Confidential: Expecting! Page 3

  “One of each, both younger than me.”

  “And your parents? Are they still together?” She knew that they were, but saying so would make it seem like she’d done a background check on him. Which she had.

  “Yep.” Nostalgia warmed his smile. “They’re going on forty years and they still hold hands.”

  The answer prompted a question she was only too happy to ask, since it would turn the spotlight away from her life. “And yet you’re thirty-six and single. Why is that?”

  A shadow fell across his face, there and gone so quickly she almost wondered if she’d imagined it. But then he offered a disarming smile—a defense mechanism?—that made her all the more curious.

  “I guess you could say after the apple fell, it rolled far away from the tree.”

  This apple had, too, Mallory thought, stuffing memories of her childhood back into their cubbyhole. And for good reason in her case. But why would someone whose parents had what sounded like the perfect union be gun-shy when it came to commitment? It bore looking into. Later.

  Now, she said, “Do your siblings still live in Chicago?”

  She knew his parents did. The elder Bartholomews were no strangers to the newspaper’s society pages.

  “Yes. My sister, Laurel, attends Loyola. She’s pushing thirty, has been taking classes for more than a decade and has yet to settle on a major. It drives my parents crazy. Luke, my brother, owns a restaurant.”

  “Locally?”

  He nodded. “The Berkley Grill just a few blocks up from Navy Pier.”

  “I love that place!” Mallory exclaimed. “Especially the grilled portabella mushroom sandwich topped with provolone cheese.”

  “That’s one of my favorites, too.”

  “Is your brother a chef, then?” she asked.

  “No. Like me he can hold his own in the kitchen, but he’s a businessman by trade, and he has a good eye for spotting potential.” His voice was tinged with pride. “The restaurant needed a fresh menu, updated dining room and better marketing to capitalize on tourist traffic. Since he bought it and made the upgrades, the place has done pretty well, even in this economy, and earned free publicity with a spot in a Food Network special.”

  “Do you ever plug his place on your radio program?”

  “That would be a conflict of interest and not terribly ethical. Besides, he doesn’t need my help.”

  Mallory nodded.

  His gaze narrowed. “Are you disappointed with my answer?”

  “Of course not. Why would I be?”

  He didn’t reply directly. Instead, he lobbed a question of his own. “What made you decide to become a journalist?”

  “Curiosity,” she said again. “I like knowing why things happen the way they do. Why people make the choices they make. I’m rarely happy unless I’m getting to the bottom of things.”

  “Then what were you doing covering today’s luncheon? Not much dirt to uncover there.”

  “Penance,” Mallory muttered before she could think better of it.

  She expected him to pounce on that, since getting to the bottom of things was one of the hallmarks of his profession, too. But just as he’d knocked her off balance with the offer of a sail, he surprised her now by changing the subject.

  Rising from his seat he asked, “Are you ready for coffee and dessert?”

  “Maybe just coffee.” She stood, as well, and helped him collect the dishes.

  “A rain check on the dessert, then?”

  Mallory liked the sound of that. It would give her an excuse to contact him again. Another chance to dig for a story that had to be in his past somewhere. “Okay.”

  Five steps led from the sailboat’s deck to the cozy main cabin that was filled with the amenities Logan had mentioned. The small kitchen area boasted a sink, cooktop, oven, microwave and wood cabinetry that deserved points for both function and form. Upholstered benches flanked a table on the opposite wall. Further back was a comfortable seating area and a door that she guessed led to a bedroom, since the bathroom’s door was clearly marked with the word Head.

  “This is nice,” she commented.

  She meant it. Mallory didn’t know much about sailing. For that matter, she’d never been inside a boat like this one. But the glossy hardwood and soft-hued fabrics and upholstery were homey and inviting. The gentle swaying motion didn’t hurt, either.

  “I like it.”

  “This is an older boat, right?”

  “She dates to the 1970s,” he agreed.

  “She.” Her lips twisted.

  Logan was grinning when he took the dishes from her hands and set them in the sink. “I’m guessing you consider it sexist that boats are referred to using female pronouns.”

  “Not sexist necessarily. Just…annoying.”

  “Right. From now on I’ll call my boat Bob,” he deadpanned. “Better?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He seems more like a Duke. Besides, it has a name.”

  “Tangled Sheets.” He grinned and she fought the urge to fan herself.

  “That’s an interesting name for a boat. One might even call it a bit risqué.”

  “Why? A sheet is another name for a sail, Mallory.” His face was the picture of innocence now, but it was plain he understood the double entendre because when he turned to retrieve two coffee cups from a cupboard the grin returned.

  “Well, someone has either taken excellent care of this boat or it’s been restored.”

  “The latter,” Logan confirmed. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Cream or sugar?”

  “Black.”

  He handed her a steaming cup and poured one for himself. Leaning back against the sink, he said, “It took me an entire winter’s worth of weekends after I purchased her—” he cleared his throat “—I mean, Duke, to finish the overhaul. I basically gutted the place and started over. And I’m still puttering most weekends.”

