Come Fly with Me Page 5

  Mark’s dark brows lifted over eyes that were glittering with tolerant amusement. Okay, she thought. So it’s not the order of a five-foot-one woman who’d worried only twelve hours earlier about the calories in some candy. She caught that insufferable, knowing gleam in his eyes and defiantly asked for a side order of bacon as well.

  “I’ll have the same, except for the tea. I’d like coffee. Lots of it,” he said calmly, as the bored waitress made her notations without blinking an eye. She probably assumed they were honeymooners who hadn’t left their suite in three days and were bordering on starvation. The intriguingly seductive idea set off another round of fireworks in the pit of Lindsay’s stomach. It was a reaction that didn’t bear too much scrutiny.

  While they waited for breakfast to arrive, they maintained what, for her at least, was a decidedly awkward silence. Lindsay was never at her best in the morning, anyway. She liked to ease into the day as quietly as possible, preferably after a minimum of eight hours of restful sleep. Not only had she tossed and turned most of the night, this man had awakened her several hours before she was even likely to start thinking about being at her best. He, on the other hand, seemed not only well rested, but perfectly content to just sit and stare at her, which made her gulp and look around for something interesting to focus on.

  Unfortunately, she finally decided that, like it or not, Mark Channing was the most interesting thing in the room. She met his dark-eyed gaze and her insides melted, even as she again gave herself a staunch lecture on willpower, backbone and resistance. It didn’t work any better today than it had on the plane.

  When the food finally came—and not a moment too soon—Lindsay’s lips quivered in amusement. Just looking at the over-burdened tray reminded her of one of those comedy acts at the circus, when a seemingly impossible number of clowns all climbed out of one very tiny car.

  The waitress studied the tray and the table with a practiced eye. In a single smooth motion, she removed the small vase of fresh flowers and the ashtray from their table and plopped them on the next table, dumped the bacon on the plates with the eggs Benedict, moved the orange juice glasses and the cups closer together and then squeezed in the plates of potatoes. They teetered slightly, but with grim-faced determination she maneuvered them in by another fraction of an inch. Lindsay didn’t have a doubt in the world that everything would stay right where she put it.

  “I’ll be back with more coffee in a minute,” the waitress muttered, eyeing Mark’s empty cup. She might have the ritualized personality of an efficiency expert, but she clearly knew her business. She also knew enough not to make wisecracks about the odd eating habits of her customers. Wisecracks cut into tips.

  “I’m starved,” Mark said, digging into his breakfast like a lumberjack with a hard day ahead. Lindsay toyed with hers.

  “Great juice,” he noted. “Fresh squeezed. You can tell.”

  “Umm.”

  “Have you tried the hash-browns? They put in a little bit of onion.”

  “Great.”

  “Lindsay, your eggs Benedict will get cold if you don’t eat it. You’re going to need all your energy for this afternoon. Besides, I thought you were hungry.”

  She was nibbling on a strip of bacon. “I am,” she swore solemnly. “I’m just a slow eater.” She offered him a dazzling smile that she hoped would convince him that she could hardly wait to get to all this awful food she’d managed to pile up in front of her. She took another sip of her juice. A very small sip.

  When she glanced across the table, she noted that Mark was more than halfway through his entire breakfast and wasn’t even slowing down. Talk, Lindsay, she instructed herself. If you want to drag this out, you have to get the man to talk, not eat. He is a fascinating enigma, after all, and admit it or not, you do want to know more about him.

  No, she quickly corrected. You need to know more about him in your professional capacity and that’s all! Now’s your chance. Think of it as research.

  Her gaze drifted outside and she shuddered. Think of it as salvation.

  “So,” she said with only slightly feigned curiosity. “What made you decide to live in Boulder? Were you born in this area?”

  He shook his head and polished off the eggs.

  She tried again. “Have you lived here long?”

  “Five, almost six years,” he said and finished his last strip of bacon.

  “Where are you from originally?”

