nothing for a long moment. Rather, he studied her with a gaze that was both challenging and assessing. Which is why Mallory found herself holding her breath until he finally replied, “I like to sail.”
The air whooshed from her lungs. “Sail. As in boats?” Mallory couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Unless he was going to tell her he kept narcotics in the hold this revelation was as newsworthy as the tidbit about playing chef.
“Is there any other kind?” He was smiling. “My parents had a catamaran when I was a boy. I loved being out on it. So, I bought a thirty-one-footer a few years back. I take her out on Lake Michigan as often as I can. Even so, the season’s just too damn short here.”
Mallory didn’t consider herself to be the romantic sort, yet she had no problem picturing Logan standing on a teak deck, manning the helm of a sailboat as the Chicago skyline grew small at his back and the deep aquamarine waters of the great lake beckoned.
“Sounds nice,” she said in a voice just this side of wispy. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?
“It is. Especially first thing in morning. There’s nothing like sitting on deck, drinking a cup of coffee and watching the sun crest the horizon.”
Mallory swallowed. Focus, she coached herself, when her mind threatened to meander a second time. “You make it sound like you sleep on your boat.”
“I’ve been known to. It’s peaceful out there, you know? None of the city noise. Only lapping water and the occasional cry of gulls.”
She thought about the El train that rumbled past her apartment at regular intervals. As far as she was concerned, what he spoke of was heaven. That was before she pictured him clad in…hmm…what did the good doctor wear to bed? That question brought another one to mind.
“Do you sleep there alone?” When his brows rose, she amended her query. “Who do you go sailing with?”
Logan’s laughter rumbled, deep and rich, dancing up her spine like a flat stone skipping over water. “Are you asking if I’m involved with someone?”
She cleared her throat, kept her tone reporter-neutral. “A lot of single women who read the Herald are dying to know just how eligible of a bachelor you are.”
“It’s that damned poll.”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “Every man in Chicago wishes he were so lucky as to find his name on it.”
“Do I have you to thank for my…providence?” he inquired.
Mallory shook her head. “I wasn’t part of the Lifestyles team then.”
He was undeterred. “But are you one of them? You know, the voters, those women interested in my personal life?”
“Not a voter, no. But you bet I am interested in your personal life.” She pulled a pen and slim notepad from the purse hanging over the back of her chair. “So?”
Some of the good humor leaked out of Logan’s expression when he said, “I didn’t realize that you were sent to this luncheon to cover me.”
Was that censure she spied in his gaze or disappointment? Mallory didn’t like seeing either one, but neither was she willing to back down. “Rabid pit bull,” Logan’s agent had called her. Well, she’d earned the reputation for a reason.
“Sorry. Hazard of my profession. And I can’t help thinking you make a far more interesting story than the winner of this year’s Action Award.” She tilted her head in the direction of the head table. “You’re a local celebrity, Logan. Homegrown, selfmade and very successful. You’re also a bit mysterious. Other than where you earned your degree and some of your vital statistics, not much is known about you.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I like my privacy.”
“Yes, and readers like to invade it.” Mallory angled her head to one side. “It’s good public relations to toss them a bone every now and then. You know, since they’re the ones who tune in to your radio program and all.” Going for the jugular, she added, “In a very real sense, you could say you owe your success to them.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” A smile spread slowly across his face. Lethal, Mallory thought again, as her hormones popped around inside her like the numbered balls in a bingo machine. She found herself actually leaning toward him, drawn the way a moth is to a flame. And so it came as little surprise when heat began to spiral through her.
“Well?” Was that her voice that sounded so breathless, so damned eager?
“I’m not…in a relationship.”
She moistened her lips, leaned back. “Ah.”
What exactly did that mean? Men, she knew firsthand, defined relationships differently than women did.
“Any other questions?” Logan asked.
Mallory had dozens of them, and the man, her prime-rib ticket to workplace redemption, was offering her the opportunity to ask them. Unfortunately, with him looking at her in that assessing way, her mind had gone blank. She shook her head slowly, thankful when their entrees arrived and saved her from appearing tongue-tied, which, for the first time in her professional life, she was.
They ate their rubber chicken and overcooked rice pilaf in virtual silence; all the while Mallory recalled his mention of grilled marinated flank steak. It was almost a relief when the servers cleared away their plates and the award program began. Except that, as the president of the women’s club blathered on about the recipient’s many virtues, from the corner of her eye, Mallory spied Logan watching her.
What on earth was he thinking?
Logan studied Mallory. He’d meant it when he’d told her she was bright, interesting and attractive.
Attractive. Hell, she was downright lovely with all that rich brown hair framing an oval face that was dominated by the most amazing pair of big dark eyes he’d ever seen. Despite her physical beauty, it was her personality that captivated him. He liked smart women. The smarter the better. Add in pretty and, well, it was a lethal combination as far as he was concerned. Mallory certainly hit the mark. That in itself was a problem.
Logan had met her kind once before, years ago. He’d fallen hard at the time, so hard he’d almost made it to the altar, ready and willing to promise his undying love and devotion. A month before their nuptials, however, his fiancée had called off the wedding. Felicia had claimed to need time and space. She’d needed to think, to reflect. What became clear was she hadn’t needed him. She married someone else.
It had been nearly a decade since then. Logan had heard from her only once, just after her wedding. She’d sent him a letter, the postmark read Portland, Oregon. In the brief note, she’d asked him to forgive her, but even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t. She’d included no forwarding address or phone number. He’d taken the hint. He’d been wary of commitment ever since.
That didn’t mean he didn’t like women or spending time with them. It just meant he didn’t let things progress into anything serious.
He glanced over at Mallory. She was scribbling down notes, seemingly absorbed in the award recipient’s less-than-exciting speech. As he watched her, his interest, among other things,
