Rising Heat (41 page)

Except, when she looked at me, I didn’t see that assessing gaze, no ulterior motives, and definitely no burgeoning hopes. What I saw was a woman who was obviously attracted to me, but who also wanted to get this interview over with as soon as possible. In a nutshell, Misty was a young woman who was clearly not impressed with me, my status, or my wealth.

I growled low in my throat. Who was I kidding? It was more than that. She knew enough about me to know my background. I was sure of that. I’d seen the wary look in her eyes when we were first introduced, the way she cast sidelong glances at me in the chopper. The way she shifted her gaze away from me when I turned to find her watching me. She knew. The fact that she hadn’t asked anything about my father’s death — yet — shouldn’t be enough to sway or lull me into feeling comfortable around her. Sooner or later, it would come out. Like other journalists or gossip rag writers, she would lunge at the opportunity and chomp on it like a dog with a bone, refusing to let go. Then she’d turn around and spread yet more innuendo.

With a sound of impatience, I stopped pacing and headed toward the woodpile. My thoughts had dampened my arousal, at least for now. I pulled the tarp cover off one side of the woodpile and began to stack small logs in my arms. I would go in, light a fire, make dinner, and then sit down to answer her questions. I would see just how long it took for her to bring up my father. The thought was as effective as standing under a cold shower.

Balancing an arm full of firewood in one arm, I rounded the side of the cabin and opened the front door. One quick glance told me that Misty had remained on the sofa. Resting, leaning her head back against the back of the couch, eyes closed. Her position gave me an unadulterated view of her long, graceful neck, her exquisite jawline, the shape of her lips under that adorably pert nose.

My dick twitched and I began to feel aroused again. It was only through pure mental force that I pulled my thoughts away from her. She opened her eyes and sat up. While I avoided her gaze, I felt her eyes on me as I stepped to the fireplace and placed the armload of wood into a wrought iron basket sitting on one side of the flagstone hearth. Without turning toward her, I quickly strode back outside, grabbed a few more logs and some smaller kindling, balancing it with one arm as I pulled the tarp back up over the wood.

As I entered the house a second time, I kicked the door shut with the back of my heel. Once again, I purposely avoided looking toward Misty as I prepared a fire. I double-checked a metal knob just inside the chimney to ensure that the flue was open. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a box of waterproof matches, lit the kindling, blew gently on it, and watched as the small flames took hold.

As tentative flames spread to a larger piece of wood, I finally stood and turned to look at her, still seated on the couch watching me. “You doing all right?”

She nodded. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

I shook my head. “No, just relax. I’m just going to heat up some dinner. Canned beef stew okay with you?”

“Sure,” she said with a hint of a smile.

Without another word, I strode past the sofa, across the room and turned down the short hallway toward the kitchen. I busied myself fixing our supper. While the beef stew was heating in a metal pot, I searched the cupboards, pleased to find them fully stocked with dishes. When I spied the old-fashioned blue tin type, I smiled. I would have to give my interior decorator a bonus. She had gone above and beyond with this place and had thought of the smallest details, right down to the dishware.

As the beef stew warmed, I brewed a pot of coffee. In a relatively short time, I carried a tray bearing two steaming bowls of stew and two mugs of coffee into the living area. I had my emotions, my thoughts, and my dick under control. I glanced at Misty as I placed the tray on one end of the coffee table and set a bowl and mug in front of her. She began to lean forward, paused, and adjusted the robe more tightly around her figure, tightening the plush waist belt. When she was ready, she leaned forward again, smiling as she inhaled the aroma of the stew.

“That smells wonderful,” she said. “The minute I smelled it wafting down the hallway, my stomach started grumbling. I forgot I hadn’t had more than a muffin to eat today.”

I realized I hadn’t either. “Sorry, I often forget to eat when I get busy.”

I dug into the beef stew, alternating every few bites with a sip of coffee. Misty did the same. We enjoyed a companionable silence, which I appreciated. No mention of… I pushed it out of my mind. Everyone made mistakes.

