Summer Kisses (248 page)

“We have a reservation at Ernesto’s at six.”

Ernesto’s
. The kind of restaurant Max tended to dodge. A stuffy, over-priced, pretentious place in Mt. Adams that served prissy little portions of nouvelle cuisine. Sighing, he resigned himself to the choice and tried not to yawn.

“From there, we’ll go to the symphony. I hope you like Wagner.”

He chuckled, assuming she was kidding. But when he checked, her expression revealed nothing but seriousness. “Wagner? Really?”

“His music’s quite stimulating. My husband and I used to have season tickets for the symphony. I gave them up when he—” She stopped and bit her lip. “I gave them up a few years ago.”

The symphony. Stimulating? Ri-ight. She must be older than he guessed. What decade had she been born in anyway? Oh, well, maybe he could catch up on his sleep.

And he’d given up his poker night for this. 

Since the camera recorded and magnified every emotion, Annabel attempted to hide her irritation from the high-powered lens hovering a few feet away. She glanced toward Max on the other side of the table and found herself viewing only the menu propped up against the floral centerpiece.

She didn’t need to see him in his flawless Italian suit to know he looked sinfully delicious. His rugged physique, gorgeous face, and observant eyes oozed sensuality—damn him—in that casual, devil-may-care way of his. But as her mother used to say, “Handsome is as handsome does.”

And so far, Max’s behavior had resembled a toad’s.

From his outrageous reputation with women, she’d expected more charm. He’d remained almost mute on the ride over. She wasn’t exactly thrilled to be on this date either, but at least
she
tried to be pleasant.

“What looks good?” she said, just to break the silence.

Max closed the menu and dropped it on the table before tucking his cell phone into his inside suit pocket. “Sorry, did you say something?”

He’d been texting someone or checking his messages? What an insensitive jerk! She sniffed back her disapproval. “I asked you what looks good.”

“The exit,” he muttered.

Offended even further, Annabel’s spine straightened automatically. “What?”

“Sorry, again.” He stuck a finger in his collar and pulled it away from his neck. “This isn’t my kind of place.”

Candles and ferns, crisp white linens and gleaming crystal filled the room. Music from a harpist in the corner drifted around them and enhanced the cool ambience of the pale green and silver decor. The overall effect was lovely and—in the right company—very romantic, but Max’s grimace spoke volumes about his disapproval.

“Oh, right.” She leaned forward and tried to produce a sincere-looking smile. “I guess you’d be more comfortable in some smoke-filled dive with peanut shells on the floor and a runway for strippers.”

“That does sound appealing.” His eyes lit up before he shrugged in resignation. “But I’d settle for a menu that’s written in English and a meal that won’t leave me hungry five minutes after it’s over.”

Annabel nodded with feigned sympathy. “I considered making a reservation at one of those places that sizzle up plate-sized sirloins while you graze at a salad bar with fifteen different kinds of bean and Jell-O concoctions. But then, I remembered this was supposed to be
my
dream date, not yours.”

“You got that right.”

Stung by his disapproval, her defenses rose along with her temper. “Listen, buddy, this debacle is as much your fault as mine. After the show the other day, y
ou
said you could get us out of this deal.”

He spread his hands wide. “I tried.”

“Not hard enough.”

“Hey, you could have refused, too.”

True, she could have. But when she saw Carly’s bright eyes, thrilled with the success of fixing her up with one of the best-looking, most-famous guys in town, the girl’s excitement held her back. Annabel bit her lip to keep from bursting her stepdaughter’s bubble by revealing that Mad Max Williams was as well-known for his off-camera escapades as for his news reporting. Some of the gossip that swirled around him could be dismissed, but not all of it. Not when Annabel had glimpsed the results of his deplorable behavior firsthand.

She took a deep breath and reined in her annoyance, silently repeating her chant of the past week.
It’s just one date
. And to be fair, Max had explained when they’d talked on the phone that he’d been suckered into the gig, too.

A starchy waiter materialized beside them, drawing Annabel’s attention away from her personal dilemma and back to the meal.

“Are you ready to order?” Starch asked in nasal tones.

“Ladies first.” Max waved his hand toward her.

Annabel’s stomach growled. Obviously, skipping lunch had been a mistake. She ordered bruschetta with a gorgonzola tapenade, Greek salad, risotto with caramelized pumpkin and chorizo along with glazed Mediterranean vegetables.

