Meet Your Mate (A Good Riders Romance Book 1) (4 page)

Annabel stopped and sipped, determined
to halt the nonstop stream of words before she revealed anything more intimate
or personal.
The champagne must be the reason for this motor mouth tendency.
She imagined his ridicule if she expressed her secret desire to someday work as
a producer for an investigative news team. That would give him personal
knowledge of her that she just didn’t trust him to have in his hands.

Suddenly she felt much too warm and
too aware of the dawning interest in the depths of his dark, watchful eyes. As
she took another sip of the Dom, she unfastened the top button of her jacket.

Their salads came and went almost
without notice. Suddenly, the waiter whisked away the empty plates and
presented their entrees with a flourish. Hers, a visual masterpiece of colors
and textures. His, a butchered, broiled, carnivorous display. Alvin, bless him,
also reappeared bearing another bottle of champagne.

Unprompted, Max refilled her glass
and encouraged her to raise it for another toast. “To a better understanding
between us. We’re halfway there.”

“To a better understanding.” She
ignored the little tingle shivering down her spine when her gaze met the
challenge in his
. A better understanding of what? Halfway where?
Neither
of them wanted to be anything more than the wary acquaintances they’d always
been.
Did they?
Absolutely not.

Annabel remembered too clearly
comforting her friend
DeeDee
as she sobbed her eyes
out, ballooned with pregnancy, after he’d dropped her a couple of years ago.
And then there were rumors about a young intern who’d left the station under
mysterious and undisclosed circumstances. The station hushed it up, but
speculation abounded that Max had caused the college student’s dismissal. The
creep.

“Do you remember my friend
DeeDee
?” She watched and waited for an emotional response.

“
DeeDee
?”
He sipped his scotch and appeared to test the name on his tongue along with the
Jack Daniels. Squinting, he avoided looking her in the eyes.

“Yes,
DeeDee
Stevens. She’s working in Kansas City now.”

“Nice girl,” he said, neutrally.
“Good news market.”

“She has a little boy.” Oops, the
comment sounded a bit more direct than she intended.

“Does she? I knew she was knocked
up when she left town.”

“You don’t know anything else about
it, Mr. Sensitive?” She waited breathlessly for his response. “I thought you
two dated for a while.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Flash
in the pan. We shared some laughs at a time when she was figuring out what she
really wanted.”

“Like, a father for her baby?”

“Like that,” he said, shrugging
again. “It didn’t have anything to do with me.”

The lukewarm denial left her
wanting something more definitive. “Didn’t it?”

“Hold on,” Roger interrupted before
she figured out how to get more out of Max. “I want you both to raise your
champagne glasses. Then, Annabel, you circle your arm through his before you
take a drink. You know, like they do in wedding pictures.”

She bent her arm and followed the
instructions. She and Max leaned closer. He smelled even more spicy and
delicious than her dinner. “Are you interested in having children?”

Max sputtered and reared back.
“Whoa, there, Morgan! Don’t go getting any ideas. There’s not really a wedding
in our future.”

Roger groaned over the ruined shot.
“Do it again. This time, lock glances and lean into one another like you mean
it.”

Annabel tried to put some heat into
her gaze, but the look probably came across as irritation more than desire.
Shifting closer to him, she whispered, “Get over yourself, Williams. I just
wondered if a guy like you has any little ones tucked away somewhere.”
Like
Kansas City.

For Roger’s benefit, Max gave her a
smile seductive enough to melt her strongest defenses, but he answered through
gritted teeth. “No, I don’t.”

“Honestly?” She swept her eyelashes
downward and processed the response. He sounded sincere but looked annoyed.

“Trust me.” He nuzzled her ear. His
breath brushed her neck. “I’d
never
walk away from a child.”

Breathing in his scent, she wanted
to snuggle into him, surrounding herself with his heat and strength. But she
hesitated. He’d been vague about his relationship with
DeeDee
.
His reputation insisted he was a jerk with women, albeit a gorgeous, charming,
seductive jerk. The most dangerous kind.

“So.” Opting to play it safe, she
straightened in her seat. The tension evaporated with the staged moment. They
returned their attention to their meals. “About the award. Why do
you
want to win?”

He looked up and gave her the
mocking version of his trademark smile. “Just to keep you from getting it.” He
raised and lowered his eyebrows at her in a ‘How about that?’ gesture that
almost made her laugh.

“Tell me the truth,” she urged.
“You want it, too. As much as I do. I can tell.”

His hand stalled over the strip of
beef he’d just sliced. “Are we still
talkin
’ about
the award,
darlin
’?” True to form, his Southern
accent came out full force when he teased or flirted with the opposite sex. Not
that he directed it her way very often.

Her temperature spiked a notch.
Without a doubt, she simply had to undo another button or faint from heat
stroke. He’s a womanizer and a jerk,
remember?

“Yes,” she answered after a
too-long pause. “Be serious.”

“You’re serious enough for both of
us.” Since it was the truth, the quiet observation didn’t sound nearly as
insulting as it could have.

“Old news.” She tossed his comment
aside with a flick of her fingers. “But really, about you…”

He straightened his shoulders and
put down his fork. “Winning might polish up my image.”

Hmmm, she thought he had the exact
image he’d earned. Hard-driving, relentless reporter. Rowdy bad-boy. “You’re
the leading reporter of the most highly-rated news team in town with a
reputation for pursuing a story until you’ve exposed every sordid detail. Your
style may not suit my taste, but no one doubts your professional integrity. But
your personal image could use some scrubbing up.”

“According to my agent, winning
this kind of community service award would benefit both.”