  He glanced around the salon and nodded. Puttering still or not, his expression made it clear he was pleased with his progress so far. Mallory could understand why. Logan might not look like the sort of man who would know a hammer from a ham sandwich, but obviously he could hold his own with the guys on HGTV. Power suits and power tools didn’t normally go together. Questions bubbled.

  “Where did you learn carpentry and—” she motioned with her hand “—how to do repair and maintenance?”

  “One of my dad’s hobbies is woodworking, and he’s always been good at home repair. My brother and I spent a lot of time with him in his workshop, helping him put things together. I picked up a few tips along the way.”

  “I guess so.”

  “You’re surprised.”

  “Maybe a little. You don’t look like the sort of man who would be…”

  “Good with his hands?” he finished.

  He set his coffee aside and held up both hands palm side out. His fingers were long, elegant, but the palms were calloused. The man was definitely hard to figure out, but she wasn’t trying at the moment. She was staring at those work-roughened hands and wondering how they would feel…on her skin.

  Mallory swallowed and ordered herself to stay focused. “Why not just buy something brand-new?”

  “I don’t know. I guess you could say I prefer a challenge.”

  The way his eyes lit made Mallory wonder if that was what he considered her to be.

  Logan was saying, “Besides, she had great bones and an even better history. Her previous owner had sailed her from Massachusetts all the way to Saint Thomas the year before I got her and nearly lost her to a hurricane along the way.”

  “So, your boat is a survivor and you had a hand in resurrecting her…him.”

  “Duke.”

  “Duke,” she repeated.

  His laughter was dry. “Yes, but I can assure you I don’t suffer from a God complex.”

  “Then why did you get into psychiatry? Didn’t you want to save people?”

  “I wanted to help people.” Oddly, he frowned after
saying so. He sipped his coffee. The frown was gone when he added, “Most people have the tools to turn their lives around all on their own. They just need a little guidance recognizing those tools and learning how to use them.”

  “Good analogy. I guess you really are the son of a carpenter.”

  “Yeah.” He laughed and was once again his sexy self when he asked, “Ready for that sail?”

  “Of course. That’s why I came.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  LOGAN used the motor to maneuver the boat out of its slip at the yacht club. Once away from the shore, he cut the engine and enlisted Mallory to help him hoist the sails. He could have done it by himself. That’s what he usually did, even though it was a lot of work for one person and took some of the pleasure out of the pastime.

  Pleasure.

  That’s what he was experiencing now as he and Mallory stood together on the deck while the boat sliced neatly through the water. He rarely shared Tangled Sheets with anyone. It was his private retreat, his getaway from not only the hustle of the city, but from the fame he’d chased so successfully and the reporters who now chased him. Reporters who were much less dangerous than Mallory Stevens was…at least to hear his agent tell it. Nina Lowman had made Logan promise to call him later in the evening, apparently as proof that he’d survived the encounter. Even so, he didn’t regret his decision to ask Mallory aboard.

  He attributed the invitation to the fact that he’d been without the company of a woman for several months. Scratch that. He’d been without the company of an interesting woman for several months, maybe even for several years. Logan’s last fling, and fling was almost too generous a term for it, had been with a socialite who’d turned out to be every bit as vapid and vacant as she was gorgeous. Tonya may have been stimulating in many regards, but conversation wasn’t one of them. Logan enjoyed smart women. He enjoyed savvy women. Women who were as adept at playing chess as they were strip poker. Logan would bet his last stitch of clothing that Mallory could hold her own in both games.

  So it really was no surprise he was enjoying himself this evening. The bonus was that the feeling appeared to be mutual. Glancing over, he noticed that Mallory was leaning against the rail. Her eyes were closed, and the fine line between her brows had disappeared. Even with her face turned to the wind, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

  For the first time since he’d met her, she looked truly relaxed. And all the more lovely for it, which was saying a lot. The woman was naturally beautiful to begin with: fresh-faced, unmade, unpretentiously pretty. Of course, she could afford to have a light hand with makeup. Her lashes were dark and ridiculously thick and long. They fringed a set of eyes that were rich with secrets. No other adornment was necessary.

  A man could get sucked into those eyes if he wasn’t careful. It was a good thing Logan had no intention of being lulled into complacency, even if he did enjoy the challenge of staying one step ahead of her.

  The eyes in question opened. If Mallory was unnerved to find him studying her, it didn’t show. She regarded him in return—boldly, bluntly and not the least bit embarrassed or uncomfortable. Logan swallowed, experiencing again that low tug of interest that seemed to define the time he spent in her presence.

  “I probably should apologize for staring,” he admitted. He waited a beat before adding, “And if you were another kind of woman, I would.”

  Her brows rose fractionally. “Another kind of woman?”

  “The coy sort.”

  “Coy.” Her lips pursed. “That’s not a word one hears often nowadays. It’s rather old-fashioned.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m not old-fashioned.”

  No, indeed. Mallory was worldly, at least in the sense that she grasped nuances, gestures. She wasn’t hard, though. He recalled the way she’d looked when speaking about her parents’ divorce. Then she had seemed almost vulnerable.

  “Nor am I coy,” she continued now.

