Moonstruck In Manhattan

2

CHELSEA FELT the soft brush of the skirt against her leg as Daryl released it, but the rest of her attention was totally focused on the man who stood three feet away. Though she was aware of the rugged good looks—the dark hair that grew past his collar and the nearly faded scar on his chin—her eyes never once left his.

They were the dark blue color of sapphires and right now there was a look in them that spelled danger. Beneath the sleek lines of that designer suit, this was a man poised for a fight.

The other men sensed it, too. Daryl shifted on his knees, Ramón swung around the end of the bar and Pierre cleared his throat. “Sir…”

“Come here.”

Chelsea took a step forward, responding to the command in the stranger’s voice before the words even fully registered in her mind. Immediately, a nightmare began to unfold before her. Rising to his feet in one smooth movement, Daryl assumed an attack stance.

“Back off, buddy,” Ramón said, springing from one foot to the other just the way he did when he was working out in the boxing ring at the gym. “The lady’s with us.”

“Guys,” Chelsea began. Not one of them so much as glanced her way.

“I don’t like to see women fondled in public,” the man said. “She’s coming with me.”

“Wrong,” Daryl said, shifting his weight to his back foot. Chelsea recognized the move instantly. She’d seen Daryl practice it often enough in the living room of their apartment. The chivalrous stranger was about to have a foot planted smack in his chest—unless Ramón’s right cross flattened him first.

“Stop!” Quite aware that she was trapped in a bubble of testosterone about to explode, Chelsea threw herself in front of the stranger and faced the three other men. “Stop it right now.”

“Get out of the way, Chels,” Ramón said.

“This will only take a second,” Daryl assured her.

As they both moved forward, she threw her arms out to the side and took a quick step back into a rock solid chest. It occurred to her briefly that she might have chosen to defend the wrong person.

“I’ve got it, Daryl,” Ramón said, bouncing closer. “I can still get one in over her head.”

Suddenly furious, Chelsea drew herself up to her full height and fisted her hands on her hips. “What are you thinking? You can’t cause a scene. Do you want to lose your jobs?”

It was the four-letter word—jobs—that caught their attention. Ramón stopped bouncing from foot to foot and something in Daryl’s eyes flickered. Pierre gasped and began to wring his hands.

Pressing her advantage, Chelsea continued, “Ramón, you have a soufflé waiting for you. Daryl, your bar’s unattended. Pierre, there’s a line of people waiting to be seated.” She held her breath then and waited.

Daryl was the first to slip out of attack mode. “You going to be all right, sweetie?”

“A lot better than if you had started a barroom brawl!”

He flicked a glance over her head at the man behind her, then turned and hurried back to his workstation. Ramón and Pierre quickly followed suit.

Chelsea waited, hoping that her would-be rescuer would leave also. But as she counted off five seconds, he remained right where he was, close, his body nearly brushing against hers. Her skin prickled from the proximity and she couldn’t recall ever being so aware of anyone before. Drawing in a deep breath, she took a careful step away and turned to face him.

His eyes were even bluer than she had realized, his gaze more intense. For a moment, she felt her mind go completely blank. All she knew was the heat of his gaze as it moved from her eyes to her mouth and back. The only thought she could latch onto was that she was trapped in another bubble, only it wasn’t testosterone this time. It was something hotter and much more dangerous.

Licking her lips, she discovered that they were warm, almost as if she were running a fever. She would have taken another step back, but she wasn’t sure her legs would work.

“Daryl—is he your lover?”

Chelsea blinked. “Daryl? No… I mean…that’s none of your business.”

His brows lifted. “I nearly started a barroom brawl because he was poking his head and his hands up your skirt. I think I have a right to be curious.”

She frowned. “He was just shortening it. My skirt, I mean. He’s my…” she searched for a word, “dresser.”

“I see.”

“I believe your friend is waiting for you…at your table.”

His lips twitched, and she watched his eyes lighten. She didn’t think of sapphires this time, but of the clear blue of the sea on a hot summer day.

“I was wondering when you’d get around to dismissing me the way you did the others. You’ve had some experience defusing fights, I take it?”

“Three brothers,” she said. Staring into those eyes for any length of time made it difficult to concentrate. Drawing in a deep breath, she narrowed her eyes and focused. “But I haven’t been very successful in dismissing you.”

This time his lips curved in a smile. “Perhaps because I don’t have a sister to boss me around. Why don’t we try this?” He took her arm and retrieved her coat from the floor where she’d dropped it trying to stop the fight.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he drew her up the stairs.

“I’m letting you get me out of the bar.”

She shot him a glance. “You don’t have to hold on to me. I can walk by myself.”

He dropped his hand immediately and studied her for a minute. His eyes had gone very intense again and the smile faded from his face. “I want to ask you to have lunch with me.”

“I can’t. I’m on my way to an appointment. If you’ll just give me my coat.” Without another word of protest, he helped her into it. Chelsea told herself it was relief she was feeling, certainly not disappointment. Then his hand was beneath her arm, guiding her through the group of men in suits who were waiting for Pierre to seat them and out onto the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” she said. Scanning the street for a taxi and not immediately spotting one, she risked looking at him again. “Thanks for…” In daylight, his eyes reminded her of the blue of the ocean at its deepest—fascinating, tempting.