“Very good, madam. And for you, sir?”

Max frowned. “I know what I
don’t
want.”

“And what would that be?” Starch narrowed his eyes down a long nose at Max.
He probably doesn’t get that look of disapproval pointed at him very often.

“I don’t want anything bruschetta, frittata, polenta or Florentine.”

Starch sniffed as he gathered the menus and tucked them under his arm. “Might I recommend the New York strip steak
without
the piquant Pepper Coulis that normally accompanies it?”

“That sounds more like it.” Max rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Rare with a shot of hot sauce, a baked potato, plenty of sour cream, and a house salad with ranch dressing.”

Pokering up even more, Starch gestured toward Roger at the next table. “And for the other gentleman?”

“You want the same?” Max asked.

The cameraman held up his ham-sized hand, then pointed at Max before answering. “The station’s paying, right?”

Max nodded. “Yep, live large.”

Roger’s gleeful smile exposed a mischievous dimple. “If the steaks are less than ten ounces each, I’ll have two.”

“Very good, sir.” With a small patronizing bow, Starch faded away from the table.

After a moment’s silence, Annabel ventured a new topic. “Has my insurance company contacted you about fixing your car yet?”

“Yep, I’ll have the Porsche back by Tuesday.” He leaned forward, warming to the subject. “I got three appraisals, but they approved my first choice. A buddy of mine from—”

He stopped mid-sentence as a new presence appeared between them. At Max’s right elbow, a sommelier cradled a towel-wrapped bottle of champagne. The sober-faced young man with his longish hair slicked back, a soul patch, and wire-rimmed glasses set flutes in front of them. Glancing at Max, the sommelier did a double take.

“Hey, dude, aren’t you Max Williams?” He unbent with an enthusiasm that contradicted the waiter’s steely behavior. “I’ve been following that story you broke last month about the county parks commissioner skimming funds. My wife used to work for the parks department and she always said there was something fishy going on. They fired her for being a squeaky wheel. Now, that it’s more than just her word against theirs, maybe she’ll get her job back.”

“I hope she does.” Max transformed himself into his outgoing public persona and shook the sommelier’s outstretched hand. “Keep me posted, okay? I might do a follow-up.”

“I’ll do that. Could I get your autograph? My wife will never believe I met you. You’re her hero.”

“Sure, what’s your name?” He squinted to read the nametag in the dim light.  “Alvin, right? You want me to sign this to you or your wife?”

Watching Max scribble his signature across a wine list, Annabel wasn’t sure if Alvin or the Dom Perignon would bubble over first. The sommelier sobered into business-like demeanor after the maitre d’ reappeared and signaled him to get on with business. Alvin expertly uncorked the bottle and poured. Max conducted the ritual tasting with a frown, then said something to Alvin in an undertone. The sommelier nodded and bowed himself away.

Annabel eyed the champagne. She hadn’t tasted any since her wedding night eight years ago. She hadn’t much liked it then. “Who ordered this?”

“Not me. I can’t stand the stuff. I asked Alvin to bring me a scotch.”

“I ordered it,” Roger piped up from behind his camera. “I want a shot of you two clinking glasses. The bubbles make an interesting effect in the candlelight. Raise your glasses and make a toast, Max.”

Annabel expected him to refuse or ignore the direction, the way he had with the kiss. But without further prompting, he held his flute aloft. “Congratulations on the Community First nomination. May the best project win.”

She raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked and sipped. The Dom tasted crisp and refreshing. Annabel sipped again.

“Have you seen any of the other entries?” he asked in the first unsolicited comment he’d made since they’d been seated.

“Sure. They’re pretty good.”

“But not as good as ours.” He smiled. Charismatic, but smug.

She hoped to deflate his ego a little. “Not as good as
mine
.”

He didn’t make a sound, but the squaring of his shoulders revealed her comment had hit a nerve. “Why is yours the best?”

She sipped her drink and let the bubbles dance around her mouth. Amazing how something so fizzy managed to slide down her throat so smoothly. She sipped again, mentally reviewing the competition. “Randall’s entry is about cleaning up the river. It’s good, but a similar topic won last year. I don’t think this one’s good enough to repeat.”

One of Max’s long, lean fingers circled the rim of his glass. “Same thing about Harris’s piece on police brutality.”

