Confidential: Expecting!

On the barest wisp of a breeze, Logan’s side of the conversation floated to her.

“You don’t need to worry…No. Really. Do you know the saying ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?” His laughter rumbled deep and rich before he continued. “Exactly…Yeah, I’ll call you.”

He said goodbye and flipped his phone closed. As soon as he turned and spotted Mallory, male interest lit up his eyes and a flush of embarrassment stained his cheeks.

He coughed. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Obviously.”

His flush deepened.

Mallory could have pretended not to have overheard anything. That would have been the polite thing to do. But she was a reporter, which meant curiosity trumped politeness.

“So, which one am I?” When he frowned, she added helpfully, “Friend or enemy?”

She gave him credit. Logan pulled out of his flaming, death spiral with amazing speed and agility. But then, he was a veteran of talk radio and live broadcasts, which meant he was good at thinking on his feet.

Walking to the rail, he asked, “Which one do you consider yourself?”

“Ah. Very clever, turning the question around. Is that what they teach you to do in psychiatry school?”

“Among other things,” he allowed.

Whatever remained of his embarrassment had evaporated completely by the time his hand clasped Mallory’s to help her aboard. His palm was warm against hers, pleasantly so despite the heat. It seemed a shame when he removed it, though she supposed it would have been awkward if he had continued the contact.

“So,” she said, filling in the silence.

“So.” One side of his mouth lifted, but he backed up a step, and she liked knowing that she could keep him as off balance as he made her. Tucking his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, he said, “I wasn’t sure you were coming or that you’d be able to find me.”

Though the city had more than one yacht club, it hadn’t taken much effort. His boat was registered. Besides, the Chicago Yacht Club, which dated to the late eighteen hundreds, was exclusive. It seemed the most likely spot for an up-and-coming celebrity who cherished his privacy.

Mallory nodded toward the bottle of red wine that was open and breathing on a small table topside. “I’d say you knew that I would.”

He shrugged. “I was hopeful. Besides, I was banking on your journalistic instincts.”

“I bank on them, too, since they rarely fail me.”

“Should I be nervous?”

“You tell me,” she replied.

“I guess that depends on why you’re here.”

“I was invited,” she reminded him.

“So you were.”

In truth, Mallory was still perplexed by

Logan’s spontaneous offer of an afternoon sail. It was one of the reasons she’d come. What exactly did the man have in mind?

“Why?” The question rent the silence with all the delicacy of a gull’s cry.

“Excuse me?”

“Why did you invite me?”

“Well, that’s blunt.” He chuckled.

Mallory shrugged. “I don’t believe in beating around the bush.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would.” With an index finger, he tapped his cell phone. “You know, my agent wanted to know the answer to that very question, too.”

“What did you tell her, besides not to worry?”

His brows furrowed. “Actually, I didn’t have an answer for her.”

“Besides the friends-and-enemies adage,” Mallory remarked.

“Besides that,” he agreed. “So, why did you come? And, yes, I’m turning the question around.”

“Curiosity,” she replied honestly. “How could I decline when I find you so intriguing?”

“I’m flattered, I think. Especially if that’s the woman speaking rather than the reporter.”

“They’re one and the same, remember?”

Logan’s gaze intensified. “Are you sure about that?”

She was, or at least she had been until he’d pinned her with that stare and baldly asked. The boat moved under her feet, a slight rolling motion that reminded her of the water bed she’d had as a teenager. She’d slept like a baby back then. These days she was lucky to snatch a few hours of uninterrupted slumber before her eyes snapped open and her mind began clicking away like a slide projector, flashing the items on her current to-do list at work along with the goals related to her long-range career plans.

“I’d love a glass of that wine,” she said, opting to change the subject.

“I wouldn’t mind some myself.” As he poured it, he said, “How exactly did you find me? I only ask so I can prevent others from doing the same.”

“Sorry.” She shook her head and, after a sip of the Merlot, added, “As much as I’d like to help you out—not to mention, keep other reporters away—I can’t reveal my sources.”

He nodded sagely. “Bad form?”

“Right up there with a magician giving away the secret to how he saws his assistant in half,” she said with sham seriousness.

His smile turned boyish and was all the more charming for it. “I’ve always wanted to know how that’s done.”

“I do,” she couldn’t help bragging. “Just after college I was assigned to do a feature on a guy who did a magic act at a local nightclub. After the interview, he showed me.”

“But you won’t tell me, will you?” Logan guessed.

“And ruin the illusion?”

“Right.” Logan chuckled. “So, are you hungry?”

“I’m getting there,” she replied casually.

In fact, Mallory was famished. She’d barely picked at her lunch, and breakfast—a toasted bagel with cream cheese eaten at her desk just after dawn—was a distant memory now.

“Good. I went ahead and made dinner.”

Her mouth actually watered. “The marinated flank steak you mentioned at the luncheon?” When he nodded, she said, “Do you mean you actually cooked it here?”