She paused to think about that.
What
was she missing?
“Why would you care?”

“I’d care if I wanted to leave the
market.”

It took real effort to keep her
mouth from dropping open. The information he’d casually lobbed her way would
make a hell of a scoop. And it might very well mean there was an upcoming
opening at his station. How many reporters did she know who would kill for a
shot at Max’s job? “Are you
planning
on leaving Cincinnati?”

For a moment, he looked taken
aback, then he shrugged again. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

“I won’t say a word.” She had the
childish impulse to put her fingers to her lips and pretend to turn a key.

“If I hear any rumors,” he warned,
“I’ll know where they came from.”

“Not me,” she said.

“Or me,” Roger added.

“Damn!” Max clapped a hand to his
forehead. “How did I forget a giant like you was sitting there recording all
this?”

“Nah, except for that toast, I quit
recording when the entrée arrived. Footage of people chewing is never
attractive.”

Except for Max. He chews rather
well.
Clearly, his superior chewing ability was lost on Roger. She
concentrated on making sure she didn’t give voice to that opinion.

“Plus,” Max said, “
you
hate
to miss a meal, even for the sake of your art.”

“That, too.” Roger finished off his
second steak and swiped his napkin across his mouth. “Especially when the
station’s paying. Do we have time for dessert?”

“Do we?  It’s—It’s—” Annabel
squinted to focus on the blurry hands of the diamond-encrusted watch Carl had
given her on their wedding day. She didn’t remember the numbers being this tiny
before. Bringing her wrist closer to her eyes, she then pushed it farther away,
certain she could see better with a different angle and better lighting.

Where had the time gone? Between
eating, drinking, and conversation, they now lagged way behind schedule.

“We’re late!  If we leave now,
we might make the symphony at intermission.” Lurching to her feet, she grabbed
hold of Max’s arm as she toppled into his lap. His arms slid around her waist
and he pulled her close. Annabel longed to stay where she was, to see what
would happen next, but the look of interest in his eyes sent her head spinning.
Confused, she jumped up. “Come on! We have to hurry.”

Max sat beside Annabel front and center
in the darkened Music Hall with something she’d call “Wagnerian” booming about
them. The music didn’t suck too badly after all. It boomed and reverberated at
a pulsing and relentless volume. The musicians suffused the notes with more
power and emotion than Max would have expected a stage full of stuffed shirts
to produce.

On the way over, he’d nearly run a
red light at Annabel’s urging. The only interruption to her concern about
missing the first half of the program was her speculation about what music
would be presented in the second. He’d pushed the speed limit and imagined her
trim body naked just to keep his eyes from glazing over with boredom.

If someone had asked for his
opinion on classical music earlier tonight, he would have assumed they meant
classic rock or early Elvis. This richness, this invigorating experience that
filled the air around Max and set his pulse pounding existed beyond his normal
musical boundaries.

The closest he’d ever come to being
carried away by music before was in the living room back home in Nashville when
his dad played guitar and harmonized with Max’s two sisters. That always got to
him, but in a different way.

The orchestra moved into a rousing
piece that he recognized from an old Coppola movie. Annabel leaned against him
and he turned to share the bit of cinematic trivia with her. Her head landed on
his shoulder. Her long eyelashes shadowed her cheeks, her lips parted slightly.

She’d fallen asleep!

Too much champagne, apparently.
Maybe he should have monitored her intake. But, hey. He was nobody’s father,
she wasn’t getting behind the wheel of a car, and she was definitely old enough
to know her own limit.

He’d noticed and encouraged the way
she’d loosened up after the first glass, but he hadn’t realized how tipsy she’d
gotten until she’d giggled over the third refill. It turned out that a giggling
and tipsy Annabel charmed his socks off.

The excited flush of her cheeks,
the tendrils of hair escaping their pins and curling playfully along her jaw,
the gleam of hope in her eyes as they discussed the award, all had him
wondering what other surprises she concealed under her buttoned-down,
look-but-don’t-touch facade. Damned attractive, even though she clearly didn’t
have a high opinion of him or his reputation—personal or professional.

Of course, he could have done more
to change her opinion, but what was the point? She’d obviously made up her mind
about him a long time ago, and he’d have to reveal other people’s secrets to
make her change it now.

He smiled and took advantage of the
current situation, putting his arm around her and pulling her close. Breathing
deeply, he inhaled her enticing scent, lightly sweet and baby fresh. Nothing
overtly sexual, cloying or artificial for Annabel, of course, just the pull of
something refreshingly honest and temptingly off-limits.

She snuggled into him, her upper
body nestled against his, oblivious of her actions. The long skirt with the
high-rise slit twisted beneath her, revealing one pleasing limb from ankle to
hip. The three buttons she’d undone on her jacket gaped open, exposing the
swell of a breast and the hint of red lace.

Well, well, well
. Who would
have expected Annabel Morgan to sport red lace undies?

He shifted in his seat, heating up.
Annabel squirmed, too, bringing her arm across his chest and curling her hand
around his neck. Her soft breath teased his ear, in-out, in-out, in soundless
counterpoint to the orchestra.

The volume, the tone, and the
urgency of the notes swelled and increased around him, heavy with promise,
building to a crescendo, and begging for a conclusion. His body responded to
Annabel and the music with equal escalation.

A fanfare, a flourish, an abrupt
silence preceded thunderous applause. The appreciative audience leapt to its
feet with shouts of “Bravo” and “More, more.”

As if on cue, Annabel’s hand
dropped to his crotch.

Max remained glued to his seat.