Mr. Valentine Read online

  “I see him now.”

  He released her with reluctance. “I’d better not walk down with you.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll be fine.” She smiled at him. “Sorry to have tried to clobber you like that. It’s just that I’ve heard all those horror stories about New York, and when somebody grabbed me, I reacted.”

  “Good. I’m glad you have that kind of reaction. You probably won’t have any problems because you’ll be with people all the time you’re here, but it’s a good idea to stay alert. The crime here doesn’t match the reputation, but you still have to be reasonably careful.”

  “I will be.” She gazed at him with a warmth that he found disconcerting. “I liked your book, by the way.”

  The book. Ah, yes, the book. He swallowed. “You did?”

  “Yes. You’re quite a lover on paper, Jack. See you at the Marriott.” She turned and walked toward the uniformed chauffeur.

  Jack stared after her, his heart pounding. One thing was for sure. Krysta Lueckenhoff could deliver a hell of an exit line.

  5

  WHEN KRYSTA WALKED through the door of the suite it took real effort to stifle a gasp of pleasure.

  “I trust this will be satisfactory,” the bellhop said as he wheeled her suitcase through the door.

  “It will be fine,” she said.

  “Would you like me to unpack your things?”

  “No, thank you.” She extended her hand with the folded bill she’d decided on for the tip. She hoped it was enough.

  The bellhop took the money and smiled. “Thank you. Enjoy your stay.”

  After he left, she gave him some time to walk down the hall before she let out a whoop of delight and spun around in the center of the room. Then she approached the floor-to-ceiling windows carefully, her stomach churning, both from the thought of being so high above the city and the excitement of a wide-angle view of Times Square. Just as Jack had predicted, Manhattan lay, literally, at her feet. She’d give anything if her father and brothers could see this. Joe, especially, would go crazy. But she didn’t dare even take pictures, because she was supposed to be at a health resort.

  She’d been reading travel guides for days in preparation, but to actually see the band of illuminated news parading around the top of the triangular Allied Tower gave her goose-bumps. Chips of light dotted skyscrapers as office switches were thrown to greet the approaching night. Krysta’s gaze swept outward, and the chips became sparkling pinpoints that finally blended into a dazzling necklace of gems stretching to the horizon.

  The faint bleat of taxicabs drifted up from the streaming activity on the rush-hour-filled streets, but Krysta felt wrapped in the serene isolation of privilege. On the forty-fifth floor she smelled no carbon monoxide, only the fragrance of a huge bouquet of flowers sitting in the center of a banquet table placed near the suite’s wet bar.

  She wandered over to the bouquet, so big she couldn’t get both arms around it. The card read, “Welcome to the Big Apple, Candy. Manchester Publishing.”

  So Jack’s publisher had arranged for the bouquet. The gesture reminded Krysta that she wasn’t here on vacation. Tomorrow morning Stephanie Briggs would be waiting in her office for the arrival of Candy Valentine. The reality of what she was attempting slashed Krysta’s fantasy balloon to ribbons.

  For the next three days she was supposed to be romance novelist Candy Valentine, an author with impressive skills, and she’d never written anything more creative than a personal letter. The people at Manchester Publishing would see through her facade immediately. She’d end up embarrassing herself and ruining Jack’s career before it even got started. This was the dumbest stunt she’d ever tried. If she was smart she’d—

  The sound of the telephone made her jump. The ring seemed to be coming from everywhere, but she located a phone next to a flowered sofa. She crossed over to it, then hesitated with her hand over the receiver. It could be Stephanie from Manchester. Answering the phone would commit her to this charade, once and for all.

  She walked away from the phone and into the bedroom, which had no windows but was lit softly by bedside lamps flanking the broad expanse of a king-sized bed. The phone next to the bed was also ringing, and a third ring seemed to be coming from the bathroom.

  She investigated, and sure enough, there was a phone in there, too. As she gazed at it, all the phones stopped ringing. She let out a sigh of relief and walked into the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed and think.

