Surrender to a Donovan

“Excuse me?”

The deep male voice startled her, and Tate jumped, backed up and slammed her leg into the side of her desk.

“Damn it!” she swore, leaning over to rub her leg and looking up just as the owner of the voice had moved in to catch her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, touching a hand lightly to her shoulder and leaning over slightly to look at the leg she was rubbing.

The full skirt she had on today was a thin paisley material, and it fell between her legs as she rubbed. She realized with a start how much of her thigh she was actually showing and hurriedly pulled it down.

“I’m fine,” she said, clearing her throat. “Just fine. Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. Then he took a step back, stood straight, his eyes trained directly on her.

Tate prayed a big gaping hole would open in the middle of this tiny office floor and swallow her up. Embarrassment spread across her cheeks and down her neck in a heated rush. “How can I help you, Mr. Donovan?”

Yes, she told herself in a stern voice, this was Sean Donovan, the boss, or at least one of the bosses. Tate knew that the Donovans owned Infinity and several other media ventures in the Miami area. She’d done her research when she’d applied for the position. He was the younger of the two brothers, the more serious and intense one. Dion was the tall and dangerously handsome one.

For a minute or two—she couldn’t really count right now, but she knew that it seemed like a really long time—he stared at her without speaking.

“Sir?” she prompted, her palms starting to sweat. It was a horrid nervous habit she had. Either her hands sweated or she tripped over her words as if her mind had drawn a blank or her tongue had suddenly become too big for her mouth.

“Call me Sean,” he said. If it were possible, his voice sounded even deeper than it had just seconds ago. “And you’re Mrs. Dennison?”

“Yes, I’m Ms. Dennison.” She clapped her lips shut, appalled that she’d actually stressed the Ms. “I’m Tate,” she said in an effort to correct herself.

“You write the ‘Ask Jenny’ column?”

She nodded. “I do.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets and began looking around her tiny office. He wore a slate-gray suit and a crisp white shirt with an aqua-blue tie. The colors seemed to highlight the buttery tone of his complexion. His head was completely bald, his goatee, full and trim around the bottom half of his face. He was startlingly fine up close, and Tate had to gulp to keep from drooling.

When he stopped looking he turned to her again. Tate shifted from one foot to the other. His stare was intense, as if he were looking straight through to her soul. Her heart hammered, and the palms of her hands sweated profusely.

“Forgive me for staring,” he finally said. He looked away only because he was shaking his head. Then his eyes, the warm brown orbs, seemed to zoom right back in on her. “I just pictured the writer of this column a little differently.”

A ping of offense vibrated through Tate’s chest, and she stood a bit straighter, staring at him with a little more heat than she had been. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

“I thought you’d be older,” he said abruptly.

“Well, I thought you’d be more professional,” she said.

Again her lips clamped shut. Tate needed this job, desperately. But she wasn’t about to be disrespected for the sake of a paycheck.

His hands came out of his pockets and went up into the air as if she’d been trying to stick him up.

“My fault,” he said. There was a twinkle in his eyes, sort of like they were smiling at her. Because his mouth certainly was not. He had the same quizzical expression he’d had when he came in. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Just that from reading the column and the advice provided, I assumed the writer was a more mature, experienced woman.”

“I assure you, Mr. Donovan, I’m very mature. And experience doesn’t make up for common sense. I graduated third in my class with a degree in journalism. I minored in English and have worked on two widely distributed newspapers before coming to Infinity. Is there a problem with my work?”

He was shaking his head before she gave him a chance to answer. “Absolutely not. In fact, I was coming to get a feel for the possibilities.”

As he spoke he took a step closer to her desk. Now, he didn’t look as imposing as he had seconds ago when he’d made his “older” remark. Still, Tate’s thighs began to quiver, and her heart beat a quick rhythm in her chest. She flared her fingers, made a move that she hoped seemed natural and wiped her palms on her skirt. “What kind of possibilities?”

“Maybe we can discuss them over dinner,” he said, his fingers touching the edge of her desk as he leaned forward slightly.

