Mr. Valentine Read online

  The skirt was shorter than Krysta would have chosen, but Stephanie had insisted on the outfit and proclaimed that Krysta looked as chic and sexy as a runway model. Krysta had pointed out that she wasn’t as tall as a runway model and that discussion had led to Stephanie’s confession that she’d once been a model. Krysta was enjoying the growing relationship with Jack’s editor and regretted that it was built on a lie. She would have liked to keep Stephanie as a colleague.

  Picking up the tote bag containing the tape recorder, a fresh supply of tapes and her coat, Krysta walked back into the living room and over to the couch. Leaning down, she shook Jack’s shoulder. “Wake up, Jack. I’m leaving now, and you’ll have to vacate pretty soon, yourself.”

  He groaned and snuggled deeper into the pillow.

  “Jack!” She shook him harder.

  “Wanna sleep,” he mumbled. “Having a good dream.”

  “Well, you need to get up. I’m leaving now, and the maid will be along any time.”

  Abruptly he turned over, his eyes wide open. “Krysta?”

  “I’m sorry, Jack, but you have to get up. This is probably the first good night’s sleep you’ve had in months, but we don’t want the maid to find you here.”

  He gazed at her as a slow smile crept across his face. “Your stuff really works.”

  The shorter hair made a startling difference in his appearance. He looked far more cosmopolitan and worldly. She could imagine this version of Jack dining at Sardi’s on paté. “What stuff?”

  “That melatonin.”

  “So you finally took some. That was a good idea, Jack. Take some more tonight.”

  “I just might.” His eyes glowed with a new intensity. “The dreams I had were incredible.”

  Belatedly, Krysta remembered one of the potential side effects of the herbal sleep aid—explicit sexual dreams. It hadn’t happened to her, but apparently Jack was susceptible. Big surprise. Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “That sometimes happens with melatonin,” she admitted. “I forgot to tell you about it.”

  “Too bad. I would have taken it sooner.”

  “Well…” She backed away from the sofa. “I really have to go.”

  “That’s a shame.” His gaze swept over her leather mini-skirt and jacket. “Nice outfit.”

  “It’s rented.” Liquid fire ran through her at the look in his eyes.

  “When will you be home?” he asked softly.

  “I…I don’t know.” Her heart was beating furiously. He’d asked when she’d be home, not when she’d be back. The difference between the two closed them in an intimate circle.

  “Any general idea?”

  “Stephanie mentioned something about dinner, but I thought I might beg off.”

  The light in his eyes intensified.

  “She and I will be going over the revisions for Uptown Girl this morning,” Krysta hurried on, “and I’m sure you’d like to hear the tape of that.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  She backed away a few more steps. “I’ll bet the limo’s already down there waiting.”

  “Then, I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Right. Oh, and I like your haircut.”

  “Same here.”

  “See you later.” She turned and headed for the door.

  “Krysta?”

  “Yes?” She paused with one hand on the knob.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  She glanced around. It was a good thing people were counting on her to show up in a few minutes, she thought. Otherwise she would have turned around and run straight into Jack’s arms, and that might be a very unwise move for both of them. “Same to you,” she said, “and thank you for the sweet little heart.” Then she walked out of the door.

  THE BUSINESSMAN’S optometrist had loaned Jack some glasses to use until he picked up the contacts that afternoon. They were a major improvement over the taped ones he had been using. Once he was shaved and dressed he took note of the weather and discovered the sun was trying to break through. For the first morning in a long time, Jack was wide awake. After clearing away any evidence of his presence in the suite, he grabbed his jacket and legal tablet before setting out toward Central Park.

  He found a vacant bench and sat down to people-watch and write descriptions of interesting passersby. Unfortunately, the only description he seemed able to write concerned a woman who was nowhere near Central Park, a woman who was currently sitting in Stephanie Briggs’s office, a woman wearing a very sexy red leather suit.

