Strangers When We Meet (2 page)

“All packed.”

Armand settled his bulk on the edge of her console. “He called three times tonight. I didn’t put him through.” He took a long swallow of water, giving her a moment to answer.

He was Daryl Tubb, the man Emma was thinking seriously of marrying. Or more precisely had been thinking of marrying. Lately she wasn’t so sure. “Thanks for holding him off. He knows I don’t have time to talk to him during the show.”

“You’re going to have to talk to him sooner or later. You’re supposed to be announcing your engagement to the whole town of Cooper’s Corner this week, remember?” Armand was a big man with a face scarred from youthful gang battles but a gentle, deep voice that appealed to female callers and kept the powers-that-be happy with the numbers when Emma was out of town.

“That plan has been changed.” Emma got up and went to look out the window at the blank face of the warehouse across the street. The rain-slicked side street below her was nearly devoid of traffic at this hour of the night. WTKX boasted they were the voice of the Big Apple, but the truth of the matter was that the studio was in a not-so-fashionable neighborhood a long way from midtown, and their transmitter towered over the wilds of New Jersey.

“I hope that means what I think it means. Are you going to give the two-timer the boot?”

“He’s not a two-timer.” She’d only found him holding hands with a client in their favorite restaurant one evening when technical difficulties had forced the station to run a repeat of one of her shows. She’d been at loose ends and stopped in for a bite to eat. It was the last place in the world Daryl would have expected her to be that night.

It was certainly the last place she’d expected to see him, and she’d quickly left. He’d denied he was even in the city until she told him point-blank she’d seen him with her own eyes. But he’d insisted it was a business meeting, nothing more sinister than that. It was her own fault she felt as betrayed as if she’d found him in bed with the woman.

“Have you told your grandparents the announcement’s on hold?”

Emma sighed. “No.”

“They aren’t going to be happy about it.”

“I know. They like Daryl. But—”

“But it’s hard to come up with an excuse for things going sour between you.”

Emma turned slowly to face her friend. “Do you think I’m overreacting?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, you know that. It’s how you feel.”

“He said he didn’t tell me he was coming into the city because he knew he didn’t have time to see me.”

“And you believe him?” Silence followed the question, stretching out into the almost deserted station, begging for words to fill the void. Armand was almost as good at getting a reluctant caller to tell the truth as she was.

Emma shrugged. When she’d confronted Daryl about the meeting, his explanation had sounded sincere enough. She was a client, a very wealthy woman whose fiancé was on the verge of buying a large property for a summer home. It was an important sale. The woman was wavering and wanted reassurance... And the clincher... “If I was cheating on you, would I risk meeting her in our favorite restaurant?”

Armand knew her well enough to accurately guess her line of thought. “C’mon, Emma. Meeting a business client is the oldest excuse in the book, and the reason he gave you for it doesn’t sound all that ethical in the first place.” They’d been over this before. Armand wasn’t going to come up with a magic solution to banish all her doubts, and they both knew it. He was a friend, a sounding board and a shoulder to cry on if she needed it. But she didn’t. She would resolve this problem on her own.

“I know. But—it’s too late now. I promised him I’ll spend the week in Cooper’s Corner the way we’d planned.” Why? she asked herself for about the millionth time. Because she really loved him? He was a good man at heart, just ambitious and perhaps a little weak. She believed that—or told herself she did. Or was it because she was staring thirty in the face, and in the last two and a half years she’d heard thousands of sad stories on the air to know that finding Mr. Right was hard enough out there on the busy streets of Manhattan. Finding Mr. Perfect was damned near impossible. If she wanted a home and family and children somewhere down the line, she’d better quit being so hung up over one misstep, one less than candid explanation of a business meeting with a beautiful woman. It was the kind of advice she gave out over the air. Why was it so hard to apply to her own life?

If it was just one misstep, and not a pattern.

