

Since the camera
recorded and magnified every emotion, Annabel attempted to hide her irritation
from the high-powered lens hovering a few feet away. She glanced toward Max on
the other side of the table and found herself viewing only the menu propped up
against the floral centerpiece.

She didn’t need to see him in his
flawless Italian suit to know he looked sinfully delicious. His rugged
physique, gorgeous face, and observant eyes oozed sensuality—damn him—in that
casual, devil-may-care way of his. But as her mother used to say, “Handsome is
as handsome does.”

And so far, Max’s behavior had
resembled a toad’s.

From his outrageous reputation with
women, she’d expected more charm. He’d remained almost mute on the ride over.
She wasn’t exactly thrilled to be on this date either, but at least
she
tried
to be pleasant.

“What looks good?” she said, just
to break the silence.

Max closed the menu and dropped it
on the table before tucking his cell phone into his inside suit pocket. “Sorry,
did you say something?”

He’d been texting someone or checking
his messages? What an insensitive jerk! She sniffed back her disapproval. “I
asked you what looks good.”

“The exit,” he muttered.

Offended even further, Annabel’s
spine straightened automatically. “What?”

“Sorry, again.” He stuck a finger
in his collar and pulled it away from his neck. “This isn’t my kind of place.”

Candles and ferns, crisp white
linens and gleaming crystal filled the room. Music from a harpist in the corner
drifted around them and enhanced the cool ambience of the pale green and silver
decor. The overall effect was lovely and—in the right company—very romantic,
but Max’s grimace spoke volumes about his disapproval.

“Oh, right.” She leaned forward and
tried to produce a sincere-looking smile. “I guess you’d be more comfortable in
some smoke-filled dive with peanut shells on the floor and a runway for
strippers.”

“That does sound appealing.” His
eyes lit up before he shrugged in resignation. “But I’d settle for a menu
that’s written in English and a meal that won’t leave me hungry five minutes
after it’s over.”

Annabel nodded with feigned
sympathy. “I considered making a reservation at one of those places that sizzle
up plate-sized sirloins while you graze at a salad bar with fifteen different
kinds of bean and Jell-O concoctions. But then, I remembered this was supposed
to be
my
dream date, not yours.”

“You got that right.”

Stung by his disapproval, her
defenses rose along with her temper. “Listen, buddy, this debacle is as much
your fault as mine. After the show the other day, y
ou
said you could get
us out of this deal.”

He spread his hands wide. “I
tried.”

“Not hard enough.”

“Hey, you could have refused, too.”

True, she could have. But when she
saw Carly’s bright eyes, thrilled with the success of fixing her up with one of
the best-looking, most-famous guys in town, the girl’s excitement held her
back. Annabel bit her lip to keep from bursting her stepdaughter’s bubble by
revealing that Mad Max Williams was as well-known for his off-camera escapades
as for his news reporting. Some of the gossip that swirled around him could be
dismissed, but not all of it. Not when Annabel had glimpsed the results of his
deplorable behavior firsthand.

She took a deep breath and reined
in her annoyance, silently repeating her chant of the past week.
It’s just
one date
. And to be fair, Max had explained when they’d talked on the phone
that he’d been suckered into the gig, too.

A starchy waiter materialized
beside them, drawing Annabel’s attention away from her personal dilemma and
back to the meal.

“Are you ready to order?” Starch
asked in nasal tones.

“Ladies first.” Max waved his hand
toward her.

Annabel’s stomach growled.
Obviously, skipping lunch had been a mistake. She ordered bruschetta with a
gorgonzola tapenade, Greek salad, risotto with caramelized pumpkin and chorizo
along with glazed Mediterranean vegetables.

“Very good, madam. And for you,
sir?”

Max frowned. “I know what I
don’t
want.”

“And what would that be?” Starch
narrowed his eyes down a long nose at Max.
He probably doesn’t get that look
of disapproval pointed at him very often.

“I don’t want anything bruschetta,
frittata, polenta or Florentine.”

Starch sniffed as he gathered the
menus and tucked them under his arm. “Might I recommend the New York strip
steak
without
the piquant Pepper Coulis that normally accompanies it?”

