this stuff. He’d only consented because Warfield’s needed the publicity. If not for Warfield’s, he wouldn’t go anywhere near the press. He had Allison to think of now.
When he arrived at the couch, the reporter looked up at him, her beautiful moss-green eyes glinting behind her tortoiseshell glasses.
“Thanks for waiting.” He set the cappuccino and pastry down on the low coffee table in front of the couch, ignoring his sudden, strange urge to study those eyes and her flawless, creamy skin. Lowering himself into the wing chair behind him, he told himself to loosen up. He’d give a few stock answers and then send the reporter on her way. “Okay. Let’s get started.”
“Do you make a habit of working behind the counter?” she asked, her brows raised.
He sensed the surprise behind her question. “Not usually, but we’re short on help today, and I pitch in where I’m needed. I started Warfield’s with one store and one employee, so I’ve had plenty of experience waiting on customers.”
She picked up a small tape recorder. “Do you mind if I tape this interview?”
His first instinct was to refuse; why make her job easier? But it wasn’t as if he had anything against this particular reporter. Besides, he reminded himself, Warfield’s would benefit from a spread in the Beacon. “No, not at all,” he replied, striving to keep the impatience from his voice. “And help yourself to the cappuccino and apple turnover.”
She pulled her mouth into a tiny smile. “I love apple turnovers and cappuccino.” She picked the flaky pastry up and took a big bite. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
He smiled. Her enjoyment of the pastry, one of his own favorites, pleased him. Maybe this interview wouldn’t be so bad after all. Relaxing against the back of the chair, he drew his leg up and propped his ankle on the opposite knee, liking the sight of her unselfconsciously demolishing the turnover.
He knew he shouldn’t stare but did, anyway, letting his gaze wander over her rose-tinted face, liking the light freckles that dusted her straight, just-the-right-size nose. He wondered if that thick mane of auburn curls falling like waves of flame to below her shoulders was as soft as it looked. He wished he could run his fingers through the fiery strands to find out.
Enjoying his exploration, he let his eyes roam lower, taking in her full lips, the exact color of the delicate carnations he’d planted in his backyard. Drawing a deep breath, he moved his gaze downward past her blue skirt to her legs. Though her skirt wasn’t particularly short, it still displayed her legs below her knees. And what perfect, stunning legs they were, willowy and curved exactly the way he liked.
His heart began to beat heavily in his chest. Heat enveloped him. He looked back up and found her delicately licking pastry sugar from her fingers. He stifled a groan, unable to help watching in blatant fascination as her pink tongue came out and cleaned her fingers of sugar, one…by one…by one. Swallowing, he averted his gaze again, fighting for control, and repositioned his watch on his wrist.
Don’t go there, buddy. Don’t want what you don’t need. Getting hung up on a reporter would be the one, surefire way to expose little Allison to the rabid media, which had burned him before.
When he looked back at Ms. James, she had thankfully finished cleaning her fingers. She flicked on the tape recorder. “First, I’m going to ask you some questions, like your age and what you like to do. Then I’ll let you talk for a while, all right?”
He nodded tersely.
She scooched over on the couch until she sat just a foot from him. Her delicate scent—roses—floated over him, and he fought the urge to sniff the air and drag in more of the wonderful, feminine smell through his nose. The last time he’d smelled anything that good was while standing in the middle of his flower beds when they were in full bloom.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirty-two.” He tried to make his voice sound like her perfume wasn’t wreaking havoc with his senses.
“And have you always lived in Portland?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Soooo…what are your interests?” She licked at the sugary coating on her lips again.
He watched her tongue stroke her lip, and the heat in his body was stoked back to life. “Uh, interests?”
She pursed her sugary lips, then picked up her cappuccino. “You know, hobbies, likes, dislikes. That kind of thing.”
Jared ruthlessly forced his eyes, and thoughts, away from her mouth and how much he wanted to take care of that sugar himself. “Well, I like to ski and work in my garden—”
She stopped midsip and looked at him over the rim of the cup. “You like to garden?”
He lifted a brow and nodded. “Sure. I grow enough vegetables to keep me supplied all summer.”
“Oh, come on.” She put her cup down. “You grow your own vegetables?”
He gave her a stony glare, feeling his strange attraction being replaced by his earlier irritation and wariness. “Yes, I do, Ms. James. I also like to cook. Surprised?”
“Quite frankly, I am,” she said, tucking some stray strands of hair behind her ear. “Most men like you wouldn’t want to get their hands messy enough to garden or cook. I figured you’d be more interested in fast cars, wild parties and loose women in lingerie, stuff like that.”
He clenched his jaw and dropped his foot to the floor. Loose women in lingerie? Damn, how he hated what everyone expected him to be, the wealthy guy without a care in the world, tooling around in his hot car, chasing women day and night. Sure, he had nice things and a nice car, but he’d worked his butt off to make Warfield’s what it was today and to enjoy the perks that came with being a successful business owner. And, yeah, he’d had his share of chasing women in his younger days, but he was over that now that he had Allison in his life.
“I guess I’m not like most men, then, am I?” he said, just managing to be civil.
Her gaze flicked down and held on his wristwatch for a long, significant moment. “Well, most men don’t have trust funds to live on, do they?” Her mouth spread into a tight, judgmental smile.
He clenched his hands. His instincts about this interview had proved dead-on. The press was bad news. They’d ridden his back his whole life, always groveling for some kind of story about his famous family. And then, before he’d threatened one reporter with libel a year ago, they’d tried to do a hatchet job when his half sister, Carolyn, had died.
The media had been too damn eager to exploit the circumstances of the famous Janet Worthington’s daughter’s death. Not only had a slew of reporters hounded him for details of the motorcycle crash that had snuffed out Carolyn’s life, they’d jumped on him like a pack of wolves when he’d adopted Carolyn’s six-month-old baby daughter, Allison. The press had wanted to splash her picture across the front page. Man, how Carolyn would have hated that.
The familiar guilt for failing to save Carolyn jabbed at him, fueling his desire to cut this interview short. He knew he was overreacting, but this snooty reporter had managed to push his buttons, right off the bat. Ms. James might be really nice to look at but she was obviously nothing but a self-serving reporter out to dig up dirt.
He