“At least give me your phone number.”

She blinked. “My phone number?”

“I’d like to see you again.”

She blinked again as it suddenly struck her. The man had nearly gotten into a fight over her and then he’d invited her to lunch. Now he was asking for her phone number. Could the skirt actually be working? She beamed a smile at him. “That’s great!”

Slipping a hand into his pocket, he drew out a small notebook and a pen. “What’s your number?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean… I mean I can’t give you my phone number. I just meant that it’s great that you asked.”

His gaze narrowed. “Then why can’t you give it to me?”

“Lots of reasons,” she said, stifling a sigh of relief—certainly not regret—as a taxi pulled up to the curb. “My roommates and I made this pact not to date, for one thing. And then there’s this skirt.”

“A skirt?”

“It’s a long story, much too long to go into right now. You wouldn’t believe it anyway. I didn’t myself until just a few minutes ago.” Pausing to get a breath, she frowned. “And it might be a fluke, but you have to admit that something happened in there. Which means it’s much better for both of us if we never see each other again. Believe me.” With the skill of a New Yorker, she scooted behind the man alighting from the taxi and slid into the seat.

“Wait,” he said as she pulled the door shut.

As soon as the taxi lurched away from the curb, she looked back to see that he was scribbling something down in his notebook. The license plate of the taxi? Was he going to try to trace her that way? As she felt a wave of excitement wash over her, she told herself that it was because the skirt was evidently working! But she kept looking back until the taxi finally swerved around a corner to speed uptown.

AT TWO-THIRTY, Zach stood behind the desk in his father’s office staring out the window. The tinted glass offered a gloomy view of Rockefeller Center complete with its landmark Christmas tree. Thunder grumbled overhead and gray-as-soot rain pounded against the pane.

It was a good thing that he didn’t believe in omens, Zach thought, because in a matter of a few hours the day had turned as dark as the faces of the editorial staff who’d streamed out of the conference room a few minutes earlier. The meeting had taken less time than he’d anticipated and not even his Aunt Miranda had seemed enthused about the specifics of the plans he’d unveiled for Metropolitan magazine.

The real meeting was taking place now. As he’d followed the staff members out of the conference room, they’d managed to corner his aunt and drag her into one of the nearby offices—for a private venting party, he supposed.

Frowning, Zach shoved his hands into his pockets. What exactly had he expected? None of the editorial staff had seen him in years. It was ridiculous to suppose that they might trust him on sight. The last time he’d visited his father’s office, he’d been twelve.

No. Turning, from the window, Zach’s frown deepened as he glanced around the room. This wasn’t his father’s office anymore. It was his. How could he expect his employees to accept that until he did?

Moving toward the desk, he gripped the back of the leather chair. His glance fell immediately on the small ceramic Christmas tree sitting on one of its corners. His first impulse had been to remove it. He didn’t like reminders of the season. But he recalled the day he and his mother had brought the small tree to the office. He’d been five and his mother had let him sit at the desk while they waited for his father to join them. His gaze shifted to the gold-plated pen, still in its stand. He ran his finger over the engraved inscription. It had been a gift to his father from the president of the United States.

He’d been using the pen to draw pictures when his father had walked in. What Zach remembered most clearly about the incident was not his father’s anger. His childhood had been littered with occurrences when he’d failed to behave the way a McDaniels should and his father had lashed out at him. No, what he recalled most about that fateful day were the tears his father’s lecture had brought to his mother’s eyes. She’d taken him skating at Rockefeller Center right after they’d left the office. It had just been the two of them and it was the last memory he had of his mother.

Pushing away from the chair, Zach turned back to the window. He rarely let himself think of his mother, yet it was the second time today that she’d popped into his mind. Earlier, he’d been reminded of her when the taxi with that woman in it had pulled away from the restaurant. For a moment, he’d thought of another taxi, one that had taken his mother away to the hospital that fateful day while he’d stood helplessly watching from the curb.

Ridiculous, he thought as he firmly pushed the image away. The childhood nightmare hadn’t plagued him in years. And he hadn’t been helpless this time. He’d copied down the license plate of the departing taxi.

Pulling his notebook and pen out of his pocket, he flipped it open and looked down at the numbers. If he hired a P.I., he could find out exactly where his mystery woman had gone. All he had to do was make a phone call. If he couldn’t trace her that way, he’d have the investigator approach her dresser and her other champion in the chef’s hat. One way or the other, he could see her again—if he wanted to.

He’d be much better off worrying about the fact that he did want to see her again than about some childhood memories that were much better off forgotten.

What exactly had gotten into him at the restaurant? That was the question his aunt had asked him the moment he’d returned to the table. He hadn’t had an answer for her. He could hardly believe he’d nearly gotten into a fight in a public place over a woman he’d never met before. He rarely acted on impulse.