“That sounds more like it.” Max
rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Rare with a shot of hot sauce, a
baked potato, plenty of sour cream, and a house salad with ranch dressing.”

Pokering
up even more, Starch gestured toward Roger at the next table. “And for the
other gentleman?”

“You want the same?” Max asked.

The cameraman held up his ham-sized
hand, then pointed at Max before answering. “The station’s paying, right?”

Max nodded. “Yep, live large.”

Roger’s gleeful smile exposed a
mischievous dimple. “If the steaks are less than ten ounces each, I’ll have
two.”

“Very good, sir.” With a small
patronizing bow, Starch faded away from the table.

After a moment’s silence, Annabel
ventured a new topic. “Has my insurance company contacted you about fixing your
car yet?”

“Yep, I’ll have the Porsche back by
Tuesday.” He leaned forward, warming to the subject. “I got three appraisals,
but they approved my first choice. A buddy of mine from—”

He stopped mid-sentence as a new presence
appeared between them. At Max’s right elbow, a sommelier cradled a
towel-wrapped bottle of champagne. The sober-faced young man with his longish
hair slicked back, a soul patch, and wire-rimmed glasses set flutes in front of
them. Glancing at Max, the sommelier did a double take.

“Hey, dude, aren’t you Max
Williams?” He unbent with an enthusiasm that contradicted the waiter’s steely
behavior. “I’ve been following that story you broke last month about the county
parks commissioner skimming funds. My wife used to work for the parks
department and she always said there was something fishy going on. They fired
her for being a squeaky wheel. Now, that it’s more than just her word against
theirs, maybe she’ll get her job back.”

“I hope she does.” Max transformed
himself into his outgoing public persona and shook the sommelier’s outstretched
hand. “Keep me posted, okay? I might do a follow-up.”

“I’ll do that. Could I get your
autograph? My wife will never believe I met you. You’re her hero.”

“Sure, what’s your name?” He
squinted to read the nametag in the dim light.  “Alvin, right? You want me
to sign this to you or your wife?”

Watching Max scribble his signature
across a wine list, Annabel wasn’t sure if Alvin or the Dom
Perignon
would bubble over first. The sommelier sobered into business-like demeanor
after the maitre d’ reappeared and signaled him to get on with business. Alvin
expertly uncorked the bottle and poured. Max conducted the ritual tasting with
a frown, then said something to Alvin in an undertone. The sommelier nodded and
bowed himself away.

Annabel eyed the champagne. She
hadn’t tasted any since her wedding night eight years ago. She hadn’t much
liked it then. “Who ordered this?”

“Not me. I can’t stand the stuff. I
asked Alvin to bring me a scotch.”

“I ordered it,” Roger piped up from
behind his camera. “I want a shot of you two clinking glasses. The bubbles make
an interesting effect in the candlelight. Raise your glasses and make a toast,
Max.”

Annabel expected him to refuse or
ignore the direction, the way he had with the kiss. But without further
prompting, he held his flute aloft. “Congratulations on the Community First
nomination. May the best project win.”

She raised her glass. “I’ll drink
to that.”

They clinked and sipped. The Dom tasted
crisp and refreshing. Annabel sipped again.

“Have you seen any of the other
entries?” he asked in the first unsolicited comment he’d made since they’d been
seated.

“Sure. They’re pretty good.”

“But not as good as ours.” He
smiled. Charismatic, but smug.

She hoped to deflate his ego a
little. “Not as good as
mine
.”

He didn’t make a sound, but the
squaring of his shoulders revealed her comment had hit a nerve. “Why is yours
the best?”

She sipped her drink and let the
bubbles dance around her mouth. Amazing how something so fizzy managed to slide
down her throat so smoothly. She sipped again, mentally reviewing the
competition. “Randall’s entry is about cleaning up the river. It’s good, but a
similar topic won last year. I don’t think this one’s good enough to repeat.”

One of Max’s long, lean fingers
circled the rim of his glass. “Same thing about Harris’s piece on police
brutality.”

Annabel nodded. “The dark horse is
Lynn
Dorey’s
entry on the Arts’ Commission. She came
up with a fresh angle on that, and she’s got a solid reputation.”

“No more solid than yours at
Lasting Productions.”