The shadows of the fading sun had darkened the room. The fire crackled, occasionally hissing and popping as the flames licked at sap. The atmosphere was cozy, and as I looked around, I knew my future guests would enjoy the ambiance.

I finished my stew and glanced at Misty, saw that she was just finishing hers as well. “Did you get enough? Do you want more?”

She smiled at me and shook her head. “No thank you, that was perfect. When you get up to refill your coffee though, I wouldn’t mind having another cup of that.”

I did my best not to stare at her dimples. Nodding, I placed my empty bowl on the serving tray along with hers, and then followed with the coffee mugs. “I’ll be right back. Then you can start asking your questions.”

I retreated to the kitchen, quickly washed the bowls and then refilled both mugs with coffee. I returned the cups to the tray along with what remained in the coffee pot. I had no idea how many or what kind of questions she planned to ask, but I steeled myself. I wanted to see where this interview would go. As I headed back to the living area, I saw her walking toward the stairs. I lifted an eyebrow. “Did you change your mind?”

“No,” she said, gesturing upstairs. “I’m just going to grab my notebook.”

I nodded and continued toward the couch. I placed a tray on the coffee table once more and reached for a chair that sat tucked under the small table in the corner of the room. I wasn’t about to sit on the sofa with her. I needed to stay out of arm’s reach. No sense tempting myself, not that I was hard up. I grimaced. Pun not intended. I just didn’t know what to expect of myself after that first lapse in judgment with her in the woods or the second lapse in judgment on the couch. I didn’t want a repeat performance, or that’s what I kept telling myself.

By the time Misty returned to the living room, I was comfortably ensconced in the chair, my feet up on the coffee table, and the mug of coffee resting on my thigh. I tried to appear relaxed though I felt tightly wound. I watched her walk slowly back to the couch, a wire-bound notebook and pen clutched closely to her chest. Beneath the bottom of the robe, I caught a glimpse of finely muscled, shapely calves. I pulled my gaze upward, schooling my expression. She sent me a glance, sat on the sofa, and curled herself up on the end closest to the fire, her legs tucked up beside her. She adjusted the bottom of the robe over her now bare feet.

“Ready?” she asked once she was settled.

I nodded. “Shoot.”

She thought for several moments, lightly tapping her ballpoint pen against her bottom lip. A slight frown tugged at her eyebrows. When she looked at me, her gaze was straightforward and contemplative.

“If there’s one thing you want people to know about you, what is it?”

The question caught me off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Are we going to go through that again?” she asked, making a face. Before I could respond, she continued. “It’s an easy question. When people look at your picture or see your name, what impression do you want to give them?”

I shrugged. “Successful.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I’m a businessman. I wouldn’t be successful if I wasn’t doing my job, giving clients and customers what they want.”

“How do you define success?”

Again I shook my head, thinking the question silly, but then changed my mind. She looked perfectly serious. She didn’t look uncomfortable, as if she were groping for a topic. She was going somewhere with this. I could feel it.

I organized my thoughts. “To me, success implies more than just money. We can be successful at all kinds of things that have nothing to do with money.” I watched her jot on her notepad. “It’s about setting goals for yourself and striving to reach them. Notice I didn’t say
reaching
them, but
striving
to reach them. There’s a difference.” She paused her notetaking, looked at me, and nodded. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Misty?”

“Yes,” she said. “My father once told me that just because you wanted to reach the moon didn’t mean you could actually do it, but that it’s the trying that counts… the ability to dream, and dream big, which drives us to excel.”

“Exactly.” I nodded. “I have goals and plans, but if one of my negotiations falls through or something hits a bump, it doesn’t mean that my dreams are over, that I haven’t reach my goals. It just means I have to find another way around obstacles. And it’s dealing with those obstacles that enable us to continue striving to reach our goals. If we keep trying, then we don’t fail.”

She thought a minute and then glanced at me, then back down at her notepad. “Does that apply to your private life as well as your business life?”

What was she asking me? “Are you intimating about my failed marriage with Celine?”

Misty tilted her head, the pen once again tapping gently against her lip. “You’re the one who said if you keep trying, you don’t fail,” she reminded me.