  Within thirty seconds the ringing started again.

  “Oh, all right!” She grabbed the receiver, figuring she could always pretend to be very sick. In fact, that was an excellent plan. She made her voice sound low and throaty. “Hello?”

  “Krysta? Where the hell have you been? And why do you sound like one of the Budweiser frogs?”

  “Oh, Jack. I thought you were Stephanie. I was pretending to be sick.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I—I’m getting cold feet, Jack.”

  “Is that why you let the phone ring about twenty times without answering before?”

  “Was that you, too?”

  “Yes, that was me, and as the phone kept ringing I pictured you passed out, tied up, murdered by the bellhop, you name it. I can’t decide whether I’m mad as hell that you’re okay or faint with relief. Anyway, I’m glad nothing’s wrong.”

  “Something is wrong. I can’t do this. I don’t know anything about writing, and I can’t possibly—”

  “Give me the room number so I can come up.”

  “Okay, but I’m warning you that we might as well call Manchester right now and confess everything.”

  “What’s the room number, Krysta?”

  She told him.

  “Be right there.”

  While she waited for him, she paced and rehearsed a speech about honesty being the best policy. Finally, a firm knock sounded on the hall door, and she checked through the peephole before opening it. Her speech was on the tip of her tongue, but when he walked in, his expression a mixture of hope and determination, she couldn’t say a word. He was counting on her to come through for him, and she couldn’t let him down, no matter how scared she was.

  “You okay now?” he asked, looking into her eyes.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Good. I know you can do this.”

  She felt ashamed of her momentary loss of confidence. Jack didn’t need her to fall apart on him, and she vowed not to do it again. “Can you believe this place?” she asked.

  He surveyed the luxurious suite. “Wow. This isn’t bad.” He dropped his duffel bag in the middle of the room and crossed to the windows. “Not bad at all. I would say Manchester thinks a lot of Candy Valentine.”

  “Definitely.” She gestured toward the flowers. “Those are from them, too.”

  “No kidding?” He went over to inspect the bouquet and read the card. “Very classy,” he remarked, tucking the card back inside the arrangement. Then he glanced at Krysta. “You look right at home here, you know. I guess suites at the Marriott are your style.”

  “I’ve never stayed in a place like this in my life.”

  “Stick with Derek Hamilton and it’ll probably be one fancy hotel after another.”

  Before she could stop herself, Krysta grimaced at the thought.

  Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Do I detect trouble in paradise?”

  She turned away from his perceptive gaze and walked toward the windows.

  “Come on, Krysta.” Jack walked over to join her by the windows. “You can tell old Jack.”

  She sighed. It would be nice to confide in someone. She hadn’t dared tell even Rosie about her aversion to becoming intimate with Derek. But after reading Jack’s manuscript, Krysta had an idea that he’d understand. She concentrated on the news flashing around the Allied Tower’s perimeter. “Derek is the perfect sort of man for me,” she began. “He’s going places and he can help me go places, too.”

  “I absolutely agree. So what’s wit
h the sour face when I mention the very same thing?”

  “I…don’t like kissing him. And if I don’t like that part, I can’t imagine I’ll like…the rest,” she admitted softly. When Jack didn’t respond to her statement, she glanced sideways at him. “Did you hear what I said?”

  He stared straight ahead, his hands jammed in his jeans pockets. “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you think that’s a legitimate problem?”

  His stance didn’t change. “Sure.”

  “What do you think I should do about it?”

  He turned to her slowly, his hands still in his pockets, his eyes hooded. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  She felt disappointed. Jack was no help at all. “Maybe I’m being too picky. I mean, it’s not as if real life can be as romantic as your kiss-in-the-rain scene, for example.”

  A subtle change came over his expression and a soft light grew in his eyes. “You could try dragging Hamilton out in the rain and find out.”