Annabel nodded. “The dark horse is Lynn Dorey’s entry on the Arts’ Commission. She came up with a fresh angle on that, and she’s got a solid reputation.”

“No more solid than yours at Lasting Productions.”

Flustered by the unexpected compliment, she reached for her champagne flute again and found it empty. Without waiting for her to ask, Max refilled her glass.

“If yours is the best, and Lynn’s is next, where do you rank mine?” Max nodded his thanks as Alvin placed a scotch on the rocks in front of him, then delivered a beer to the cameraman.

“I wish I could rank it last, but you’re the big name on the slate. It’s impossible to discount you. The station you work for carries a lot of clout, too.”

“But you don’t think much of my report?” Despite the seeming ease he exhibited while sipping his drink, his eyes glinted at her darkly.

She felt more comfortable with him and thirstier by the minute. “I don’t consider it as
weighty
as the others.”

“What are you basing your opinion on?”

“The tit-illating subject matter?” She winced over the terrible pun.

“I see. The topics of breast reduction and implant surgery don’t meet your high standards.” His eyes definitely flashed in the glow of the candles. “A subject doesn’t have to be boring or dull to be important, you know.”

She was surprised he seemed as defensive of his work as she would be if he belittled hers. From his reputation, she’d assumed his interest lay in the publicity or the acclaim, not the achievement.
Had she judged him unfairly?

“Aside from boosting your station’s sweeps ratings, what were the benefits of your piece for Cincinnati?” she asked. “That’s the yardstick the panel of judges use to select the winner.”

“It caused the butcher performing botched surgeries to lose his medical license, and it convinced a jury to convict him of malpractice.” Max’s intensity revealed his satisfaction in the accomplishment.

Her conscience twitched for underestimating his project as her heart sank. She moved his entry up a notch, even though she still doubted his motives. “But mostly you did it so you could interview exotic dancers, right?”

“Of course. For my money, there aren’t nearly enough stories on the news about strippers.” One side of his perfect mouth turned up in a self-derogatory smile. “What about yours?”

“
Challenging Destiny
follows twenty promising students through four years at an inner-city high school. We documented their relative success at surviving the pitfalls they faced on a daily basis, everything from gangs and drug abuse to poverty and questionable SAT scores.”

“I’m familiar with the premise.” He settled back in his chair. “What’s the long-range impact?”

“The United Way is using
Challenging Destiny
in its pledge drive this year.” Her attempt at modesty failed as her cheeks warmed with pride and her smile stretched wide. “And our state representative showed it to the Ways and Means Committee to request an increase in the education budget for latchkey programs.”

He pursed his lips in a low whistle. “Impressive.” He clinked his glass with hers again. “That should wow the judges.”

“I hope so.” Looking down, she discovered her appetizer. When had that arrived?
Starch was a sneaky little snob, wasn’t he?
She scooped up a bruschetta and bit off a corner. “Would you like a piece?”

“Maybe later.” He smiled and plucked a breadstick out of the basket. Nipping off a crunchy end, he chewed it with relish. Apparently he ate with full-on enjoyment, the same way he did everything.

“I’ll have one of those funky tomato things,” Roger said to Annabel.

She pulled her gaze away from Max’s and offered the plate to the cameraman. “Help yourself.”

Finishing off one bruschetta, she reached for another. The salty olive and anchovy spread increased her thirst, and she detoured toward her glass. Tapenade and champagne paired for a wonderful combination, she discovered.

“Why does winning mean so much to you?” Max propped his chin on a fist.

Avoiding his eyes, which seemed entirely too knowing, she dropped her gaze to his tie. If required to describe the entwining pattern on the silk fabric as a Rorschach test, she’d say the two spiraling peach stripes against a charcoal background resembled slender lovers in the night. Very erotic. Almost X-rated. She blinked and focused on his question.

“
You
may have won a lot of professional awards, but I haven’t.” The temperature in the room must have raised a few degrees. She fingered the top button on her jacket. “As a mom working part-time and a lowly documentary editor, it’s not unusual for me to be brought in during post-production. You know my boss Howard Lasting, right? He indicated winning Community First will improve my chances for developing other projects. With Carly going off to college, I plan to devote more time to my career. And increasing my income wouldn’t hurt either. I’d love a promotion to fulltime producer.”