But he played fair—for now—and held himself in check. “I like your attitude, Winston.”
“Hey. Thanks.”
There was one of those moments. The fountain across the street burbled away and people hurried past a few feet from the bench and Tom and Shelly grinned at each other like a couple of lovestruck fools.
Lovestruck…
Strange choice of words. Yeah, he liked her. He wanted her. But it was way early to be using the word love.
He made himself break the eye contact.
After a few seconds, she said, “It’s worked out all right for me and Max. It…wasn’t meant to be, between Max’s dad and me. And Max is smart and funny and happy. And loving. He doesn’t need a dad who’s not one hundred percent there for him.”
“I want to meet this kid.”
“Just don’t give him your phone number.”
“What?”
She laughed. “Oh, nothing. It’s his thing lately. He’s discovered the wonder of the telephone. He likes to make phone calls—you know, dial the number all by himself—and then talk your ear off.”
Tom grinned. “Definitely. Need to meet him.”
“Well, he’s with his grandparents until the first of July. So you’ll just have to wait.” She rose before he could reach out a hand and stop her. “This has been great, Tom.…”
He resisted the strong urge to grab her hand, to hold on until she sat back down beside him.
With a shrug, he stood. “At least I know your favorite color now.”
She tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. The fountain lights made those brown eyes of hers gleam golden. “Yeah. Top priority. Knowing that your secretary loves blue.”
“You never know when information like that will come in handy.”
“Oh. Right.” Her voice was breathy. In spite of her insistence that she wouldn’t get involved with him, her eyes begged for a kiss. “And that I like Italian food. That’s so important.…”
Her full lips tempted him. One kiss. What could it really hurt? Two kisses. Three.
A night full of kisses. He wanted that. With this woman. He wanted it bad.
Time to hail a cab. He saw one coming and raised a hand. The cab slowed and stopped at the curb.
Two steps and Tom was pulling open the door. He gestured her in.
She hung back. “Uh. No. Really, I’ll just catch the train. It’s no problem.”
“Shelly. Get in.”
Chapter Three
“Four hundred East Randolph,” Tom told the driver as the cab pulled away from the curb. He turned to Shelly. “He’ll take you home from there.”
“Great. Thanks.” Shelly stared out the smeared window on her side of the cab.
Traffic was relatively light. In no time they were sailing down Michigan Avenue, turning onto East Randolph.…
The cab pulled up to the curb in front of a high-rise.
Tom sent her a glance and a nod. “See you Monday, then.” He knocked on the partition. The cabby slid it open and Tom handed some bills through. “Take her to Forest Park.”
The cabby smiled. “Sure, man.”
“Thank you.” Shelly spoke softly.
Tom gave her a last smile. “Don’t be late for the flight.”
“I’m never late.”
“I noticed.” He pushed open his door and he was gone.
The cabby said, “Where to in Forest Park?”
She gave him her address. The ride home took a half hour. She spent most of that time telling herself she wasn’t disappointed in the least that he hadn’t tried to lure her up to his apartment.
The flight to San Francisco was commercial, first class. Nonstop. And on time. They left the ground at 7:20.
Tom spent an hour or so going over spreadsheets and answering e-mails. Shelly caught up on some letters Tom wanted in the mail by Wednesday and listened to her Fast and Easy Japanese CD, which she’d copied to her iPod, in preparation for the trip to Kyoto on Thursday.
At eight-thirty Chicago time, Tom shut his computer down. Shelly took off her earbuds and put her iPod away.
“Breakfast?” he asked.
“Please.”
He hadn’t said a word about Friday night. Since she’d met him at the gate at six, he’d been friendly in a strictly business kind of way.
That was great with Shelly—just great. Or so she kept telling herself.
They ate bacon and asparagus frittata, croissants and excellent coffee. First class, she was discovering, not only had roomy, comfortable seats, but also better food than you got when you went coach.
He briefed her on Riki, the world-famous designer who was way behind schedule on the fabulous interiors at The Taka, SF.
“Riki’s got the credentials,” Tom said. “He’s done the mansions of some of the biggest names in the business world. And he’s designed hotel interiors before. High-end boutique-style hotels. Even a small chain. He hasn’t done anything on this scale up till now, but he came to us highly recommended and his plan for the project was just what we wanted. We’re not getting why he’s messing up so damn bad now.”
“Riki. I swear I’ve heard of him. Did he ever have a TV show?”
Tom nodded. “Million Dollar Design. He’s still doing it. Syndicated. Interior design for the rich and famous—mostly high-level money men, Donald–Trump types.”
“Very tall, very thin—with red hair combed into a swoosh at the top of his head?”
“That’s Riki.”
“The times I saw the show, he really laid on the drama. Yelling at people, treating every setback like the end of the world.”
“That’s just his act for the cameras. It plays well. Viewers love a train wreck—one he always pulls out of at the end, with everybody happy and another rich executive living in his dream house.”
“I guess.…”
“But behind the scenes, Riki’s strictly professional. At least in terms of his behavior. And his designs are amazing. Too bad he’s not getting the job done. At this rate, we’ll be putting off the September opening. And that can’t happen.”