How well did she truly know Daryl, after all? Their love affair had been the whirlwind kind. Sparks had flown from when they first met at her grandparents’ Super Bowl party at their home in the quaint Berkshire village of Cooper’s Corner. Love at first sight. It ran in the family, if the courtship stories of her parents and grandparents were true. But the truth of the situation was she didn’t know if her initial attraction to him had blossomed naturally into love or was only wishful thinking on her part.

She’d noticed so many of her callers seemed to doubt their feelings these days. She suspected it had something to do with the awful events of September 11, which had altered all their lives. She sometimes wondered if an echo of that trauma wasn’t in part fueling her need to connect in the most intimate way possible with another human being.

After all, she and Daryl were apart most of the time. His successful real estate business was centered around Cooper’s Corner and its larger neighbor, Williamstown, almost a hundred and fifty miles west of where she was standing at the moment. They only saw each other when she could get a weekend free from promotional duties for the station or he drove into the city to meet a client...

“I’m just saying don’t end up like the women who call the show and cry on your shoulder.” Armand’s rich baritone interrupted her reverie.

“Don’t worry. I’ve heard enough sad stories from women who let their hearts rule their heads. I promise I won’t be one of them. Now, I’ve got to get out of here before Carmen shows up and tries to talk me out of taking the week off again.” Carmen Quiroga was the station manager and none too happy that Emma was taking time off so close to the next ratings sweep. She didn’t want any of Emma’s audience losing interest and drifting away just before the evaluation that would determine the station’s standing and—more importantly—the rates they could charge for advertising.

“I’ll keep ’em listening while you’re gone.” In talk radio it wasn’t the number of callers a show engendered that mattered to the powers that be. It was the listeners who counted. A show could seem successful with just a few dozen regular callers. It was the first-time caller, longtime listener on the line that made the owners’ faces light up in a smile. People like Diane, who listened night after night, then kept their radio tuned to the station during the day—and bought the advertisers’ products.

“Just don’t get so good at it you take my job,” she warned, letting Armand know she was teasing with a smile.

“No way. I’m not interested in your job. We’re going to the top together, remember? Nationally syndicated. Close to a million top-end demographic listeners in the top hundred urban markets across the country. Chicago. Atlanta. San Francisco. Producer for the Queen of Late-Night Talk. That’s what I want to see on my résumé.”

“It’s not a done deal yet, Armand,” she reminded him.

“It will be if you want it to be.”

“I do want it,” Emma assured her friend. But deep down she wasn’t as certain of that as she’d been three weeks ago. Back then she had thought she could have it all—marriage, career, a family. But Daryl had damaged the trust she’d placed in his love, and in doing so he’d made her doubt her commitment to their relationship. And to the future. She’d begun to question herself—and her work—in all kinds of ways. If she could be this conflicted about what to do in her relationship, how could she counsel others with their problems? And she did think of her show as a kind of counseling session. It was what she’d trained to do, just not exactly this way. She was almost more angry with Daryl for planting that seed of doubt about her career than she was for the blow to her heart.

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE
MOMENT
E
MMA
walked through the front door of Twin Oaks Bed and Breakfast she felt her stomach knot in sheer anticipation of sitting down to a plate of Clint Cooper’s incredible walnut griddle cakes. She took a deep appreciative breath. Cinnamon. Spices. Toast. Bacon. Coffee. A whole panoply of wonderful smells swirled around her.

She was starving, and it looked as if she’d arrived in time to have breakfast. She smiled. Despite her reluctance to face her grandparents and her acquaintances in Cooper’s Corner with the news that she and Daryl were no longer a couple on track for a summer wedding, she was glad she hadn’t opted out of coming to the inn.