  “Oh, Jack, be serious.”

  “This is as serious as I get.”

  “In the first place, I can’t picture Derek standing in the rain without an umbrella.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “Well, now, that’s a damned shame.”

  “You are making fun of this, aren’t you. I should never have—”

  “Of course you should have. That’s what friends are for. I’ll give this some thought, I promise, and get back to you on it. Now, shall we unpack?”

  “Okay.” She started toward her suitcase and paused to look back at him. “I don’t want you to think there’s anything wrong with Derek. I’m sure, with some help, that he could improve his technique.”

  When Jack just gazed at her, she put both hands on her hips. “What?”

  “Maybe it’s not Derek at all. Maybe it’s you.”

  Chagrin heated her cheeks. “Well! That was certainly blunt.”

  “I didn’t mean that you weren’t good at kissing or making love,” he said more gently. “I meant that you’re just not attracted to him. No matter what he did, it wouldn’t be exciting to you.”

  “Oh.” Her wounded ego began to recover. “I’ve thought of that, but why wouldn’t I be attracted to him? He’s good-looking, ambitious, clever and polite.”

  “You sound as if you’re placing an order in a catalogue. I’m sure you know love doesn’t work that way.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with having a list of qualities you want in a man.”

  “Not if you understand yourself well enough to know which qualities you need.”

  She really didn’t care for his tone. “Well, I do, and if you put it that way, then kissing isn’t really that important.”

  “Not if you don’t think so.”

  “Honestly, I don’t. Not really. It’s a small problem. I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place.” She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and without thinking started toward the bedroom. Then she realized that she couldn’t just appropriate the bed, especially considering the suite was more for Jack than for her.

  She turned back and gestured toward the bedroom doorway. “You can have the bed, if you want, and I’ll take the couch.”

  “No. I asked you to come along. The bedroom’s yours.”

  “But I’ll get all those meals meant for you, and the night out at the theater, and heaven knows what else. Besides, it’s a king-size and you’re too tall to be comfortable on the couch. You take the bed.”

  “Want to flip for it?”

  She gazed at him and smiled. She did enjoy this playfulness of Jack’s. “Okay.”

  He fished a coin from his pocket. “Winner gets the bedroom, loser bunks on the couch.” He spun the coin upward. “Call it.”

  “Heads.”

  Jack caught the coin and slapped it on the back of his hand. Then he looked up at her. “You win.”

  “Really? Let me see.”

  He pocketed the coin. “You doubt my word?”

  She did, as a matter of fact. When the coin was in the air, she’d had a premonition Jack would make sure she won the toss. “Thanks, Jack.”

  “You’re welcome. For my next trick I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “That’s not necessary. I have money to—”

  “Manchester suggested that Candy order room service tonight, remember? And get rested up for the big day tomorrow.”

  Krysta laughed. “I had forgotten Manchester would be paying. I accept your offer. Go ahead and order whatever sounds filling that we can share while I change into something more comfortable.”

  JACK WISHED KRYSTA hadn’t phrased it quite that way, which presented images of her reappearing in a revealing negligee, leaning seductively in the open bedroom doorway and crooking one manicured finger in his direction. Sometimes his active imagination was a curse. He didn’t even want to see the king-size bed she’d mentioned.

  He tossed his duffel bag into a spare closet next to the wet bar and hung his sport coat in there, too. Then he located the room service menu.

  So she hadn’t slept with Hamilton yet, he thought as he perused the menu. He probably shouldn’t take any solace from that, because she still seemed determined to fashion Hamilton into the ideal mate for her. With her determination, she might succeed, especially if she was willing to settle for adequate lovemaking, as opposed to the kind capable of toppling a kingdom or beggaring a prince. Jack had never experienced that kind of passion, either, but he’d flirted with the possibility a couple of times, and he definitely believed it existed.