Indeed, he prided himself on thinking things through, weighing all the pluses and minuses before he acted. But he’d had an overpowering urge to protect that woman in the bar. Then he’d acted on impulse again when he’d asked her to join him for lunch.

He didn’t know anything about her, only that she was different from the type of woman he was usually drawn to. He’d always been able to read them, predict what they would do. Not one of them would have thrown herself between three men who were about to start throwing blows!

His frown deepened. She needed a keeper. And that was just the kind of woman he always avoided. Still, he’d found her almost…irresistible.

Moving back to the desk, Zach frowned down at the license number. In his head, he could list all the minuses of getting in touch with her. He couldn’t afford the time for any kind of relationship right now, not when his dream was within reach. It was his body that was giving him problems. His body wanted to see her again.

Hell, he wanted her. He had from the moment he’d walked down the steps into that bar and gotten a good look at her. And he didn’t even know her name—yet. His frown deepened as the significance of the yet sank in.

“Well, you certainly are lost in thought.”

Zach glanced up to find his aunt Miranda facing him across his desk.

“I knocked, but you didn’t answer,” she said studying him. “Are you all right?”

Smiling, he closed his notebook and tucked it back into his pocket. “I should be asking you that. You’re the one they attacked after the meeting.”

“They’re upset,” she said. “Change has that effect on people.”

“And you’re upset too, aren’t you?”

“Me? Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You looked as if you were in pain during the meeting.”

Miranda waved a hand. “That was because of my feet.” Sinking into a chair, she stretched her legs out in front of her. “I should have insisted we take a taxi from the restaurant. These boots were definitely not made for walking!”

“You’re avoiding a direct answer. Were you upset by some of the plans I unveiled for the magazine?”

Miranda raised her perfectly arched brows. “First I’m cross-examined by your staff and now you.”

“Answer the question.”

“And to think that I was the one who encouraged you to go to law school.”

This time Zach said nothing. He merely waited.

“I still say you would have made a much better attorney than your brother if you’d decided to practice law. I would have loved to have seen you in a courtroom.”

“You’re stalling, Aunt Miranda.”

She sighed. “I wasn’t upset, merely surprised that you’re making so many changes all at once.”

Zach’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I’m nuts to want to change the focus of the magazine to include other cities besides New York?” That had been a big problem for some of the editors at his meeting.

Miranda shook her head. “Not at all. It’s bound to increase your subscription numbers because it will appeal to more readers.”

“Then what is it that you’re tap dancing around? I’d rather you came right out with it. You didn’t seem to object to my idea to change the tone of the magazine and to attract a more intellectual audience.”

“Good heavens, no. I’m all for a magazine that makes me think. It’s your father who wouldn’t have approved of that. He’d have told you that if you appeal to the eggheads, you’ll be slashing your sales by fifty percent.”

Zach studied her. “But you’re not saying that.”

“Not at all. I told you at lunch. Metropolitan has been in trouble for the past two years, even before your father became ill. Some changes are essential and I think that if anyone can turn it around, you can.”

“But?”

Miranda wrinkled her nose at him. “There’s no but. Really. I’m just a little concerned that Bill Anderson will turn in his resignation. He has a very short fuse, and he has a lot of influence over the rest of the staff.”

“How many others will follow suit?”

Miranda thought for a moment. “Hal Davidson will send out his résumé and make sure he has a firm offer before he leaves. And Carleton Bushnell is so grumpy all of the time, it’s hard to read him.”

Bill Anderson had been covering the New York sports scene for almost twenty years while Hal Davidson’s field had been politics. He’d rather not have to replace them, but it could be done. “What about Esme Sinclair?” Zach asked. A rather tall woman who dressed like a fashion plate and wore her steel gray hair pulled back tightly into a ballerina’s bun. Esme had always intimidated him. She reminded him of the strict housemistresses he’d run up against in the boarding schools he’d been sent to.

“She’ll stay. She’s been with the magazine almost from the beginning. I think your father relied on her quite a bit.”

“But I’m planning to eliminate the fashion and gossip stuff,” Zach pointed out.

“That’s the kind of stuff I frequently pick up a magazine to read,” Miranda said and then quickly slapped a well-manicured hand over her mouth. “Sorry! Forget I said that. I promised myself I wouldn’t.”

Zach studied her for a moment. “That’s the but you wouldn’t talk about earlier, isn’t it?”

Miranda sighed again. “I wasn’t going to say it—but women do read a lot of magazines. And Esme has printed a couple of articles lately that have not only been highly amusing, but they’ve increased newsstand sales.”

Zach’s eyes narrowed. “I’m surprised that you approve of them. ‘What Makes a Man a Hottie?’”

“Did you read it?”

“No. And I didn’t read ‘How to Hook a Hottie’ either. Selling sexual innuendo is definitely not the way I want to go with the magazine. I can’t imagine what Esme was thinking. I was rather hoping that she would consider retiring.”

“Esme’s been running the magazine since your father’s illness. It’s only been under her watch that the sales figures have picked up a bit.”

Zach frowned. He hadn’t known that. “I thought you were the one who had taken over for Father.”