Page 7 of Romance and Peppermint Lattes
“Would you kindly stop?” she snapped.
“Stop what?”
“Staring at me!”
“I’m curious.”
“About what?” She was curious about him, too, but far too civilized to make an issue of it.
“I just wanted to see if all that blue blood showed.”
“Oh, honestly!”
“I am being honest,” he answered. “You know, you intrigue me, Simpson. Have you eaten?”
Maryanne’s heart raced with excitement at the offhand question. He seemed to be leading up to suggesting they dine together. Unfortunately she’d been around Nolan long enough to realize she couldn’t trust the man. Anything she said or did would more than likely show up in that column of his.
“I’ve got an Irish stew simmering in a pot at home,” she murmured, dismissing the invitation before he could offer it.
“Great! I love stew.”
Maryanne opened her mouth to tell him she had no intention of asking him into her home. Not after the things he’d said about her in his column. But when she turned to tell him so, their eyes met. His were a deep, dark brown and almost... she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a faint glimmer of admiration. The edge of his mouth quirked upward with an unmistakable hint of challenge. He looked as if he expected her to reject him.
Against her better judgment, and knowing she’d live to regret this, Maryanne found herself smiling.
“My apartment’s on Spring Street,” she murmured.
“Good. I’ll follow you.”
She lowered her gaze, feeling chagrined and already regretful about the whole thing. “I didn’t drive.”
“Is your chauffeur waiting?” he asked, his voice and eyes mocking her in a manner that was practically friendly.
“I took a cab,” she said, glancing away from him. “It’s a way of life in Manhattan and I’m not accustomed to dealing with a car. So I don’t have one.” She half expected him to make some derogatory comment and was thankful when he didn’t.
“I’ll give you a lift, then.”
He’d parked his car, a surprisingly stylish sedan, in a lot close to the waterfront. The late-September air was brisk, and Maryanne braced herself against it as Nolan cleared the litter off the passenger seat.
She slipped inside, grateful to be out of the chill. It didn’t take her more than a couple of seconds to realize that Nolan treated his car the same way he treated his raincoat. The front and back seat were cluttered with empty paper cups, old newspapers and several paperback novels. Mysteries, she noted. Thegreat Nolan Adams read mysteries. A container filled with loose change was propped inside his ashtray.
While Maryanne searched for the seatbelt, Nolan raced around the front of the car, slid inside and quickly started the engine. “I hope there’s a place to park off Spring.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Maryanne quickly assured him. “I’ve got valet service.”
Nolan murmured something under his breath. Had she made an effort, she might’ve been able to hear, but she figured she was probably better off not knowing.
He turned up the heater and Maryanne was warmed by a blast of air. “Let me know if that gets too hot for you.”
“Thanks, I’m fine.”
“Hot” seemed to describe their relationship. From the first, Maryanne had inadvertently got herself into scalding water with Nolan, water that came closer to the boiling point each time a new column appeared. “Hot” also described the way they seemed to ignite sparks off each other. The radio show had proved that much. There was another popular meaning of “hot”—one she refused to think about.
Nevertheless, Maryanne was grateful for the opportunity to bridge their differences, because, despite everything, she genuinely admired Nolan’s writing.
They chatted amicably enough until Nolan pulled into the crescent-shaped driveway of The Seattle, the luxury apartment complex where she lived.
Max, the doorman, opened her car door, his stoic face breaking into a smile as he recognized her. When Nolan climbed out of the driver’s side, Maryanne watched as Max’s smile slowly turned into a frown, as though he wasn’t certain Nolan was appropriate company for a respectable young lady.