“Emma, we didn’t expect you until this afternoon.” A voice with a definite New York accent greeted her. “I’m afraid your room’s not ready.” Maureen Cooper, Clint’s sister, appeared in the wide entry hall with a welcoming smile and outstretched hands. She was a few years older than Emma, tall and statuesque, with thick, rich, chestnut hair and jade green eyes. Her grandmother had commented more than once that Emma and Maureen looked enough alike to be sisters, Emma thought, though Martha Dorn was being generous in comparing Emma’s subdued auburn highlights and brown eyes to Maureen’s striking good looks.

“I couldn’t sleep so I got an early start.” She ordinarily slept in, especially on weekend mornings, but last night she’d lain awake tossing and turning. As dawn lightened the Manhattan skyline she’d given up trying to sleep. She was out of the city and on her way to Cooper’s Corner before the sun was barely over the horizon. “I didn’t expect my room to be ready. But please, don’t tell me I’m too late for a plate of Clint’s griddle cakes.”

“We never run out of griddle cakes.” Maureen glanced through the wide archway into the sunnily decorated dining room. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to share a table. Is that all right?”

“I’d sit with the devil himself to get at Clint’s griddle cakes,” Emma assured her.

“I just might be able to oblige,” Maureen responded under her breath.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear what you said,” Emma replied as she hung her jacket and carryall on a hall tree just inside the gathering room, which mirrored the dining room on the other side of the wide hallway.

“Nothing, just talking to myself. Is Daryl joining you?”

She’d have to tell Maureen something of what had happened between her and Daryl sooner or later. She considered Maureen a friend, if a new one, and the innkeeper would find it odd if Daryl didn’t join her in one of the cozy upstairs bedrooms. They’d stayed here twice before. Daryl’s apartment in Williamstown was inconvenient for Emma to visit her grandparents, and not nearly romantic enough, he’d coaxed with his winning smile. Besides, they both wanted to help Maureen and Clint get their bed and breakfast off the ground. That was the excuse Emma had given her grandparents for not staying with them these past few visits. They had accepted Emma’s decision, because they were fond of Maureen and Clint and wished them well, but they didn’t like it. It made Emma feel torn and took a bit of pleasure away from her stay in Cooper’s Corner.

Now she began to wonder if there were other reasons Daryl didn’t want her visiting him in Williamstown. Other women she might chance upon him with, or who might see them together? Mistrust had reared its ugly head again. She sighed. Her good mood was gone. “He’s tied up for the day—I’m on my own,” she explained hastily, realizing the silence had stretched out a little too long.

Maureen led the way into the dining room, with its chintz-covered chairs and huge mahogany table. Large vases of late season mums in a riot of fall colors crowded the wide windowsills, and smaller arrangements graced the table. The bright, warm space with its wide-planked pine floors was filled with guests enjoying Clint’s cooking, and the big dining table didn’t have an empty seat. Although Clint and Maureen served breakfast for guests only, their wonderful afternoon teas were often attended by local residents. At the thought of all that home baking, Emma’s stomach growled again.

“I’m afraid the only available seat is at the little side table we had to set up for Mr. Weston. I’ll introduce you.”

“You’re sure he won’t mind?”

“Rules of the house.” Maureen smiled. “Open seating at breakfast. Good morning, Mr. Weston.”

The man she addressed hadn’t noticed their approach as he sat staring at his coffee cup. He looked up, blinked as though bringing them into focus, then rose to his feet, a little unsteadily, Emma noted. He was an inch or two over six feet, just enough taller than her own five feet ten that she didn’t feel as though she had to slouch, a habit left over from her high school and college days that had proved hard to break.

“Emma, this is Blake Weston. I hope you don’t mind Emma joining you for breakfast, Mr. Weston. She’s had a long drive out from the city and she’s famished.”

He opened his mouth to protest, Emma was certain, but remembered his manners. Or, at least, the rules of the house. “No, of course not,” he said. “Please, join me.”

“Thank you.” Emma slid onto her chair so he could resume his seat.

“Are you having the buffet, Emma, or would you just like Clint’s griddle cakes?” Maureen asked with a smile that told Emma she already knew the answer.

