Chapter One
The Tattler, Thursday, Nov. 21
Mary Lynn’s About the Town
Kit’ten Dogs Fiancé!
Only if you were there would you believe it! (See picture page one.) New York’s most notorious heiress, the antic-loving Kit O’Brien, did it again. This time she upended a bowl of dog food, dumping it over Blaine Rourke, her father’s favorite godson and, as speculated in this column last week, her fiancé. Sources close to the family inform me that her father, Michael O’Brien, C.E.O. of the Fortune 250 company O’Brien Publications, is absolutely furious! One has to wonder how Kit’s going to pacify her father this time. Will she finally give in to his demands and tie the knot? One thing’s for sure, with Kit you never know what antic she’ll pull next.
“So, have you ever made love on a plane?”
The words rolled silkily off his tongue, and Kit O’Brien’s green eyes widened at the audacity of the handsome male passenger who had been seated next to her for the past two hours.
“Are you propositioning me?” Although she blinked, Kit held her gaze steadfast to mask her inward shock. Despite her reputation, never before had a man been so bold, or so brash. Afternoon sunlight flickered through the first-class window as he gave her a wicked grin.
“And if I am?” His full lips curled teasingly, creating a slight dimple in his right cheek.
Kit felt shivers shoot through her body, all the way down her legs to her toes, which were cramped in what masqueraded as sensible flats. The brazen answer that teased provocatively from her mouth before she had any rational thought to stop it ignited the stuffy atmosphere. “I’d have to think about it.”
“You do that and let me know.” He closed his lips slowly over the edge of the plastic cup in a gesture bordering on erotic.
Ooh, he was smooth. She could lose herself in those glittering and glistening, dangerous brown eyes.
But that would be a mistake.
He turned his gaze away, releasing Kit from his hypnotic spell. Even though the possibility of caving in to his outrageous suggestion was gone, Kit felt little relief. Clamping her mouth shut, she reached forward to return her empty plastic cup to the foldout tray. Her hand shook and the cup wobbled before she righted it. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed her body’s immediate physical response to his provocative words.
He was quite a piece of work, she thought. They had been talking on and off since leaving New York at 11 a.m., but right now since his attention was not on her, Kit tried to relax. Never before had she run across someone quite like him, someone who had sent her senses reeling with just one piercing look.
Whoever he was, he was temptation. A magazine lay across his lap, hiding legs clad in black jeans. A heated awareness prickled Kit’s skin, her equilibrium as disturbed now as when he had taken his seat two hours ago. Then she had gazed, transfixed, until he had pointed with a well-manicured finger at the empty seat next to her.
At that moment, although she had been acutely conscious of her flushed cheeks, she could not break her stare. He had looked down his pointed, perfect Roman nose, and given her the amused knowing smile of a man used to being the center of attention. And, when he stripped off his black sport coat Kit’s mouth dried to sandpaper and her throat tightened. The broadcloth button-down hinted at perfectly formed muscles. When he had moved past her to access the window seat his legs had brushed hers. Kit swore fireworks had ignited from the way her body tingled.
Kit shook from the reverie and attempted to focus. She had no time for erotic thoughts about a man she didn’t know. She had four days before facing her father and his reaction to her latest public stunt. As she attempted to tug her short knit skirt down to her knees, her seatmate shifted, his black Western boots coming briefly into view. She froze.
He was a cowboy, she decided, closing her eyes and letting herself fantasize about her seatmate. He certainly had a primitive, masculine look. Chestnut-colored hair cascaded over his collar to just above his shoulders, and Kit pictured tying his wavy tresses back with a rawhide lace.
No, she shook off that fantasy, replacing it with another. Instead she would take her fingers and tuck the strands gently up underneath a black Stetson. When she was finished with his hair, his rugged and virile hands would stroke her, yet his touch would be gentle despite being accustomed to holding fast the reins of unbroken stallions. She would trace a finger across the stubble of his jaw, and his fingers would slide lower, ready to caress her into absolute ecstasy.
Kit opened her eyes and lowered her lashes so she could venture another glance at his luminous brown eyes and heart-shaped face.
Did she really want to just slip up to the first-class lavatory with him? The illicit thought of his full lips catching hers and trailing kisses down her neck sent tremors racing down her spine. His hands would cup her buttocks, lifting her up to him, and his mouth would caress her breast. She would wind her fingers in those luscious long locks, and he would fill her body as if he were made just to please her. With knowing strokes he would take her to heights she had never imagined or experienced. Marry me, he would whisper huskily, his breath warm against her ear. Marry me….
Hold it! Mentally Kit wrenched herself from her Walter Mitty dream world and began to silently chastise herself. Except for his body’s effect on hers, she knew nothing about him, and even if she did, she didn’t do things like this! She was probably the oldest virgin in America, despite everyone’s belief to the contrary. And the last thing she needed would be any more public scandal.
The now-infamous dog food incident she was running away from was bad enough. Not only was her father furious at her previous night’s behavior, but she knew Blaine wasn’t too happy with her, either. And she was desperate to escape both of their wraths.
Hence her editor, Eleni’s, priceless expression earlier that morning. Anything had to be better than a confrontation with her father after another tabloid antic, and Kit had snatched the assignment Eleni had offered her, sight unseen and without a press packet. Who cared if she wouldn’t know until tomorrow even the name of the person she was to interview? The fact that the assignment was far away from home was all that mattered. She could wait until tomorrow morning for the press kit to arrive by overnight mail. Then she would just wing it.
And she’d flaunt her success when she got back. Much to her father’s chagrin she’d have interviewed whomever and written a dynamite exposé. Then her father would have to let Eleni assign Kit to more serious stories. She was tired of the marshmallow fluff her editor gave her. Wine, art and society stories had been great to cut her teeth on, but now they were boring.
Not only that, but Kit’s father, the publishing icon, refused to let her write under her own name. Even with respectable stories, she had to hide behind the pseudonym Carol Jones. How uninventive. No, it was time her father