Flustered by the unexpected
compliment, she reached for her champagne flute again and found it empty.
Without waiting for her to ask, Max refilled her glass.

“If yours is the best, and Lynn’s
is next, where do you rank mine?” Max nodded his thanks as Alvin placed a
scotch on the rocks in front of him, then delivered a beer to the cameraman.

“I wish I could rank it last, but
you’re the big name on the slate. It’s impossible to discount you. The station
you work for carries a lot of clout, too.”

“But you don’t think much of my
report?” Despite the seeming ease he exhibited while sipping his drink, his
eyes glinted at her darkly.

She felt more comfortable with him
and thirstier by the minute. “I don’t consider it as
weighty
as the
others.”

“What are you basing your opinion
on?”

“The tit-
illating
subject matter?” She winced over the terrible pun.

“I see. The topics of breast
reduction and implant surgery don’t meet your high standards.” His eyes
definitely flashed in the glow of the candles. “A subject doesn’t have to be
boring or dull to be important, you know.”

She was surprised he seemed as
defensive of his work as she would be if he belittled hers. From his
reputation, she’d assumed his interest lay in the publicity or the acclaim, not
the achievement.
Had she judged him unfairly?

“Aside from boosting your station’s
sweeps ratings, what were the benefits of your piece for Cincinnati?” she
asked. “That’s the yardstick the panel of judges use to select the winner.”

“It caused the butcher performing
botched surgeries to lose his medical license, and it convinced a jury to
convict him of malpractice.” Max’s intensity revealed his satisfaction in the
accomplishment.

Her conscience twitched for
underestimating his project as her heart sank. She moved his entry up a notch,
even though she still doubted his motives. “But mostly you did it so you could
interview exotic dancers, right?”

“Of course. For my money, there
aren’t nearly enough stories on the news about strippers.” One side of his
perfect mouth turned up in a self-derogatory smile. “What about yours?”

“
Challenging Destiny
follows
twenty promising students through four years at an inner-city high school. We
documented their relative success at surviving the pitfalls they faced on a
daily basis, everything from gangs and drug abuse to poverty and questionable
SAT scores.”

“I’m familiar with the premise.” He
settled back in his chair. “What’s the long-range impact?”

“The United Way is using
Challenging
Destiny
in its pledge drive this year.” Her attempt at modesty failed as
her cheeks warmed with pride and her smile stretched wide. “And our state
representative showed it to the Ways and Means Committee to request an increase
in the education budget for latchkey programs.”

He pursed his lips in a low
whistle. “Impressive.” He clinked his glass with hers again. “That should wow
the judges.”

“I hope so.” Looking down, she
discovered her appetizer. When had that arrived?
Starch was a sneaky little
snob, wasn’t he?
She scooped up a bruschetta and bit off a corner. “Would
you like a piece?”

“Maybe later.” He smiled and
plucked a breadstick out of the basket. Nipping off a crunchy end, he chewed it
with relish. Apparently he ate with full-on enjoyment, the same way he did
everything.

“I’ll have one of those funky
tomato things,” Roger said to Annabel.

She pulled her gaze away from Max’s
and offered the plate to the cameraman. “Help yourself.”

Finishing off one bruschetta, she
reached for another. The salty olive and anchovy spread increased her thirst,
and she detoured toward her glass. Tapenade and champagne paired for a
wonderful combination, she discovered.

“Why does winning mean so much to
you?” Max propped his chin on a fist.

Avoiding his eyes, which seemed
entirely too knowing, she dropped her gaze to his tie. If required to describe
the entwining pattern on the silk fabric as a Rorschach test, she’d say the two
spiraling peach stripes against a charcoal background resembled slender lovers
in the night. Very erotic. Almost X-rated. She blinked and focused on his
question.

“
You
may have won a lot of
professional awards, but I haven’t.” The temperature in the room must have
raised a few degrees. She fingered the top button on her jacket. “As a mom
working part-time and a lowly documentary editor, it’s not unusual for me to be
brought in during post-production. You know my boss Howard Lasting, right? He
indicated winning Community First will improve my chances for developing other
projects. With Carly going off to college, I plan to devote more time to my
career. And increasing my income wouldn’t hurt either. I’d love a promotion to
fulltime producer.”