He was a very tall man. And Tate considered herself tall for a woman, at five feet nine inches. Even so, she had to look up at him, into those eyes that seemed so deep and so assessing.

“No,” she snapped. “I can’t go to dinner with you.” She spoke quickly and moved her arms for some unexplainable reason. The action sent her hands flailing until one smacked into a picture frame on her desk, sending it toppling over.

Of course it would fall right in front of him, and of course he’d pick it up and look at it instead of just setting it upright. Or just leaving it alone and getting out of her office.

“Who’s this?” he asked, examining the picture.

Now she was flustered and offended all over again, even though she’d never really calmed down. He’d asked the question as if he deserved an answer. He was her boss, not her man. She took one deep inhale and slowly released the exhale. Okay, she was overreacting. He was only asking a question. Actually, he was asking a lot of questions, but he was the boss, so he could do that.

“It’s my daughter,” she said, reaching for the picture. It took everything in her not to snatch it from him.

“She’s cute. How old is she?”

He didn’t give her the picture.

“Two.”

He looked up at her, one eyebrow arching as he asked, “And you’re not married?”

“You don’t have to be married to have a baby. But for the record, yes, I was married to her father when she was born. Now, I’m not.” There, he could go now. She touched the edge of the frame in an effort to take it from him.

He held firm.

“So you’re divorced?”

“Yes. I mean, almost. I mean, was there something I could do for you, Mr. Donovan?” She snatched the picture from him and wasn’t really sure she cared what he thought at that moment.

“You can call me Sean. I’ll let you get home to your daughter. But I’d like to talk to you about the column. I’ll have my secretary call you with some available times for us to meet.”

He’d already stepped back from her desk and was headed to the door when she said, “That’s fine.”

Her words stopped him, and he turned back to look at her. “Yes, that’s very fine,” was his parting reply.

Tate dropped into her chair, clutching the picture of Briana to her chest and let out another deep breath. That was a tension-filled meeting. A confusing meeting. A “damn-oh-damn, that man is too damned fine” meeting.

Chapter 3

They’d tried mashed potatoes for dinner. That had gone over well, Tate thought with a smirk. At two years old, Briana already had plenty of personality. And along with that personality came a pickiness with foods. Tate had mistakenly assumed that any type of baby food would do as long as she didn’t have an allergic reaction to anything. She was sadly mistaken.

Briana did not like any of the green vegetables. The result was green splatters all over the kitchen floor, the high chair and whatever Tate was wearing that day. Miraculously, Briana herself remained untouched by the ill-smelling guck. Tonight Tate had tried another tactic—she’d whipped up some homemade mashed potatoes and mixed them with the ingredients from her mother’s chicken soup recipe. Briana wasn’t a fan of the broth, so Tate’s plan was to see if she’d eat the chicken and vegetables if they were submersed in another texture. The first few spoonfuls had gone okay, so Tate had relaxed and let herself enjoy the bonding time with her daughter.

Then Briana made a face that originally Tate thought was funny but soon became concerned about. She looked like she wanted to cry but couldn’t quite get it out. Afraid she might be choking, Tate hurriedly scooped her out of the high chair and began patting her back. Maybe her windpipe had been clogged. But as soon as Tate began patting Briana’s back, there was an explosion—both from her mouth and inside her diaper. It had taken the last hour and a half to clean all of Briana and put her to bed and clean the kitchen.

Now Tate was ready for some “me time.” Only there was nothing to do. She’d thought of running a hot bath and soaking with a good book to read, but the thought of going back into the bathroom made her temples throb. Opting for a quick shower instead, she entered her bedroom and was about to switch on the television when something caught her eye. Tate looked toward the two windows on the side of the room. The blinds were pulled up to the halfway mark, and navy blue valances that matched the comforter on her bed covered the top.

Before she could stop herself, Tate yelped at the sight of a masked face pressed against the window. Moving quickly to her nightstand, she picked up the softball bat she kept against the wall between the stand and the bed. She’d played second base in high school and now gripped the bat in her hands as if she were ready to hit a home run. Nervous legs carried her closer to the windows, but as she approached she felt a tingle of relief. There was no one there. Hurriedly, she pushed the blinds farther upward to check the locks on each window and then pulled on the blind strings until they were completely unwound and the edges were dangling on the floor. She could do without sunlight tomorrow morning.

