Lisa Jackson - Most Likely To Die

What? Have you lost it?

What are you going to do, buy a Porsche from him to throw him off the scent?

“I didn’t know that was what you did,” she said, buying time.

He shrugged. “That’s what I do. You?”

“I’m an event planner.”

He nodded as if he already knew that.

Had she told him?

She doubted it-but she seriously couldn’t remember.

Right now, under the heat of his gaze, she seriously couldn’t remember much of anything at all.

Oh, yes she could.

She remembered his lips…his mouth…his hands…his skin against hers; his weight, pressing the hard length of his body against hers, into hers…

He remembered, too. She could see it. He was remembering right now.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Dammit. Why was there always this…thing, this connection, between them?

Always?

Talk about an exaggeration.

There was no always where Wyatt Goddard was concerned. It was more like…

Never.

“Did we decide?” the waitress asked breezily, materializing beside their booth again, shattering the moment.

Thank you, Marissa.

Lindsay ordered toast.

“White, wheat, rye, whole grain, pumpernickel…?”

“Whole grain.”

“Butter, margarine…?”

“Butter.”

“On it, or on the side?”

Oh, for God’s sake, it’s just toast! she wanted to scream, the distraction she had just welcomed now irritating the hell out of her. She wanted to be left alone with Wyatt again.

Truly alone, though.

Not here, in a public coffee shop.

Alone.

She ordered the butter on the side.

Wyatt ordered eggs, toast, bacon, a side of sausage.

“How do you want your eggs?” Marissa began. “Scrambled, over, up, poached-”

“Surprise me,” he cut in, and thrust the menus at her. “On all of it.”

The waitress sent him an amused, knowing smile and left them alone again.

“You might get hard-boiled eggs and pumpernickel toast with margarine,” Lindsay informed him with a grin.

“Sounds good.” He shook his head, reached across the table unexpectedly, and grabbed Lindsay’s hands.

There went her heart again, a ricocheting hockey puck skittering around in her rib cage.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “Really, really good.”

He was a flirt. She knew that; had always known.

This was part of his charming routine, she told herself sternly. Once a womanizer, always a womanizer.

“I haven’t seen anyone from back home in years.”

“Actually, neither have I,” she admitted. “Except my parents. But they don’t even live in Oregon anymore.”

“Where are they?”

“Retired. Near Las Vegas. How about yours?”

“They passed away.”

“I’m sorry.”

A shadow slid over his face. “So am I.” He squeezed her hands, let go. “But people die, and you move on. That’s life, right?”

He’s trying to be cavalier, she thought, and it isn’t working. Not at all.

“Are you married?” she asked, realizing she didn’t even know, grateful he had let go of her hands. Just in case he was.

Not that anything could possibly come of this if he wasn’t. But still…

“No.”

Her hopes soared ridiculously.

“Divorced?” she asked.

“Nope. You?”

“Nope.”

“So you’re…Are you married?”

She shook her head quickly, trying not to smile. But she felt so damned giddy, realizing he was interested in her status.

“I’m surprised,” he said, and poured a generous amount of creamer into his coffee. “I always pictured you married to a great guy, with a couple of kids.”

Kids.

About to sip her own coffee, she set the cup down again hard, the untouched black liquid sloshing over the edge.

“No,” she said tersely. “Not married to a great guy with a couple of kids.”

“Any particular reason why not?”

She shrugged.

“Let me guess. You’re still waiting for Mr. Right to come along. Right?”

She forced herself to look at him. “Isn’t everyone?”

It was his turn to shrug.

You have to tell him.

Now.

She couldn’t just sit here shooting the breeze with him, flirting, letting him think this might be some kind of casual reunion for old times’ sake.

Or worse, the deliberate sparking of an old flame.

He deserved to know the truth before this went any further.

I just wish I didn’t want so badly for it to go further.

Wyatt insisted on picking up the check Marissa had dropped on the table. Lindsay argued, but she let him.

She didn’t argue, however, when he suggested that they take a walk through the park. He had a feeling that wasn’t just because she wanted to delay getting to the office or because it was a beautiful May morning.

Something was weighing on her mind.

Something she hadn’t been able to articulate back in the coffee shop.

A couple of times, he got the feeling that she was about to say something significant.

Other times, he sensed that she was tempted to bolt.

He was glad she hadn’t.

Seeing her again, he felt almost as if there had been a real and enduring relationship between them in the past, something more than a one-night stand.

Of course, there hadn’t been.

Yet somehow, they had reconnected the way a former boyfriend and girlfriend might, distinctly aware of rekindled chemistry, deliberately keeping the conversation light and rooted in the present.

As they ate-or rather, he ate, and she toyed with her toast-he told her about the various places he had lived and about his business. He deliberately downplayed the scope of his success, having realized that she didn’t know, after all. She had called him for a specific reason-that much was obvious from her preoccupied air-but as far as he could tell, his newfound wealth had nothing to do with it.

They made their way from the bustling, pedestrian-and-traffic-clogged corner of Fifty-Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue into the comparative solitude of Central Park.

The warm, brilliant morning sunlight gave way to cooler dappled shade, and he shoved his sunglasses high over his forehead. No real reason to wear them here.

And no real reason to hide. Not anymore.

Birds chirped from leafy overhead branches, bikers and joggers whizzed past, and strangers strolled in their midst…yet essentially, they found themselves alone together.

It was time for Wyatt to find out why Lindsay had reached out to him today.

He looked over his shoulder. There was no one remotely in earshot other than a plump woman pushing an expensive-looking baby carriage along, maybe a hundred feet behind on the path.

She was probably a nanny, he found himself noting idly. The sleek buggy was stereotypical for an Upper East Side family, but the woman pushing it was not your average upscale Manhattan mom. She was too overweight, sloppy looking, unsophisticated.

And you’re stalling, speculating about random strangers instead of focusing on why you’re here with Lindsay.

Breaking the silence that had settled between them, he turned to her at last and said, “So…tell me.”

Her head jerked toward him and he saw that she was startled-and dismayed.

“Tell you what?” she asked slowly.

“Why you called. You don’t want a car from me, I’m assuming…So what is it that you do want?”

She didn’t answer.

Their footsteps crunched on the gravel.

Behind them, he could hear the nanny strolling along, her footsteps padding along the path, the cushy rubber tires of the baby’s buggy almost soundless.

In the distance was the faint sound of street traffic, along with the distinct clopping of a horse’s hoofs and the rumble of the carriage it was pulling, undoubtedly occupied by romantic tourists.