“I cooked the meat topside on that portable gas grill, and the rest was prepared below deck.”

The meal he’d described earlier seemed the sort one would make in a gourmet kitchen, so her tone was dubious when she asked, “You have an actual stove down there?”

He smiled. “Quarters may be a bit tight, but you’ll find my boat has all the amenities of home.”

Why did that simple sentence send heat curling through her veins?

“A-all?” she stammered, then cleared her throat. In a more professional tone, she inquired, “How is that possible? I mean, this thing is just—what?—thirty feet long.”

“Thirty-one, actually. But you’d be surprised what can be fitted into that amount of space using a bit of ingenuity. Want a tour?”

“I’d love one,” she said, even though the idea of moving below deck with him suddenly made her nervous. It wasn’t Logan who made her wary. Her concern had more to do with herself. Story, she reminded herself for what seemed like the millionth time since meeting him.

Luckily she was given a reprieve. “Can you wait until after dinner?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “I’m in no hurry.”

Mallory sat at the table and let Logan serve her since he seemed to have everything under control. More than under control, she decided, when he reappeared from below deck a few minutes later carrying two plates of artfully arranged food. The meal looked like something that would be right at home on the cover of Bon Appetit.

“Wow. If this tastes as good as it looks, I’ll be in heaven.”

She meant it. Even though unmasking Logan’s qualifications in the kitchen would never earn her a Pulitzer, much less her editor’s forgiveness, it was hard not to admire a man who could whip up a five-star meal aboard a boat in the late afternoon heat and barely break a sweat as evidenced by his dry brow.

Logan settled onto the chair opposite hers. “Thanks.”

“Mmm. Heaven, definitely,” Mallory remarked after her first bite of the marinated meat. It melted in her mouth like butter. Afterward, she raised her glass. “I have to toast the chef. I’m impressed.”

“That’s quite a compliment coming from you. I get the feeling you’re not the type of woman who is quick with the accolades.”

“Only when they’re earned.”

He smiled and sipped his wine. After setting it aside, he said, “Then, I can’t wait until you taste the cinnamon apple torte I made for dessert.”

“That good?”

“Better,” he assured her with a wink that scored a direct hit on her libido. “Forget accolades. You just might be rendered speechless.”

“That would be a first.” She laughed. “But then, you’ve already proved you’re a man of many talents.”

“Yes, and I’m looking forward to introducing you to another one of them later.”

Heat began to build again. “Oh?”

“The sail.” But Logan’s crooked smile told Mallory he knew exactly which direction her thoughts had taken and that he enjoyed knowing he could inspire such a detour.

As their meal progressed, the conversation veered—or was it steered?—to her personal life. Mallory didn’t like to talk about herself, but as a reporter she’d found that divulging a few details about her past often helped her sources loosen up. So, when he asked if she was a Chicago native, she told him, “No. Actually, I’m not a Midwestern girl at all. I grew up in a small town in Massachusetts.”

“That explains the flattened vowels.” He smiled. “What brought you to Chicago?”

Nothing too personal here. So she said, “College. I attended Northwestern on a scholarship.”

“And then you were hired in at the Herald,” he assumed.

“Eventually. I spent the first three months after I graduated working gratis as an intern in the hope the editors would notice my work and offer me a full-time job. At the time, even though the Herald had no posted openings in its newsroom, competition in general was fierce.”

“You wanted to be sure you had a foot in the door. That was very industrious, if a bit risky.” Still, he nodded in appreciation. “What did your parents think of your decision to work for free?”

She sipped her wine. “It’s just my mom and she thought I’d lost my mind.”

“Why would she think that?”

Laughter scratched her throat. “I didn’t mean that literally, Doctor.”

“Good, because I’m not on the clock. Well?”

More than being direct, his gaze made her feel…safe. That brought heat of a different sort. She felt as if she could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge her the way her mother always had. And still did.

“My mother thought I was being a fool. She wanted me to be financially independent and she didn’t see how working for free was going to get me anywhere.”

“Reasonable goal,” he allowed.

“Yeah, except it was a mantra she beat me over the head with after my folks divorced.”

“I…I guess I thought your father was no longer around. When I asked what your folks thought, you said it was just your mom.”

“It is and has been.” She had to work to keep the bitterness out of her tone. “My dad’s not dead. He’s a deadbeat.”

“Ohh.” He grimaced. “Sorry. How old were you?”

“Eleven. My mother had been a stay-at-home mom with no marketable job skills when their marriage ended. She had a hard time finding work. She didn’t want me to wind up depending on a man.”

Mallory reached for her wine, if for no other reason than that taking a sip would shut her up. The only other person she’d ever mentioned this to was Vicki, her college roommate, and then only after a few too many margaritas.

Because she had a good idea what Logan must be thinking, she decided to say it first. “That’s not the reason I’m married to my job, though. I happen to really enjoy what I do.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He sipped his wine, too.

It was time to shift the conversation’s focus. “What about your family? Siblings?”

“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.”