With a sigh and a nervous chuckle, she berated herself for overreacting. As tired as she was, she could have seen sheep running around her room. She went to the television and turned it on.

Tate had only been in Miami for six months and had just recently gone over to the dark side and ordered cable. So far, so good.

She climbed into the full-sized bed she’d finally purchased after sleeping on a futon for the first five months of her time here. The first thing that caught her eye on the screen was that vaguely transparent DNT logo at the bottom left of the screen. Donovan Network Television.

“Can’t get away from them, huh?” she said fluffing her pillows and positioning them so she could sit up and watch television until her eyes demanded she sleep.

Tate never slept well, hadn’t since the last night Patrick was with her. She convinced herself it was because she was in a strange town and didn’t know anybody. What if Briana cried out in the middle of the night? She had a baby monitor in her bedroom, and the transmitter was hooked up in Briana’s room. Still, she couldn’t shake the edgy feeling of being in a new place.

She had no idea what she was watching on television, but she didn’t change the channel. The program went to a commercial with a gorgeous woman wearing a stunning dress. She was on a fashion runway, and then the camera panned over to the guests of the fashion show and a smiling Regan Donovan. Tate knew her from work. Regan was the only female Donovan working at the magazine. She was as pretty as the model, especially when she smiled, which she was doing right now as she announced a new show coming to DNT.

“With photography by Lyra Donovan and judging by Camille Davis Donovan of CK Davis Designs, one lucky woman’s dreams will come true. The Fashionista promises to bring you everything you’re looking for in reality television—beautiful women, great clothes, sexy men and drama, drama, drama!”

Music followed Regan’s pitch with the date and time of the show’s kickoff running across the bottom of the screen.

Tate smiled, wondering just how it would feel to have her own dreams come true. Growing up she’d dreamed of going to college, getting a good job as a writer and having a family. It wasn’t much, but it was her dream. And once upon a time she’d had it.

Then she didn’t.

And that pissed her off. She snapped the television off and plopped down in the bed, pulling the sheets up over her shoulder. But when Tate closed her eyes, she didn’t see the normal memories from her past. The usual aching in her chest at what had been lost or what had never been hers in the first place wasn’t there. All of that was replaced by one set of intense brown eyes, one solemn look and the name of one man: Sean Donovan.

* * *

A glass of red wine in hand, Sean sat in a lounge chair watching the city skyline at sunset. He was on the wraparound patio of his penthouse condo in downtown Miami’s Marina Blue. After taking a sip from his glass, he set it on the arm of the chair and could almost hear his mother scolding him. There were two things about Janean Donovan that were a definite: she loved her family fiercely, and she demanded respect of people and their belongings, which she saw as blessings from the good Lord. The latter were her exact words.

The fabric was some type of leather, but not really leather. And that was on purpose, even though for the price he paid, Sean couldn’t figure out why. All he knew was that his mother had picked out the charcoal-gray set, which consisted of a six-section sofa and a solo chair and ottoman. The color complemented the smooth cement finish of the patio and its four-foot walls. The tinted glass doors that lead to this outside oasis were in a dark gray tone as well.

Admittedly, he loved this space. It was perhaps his favorite of the entire condo because it was so peaceful. He could sit out here and actually hear himself think. Or he could sit out here and hear absolutely nothing because it was so relaxing. The inside of the house wasn’t his absolute favorite. Not because of the décor, because again, Janean had made sure he had the best designer in Miami. And while his mother had tried to make a lot of the decisions for him, she allowed herself to be nudged when he was really adamant about something. He was her youngest child, so it had been a little harder for her to let go of him when he’d moved out. Even though that was every bit of five years ago.

Tonight his mood was somber, which wasn’t abnormal for Sean. He was the quieter of Bruce Donovan’s sons, the reserved and serious one. It was true that he preferred to be alone the majority of the time, but there were times, more lately than he cared to admit, that he craved company. He’d turned thirty last year and since that time had been seriously thinking about his future.