  His preoccupation pointed to a malady he wasn’t ready to admit, so after a while he flipped the legal pad closed and walked over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Half an hour later he walked out again, disgusted with himself. The last time he’d visited New York he’d spent hours wandering through the exhibits and marveling at the sheer volume of creativity displayed there. This morning he’d spent the entire time musing in front of Rodin’s bronze titled The Kiss and thinking about Krysta. He’d pretty much wasted the admission fee.

  He couldn’t see much point in going to the Museum of Natural History and wasting more money. Even the Statue of Liberty would probably remind him of Krysta in some obscure way. He wondered if he’d been obsessed with her for months but had been too exhausted to realize it. Now, after a good night’s sleep, he was crazy with longing.

  Finally he settled on walking the streets, although even that didn’t help much. It was Valentine’s Day, and everywhere he looked, he saw lovers—a couple hunched over an intimate table in a restaurant, another strolling with their arms around each other, still another kissing on a street corner while they waited for the light to change. It was the most romantic of days, and he was in the most romantic of moods, but Krysta wasn’t here.

  Eventually he picked up his contacts late in the afternoon and headed back to the hotel to wait for Krysta. Once inside the room he slapped his forehead as he remembered that she was supposed to be on a local talk show and he’d planned to watch. It was already five minutes past the time the segment was scheduled to air.

  He grabbed the remote and turned on the set. Fortunately, he remembered the channel without having to search out the note he’d written to himself, and he pushed the buttons to tune it in. Sure enough, there was Krysta in her short little skirt and saucy little smile. Krysta and a female talk-show host were seated in front of a large red cardboard heart fringed in white lace.

  “And although you admit your pseudonym is part of a marketing plan, it’s obvious you don’t intend to reveal your real name on this show.”

  “I don’t consider it important at this point,” Krysta said.

  Good girl, Jack thought.

  “So we’ll drop that line of inquiry and move on to something we can talk about, your prize-winning book,” the interviewer said. “Manchester supplied me with a few excerpts from Uptown Girl so I’d be acquainted with your style. You’re a very sensual writer, Candy.”

  “Effective writing concentrates on the senses,” Krysta said.

  Nice line, Jack thought. He didn’t remember telling her that one.

  “I’m particularly impressed with your love scenes,” the interviewer continued. “Where do you get your ideas?” she added, looking as if she’d come up with the most stunningly original question in the universe.

  “I observe, and I’ve developed my powers of imagination,” Krysta replied earnestly, as if the question had been a brilliant one.

  “Beautiful,” Jack muttered, admiring the hell out the way she gazed with calm confidence at her interviewer, as if she’d been on television for years.

  “Women writers seem to have a particular gift for the nuances between a couple making love,” the interviewer said. “Would you agree?”

  “Absolutely not. Men are perfectly capable of writing sensitively about lovemaking.”

  Jack silently thanked her.

  “They may be capable of it, but more often than not a male writer will give you a wham, bam, thank-you-ma’am type of sce
ne.”

  “That may be true for some writers,” Krysta said, “but it’s still unfair to make generalizations that a man can’t write about love.”

  The interviewer laughed. “Name someone.”

  “Jack Killigan.”

  Jack nearly fell off the couch.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” the interviewer said.

  “Don’t worry, you will.”

  “What has he published?”

  Jack clenched his teeth together. She was going to spill the beans right on television. He couldn’t believe it.

  “He hasn’t published anything yet,” Krysta said, “but I’m certain he will someday. And he writes beautiful love scenes.”

  The breath whooshed out of Jack’s lungs. That was close. Too close. She was improvising again, and he didn’t like it.

  “Sounds like the perfect Valentine guy to me,” the interviewer said.

  Jack leaned forward. Was it makeup, or was Krysta blushing?

  “He is,” she said.

  Jack’s heart beat faster.