  It was impossible to tell from her tone whether she was insulted or not. Logan decided she wasn’t. “Which is why I don’t feel the need to stand on pretense around you. I can say what I mean.”

  “Hmm.” It was an arousing sound that drew his gaze to her mouth. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asked. When he glanced up and met her gaze, the amusement shimmering in her eyes told him she’d already made up her mind.

  “A good thing. Definitely a good thing.”

  She laughed. The sound was low and throaty. “I don’t know. I think I might prefer some pretense every now and then. I get so little of it. Subterfuge, sure.” She exhaled. “That’s par for the course in my line of work.”

  “But we’re not talking about your work.” Interesting, Logan thought, how it kept coming back to that. Interesting and a little unnerving.

  Mallory smiled. “Oh, that’s right. We’re talking about pretense.”

  Not just talking about it, he thought. Well, two could play the game. Logan decided to up the ante. “Are you saying you want me to pretend that I don’t find you as sexy as hell?”

  She blinked. He’d caught her off guard. He’d done it a few times in their relatively short acquaintance. Perhaps it was his male ego talking, but he liked knowing he could manage it.

  “Well?” he prodded when she remained quiet.

  “I’m trying to think of a response.”

  “And you can’t?” That came as a surprise.

  Mallory cleared her throat. “Well, you have to admit, Doc, yours is a loaded question.”

  Just the sort of question she was very good at asking, but he kept the observation to himself. Instead, Logan snorted. “And here I thought you weren’t one to act coy.”

  “Well, if I tell you no, you’ll think I’m playing games, but if I say yes, you’ll accuse me of being vain.”

  “Will I?”

  She ignored his question. “You’ve painted me into a corner. I don’t like corners.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  He flashed a grin. “Okay, maybe I did. But in my defense, I find myself immensely curious as to what your answer will be.”

  The wind tugged at her hair, sending several strands of it across her face. Mallory pushed them aside with the palm of her hand. The gesture was practical and…“Tell me, Doc, what woman doesn’t enjoy being called sexy?”

  It was a question rather than an actual answer, but Logan let it pass.

  “For the record, I believe I said ‘sexy as hell.’ If you’re going to quote me…” He left the sentence unfinished in part because the words were unnecessary, but mostly because her complexion paled. When she stumbled back a step, he reached out to steady her. “Mallory? Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” She moved back another step to lean against the rail, forcing him to release her arm. “I…I guess I don’t have my sea legs yet.” He didn’t think that was what had caused her momentary weakness, but she was saying, “In response to your finding me ‘sexy as hell,’ what am I supposed to do?”

  “I have a couple of suggestions.” He bobbed his brows to lighten the moment and was rewarded with a laugh.

  “I hate to break it to you, but coy isn’t another word for promiscuous.”

  Logan snapped his fingers in a show of disappointment. “Damn.”

  “You know, if I thought you really meant that, I’d have to toss you overboard.”

  He had little doubt she would try and perhaps even succeed despite the fact she was no match for him physically. “How would you get back to the yacht club then?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, I’d manage.”

  Even from their short acquaintance, Logan could tell that about her. Mallory was a survivor. That caused him to sober. He’d met survivors before. He’d counseled a good number of them in his private practice before he’d taken his profession to the airwaves. While he admired their ability to persevere and overcome, in some cases survivors could be very solitary. They didn
’t need anyone.

  “It’s time to head back.”

  “Already? You know, I was just kidding about leaving you bobbing in Lake Michigan.” She laughed again.

  Logan joined in. “I know.”

  “But I’ve made you nervous.” The line returned between her brows.

  “Not because of that remark,” he admitted.

  “Hmm.” There was that sexy sound again.

  “There’s not much daylight left and I’m not a fan of sailing in the dark. Besides, I have some prep work to finish for tomorrow morning’s show.” It wasn’t a complete fabrication. In addition to taking listeners’ calls, Logan included a segment on general mental-health topics. Tomorrow’s, appropriately enough, was panic attacks.

  He prepared to bring the boat around. Mallory helped. In fact, she insisted on lending a hand, as if it was vital that she know what to do to return to the safety of the shore. Survivor, he thought again.

  “Watch for the boom,” he called. “Or you’ll be the one overboard.”

  “Aye-aye,” she called, offering a salute even as she ducked to avoid being struck.

  When the Chicago skyline with the sun peeking around the skyscrapers was before them, she whistled. “Talk about a million-dollar view.”

  “It’s something all right. Want to take a turn at the helm?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I never kid when it comes to my boat.”

  “Then, yes.” She stepped into place, legs splayed shoulder width apart, hands at the ten and two positions on the wooden wheel he’d spent hours sanding and staining. Though there was no need, Logan moved in behind her and set his hands over hers.

  “Don’t you trust me?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He dipped his head low enough so his jaw scraped her cheek and whispered into her ear, “I’m just looking for a good excuse to touch you.”

  Was that a shiver he felt? It was hard to say since Mallory’s voice sounded perfectly normal when she asked, “Do you need an excuse to do that?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Sad.” She made a tsking sound. “Perhaps you should see someone about your…hang-up around competent women.”

  “Hang-up?”