Kitabı oku: «Moonlight Over Seattle»

Chapter One

NICOLE GLARED AT her living room wall and let out a shriek of frustration.

Toby, a young beagle recently adopted from a rescue center, yipped in concern. Since the front door stood open to let in fresh air, she’d tied his long leash to one of the few chairs in the room.

“Don’t worry, boy,” she said soothingly.

But she made a face at the wall that still glowed green through the two coats of paint. She couldn’t understand why the brilliant shade hadn’t been eradicated by now.

“Is everything all right?” a voice called. A man stood at the open door. He wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt with Harvard printed on the front. A scruffy beard and mustache covered the lower half of his face. Harvard Guy, she mentally tagged him.

“What do you mean?”

Toby trotted over to lean against her leg, straining at the leash. He’d already grown quite attached and affectionate and even let out a small growl of warning.

“I heard someone yelling,” said the man, “but maybe it was somebody else.”

Nicole winced. “It was me, releasing my frustration. I didn’t know anyone else was around.”

The concern faded from Harvard Guy’s face. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him at the moment.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing serious, but I’ve painted twice and can still see the original green.”

“Oh.” He gazed at the wall. “That’s strange. A primer usually takes care of color bleed-through.”

“Primer?”

His eyes widened and Nicole got the impression he thought she was dense. “Yeah. It’s a special first coat used as a sealant.”

“I’m using what the clerk at the store recommended.” She gestured to a stack of paint cans.

Harvard Guy went over and picked up one of the cans and studied it. “Some paint has primer included, but not this one.”

Nicole sighed. Maybe the clerk had assumed she already knew about primer. He had been busy, with a long line of customers.

“I didn’t know—I’ve never tried this before.” Painting was hard work and the remaining green glow meant she had to start all over again. Maybe that was why her parents had always hired someone to do painting at their house, which had left her completely ignorant about the process.

“Really?”

What looked like condescension showed on Harvard Guy’s face, and the sense of familiarity increased.

“The condo I used to own came freshly painted, so it never came up. Anyhow, it was nice of you to check that I was okay.”

“Happy to help, or at least try to.”

“Obviously I’m new here, but from what I’ve seen, that’s what this neighborhood is like,” Nicole said. “Lots of vintage architecture and friendly residents.” She’d met the elementary school teacher who lived next door, and he’d told her about a neighborhood barbecue coming up in a couple of months. A businesswoman two houses over had brought a casserole, and a nurse further down the street had delivered a bouquet of flowers from her own garden.

“You like old homes?”

She nodded. “The Arts and Crafts era is my favorite. This house only mimics the style, but it’s just as well. While I love American Craftsman architecture, I prefer modern kitchens and bathrooms.”

Harvard Guy’s eyebrows rose and the sensation that she knew him hit her again. Maybe if he wasn’t backlighted by the sun coming through the door and windows, it would be easier to say for certain. The “have we ever met before” or “you seem really familiar” comment felt like a cliché... Just as she decided to ask anyway, he spoke again.

“Some critics think Arts and Crafts architecture is passé.”

Nicole narrowed her eyes; he hadn’t insulted her tastes, but was treading close to it. “I’m not bound by the opinions of other people,” she returned calmly.

“Fair enough.” His cell phone rang. “Sorry, I’m expecting a family call.” He hurried outside.

After releasing Toby from his leash so he was free to use his dog door into the fenced yard, Nicole grabbed her purse and an empty can of paint, then headed out herself. Harvard Guy was on the front walkway, talking urgently on his phone. It looked as if it might be a long conversation.

She’d parked on the driveway and he looked at her as she walked to the car. She pointed at the paint can, figuring he’d realize she was going to the store.

“Thanks,” she mouthed. He seemed distracted, but made a gesture of acknowledgment.

When she glanced in the rearview mirror, Harvard Guy was still on his phone and the face above his beard was carved in tense, sharp lines. She realized she hadn’t even gotten his name. But if he lived in the area, she would probably run across him again.

Nostalgia had played a big part in her decision to purchase the house. The Seattle-area neighborhood reminded her of the one where she’d grown up in Southern California—friendly for the most part, with everyone looking out for each other. Not that her family had been home much, particularly after her modeling career had really taken off.

The thought led to remembering again how upset her mother and father had been that she’d quit modeling. You would have thought she was betraying them in some hideous, underhanded way. We handed you a fabulous career and you’re turning your back on it, her mother had wailed.

Jeez, why couldn’t they just want grandchildren like other people? She supposed they were counting on her older sister for that. As a matter of fact, Emily was already pregnant and expecting her first baby.

Patience, Nicole reminded herself. She didn’t have any reason to feel guilty and her parents were starting to come around, anyhow. They were even making recommendations for the agency, though mostly she’d thanked them and ignored their advice. They simply didn’t understand how she and her friends wanted to run Moonlight Ventures. Nicole just hoped she was doing it right. She had regular conference calls with her three partners, and they flew in to help out whenever possible—like Adam had the past few days—but implementation was mostly up to her. And that included working with a reporter over the next several weeks for some magazine articles.

Her phone rang; it was Ashley Vanders, one of the agency’s longtime clients.

“Hi, Ashley,” she said, pulling over to the side of the road. She could have talked while driving, but preferred to focus on what she was discussing. Still, she wasn’t concentrating as much as she would have liked, because Harvard Guy’s face kept intruding.

Was it the strange sense of familiarity, or the tingle of awareness he’d evoked?