  “Well, we’re out of time, folks,” the interviewer said. “We’ve spent the past ten minutes with Candy Valentine, who made the most of this romantic season by winning Manchester Publishing’s Valentine’s Day contest for unpublished writers. Her sexy romance, titled Uptown Girl will be out in time for Valentine’s Day next year, right, Candy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And I can hardly wait. Folks, this is one hot read.”

  The station shifted to a commercial, and that was the end of Krysta’s appearance on the show. Jack flicked off the set and thought about what he’d just heard.

  Krysta had said he wrote good love scenes, but that was old news. The interviewer, not Krysta, had been the one who’d called him “the perfect Valentine guy,” and Krysta had merely agreed with him. She could hardly have done anything else under the circumstances. It probably meant nothing, nothing at all. Unless she really had been blushing when she said it. Then it could mean that he’d just gained the whole world.

  CONVINCING STEPHANIE that she needed to spend the night alone and order up room service had been difficult, but Krysta had finally managed it. The truth had worked—she was dead on her feet after two days of being a celebrity. Her tote bag over one arm and the huge heart-shaped box of candy she’d received from Manchester under the other, she fumbled as she tried to put her card key in the lock. The door opened, anyway.

  She looked into the warm welcome of Jack’s eyes and her heart turned over. “Hi.”

  “Hi. You look exhausted.” He drew her inside.

  He looked so damn good to her. For some reason he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and with his newly styled hair, a recent shave and a decent night’s sleep, he was quite a revelation. “To be honest, I am exhausted.”

  “You can be perfectly honest with me.” He took her bag and box of candy and set them on the coffee table before helping her off with her coat.

  “That’s good to hear.” As he took her coat she caught a whiff of his after-shave, and some of her exhaustion faded. “I’ve been tossing lies around all day. Maybe that’s why I’m so tired.” She stepped out of her heels and wiggled her toes in the carpet.

  “How about a warm bath and some dinner?”

  It sounded like a wonderful start. She nodded.

  “I’ll get the bath water running if you’ll put in the dinner order.”

  She gazed at him and wondered how she’d missed noticing when they were growing up together that he was so handsome, so sexy. “Better put on your glasses so you can tell the hot tap from the cold.”

  He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll manage.”

  After he left the room she shrugged and picked up the menu. If he wanted to stumble around without his glasses, it wasn’t really her concern. One thing was for sure, his magnetic gaze was even more powerful without that barrier of glass. The more she stared into those blue eyes, the more she longed to forget about Derek, forget about Jack’s uncertain future, forget about her own financial burdens, and live out a fantasy in this hotel room with Jack.

  She ordered the largest steak on the menu with the usual trimmings of baked potato, sour cream, butter and a dinner salad. She added a bottle of cabernet, a pot of coffee and a piece of chocolate cake. It wasn’t her usual fare, but she wasn’t in one of her usual moods. The room service operator warned her that the meal would take longer than usual to arrive because it was, after all, Valentine’s night.

  More time to soak, Krysta thought. Replacing the receiver, she started taking off her suit jacket as she headed for the bedroom.

  The rumble of water pounding into the tub and soft music from the bedside radio greeted her as she came through the door. She sighed and went to the closet to hang up her jacket. Glancing at the bedside table, she noticed the plastic heart was still where she’d left it the night before. Be My Valentine. Perhaps tonight she’d find out exactly what Jack had meant. A shiver of anticipation ran through her.

  The sound of running water stopped and Jack emerged from the bathroom. “I added some of your lavender bath oil to the water,” he said.

  “Thanks. That sounds—” She paused. “How could you tell what kind it was without your glasses?”

  He leaned in the doorway and crossed his arms. “Opened the bottle and sniffed.”

  “Oh.”

  He pushed away from the doorjamb. “Better get in there while it’s still hot.”

