JJ picked up her gold cigarette case, opened it and tilted it at Kathleen, as if for sustenance.
Kathleen waved it away. Things were really bad if JJ was offering her a smoke—like a prisoner before a firing squad. Which didn’t feel that far wrong.
“You need to shake things up, Kathleen. This will do that.”
Oh, yes. Dan McAlister could shake her up, all right.
She took a deep breath, gathering her strength, her determination, her sense of humor. If she had to do this tour, and it looked as though she did, then she’d make it work. Meet Dan head-on and not miss a step.
That would not be easy, since she was no poker player when it came to emotions, but she’d manage. She had too much pride to do otherwise.
At least she knew she wouldn’t be attracted to him. She’d learned her lesson. Repressed guys were way too much work when there were so many available sensualists in the world. She had a lovely romantic life. Well, except for the odd emptiness that had crept into her lately. But she wouldn’t think about that now.
She had enough on her mind, what with her blocked writing, her possibly sinking career and being forced to spend ten days in close quarters with the man who’d delivered her one and only broken heart.
Dr. Anathema himself.
2
HIS AGENT had declared it a coup, but Dan McAlister wasn’t happy about this book tour with Kathleen Dubinofsky. Make that Valentine. She’d changed her name. Probably for her career, but maybe just for fun, knowing Kathleen. Kathleen had fun built into her soul. And whimsy. For Kathleen, anything worth doing was worth overdoing.
But Valentine? That was kind of silly. When he’d known her, she’d wrung every ounce of delight out of every moment, but she’d never been silly.
He checked out the view from the window of his New York hotel room. This place, world-famous for its luxury, had no doubt been selected with Kathleen in mind, since she’d built a career out of her passion for extravagance. Smart of her, really, to turn her inclinations into a source of income. He’d always admired her savvy, her directness, her purposefulness, even when she was making him nuts.
And now she was famous enough that his publisher wanted her on his book tour.
He became aware that his heart was racing again. Every time he thought about her, his system flooded with adrenaline. Being with Kathleen had brought him face-to-face with a side of his character he disliked—his wild side—and which he’d successfully wrestled to the ground. Just thinking her name brought it all back.
They were to meet their agents and his publisher’s publicist for dinner in two hours, but he wanted to speak to her privately first, confirm what they’d agreed upon via an e-mail—that they’d keep their past a secret.
She’d sent a quick reply. “The irony of our relationship would certainly detract from our credibility.” The oddly dispassionate words made him wonder if she’d changed from when he knew her. She’d always been fiery and outspoken. The irony of their relationship? Even he, whom she’d called Ice Man, wouldn’t use that word to describe their affair. Wrenching and life-altering maybe, but never ironic.
He hadn’t been crazy about the book tour even before he’d heard Kathleen would be with him—too much fuss and hassle—but his agent insisted it would build “buzz,” whatever that was. So, he’d agreed. If he gained more readers, reached more people with the ideas that had saved him and helped so many of his clients, then it was worth every bit of awkward embarrassment.
In his practice, he specialized in overcoming self-defeating patterns, and he found it extremely rewarding. He’d developed checklists that allowed his clients to analyze the sources of immoderation in their lives, along with willpower boosters and self-control builders—tools with which to reshape their behavior in more positive directions.
Grateful clients had urged him to write a book, and over the past two years he’d done so. He’d been honored when first an agent, then a top publisher had seen the value of his work. Publishing The Magic of Moderation was an opportunity to reach more people with his ideas. Fame made him uncomfortable, but it was a means to an important end.
Then he’d learned about Kathleen and the world had shuddered to a stop for a while. He knew about her work, had even bought her first book, but seeing her was the last thing he’d expected. Or wanted.
The e-mail exchange had been too impersonal and brief. He had to see her, get the first meeting over without witnesses. They were adults, of course, and college was a decade ago, but their relationship had reverberated through his life and he wasn’t sure how normally he could act around her.
Again his heart sped up and his breathing went shallow. Get a grip. There was no reason to expect the worst. In fact, the trip might be healing for them both. He could apologize for his immature behavior, how out of control he’d been and the abrupt way he’d broken it off. They could acknowledge the power of what they’d shared, experience closure and, perhaps, end up friends.
He straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair—God, he was primping—and stepped out into the hall.
Her room—a named suite, actually—was unnervingly next door. He saw that a waiter was attempting to drag a cart with an ice bucket of champagne into the room. Champagne had been her favorite liquor, he recalled—not easy to afford on a student budget, but she’d managed. Some things are worth the sacrifice, she’d say. He smiled at the memory. To this day, the bubbly liquid made him think of her.
These days, he rarely drank, and never champagne, which gave him an instant headache. Or it had since Kathleen—a psychosomatic reaction no doubt.
Dan held the door for the waiter, stepped in after him and found himself in a large sitting room, dotted with huge arrangements of exotic flowers. He could hear water running. Kathleen was in the shower. She loved water.
“It’s Dan,” he called out, not wanting to startle her.
“Be right out,” she called back, not sounding surprised. Maybe she’d expected him to drop in.
The waiter handed him the bill, which he signed, distracted by the complex scents that filled the room—creams, perfumes, powders, candles and mists. So Kathleen. He searched for her smell underneath all the commercial fragrances. He’d liked that scent best.
The waiter departed and he waited for Kathleen by the champagne. Condensation dribbled down the silver bucket like the sweat sliding down his body inside his shirt.
This was a familiar situation. In the old days, he’d spent lots of time waiting for Kathleen.
Waiting heightens the intensity, she used to say about sex. All true, of course. She would slow down, pull away, make him wait until he was nothing but pounding lust, his focus narrowed to her breasts, her mouth, her moans, her softness, being inside her…all the way. Around her, he was as shaky and enthralled as a kid on his first time.
An erection threatened. Over a memory, for God’s sake! Relax. Settle down, he coached himself, squeezing his eyes tight. Focus on what matters.
Which was his book—and figuring out how he and Kathleen would approach this tour. He was a professional therapist, dammit, but he felt like Tom Hanks in Big—a thirteen-year-old