  He swallowed the last sip of his orange juice and gestured toward her glass. She sighed resignedly and nodded. He drank the last of that, then said, “New York.”

  Lindsay was thankful she wasn’t an investigative reporter hell-bent on a juicy, extensive exposé. This man was less responsive than the Statue of Liberty. At least she had a prepared speech about the tired, the poor and the hungry masses yearning to be free.

  Right now, Lindsay could identify with some of those immigrants to whom that speech was addressed. She wasn’t poor and she certainly wasn’t hungry, but at the moment she was tired as hell and very definitely yearning to be free of this very determined man seated across from her before he dragged her out into that awful weather. With a sort of horrified sense of wonder, she noted that the cold had actually frozen the condensation on the inside of the coffee shop’s plate-glass window into little streams of ice that glittered in the sunlight. She ran her finger along one of the icy rivulets and shivered. It was a shiver that went straight through her bones.

  Mark watched the gesture and asked suddenly, “What is this thing you have about snow?”

  Lindsay tried to think of some way to explain. Nothing she could think of made much sense. “It’s just so...cold.”

  His eyes lit up, warming her. It was not quite enough to compensate for the weather, but it was a terrific try. “Not if you’re sitting in front of a cozy fire with a snifter of brandy.”

  “But that’s not what you have in mind, is it? You’re determined to take me skiing.”

  “Skiing is invigorating, Lindsay. You’re going to love it. And the fire feels even better after you’ve been out in the fresh mountain air.”

  She eyed him skeptically with very reluctant green eyes.

  “You’ll see,” he promised.

  With a sudden flash of inspiration, she said, “But I don’t have the right clothes for skiing.” That was certainly true enough. She’d brought an extra suit, one sweater and a couple of silk blouses.

  “So I noticed,” he said dryly. “What on earth were you thinking of when you packed?”

  “I was thinking that I was going on a business trip,” she retorted sourly. “How was I to know that I’d be conducting my business in the middle of a snow drift?”

  “Well, never mind,” he soothed. “We’ll take care of that. I’ll take you shopping.”

  He surveyed the table and noted that she’d barely touched her food. One dark eyebrow arched quizzically and she quickly lifted a forkful of hash-browns to her lips in a futile effort to prolong the pretense. It didn’t fool him for a minute.

  “You don’t really want the rest of that, do you?” he said quietly.

  She shook her head guiltily and thought of all the starving people in Africa. Her mother would be horrified at the waste. She was horrified at the waste.

  “Then why did you order it?”

  Before she could answer, he added, “Forget it. I know exactly what you were thinking.”

  “You’re a mind reader now?”

  “No. You’re just painfully transparent.” He sighed and leaned toward her. A finger tilted her chin up so he could look directly into her eyes. “Stop fighting me. We’re going to Boulder and we’re going to go skiing. I want to share that experience with you for the first time. I want to share a lot of things with you. You’re only postponing the inevitable.”

  Lindsay regarded him plaintively. “What I’m still trying to figure out is how it became inevitable. Why do you want to do this?”

  “Ask the gods.”

  �
�I was thinking of calling Trent. Or maybe a psychologist.”

  “They won’t have the answer. Not on this one.”

  She studied Mark curiously. He was lounging back lazily on his chair now as though it were designed for his personal comfort. It irritated the dickens out of her that he was perfectly at ease, while she still felt like some fluttery teenager who’d stumbled into something that was thoroughly enticing but far beyond her experience. He appeared totally confident, sure of himself and, for that matter, of her. The latter puzzled her. How could he be so certain about all of this, when she hadn’t the vaguest idea what was happening between the two of them?

  “I asked you something last night and again a minute ago, but you still haven’t given me a straight answer,” she said at last. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Having breakfast?” he asked innocently.

  “Don’t be cute,” she retorted. “Why are you practically kidnapping me? You’re an attractive man—”

  “Thank you.”

