“I have a better idea. I’ll take it out to the porch.”
“Sounds good.” She vaguely remembered walking across a porch but she’d been concentrating on his tush at the time. As for sitting on a porch, she was a virgin. It sounded as boring as staring at a blank TV screen, but she had to take his presence into consideration. That, of course, was assuming he’d join her in this porch-sitting experience.
“Then I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He started down the hall and paused to glance back at her. “Do you take cream?”
“Nonfat milk.” Somehow she just knew he wouldn’t have it. “Uh, all I have is half-and-half.”
“Then I can drink it black.” She’d already blown her eating program with a fast-food hamburger for lunch. Most people didn’t appreciate how a TV personality had to monitor weight gain. Mona had a height advantage and was thin as a strip of linguini, besides. Being a short person, Meg showed any weight gain immediately. She couldn’t afford to look tubby compared to Mona.
“Then black it is.” Clint disappeared down the hall.
Once he was gone, Meg unzipped her suitcase and thought about her host as she started hanging up her clothes. This might be her chance to have a fling away from the hotbed of gossip that was New York City. When she’d dreamed of a career in television, she’d envisioned dating as part of it. She hadn’t realized how her visibility might hamper her social life, and sexual frustration was becoming a constant companion.
This guy might be the perfect solution, if he had any interest in her at all. But she’d have to find out more about him and assure herself that he could be discreet. Then again, he might have a girlfriend. A man who looked like Clint would likely have a girlfriend. Damn.
Sighing, she contemplated her wrinkled clothes. What she wouldn’t give for valet service. Or even a cleaners within five miles who could do a fast press job on these duds. But she knew enough not to ask about cleaners. If TV reception was dicey, a one-hour cleaning service would be out of the question. She hoped Clint owned an iron and ironing board.
It sure was quiet around here. She hadn’t noticed the silence so much while she’d been with Clint, because he’d claimed a fair amount of her attention. Now that he was out of the room, the stillness was spooky. Some little bird was tweeting outside the window, and she could faintly hear the sound of Clint making coffee in the kitchen, but other than that, nothing. No cars, no sirens, no machinery clanking away.
She looked around to see if the room had so much as a radio. No radio. But when she opened a dresser drawer to put her underwear away, the scent of cedar drifted up. Now that was nice. Cedar-lined drawers. She’d thought about doing that once in her apartment, but she wasn’t the Susie Homemaker type, so the thought had died quickly.
After hanging up as many clothes as she expected to need for this leg of the trip, she pulled out her cosmetics bag and walked over to explore the bathroom. The place was basic, but adequate. And sparkling clean. She wondered if Clint had a cleaning lady or if he was responsible for the condition of everything. In any event, someone had made an effort on her behalf, and she appreciated that.
She’d brought along a lighted makeup mirror, in case she’d need it. Pulling the chain that turned on the light beside the sink, she concluded that she’d need it. And as usual in old bathrooms, there was precious little counter space, although the counter was kind of pretty—tile in a bright flowered pattern that looked as though it had come from Mexico. She could handle this situation, so long as the hot water worked.
Automatic reflex made her glance in the mirror. Not surprisingly, her nose was shiny and her lipstick nearly gone. She reached for her cosmetics bag, another automatic reaction. Meg Delancy, television personality, always had to look good. But as she zipped open the bag, the aroma of coffee drifted down the hall.
To heck with repairing her makeup. She needed coffee, and Clint probably didn’t mind if her makeup was perfect or not. Men hardly ever noticed those things unless the problem was dramatic, like raccoon eyes. She also suspected that perfect makeup might be another signal that she was, in fact, a princess. She’d rather he didn’t think of her that way.
Realistically, she shouldn’t care how he perceived her. But she’d always cared about stuff like that, even when the person in question wasn’t a six-foot hunk of delicious manhood. Given that Clint fit that description, she had even more reason to want his good opinion. From the looks of things, Clint might be the only entertainment the place had to offer.
Back in the living room she took a minute to glance around. The TV was only a nineteen-inch. She’d bet that both the TV and the VCR had been sitting in that same spot when Clinton was elected.
Besides that, the TV was in a far corner of the room and none of the furniture faced in that direction. Instead, the worn leather sofa and chairs had a great view of an enormous stone fireplace. You could put a pretzel-vendor’s cart inside it.
The scent of wood smoke lingered in the air, and ashes under the grate told her Clint had used the fireplace recently, maybe last night. Horse-related books and magazines lay on the well-used pine coffee table.
Meg felt as if she’d landed on Mars. If Clint indeed had a girlfriend, then she’d be left with the games on her laptop. She couldn’t imagine an evening spent looking at a fire and/or reading about horses, probably with no sound except the popping of the wood. She’d go nuts.
Or maybe she was just cranky from lack of caffeine. The remedy for that was waiting for her out on the porch, so she opened the front door and stepped outside.
Clint had been sitting on one of the rustic wooden chairs but he got up when she appeared, his coffee mug in one hand. “Everything all right?”
“Fine.” The air was cooler than it had been before, but a hot cup of coffee should keep her from getting chilled. “The coffee smells great.” She walked over to the chair that was obviously meant for her, sat down and reached for the mug he’d set on a table between them.
Warm, fragrant vapor rose up as she lifted it to her lips. She took a sip. It was without doubt the strongest coffee she’d ever tasted in her life, and she’d had some mean espressos over the years. She tried not to choke.
“I make it strong,” he said.
“Yes, you do.” She swallowed and wondered if it would devour her stomach lining in five seconds flat. One thing was for sure, it would satisfy her caffeine craving.
“Sure you don’t want some of that half-and-half?”
“Oh, heck, why not? You only live once, right?” If she drank the whole mug of coffee without something to cut the motor-oil consistency, her days could be numbered.
“Be right back.” Clint left his mug on the small wooden table between their chairs and went inside.
After he left she peered into his cup to see if he’d diluted the coffee with half-and-half. He hadn’t. He must have a cast-iron stomach.
It was also a nice flat stomach. As a veteran guy-watcher, Meg paid attention to those things. From what she could see, everything about Clint Walker was premium-grade.
He returned with the carton of half-and-half and handed it to her. “I apologize if the coffee’s too strong. When you asked about espresso I figured I was safe to make it my normal way.”
“It’s