  “Thanks, Jack. By the way, dinner is going to take a while.”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  “Good.” The words fell about her like rose petals. In no hurry. Perhaps that was the most seductive quality this man possessed. All her life she’d felt the pressure of time. Here in New York had been even worse. But Jack was the sort of guy who took a relaxed approach to life. And right now, that appealed to Krysta very, very much.

  “I’ll call you if dinner arrives,” he said.

  “You’re welcome to start listening to the tapes if you want.”

  “Maybe I will.” He started out the door. “By the way, you were great on TV this afternoon.” Then he closed the door after him.

  So he had seen the show. Had he noticed how flushed she’d become when the interviewer had mentioned that Jack sounded like the perfect Valentine guy? If he had any clue as to how she was beginning to fantasize about making love to him, he hadn’t let on. And although she’d seen some flashes of physical desire in his eyes when he looked at her, he might not want to start a relationship right now when he was on the threshold of a brand-new venture. If Krysta were in his shoes, that’s how she’d think.

  She took off her makeup, undressed and sank gratefully into the steamy water. Jack had known the perfect temperature to make it, which wasn’t surprising considering his sensuous nature. And he’d added just the right bath oil to relax her. As she leaned her head against the rolled-up towel Jack had placed at the end of the tub, Krysta couldn’t keep her thoughts away from the man in the other room.

  He had a smart mouth, but she was starting to realize that was a coverup for his sensitivity. His ability to write so accurately about human emotions revealed his true makeup, which was warm, caring and very sexy. That glimpse into his psyche was certainly playing havoc with her emotions. She’d never been so turned on by a man in her life. Everything about him indicated he’d be a wonderful lover. And her curiosity was killing her.

  9

  LISTENING TO THE TAPES served both to distract Jack from the beauty bathing in the next room and to humble him about the greatness of his writing. Apparently Krysta’s looks had contributed as much to the Candy Valentine project as his book had.

  If Uptown Girl really took off, he’d need to do something special for Krysta. That might be difficult because nobody was supposed to know of her involvement, and by the time royalties came in her situation might have changed drastically. She could even be married to Derek Hamilton, purveyor of crummy kisses. Now, there was a depressing thou
ght.

  Fortunately Krysta had been selective about what she’d recorded, so by the time she emerged from the bedroom wearing a white terry robe, he’d made it through most of the first day.

  He shut off the recorder and glanced up. “Feeling better?”

  “Much.”

  She looked like a present ready to be unwrapped, and he wondered if he’d be able to keep his hands to himself. A knock on the door signaled the arrival of room service. Good. Another distraction. Maybe over dinner he’d be able to assess her mood and decide what to do. It had been a long time since he’d attempted a seduction, and he didn’t want to miscalculate.

  “Better go hide,” Krysta said.

  “Yeah.” He retreated to the moist, fragrant atmosphere of the bedroom and saw that she’d tossed her discarded underwear on the bed, including lacy panties, bra and stockings. Not panty hose, but stockings. He looked around for a garter belt and found none. Both the writer in him and the man wondered how she kept the stockings from falling down, so he picked one up and discovered the lace-decorated top was elasticized.

  Rubbing the silky material between his fingers, he imagined her putting the stocking on. He saw her easing it over those pink toenails and guiding the material past her instep. He envisioned the nylon caressing her graceful calf and slender knee before smoothly encasing her thigh in a gentle hug. He laid the stocking back on the bed, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sometimes imagination was a curse instead of a blessing. He was thoroughly aroused, but the next step in the evening plan was dinner, not bed.

  Behind him, Krysta opened the bedroom door. “Dinner’s served.”

  He was in no shape to walk out that door. “Be right there. I’m going to wash up,” he said, and headed for the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, he leaned both hands on the counter and stared at himself in the mirror. “Killigan, you are in danger of making a colossal fool of yourself tonight,” he told the frustrated guy reflected back at him. “Take it easy, okay?”

  Moments later he had himself under control enough to return to the living room—a room, it turned out, lit only by candles on the banquet table. He blinked.