“What do you think?” Emma grinned at her.

“One order of walnut griddle cakes coming up.”

Maureen nodded at Blake Weston and turned away. Emma folded her hands in her lap and found herself staring at the top of the man’s head as he went back to contemplating the coffee in his cup. He had a thick head of dark brown hair cut a little shorter than was fashionable at the moment, and nice ears that lay flat against his head. He hadn’t shaved yet, and a shadow of dark beard roughened the uncompromising line of his jaw.

“Thank you for letting me share your table,” Emma said, as mindful of her manners as he was.

“What?” He looked up at her words. His eyes were gorgeous—hazel, her grandmother would call them—a mix of green and gold and brown...and red. Gorgeous bloodshot eyes. And his hands trembled slightly when he lifted the coffee mug to his mouth.

Good Lord, he’s hung over.

After one more frowning look at his coffee cup, he met her gaze with a rueful, almost embarrassed expression. “I’m afraid I’m not good company this morning. I...I had a rough night.”

“You don’t owe me any explanation,” Emma said hurriedly, mortified she’d been so transparent as to let her thoughts show on her face. One of the drawbacks of working alone in a sound studio, isolated from audience and co-workers, was that she sometimes forgot herself in public.

“I have no head for champagne,” he said, closing his eyes as though to shut out the brilliant morning light pouring in through the window.

“Excuse me?” Emma glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see Maureen.

“I drank an entire magnum of Dom Perignon last night. I hate champagne, and it doesn’t much like me. But what else do you use to toast an engagement?” He took a swallow of coffee and grimaced. “I feel like hell.”

He certainly didn’t look like a man who had just popped the question to the girl of his dreams and been accepted. Especially since there was no girl of his dreams in sight. “If you drank all that, I don’t doubt you’re miserable. But if it was for your engagement, let me offer my congrat—”

“I couldn’t let it go to waste, now could I?” he said flatly, cutting her off in mid-sentence. “Even if it turned out to be a celebration for one.”

Emma’s advice-giver instincts were on full alert. She forced herself not to succumb to the urge to elicit his story. An unhappy man, sitting alone... It had all the earmarks of a love affair gone bad. She ought to know. Except for the hangover, she was in the same situation. “I...maybe I should go.”

“No. Look. I’m the one who should go. I’m making an a—an idiot of myself, and all you’re wanting is your breakfast. I’m sorry, Miss—” He stood up.

“Emma,” she said. “Emma is fine.”

“Emma. Please forgive my bad manners and my rudeness. I’ll leave now so you can—”

“No...please,” Emma interrupted. “That’s not necessary. You don’t have to go. I’m the one who invaded your space, you know—”

“I don’t have much of an appetite anyway. Good morning.” Before Emma could respond in kind, he left the dining room abruptly and mounted the stairs.

Just then Maureen appeared with a tray on which sat a steaming plate of griddle cakes, a pitcher of maple syrup, a carafe of coffee and a glass of orange juice. Emma’s stomach growled so loudly she was certain the whole room could hear.

“Mr. Weston left you?” Maureen asked, setting the food in front of Emma.

She nodded, concentrating on pouring the thick syrup over the pancakes just so.

“He said he wasn’t hungry.”

“Perhaps he’ll be...feeling better by teatime.”

“Probably,” Emma answered in what she hoped was a neutral tone. With a hangover like his, it might take longer than a few hours to regain his appetite. She would have liked to ask her hostess more about Blake Weston but she didn’t want to put Maureen on the spot. And what would she ask, anyway? Had he made reservations for two and then shown up alone—like she had?

“What are your plans for the day?” Maureen asked, changing the subject with all the aplomb of Emma’s diplomat father.

“I think I’ll walk into the village and visit my grandparents.”

“It’s a beautiful day for a walk, although I’m afraid the long-range weather forecasts are calling for rain and even the possibility of snow later in the week.”

