Linda Miller - Mixed Messages

Mark’s response took only seconds to appear. “That’s what I like,” it jibed. “A rookie who knows how to heed the voice of experience.”

“Thank you, Ann Landers,” Carly typed succinctly. “Good night, and goodbye.” With that, she shut down the system, gathered up her things and left the room.

Somewhat to her disappointment, there were no computer messages from Mark the next day or the one after that, and he didn’t appear in any of the staff meetings, either.

Carly told herself she was relieved, but she was also concerned. She worried, at odd moments, about Mark’s undercover assignment with the police. A thousand times a day she wondered how soon word would leak out if something went wrong…

A full week had passed when she encountered Mark again, at a media party in the ballroom of a downtown hotel. He was wearing jeans, a lightweight blue sweater and a tweed sports jacket while all the other men sported suits, and he still managed to look quietly terrific.

His eyes flipped over Carly’s slinky pink sheath, and instantly her nipples hardened and pressed against the glimmering cloth. “Hi,” he said, and the word was somehow intimate, bringing back Technicolor memories of the incident on her kitchen counter.

Carly’s cheeks went as pink as her dress, and she folded her arms in self-defense. “Well,” she said acidly, “I see you survived the crack raid.”

Mark took hold of her elbow and gently but firmly escorted her through the crush of television, radio and newspaper people toward the lobby. “We need to talk.”

Carly glared at him. “I think it would be best if we just communicated through our computers. Better yet,” she added, starting to move around him, “let’s not communicate at all.”

He captured her arm again, pulled her back and pressed her to sit on a bench upholstered in royal-blue velvet. He took a seat beside her and looked into her eyes, frowning. “What did I do now?”

She straightened her spine, drew a deep breath and let it out again. “That has to be the most obtuse question I’ve ever heard,” she said stiffly.

“I doubt it,” Mark retorted, before she could go on to say that she didn’t appreciate his criticism and his nonchalant efforts to get her fired. “Considering that you’ve probably been asked things like, ‘How do you walk without your tiara falling off?’ and ‘What contribution do you think tap dancing will make to world peace?”’

Carly leaned close to him and spoke through her teeth. “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Hotshot Pulitzer Prize Winner, if you would stop making comments about my title!”

His wonderful, damnable brown eyes twinkled. “Okay,” he conceded, “just answer one question, and I will.”

Carly was cautious. “Fair enough,” she allowed huffily. “Ask away.”

“What was your talent?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“In the pageant. When the other semifinalists sang and danced and played stirring classical pieces on the piano, what did you do?”

Carly swallowed and averted her eyes.

Mark prompted her with a little nudge.

“I twirled a baton,” she blurted out in a furious whisper. “Are you satisfied?”

“No,” Mark replied, and even though he wasn’t smiling, his amusement showed in every line of his body. “But I’ll let the subject drop for the time being.”

“Good,” Carly growled, and sprang off the bench.

Mark pulled her back down again. “Lighten up, Barnett,” he said. “If you can’t take a little ribbing, you won’t last five minutes in this business.”

Carly’s face was flushed, and she yearned to get out into the cool, crisp May evening. “So now I’m thin-skinned, as well as incompetent.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I never said you were incompetent, but you’re damned cranky. I can’t figure out which you need more—a good spanking or a very thorough session on a mattress.”

That was it. Carly had reached the limit of her patience. She jumped up off the bench again and stormed back into the party.

She would have preferred to walk out of that hotel, get into her car and drive home. But she knew contacts were vital, and she wanted to meet as many people as she could.

She stayed an hour and a half, avoiding Mark, passing out and collecting business cards. Then she put on her shiny white taffeta blazer and headed for the parking lot.

She had unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel before she realized that Mark was sitting in the passenger seat. Surprise and fury made her gasp. “How did you get in here? This car was locked!”

He grinned at her. “I learned the trick from Iggy DeFazzio, a kid I interviewed when I was doing a piece on street gangs.”

Carly knew it wouldn’t do any good to demand that he leave her car, and she wasn’t strong enough to throw him out bodily. She started the ignition and glared at him. “Where to, Mr. Holbrook?”

“My place,” he said with absolute confidence that he’d get his way.

“Has anybody ever told you that you are totally obnoxious?”

“No, but my teenage niece once said I was totally awesome, and I think she meant it as a compliment.”

Carly pulled out into the light evening traffic. “You must have paid her.”

Mark spoke pleasantly. “Pull over.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t grovel and give directions at the same time,” he replied.

Wondering why she was obeying when this man had done nothing but insult her since the moment she’d met him, Carly nonetheless stopped the car and surrendered the wheel to Mark. Soon they were speeding down the freeway.

“So,” he began again brightly, “when you were twirling your baton, were the ends on fire?”

Carly reached out and slugged him in the arm, but a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Is this your idea of groveling?”

He laughed. “Meet anybody interesting at the party?”

“Two or three TV newscasters and a talk-show host,” she answered, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m having dinner with Jim Benson from Channel 37 Friday night.”

Mark’s jaw tightened for just a moment, and he tossed a sidelong glance in her direction. “He’s a lech,” he said.

“If he gets out of line,” she replied immediately, “I’ll just hit him with my baton.”

Mark cleared his throat and steered the car onto an exit. “Carly—”

“What?”

“We got off on the wrong foot, you and I.”

Carly folded her arms. “Whose fault was that?”

He let out a ragged sigh as they came to a stop at a red light. “For purposes of expediency,” he muttered, “I’ll admit that it was mine. Partly.”

“That’s generous of you.”

The light changed, and they drove up a steep hill. “Damn it,” Mark bit out, “will you just let me finish?”

Carly spread her hands in a motion of generosity. “Go ahead.”

He turned onto a long, curving driveway, the headlights sweeping over evergreen trees, giant ferns and assorted brush. “I have a lot of respect for you as a person.”

“I haven’t heard that one since the night of the junior prom when Johnny Shupe wanted to put his hand down the front of my dress.”

The car jerked to a stop beside a compact pickup truck, and Mark shut off the ignition and the headlights. “I get it,” he snapped. “You’re mad because I only took you part of the way!”

Carly wanted to slap him for bringing up the kitchen-counter incident, even indirectly, but she restrained herself. “Why, you arrogant bastard!” she breathed instead, clenching her fists. “How dare you talk to me like that?”

He got out of the car, slammed the door and came around to her side. Before she thought to push down the lock, he was bending over her, his lips only a whisper away from hers. “This is how,” he replied, and then he kissed her.