Along those lines, work had been really on his mind lately. Infinity was his baby. It was his father’s creation, and Dion ran the magazine with his smooth expertise. But this magazine meant something to Sean he doubted his family could ever imagine. He was in control of distribution and the daily supervision of the writing staff. He kept a close eye on their bottom line, making sure they were always operating in the black. This job was his purpose in life, the one he’d seemed born into. His father and his brother were counting on him to do his very best at all times. And so that’s what he tried to do.

But Sabine was moving in on them. Her distribution was way up, and her sales were getting dangerously close to Infinity’s. And she was trying to get close to him. Even though there was definitely no interest there. She was older than he was and carried it well, but her tone could become vicious in mere seconds, and she wasn’t worth his time.

Just like that, a mental picture of another woman appeared. She was about five feet five with a pretty caramel complexion and eyes that he presumed held every emotion she felt at any given time. She’d been flustered when he was there, then a tad annoyed. Tate Dennison was definitely not what he’d pictured when he’d thought of the “Ask Jenny” column. She was too damned pretty to be holed up in that small office all day answering questions about someone else’s relationship problems. She should be out enjoying a fulfilling relationship of her own.

Then he’d seen the picture of her daughter and a few things had clicked into place. What he hadn’t seen was a wedding ring on her finger, and that added to his assessment of her. Single mother, bitter female, believes she knows the secret behind every man and is out to expose them.

He could find that unappealing, but he didn’t. He could be just a little bit angry at the woman who took her time to write detailed articles on why a woman should ditch a man that wasn’t treating her right. Yet, he found himself more than a little intrigued.

The doorbell rang, which Sean would normally consider a distraction. Tonight, however, he thought it might actually be more like a sign that he should stop thinking about his mysterious columnist.

Pulling the patio doors closed behind him, he took his glass of wine with him as he walked through the living room and down the steps to the foyer. When he finally opened the door, it wasn’t a huge surprise to see his cousin Parker. In addition to the fact that he lived about ten minutes from Sean, Parker was a free spirit. He worked hard and played even harder, and he never stayed still long enough to grow entanglements—as some might call women with definite ideas of what they wanted from a man.

“What’s up, man? You didn’t return my call,” Parker said as he entered.

“Right, my apologies. You flying solo tonight?” Sean asked as he closed the door and followed his cousin to the kitchen.

Parker had the appetite of an entire football team, or at least that’s what they’d all thought since they were kids, when he’d been able to eat more than all of them combined.

“Nah, I’m heading to pick up this new lady.”

Sean’s kitchen was straight down the foyer, past the steps to the left and the bathroom and first floor bedroom to the right. The walls were painted a muted beige while the contemporary look of cherrywood cabinets and stainless-steel appliances added a bit of splash.

Parker was already poking his head into the Sub-Zero refrigerator.

“Jaydon seems to think I should meet this girl.”

Sean pulled out a chair and sat at the island watching his cousin pull out a beer and a piece of sweet potato pie left over from last Sunday’s family dinner at the Big House. That’s what they called his parents’ home in Key Biscayne. The entire family, or at least the Miami portion of the Donovans, usually gathered there on Sunday afternoons, after church, for dinner.

“Your ex-wife is setting you up now?” Sean asked with a chuckle.

Parker had already devoured half the pie. “Right? I was asking myself the same question. But apparently she’s some ex-model from Connecticut that was referred to DNM.”

“By whom? And what are we supposed to do with an ex-model?”

“Remember that guy Trent went into business with? What’s his name? Desdune, I think.”

Sean nodded. “Yeah, his family owns Lucien’s, those Creole restaurants. They just opened a new one in Orlando. Great food.”

“Right. Right. I remember them.”

Of course Parker remembered good food, Sean almost said.

“Well, they married into this other family from Bennett Communications. She’s the daughter, Adriana.”