I sighed. “The marriage fell apart, true. But I don’t consider it a failure because I learned something along the way. I gained experience. I gained knowledge.”
And I learned that a snake could hide in the strangest places.

“And what was that?”

While I didn’t especially want to get into my relationship with my ex-wife, I supposed I should be grateful that she hadn’t yet brought up
the question.
I wasn’t going to pull any punches, I promised myself as my eyes bored into hers until she looked away, glanced down at her notes, and then back to me as the flames danced in the fireplace.

“That people can be deceitful and conniving. And you can quote me verbatim on that. What’s that old saying? ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’”

“So you’re not currently in any relationship?”

“Next question,” I said.

She nodded and moved on.

“Who was your best friend growing up? You don’t have to name names. Mention just a first name if you want.”

“Why does it matter?”

She said nothing but continued to tap the tip of the pen against her lip. It was slightly captivating.

“A schoolmate,” I finally said. “He died when I was thirteen.”

She frowned. “That must have been—”

“It was difficult,” I agreed. I hadn’t thought about Nick in years. I couldn’t help but smile at the memories that flashed through my mind. I glanced at Misty and could tell she wanted to ask but seemed hesitant. “He had cancer. It was fast. He was diagnosed at the end of seventh grade and was dead before I started the eighth.”

“I’m sorry—”

“What about you?” I asked before she could continue. “Who was your best friend growing up?”

“Are we back to the quid pro quo?”

“Why not?” I shrugged. “You want to delve into my deepest, darkest secrets, why shouldn’t I have the same option?”

“I can give you plenty of reasons why not, mainly because I’m the journalist and you’re the interviewee, but, for now, I’ll let it go.” She paused. “I didn’t really have any best friends growing up.”

How could anyone not have a best friend growing up? Everyone had a best friend growing up, didn’t they? “Why not?”

She waved the hand with the pen in front of her, gesturing. “When you’re heavier than all the other kids, you tend to get made fun of, chosen last for the team sports… not chosen for a BFF.”

I frowned. “Are you telling me that you had no friends growing up?”

“Sure, I had sometime friends,” she said.

“What are sometime friends?”

“You know, the ones that come over to your birthday party because they know you have horses or you get to go on hayrides or tractor pulls?”

I felt a surge of sympathy for her. Not that I felt sorry for her, but I had also experienced some of that and nodded in understanding. “Or when you’re the first family on the block to get a swimming pool?”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“Did it bother you?”

“What are you, my shrink?” she asked, carefully adjusting herself in the corner of the sofa. “I’m the one supposed to be grilling you, not the other way around.”

“Do
you have a shrink?”

She just made a face, shook her head and declined to reply. I felt a grin tugging at my lips. Apparently, wordplay was something that Misty was comfortable with. While I couldn’t say the same for her reaction to necking, she certainly didn’t seem shy or hesitant to give me tit-for-tat. Again, no pun intended.

“Where did you move after you left Shawnee County, Kansas?”

The question came out of left field. I sobered. “Private. Next question.”

“What was your father like?”

Here it comes,
I thought. “Private. Next question.”

She made a face “Blake, it’s an innocent question that has nothing to do with… I’m not going there, okay?”

I blinked. I should’ve known. It always came to this.

“Blake, I’m serious. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, you’re ambitious, obviously pay attention to details, you’re intelligent… you must’ve had a good role model—”

I shook my head, growing frustrated and impatient. “How can you just assume that? The same can be applied to men and women who’ve grown up in abusive households or in foster homes, or even on the street—”

The pen thwacked her notepad. “Why so touchy?” she asked, her tone heavy with frustration. “You’ve certainly been asked this question before, haven’t you?”

“Too many times to count.”

“So what’s the problem? You can’t tell me what kind of man your father was—”

“It’s nobody’s business,” I snapped.

“I beg to disagree,” she said, her voice soft and calm. “I’m not after the gossip, Blake. I’m trying to introduce you, the man, to our readers. Figure out who you are and why you have become the man you are today. It’s not about—”