  He had the receiver in his hand and was about to dial room service when he remembered that Candy would have to do it. Maybe it was an unnecessary precaution, but he’d rather not take a chance on any members of the staff discovering there was a man staying in Candy Valentine’s room.

  He crossed to the closed bedroom door and rapped on it. “You’ll have to call in the order, Candy, my sweet.” He figured she’d think the endearment was a joke, so he could get away with it.

  She opened the door, her hair mussed from pulling on a powder blue sweatshirt that matched the sweat pants she wore. Her feet were bare. She looked up at him, her face pink and glowing after being scrubbed free of makeup. “Candy, my sweet,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “Really, Jack.”

  He shrugged.

  “But you’re right,” she said, moving past him into the living room. “And when the meal arrives you’ll have to hide, just like in those situation comedies.”

  He’d imagined her coming out in a negligee, but somehow her casual attitude at sharing this suite, along with her mussed hair and her bare feet, had nearly the same effect on him. She seemed so damned relaxed and approachable that he wondered what would happen if he just walked over to her and took her in his arms. He already knew how she wanted to be kissed. Hell, he’d written the book on it.

  She reached for the telephone and pulled her hair behind her ear as she placed the receiver over it. “What are we having?”

  He noticed she’d taken off her earrings, her watch, and the rings she wore. At home with Krysta. God, it was an appealing thought. “Seafood pasta, a large spinach salad and a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé,” he said.

  She turned, the phone still to her ear, and stared at him. “That’s very good, Jack. I didn’t think you had it in you to eat food like that.”

  “The pasta and spinach salad are for you and the wine’s for me.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. We have to review our strategy tonight. I want you fed and sober.”

  He’d settle for just having her want him, period. “I think we deserve the wine. We don’t have to drink much of it.” Come to think of it, he might be forced to finish off the bottle after she went to sleep. His writing schedule had turned him into a night person, and he might need the sedative effects of the wine to counteract his normal schedule, not to mention the added stimulation of having Krysta in the next room all night.

  She punched in the number for room service. “All right. I’ll or
der the wine, but I’m monitoring how much you drink. I need to be fully briefed before I head out tomorrow. I haven’t even finished—” She paused and returned her attention to the telephone. “Hello? This is Kr—, uh, Candy Valentine. I’d like to order dinner, please.”

  After ordering, Krysta went back to the bedroom to finish unpacking and Jack pulled the proposal for his second book out of his duffel bag to look it over. After the reception for his first book, he figured he should feel confident about this second idea, but he didn’t. Krysta would be his first reader, and he was more than a little nervous about her reaction.

  Krysta came back out of the bedroom just as the knock sounded on the door. “Quick, into the bedroom,” she whispered.

  “I wonder if this is what a married woman’s lover feels like,” he murmured as he walked past her.

  “It speaks well of your character that you have to ask. Now get in there and close the door. Don’t come out until I come to get you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He followed her instructions and shut himself inside the bedroom. The scent of her cologne assaulted him immediately, and he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a huge bed that teased him with all sorts of possibilities. Worse yet, she’d tossed a flowered nightie across the pillow. It didn’t surprise him that super organized Krysta laid out her night things when she unpacked, but it certainly unnerved him.

  Knowing it was a terrible mistake, he walked over to the bed and ran a hand over the nightie. The yellow-and-white daisies suited her personality, and the softness of the material hinted at a sensuality that he’d suspected for some time. Hamilton wouldn’t make her happy. Not in bed, anyway. Jack wasn’t sure enough of himself to think he could, either, but he’d give anything to be allowed to try.

  He glanced into the bathroom at the array of lotions and potions she’d arranged in a neat row. He’d always been fascinated by women’s beauty routines and aroused by the myriad cosmetics they employed to make their soft bodies even more enticing. Leaning against the doorjamb, he allowed himself to fantasize what it would be like if he and Krysta were here as vacationing lovers instead of being involved in this crazy plot to pass him off as a woman writer. The thought made him ache with longing.