While Parker emptied his beer, Sean tried to piece together everything his cousin had just said. Jaydon was Parker’s ex-wife. She ran Donovan Network Management, providing agents and talent scouts throughout the country. It still amazed Sean that his cousin, who was only a year older than he and two years younger than Dion, had been married and divorced before he’d turned thirty—a subject no one was allowed to talk about beyond the fact that the two remained friends and Jaydon still worked for them. Now, at thirty-two, Parker was a bachelor in great demand.

“I still don’t get why Jaydon’s setting you up on dates.”

“I don’t know, man. Women are crazy. She said something about maybe giving her a host job on the network. I don’t know. I’m going to check her out tonight to see if she’s got any potential.”

Sean leaned back in the chair. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Savian’s asking when we’re going to be ready to propose our idea for the magazine show. I think we’re solid, but there’s another part of the magazine we should include,” Parker said, leaning over the island to pull a napkin from the stainless-steel holder.

“I know. Dion told me you were asking about our ‘Ask Jenny’ columnist.”

Parker slammed a hand on the marble countertop. “Right. You know how many hits that column is getting online? More than any other page of the magazine. People seem desperate for the kind of help she’s dishing out.”

Sean nodded. He couldn’t argue with the facts.

“I hope she’s not some old chick, speaking from a past of broken hearts. That’s not going to be a good visual.”

“She’s not old,” Sean said.

“Good. Is she married? That’ll make her seem more stable, like she’s achieved the dream.”

He shook his head. “She’s divorced. She has a kid though.”

Parker looked like he was contemplating that fact. “We don’t have to broadcast that.”

“I just don’t know,” Sean said, even though he was not really sure what his objection to this idea was.

“Look, we’ve got to boost ratings. Reality shows are kicking butt all over the networks. We’ve got to jump in while the water’s still clear.”

“We can’t build our name by imitating others,” he said seriously. A part of the reason why the Donovan media conglomerate succeeded was by being innovative and attentive to detail. Rushing headlong into some trend could backfire on them.”

“And we won’t survive unless we’re willing to change with the times.” Parker held up his hand to stop whatever Sean was getting ready to say. “Just give it some thought. Read the column yourself and get a feel for what we can do. And I’d love to meet with the columnist, see if she’s got some thoughts on the idea.”

“I’ll check it out,” Sean said. It was his job to do just that, regardless of what a surprise Ms. Tate Dennison had been to him.

“Aren’t you going to be late for your date?” he asked Parker when he noted his cousin was once again in his refrigerator.

With a chuckle, Parker took an apple. “I’m meeting her just down the street at the Four Seasons.”

“You’re heading to the Four Seasons for dinner and you’re in here raiding my fridge like you’re starving?”

Parker laughed.

“You always shop like you’ve got a house full of kids in here. It’s either raid your fridge or drive all the way to the Big House to raid your mom’s.”

“What about your mom’s fridge? Aunt Carol loves to cook,” Sean said, as they once again made their way down the foyer toward the door.

Parker groaned. “She also loves to nag me about my past mistakes and when I’m going to fix everything by remarrying and having some kids.”

With a nod, Sean conceded to knowing exactly what Parker meant. Not that his mother was nagging him to remarry. However, Janean was definitely in the market for grandchildren. Even though Dion was now married to Lyra, there was no talk of them having children yet. Which left the attention centered firmly on Sean.

“Then mi casa es su casa,” Sean said with a smack on his cousin’s back and a chuckle.

“Right. Call me tomorrow and we’ll talk more about your columnist.”

As Sean closed the door, he couldn’t help but think of Tate Dennison as just that—his columnist. His. Shaking his head, he went back into the kitchen to find himself some dinner.

Chapter 4

She was fussing for nothing. He wouldn’t come to her office twice in one week. That presumption was based on the fact that up until yesterday, he hadn’t been to her office in the three months she’d worked there.

It didn’t matter that she now thought her dress was too tight and too short. In the mirror behind her bedroom door it had looked perfectly fine. The black bolero jacket made the white-and-black printed dress look more professional. The wide yellow belt at her waist gave it a cheerful edge. On her feet were black sandals with three-and-a-half-inch heels and straps up to the ankle. They were office attire, just as her dress was, even though it only flirted against her kneecaps.