  She glared at him. “You’re intelligent. Maybe a little crazy, but that turns a lot of women on. I’m sure there are any number of sexy, attractive, available women who’d be thrilled to pieces if you invited them to spend a weekend secluded in your mountain hideaway.”

  “I don’t want them.”

  “Why not?” she asked, trying to keep an edge of desperation out of her voice.

  He shrugged, but there was a soft light in his eyes as he said gently, “If I had the answer to that one, it might scare us both to death.”

  Lindsay’s expression grew even more puzzled. “Then you’re not sure?”

  “Nope,” he admitted.

  “But you seem so confident. It’s as though you’re in on a secret and haven’t told me.”

  “I think the gods are the only ones in on the secret at this point. I only know that some instinct tells me I shouldn’t let you get away.”

  “Do you always trust your instincts?”

  He hesitated for a moment and Lindsay saw all sorts of emotions race across his face. “I do now,” he said quietly.

  There was something in the way he said those three words, so solemnly and with such great sadness, that touched Lindsay’s heart. “Didn’t you always?”

  “No. Once I was too caught up in my writing to pay any attention to my instincts.”

  “And something happened?”

  “Something happened,” he said tersely, his eyes growing cold. She could sense him withdrawing into some distant time and place and knew it was the end of the discussion even before he turned and called to the waitress for the check.

  As they drove out of Denver, Mark kept up a running commentary on the scenery, much of which was veiled by a hazy fog. But as they neared Boulder, the fog lifted and Lindsay could see the snow-covered mountains rising majestically like a scenic designer’s well-executed backdrop for the town huddled at the bottom. It was picturesque, truly impressive, in fact. She could appreciate it aesthetically. She’d just prefer to appreciate it on a postcard or from a very long distance...say 500 miles or so south.

  They headed straight for a shopping mall and by midafternoon, ignoring Lindsay’s protests that it was a waste of money to be buying clothes for a once-in-a-lifetime ski trip, Mark had her in a shop being fitted for boots, cross-country skis, a wonderfully warm down jacket with matching pants, jeans, another sweater, color-coordinated knit cap and mittens, and long underwear.

  Lindsay held up the thick, thermal underwear and regarded it with disgust. “This is the most hideous, unfeminine excuse for lingerie I’ve ever seen.”

  Mark’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “Do you want to be warm or sexy?”

  “Both. I can do that in Los Angeles.”

  “You’re in Boulder.”

  “A mistake I’m still trying to figure out how I made.”

  “You couldn’t resist my offer?” he suggested, giving her a bold wink. The sales clerk practically swooned at Mark’s feet. It was apparently a reaction he was used to, because he didn’t even seem to notice it. Lindsay glowered at him and thought of suggesting that he take the obviously infatuated clerk skiing with him. But there was the contract and she still had a little glimmer of hope that she could get him to sign it, if she played along with him for just a while. If she had to stand around in the snow for a few hours, she could do it. She’d hate it, but she could do it.

  “Good point,” she replied, then inquired brightly, “When are we going to start talking about the contract?”

  “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Before you go back to L.A.”

  Lindsay’s eyes lit up. “There’s a flight tonight.”

  “Not that soon. Go try on the clothes.”

  The jeans and sweater were no problem, but when she came out of the dressing room a few minutes later in the ski clothes, she had a scowl on her face. There was a strange light, a gleam of approval in Mark’s eyes and he was grinning at her. He tugged the cap down until it covered her ears.

  “I look like an overstuffed sausage,” she grumbled.

  “You look cute, the perfect snow bunny.”

  “You have a distorted mind.”

  “It helps when you’re writing,” he said, then turned to the sales clerk. “We’ll take everything.”

  Before Lindsay could blink, he’d paid for the purchase in cash and whisked her out the door.

  “Is Morrie paying for this?” she asked hopefully. It would serve him right. The things had cost a fortune, maybe not as much as a trip to Monte Carlo, but there were far fewer strings attached...she hoped.