* * *

JORDAN MASTERS RETURNED to his condo. It was an ironic twist that he lived relatively close to Nicole’s new home. In fact, he commonly used the nearby fitness trail. The area was popular with new residents in the Seattle area. An old high school pal had moved there, even before Jordan had.

If only he could have managed a more productive first encounter with Nicole. He’d driven over to make a casual contact, to get reacquainted...and lay the groundwork for the articles he was writing for PostModern magazine. He wasn’t sure how Nicole was going to react since Sydnie Winslow had arranged the interviews with Nicole before asking him to do them.

Jordan cursed mentally.

As editor in chief, Syd had turned PostModern into one of the trendiest publications on the market. They were old friends and she’d begged him to do the articles, saying it was ideal since he also lived in Seattle. She’d figured he would have an “in” with Nicole because they’d grown up on the same block in Southern California. Syd was wrong, but after everything they’d been through together in the early days of his career, he hadn’t tried too hard to get out of it.

But that didn’t stop him from wishing he could forget the whole thing and head down to his boat. A sail on Lake Washington would be wonderful. Having the boat was a luxury, but his columns were syndicated in over twelve hundred publications around the world, so he could afford it. Other than traveling and his condo in Hawaii, it was his only serious indulgence.

His notebook was full of subjects he wanted to write about. He commented on everything from food to politics, religion, relationships and animals. Nothing was out-of-bounds. He’d worked his way up through various newspapers and magazines to become a columnist, but he still felt fortunate to have reached the level where he had the freedom to write about what interested him.

Jordan stared at his computer as if it was the source of his problems. He didn’t care if a supermodel dropped out of the fashion scene for a while. Nicole had done it before, whether as a ploy for more money or a publicity stunt, he didn’t know. Either way, he hadn’t paid attention—in fact, he wouldn’t have been aware of her absence or reappearance at all if his mother hadn’t gone on and on about how you couldn’t expect anything better from Paula George’s daughter.

His mouth tightened.

Too bad Mom hadn’t decided she disliked the George family when he was a small kid, instead of later. Then he wouldn’t have gotten hog-tied into doing stuff for “precious” Nicole so often. Lord, everyone had been expected to pamper the little princess as if she was made of spun glass. When she was home, that is. Luckily she’d been gone half the time on modeling assignments.

Still, the past was the past.

Restless, Jordan dropped to the floor and did a dozen pushups, unable to stop thinking about Nicole now that his past was colliding with his present.

After a lazy month in Fiji he was sporting a beard, and they hadn’t seen each other since they were teens, so it wasn’t any wonder she hadn’t recognized him. Syd had suggested he refrain from shaving and see how Nicole responded to a stranger in a casual encounter—would she be pleasant or off-putting? He’d been curious as well, which had kept him from introducing himself immediately, though he hadn’t planned to take it very far.

His cell phone rang again and he pulled it out, hoping it was from his sister, Chelsea. She’d been in her boyfriend’s car when it got broadsided. Her injuries weren’t severe, but he was still concerned.

The number on the display belonged to his editor. He answered, figuring he’d get off quickly if another call came in.

“Hey, Syd,” he said in a dry tone. “What a surprise, you’re checking on my progress.”

“Don’t be a paranoid drama queen.”

Jordan chuckled. Syd was a beautiful woman who’d stormed her way to the top of the magazine publishing world. She was tough as nails and more than one man had mentioned being hot for her in one breath and wishing he “had her balls” with the next.

“All right, but don’t try to micromanage me. It won’t work,” he advised. “What do you want?”

“Have you seen Nicole George yet?”

“Yes, briefly. She was screaming, so I rushed in to see if there was an emergency.”

And practically got knocked on my ass by how gorgeous she is, he added silently. It didn’t make sense that he’d reacted to Nicole that way. She’d been a thorn in his side when they were kids, and he had rarely thought about her since, even when seeing her photo on various advertisements.

“Screaming?” Syd repeated.

Jordan shook himself. “At her living room wall. She didn’t know that primer is necessary to keep paint colors from coming through. What kind of person doesn’t know about using a primer?”

“The kind you’re talking to right now,” Syd returned crisply. “Apparently my husband doesn’t know, either, which must be why we can’t get rid of the spectral purple in our bedroom. He’s on a DIY kick that’s driving me crazy. Listen, you promised to do this with an open mind, Jordan.”

Clearly his diplomatic skills were rusty. “Of course I’ll be open-minded.”

She snorted. “Maybe I should have listened when you told me you might not be the best choice, but having you in the area was too great an opportunity. Did Nicole recognize you?”

“Uh, no. But even without the beard, it’s been almost fourteen years since the last time we met,” he said. “Until I shave, my own sisters could probably pass me on the street without realizing I’m their brother, and Nicole sure didn’t expect to see me at her front door.”

“Okay. What did Ms. George say when you explained who you are beneath the Grizzly Adams impersonation?”

“I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself,” Jordan admitted. “I got a phone call and she hurried out, presumably to get more paint. I’ll shave before my appointment with her on Monday. It was great to let it go in Fiji, but not here.”

“Actually, I think it’s an improvement. Sexy, in a beach bum sort of way. Be sure to have fun with your childhood pal.”

“Hardly a pal,” Jordan growled. “And, by the way, don’t keep calling me. It messes with my tempo.” “You don’t have a tempo. Sometimes I’m not even sure you have a pulse. But don’t worry, I’ve got better things to do than yank your chain.”

Typically, Syd hung up without a goodbye.

Jordan picked up his laptop and tried to focus on his writing. But his mind kept returning to the rush of attraction he’d felt when seeing Nicole that afternoon... something he was determined to ignore.