adamant that he should steer clear of this particular reporter. Mallory had a reputation for ruining people, Nina Lowman insisted. Maybe it was the masochist in him that considered her reputation a challenge. Besides, he could handle himself around reporters. He’d been doing it enough since his radio call-in program had staked out the top spot in the ratings.
So, as the luncheon wrapped up, Logan leaned over to Mallory and asked, “Since turnabout is fair play, I have a question for you.”
“Oh?”
“What are you doing later this afternoon?”
She blinked, before her eyes narrowed. Why was it he found her suspicion sexy?
“Filing a story. Why?”
“How long will that take?”
“For this?” Her lips twisted, showing her distaste. It wasn’t the first time he wondered why a reporter with her reputation had been sent to cover a minor story. “I need a couple of quotes from the winner, a quote from someone on the award committee and to tap out a couple of paragraphs summing up why the winner was selected.”
“In other words, you could write it in your sleep,” he concluded.
She rewarded his blunt assessment with a smile. “Once I do a couple of brief interviews it should take me half an hour, tops. Why?”
Logan was playing with fire, which wasn’t like him. While he liked challenges, he wasn’t one to take unnecessary risks. Still, he heard himself ask, “Have you ever seen the city from the water?”
“No,” she said slowly.
“Well, if you want to, I dock my sailboat, the Tangled Sheets, at the yacht club. I’m planning to take her out around five.”
Something flashed in her dark eyes. Interest? Excitement? Briefly he wondered whether it was the reporter or the woman responsible for whatever emotion it was. To his surprise, he found he didn’t care.
“Which yacht club?” she asked.
Logan wasn’t willing to make it too easy for her. So he stood and, giving her a salute, walked backward a few steps toward the exit.
Just before turning he called, “You’re a reporter, Mallory. If you really want to meet me, you’ll figure it out.”
Chapter Two
DESPITE changing into a lightweight blouse and a pair of cropped trousers, Mallory was wilting in the late-afternoon heat by the time she arrived at Logan’s slip at the Chicago Yacht Club. It didn’t help that she’d nearly jogged the half-dozen blocks from the El stop. She had a car, but she often found public transportation less of a hassle than trying to find a place to park.
After leaving the luncheon, she’d hurried through her story, filing it after only a cursory second read and a run of her computer’s spellchecker. It wasn’t like her to rush, especially for a man. But then Logan was far more than that to her. He was a story.
Her story took her breath away when she caught sight of him standing with his feet planted shoulder-width apart on the deck of a sailboat. Behind him sunlight reflected off the smooth, aquamarine surface of the lake, making him look like something straight out of a fantasy.
His back was to her, a cell phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, so she took her time studying him. He’d changed his clothing, too. Instead of the pricy suit he’d worn earlier, he was attired in a short-sleeved shirt that showed off a pair of muscled arms and casual tan slacks that fit nicely across a very fine and firm-looking butt. Mallory fanned herself. Damned heat. Though it was only June, the mercury had to be pushing one hundred degrees Fahrenheit in the shade.
On the barest wisp of a breeze, Logan’s side of the conversation floated to her.
“You don’t need to worry…No. Really. Do you know the saying ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?” His laughter rumbled deep and rich before he continued. “Exactly…Yeah, I’ll call you.”
He said goodbye and flipped his phone closed. As soon as he turned and spotted Mallory, male interest lit up his eyes and a flush of embarrassment stained his cheeks.
He coughed. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Obviously.”
His flush deepened.
Mallory could have pretended not to have overheard anything. That would have been the polite thing to do. But she was a reporter, which meant curiosity trumped politeness.
“So, which one am I?” When he frowned, she added helpfully, “Friend or enemy?”
She gave him credit. Logan pulled out of his flaming, death spiral with amazing speed and agility. But then, he was a veteran of talk radio and live broadcasts, which meant he was good at thinking on his feet.
Walking to the rail, he asked, “Which one do you consider yourself?”
“Ah. Very clever, turning the question around. Is that what they teach you to do in psychiatry school?”
“Among other things,” he allowed.
Whatever remained of his embarrassment had evaporated completely by the time his hand clasped Mallory’s to help her aboard. His palm was warm against hers, pleasantly so despite the heat. It seemed a shame when he removed it, though she supposed it would have been awkward if he had continued the contact.
“So,” she said, filling in the silence.
“So.” One side of his mouth lifted, but he backed up a step, and she liked knowing that she could keep him as off balance as he made her. Tucking his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, he said, “I wasn’t sure you were coming or that you’d be able to find me.”
Though the city had more than one yacht club, it hadn’t taken much effort. His boat was registered. Besides, the Chicago Yacht Club, which dated to the late eighteen hundreds, was exclusive. It seemed the most likely spot for an up-and-coming celebrity who cherished his privacy.
Mallory nodded toward the bottle of red wine that was open and breathing on a small table topside. “I’d say you knew that I would.”
He shrugged. “I was hopeful. Besides, I was banking on your journalistic instincts.”
“I bank on them, too, since they rarely fail me.”
“Should I be nervous?”
“You tell me,” she replied.
“I guess that depends on why you’re here.”
“I was invited,” she reminded him.
“So you were.”
In truth, Mallory was still perplexed by
Logan’s spontaneous offer of an afternoon sail. It was one of the reasons she’d come. What exactly did the man have in mind?
“Why?” The question rent