  “Nope. It’s a present from me.”

  “I don’t want any presents from you.” Especially not clothing that was suitable only for slightly daft individuals who thought slipping and sliding around outdoors with a wind-chill factor below zero was great sport.

  “Don’t be ungrateful. It’s not becoming.”

  “It’s no less becoming than this ridiculous outfit.”

  “Tell the truth,” he demanded. “Weren’t you warmer when we came out to the car?”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “Then the clothes are serving their purpose. I consider it money well spent.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “It’s your money.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t just sit in front of the fire this afternoon and drink hot chocolate. Maybe fix some popcorn.”

  The idea held a certain romantic appeal that she didn’t care to analyze too closely.

  “Later,” he promised, twisting around to gaze at her huddled against the door of the car. The look in his eyes offered far more intriguing possibilities than hot chocolate and popcorn.

  “We’ve got a whole weekend ahead of us. We’ll get around to everything, bright eyes.” He smiled at her lazily and those dimples set her heartbeat fluttering crazily again. “All in good time.”

  Lindsay suddenly decided a good romp in the snow was exactly what she needed. It would encase her heart in ice again. Despite the blasts of wind that had frozen her ears and the snow that had chilled her toes, her damn heart had been thawing all afternoon.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Once they had left the edge of town, it took nearly another hour to reach Mark’s house. By Lindsay’s standards that put it in an isolated wilderness, albeit a Christmas-card-perfect setting complete with snow-covered pine trees and rolling fields that bore not a single footprint to mar the pristine beauty. The silence there was overpowering, and she knew enough about writers to understand why the utter peacefulness of the location might appeal to Mark. She also knew herself well enough to realize that it was going to be all she could do to keep from going stir-crazy in such an environment even with the intriguing, infuriating Mark Channing to keep her company.

  With Mark clearly anxious to get her onto skis before she could rally a satisfactory defense, she barely had time to glance around the interior of the house, which was all stone and glass and roug
h-hewn wood. It seemed to blend right into the natural setting, as though it had been put there by God’s hand, not man’s. The floors were covered with lovely, hand-woven Indian carpets, except in front of the fireplace, where there was a huge, oddly lumpy sheepskin rug.

  To Lindsay’s utter astonishment, the rug rippled a bit like the surface of a pond, then staggered to its feet. The largest, shaggiest dog she had ever seen meandered over to Mark, wagged its tail once and licked his hand in a sort of low-key welcome that brought an immediate smile to her lips.

  “Shadow, this is Lindsay,” Mark said as the dog cocked its head and looked at her. At least she thought he was looking at her. His dark, button eyes were shaded by a thick fringe of shaggy fur.

  She held out her hand and Shadow sniffed it politely, then, bored with his effort to greet the newcomers, wandered back toward the fire and flopped down again, obviously no longer interested in their presence in what was clearly his domain.

  “You leave him here alone?” she asked incredulously, adding dryly, “Does he cook his own meals and build his own fires?”

  Mark grinned. “Of course not. Mrs. Tynan looks after him. She brought him back up here today. She lit the fire and probably stocked the refrigerator as well, if I know her. When I stopped by to see her this morning on my way to pick you up, I told her I was bringing a lovely guest back with me.”

  “Is Mrs. Tynan your housekeeper?”

  “Hardly. You’ll meet her. She runs the general store about a mile from here. She’s a crusty old gal, who talks like she could bite nails in two, but she’s got a heart a mile wide.”

  There was a warm note in Mark’s voice that suggested Mrs. Tynan was someone very special to him. But Lindsay knew something about small, tight-knit environments. Gossip ran rampant and, if an efficiency expert had done a flow diagram of its path, it would have led right back to someplace like a general store. The idea did not exactly cheer her. This visit was awkward enough, with its increasingly disturbing mix of personal and business implications, without adding all sorts of interested local speculation about who Mark Channing might be romancing now.