“Then I’d better enjoy it while I can.” Emma took a bite of griddle cake swimming in syrup and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “My compliments to the chef,” she said. “I’ve been thinking of nothing but this moment for weeks. It’s my main reason for coming back to Cooper’s Corner over and over.”

Maureen laughed. “Don’t let Daryl hear you say that. You’ll break his heart.”

If Emma’s mouth hadn’t been full of another bite of griddle cake, she might have let slip the fact that the shoe was on the other foot. It was Daryl who had broken her heart, not the other way around.

* * *

H
AD
HE
REALLY
made as big a jackass of himself as he feared back there in the dining room? Blake leaned his weight on his hands and felt the rough stone of the bridge parapet bite into his palms. He stared into the dark water of the stream that edged the Cooper property, replaying his conversation with Emma—whatever her name was—an hour ago. He groaned. The memory was clearer than it had any right to be. He’d been rude and maudlin, and to top it all off, he’d admitted he had the hangover from hell because he’d drunk too much champagne.

That made him a jerk, a loser and a wuss all rolled into one. He could have at least told her he’d gotten drunk on beer. Or Scotch. What normal red-blooded American male drowned his sorrows in champagne?

F. Blake Weston, Esq., Wall Street shark on his way to the top of the food chain, brought low by a woman and a six-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. He groaned and shut his eyes against the sparkles of sunlight that glinted off the water and sent tiny arrows of pain shooting through his brain.

He’d have to apologize to the cinnamon-haired woman at the B and B. That is, if she didn’t turn on her heel and walk out of the room the next time she saw him. He’d showered and shaved and taken a handful of aspirin, but it hadn’t done much to improve his appearance, if his wavering reflection in the pool below the bridge was anything to go by.

“Good morning, Mr. Weston. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Oh, hell,” he muttered under his breath, turning slightly toward the silky voice that was every bit as intriguing now as it had been an hour ago. He grunted a reply and went back to staring at the water, trying to get his thoughts in order. The sooner the better didn’t necessarily mean right then and there.

“You aren’t contemplating suicide, are you?” she asked cheerily, leaning both elbows on the stone wall and following his gaze into the water. “There are lots of rocks, I admit, but at this time of year the water’s only about two feet deep, even under the bridge.”

“That would be just my luck if I were thinking about doing myself in. But even if I did jump and hit my head on a rock, I doubt it would hurt any more than it does right now.”

“Champagne hangovers are the worst,” she said, nodding sagely, a hint of laughter lacing her words.

Blake felt a shiver skitter up his spine. God, her voice was sexy. And tantalizingly familiar. Where had he heard it before? He chanced another glance in her direction. She was wearing a thick, softly woven sweater in shades of green over faded jeans that hugged her long legs and cupped her rounded bottom as though the fabric had been spun to their exact dimensions. She was looking at him, her generous mouth curved into a smile, her intelligent sherry-brown eyes narrowed against the sun. She was even more intriguing outdoors than in. He couldn’t be that far gone, he mused, if he could still recognize a good-looking woman when he saw one.

She wasn’t beautiful, this Emma person. Not if you judged her by Heather’s supermodel standard. But pretty was too pale and tame a word to describe her. So was cute or anything else that came to mind. Intriguing. That one word fit her best. There was a scattering of freckles across her high cheekbones, and her nose just missed being snub. Her hair was between red and brown, the color of some exotic spice. Wavy and long, it was pulled off her face with gold clips and shot through with fiery highlights that hadn’t been as noticeable in the dining room as they were in the sunlight. She was tall and slender but nicely curved in all the right places, as he’d already noticed. The kind of woman any man would be proud to have by his side—or in his bed.

Where the hell had that thought come from?

He clamped his teeth together and put a rein on his overactive imagination. It had been little more than twenty-four hours since he’d found the woman he loved coming naked into their living room to meet another man, and here he was thinking about a perfect stranger in his bed.