invited.
“I… I… ”
He sprang lithely to his feet and crossed the room to stand in front of her, wanting to make himself clear. “This is not a proposition,” he explained. “Not exactly,” he added. As much as he would have liked to drag her off to his lair and ravish her, he found that he wanted more than that. Linda Lucas wasn’t a scintillating companion. Liv was. He didn’t only want to go to bed with her. He wanted to talk with her, tease her, listen to her, touch her.
“What is it, then,” she asked, “if it’s no t a proposition?” She wet her li ps nervously.
“A simple request for your company at dinner. At your place or mine, because I don’t like the notoriety of going out. That may sound conceited—it probably is conceited—but I can’t ever seem to get a meal in a restaurant without giving autographs or having some starstruck waitress drop soup in my lap. And, well, I’d just like to be alone with you.” He gave her one of his famous grins, but it didn’t seem faked . Rather it seemed spontaneous, special, just for her. As if he’d never smiled at another woman. And if you believe that, he'll sell you the Brooklyn Bridge, she thought. But it didn’t stop her giving in.
“Your place,” she told him, more daring than she would have thought possible. “It’ll be a nice change from mine.”
“Te rr ific. I’ll cook. You relax.” He was bundling her out the door as if he thought she'd change her mind, reaching behind him long enough only to grab his battered suitcase, which she had avoided mentioning ever since she’d seen it in her living room that morning. Good, she thought now, relieved, at least he isn’t intending to spend the night in my bed. Fears quieted, however temporarily, she started to relax.
“You go in,” Joe told her as he drove them to the supermarket parking lot She looked at him, puzzled, and he gave an embarrassed shrug. “I’d probably cause a riot,” he explained, red-faced.
He might, too, she realized as she pushed her cart up to the check-out counter and saw his face staring at her from one of the weekly magazines. What would the checker think if Joe Harrington himself plunked down two steaks, potatoes, lettuce, peppers and tomatoes in front of her? Liv picked up the magazine and flipped through it.
There he was with his arm around lovely starlet Linda Lucas at some Beverly Hills party. And there was another shot of him with producer Luther Nelson, who was trying to get him to agree to star in another film as adventurer hero, Steve Scott. On the next page she saw a helicopter view of his “hideaway” above Malibu. Lord, Liv thought, staring at it, what does he need a place here for? She scanned the article as the checker rang up her purchases. It didn’t tell her anything about Joe Harring ton that she didn’t already know, being only a rehash of earlier articles set up with a few new photos. Only the last sentence hung in her mind: “Harrington’s a man of mystery, a very private man whose public antics on and off screen have led millions to think they know him well, when, in fact, they don’t know him at all.”
True, true, true, Liv thought, gathering up her purchases and stepping back into the heat of the lovely June evening. How many millions would guess that at this moment the famous Mr, Harrington was sitting in a rusty VW bus, nose buried in a three-month-old Soccer Digest , waiting for nobody-reporter and mother of five, Olivia James, so he could take her down to his rented house and cook her dinner?
“Hi. Took you long enough.” He looked up giving her a warm, friendly smile that made her glow.
She handed him the bags and climbed in “I know. But not as long as you would have taken. Nobody asked for my autograph.”
“True.” He peered into the sacks. “What’re we having?”
“Steak, potatoes, salad. Can you manage that?”
“Definitely. I’m a whiz. Especially good at hash browns. I hope you don’t want
“I… I… ”
He sprang lithely to his feet and crossed the room to stand in front of her, wanting to make himself clear. “This is not a proposition,” he explained. “Not exactly,” he added. As much as he would have liked to drag her off to his lair and ravish her, he found that he wanted more than that. Linda Lucas wasn’t a scintillating companion. Liv was. He didn’t only want to go to bed with her. He wanted to talk with her, tease her, listen to her, touch her.
“What is it, then,” she asked, “if it’s no t a proposition?” She wet her li ps nervously.
“A simple request for your company at dinner. At your place or mine, because I don’t like the notoriety of going out. That may sound conceited—it probably is conceited—but I can’t ever seem to get a meal in a restaurant without giving autographs or having some starstruck waitress drop soup in my lap. And, well, I’d just like to be alone with you.” He gave her one of his famous grins, but it didn’t seem faked . Rather it seemed spontaneous, special, just for her. As if he’d never smiled at another woman. And if you believe that, he'll sell you the Brooklyn Bridge, she thought. But it didn’t stop her giving in.
“Your place,” she told him, more daring than she would have thought possible. “It’ll be a nice change from mine.”
“Te rr ific. I’ll cook. You relax.” He was bundling her out the door as if he thought she'd change her mind, reaching behind him long enough only to grab his battered suitcase, which she had avoided mentioning ever since she’d seen it in her living room that morning. Good, she thought now, relieved, at least he isn’t intending to spend the night in my bed. Fears quieted, however temporarily, she started to relax.
“You go in,” Joe told her as he drove them to the supermarket parking lot She looked at him, puzzled, and he gave an embarrassed shrug. “I’d probably cause a riot,” he explained, red-faced.
He might, too, she realized as she pushed her cart up to the check-out counter and saw his face staring at her from one of the weekly magazines. What would the checker think if Joe Harrington himself plunked down two steaks, potatoes, lettuce, peppers and tomatoes in front of her? Liv picked up the magazine and flipped through it.
There he was with his arm around lovely starlet Linda Lucas at some Beverly Hills party. And there was another shot of him with producer Luther Nelson, who was trying to get him to agree to star in another film as adventurer hero, Steve Scott. On the next page she saw a helicopter view of his “hideaway” above Malibu. Lord, Liv thought, staring at it, what does he need a place here for? She scanned the article as the checker rang up her purchases. It didn’t tell her anything about Joe Harring ton that she didn’t already know, being only a rehash of earlier articles set up with a few new photos. Only the last sentence hung in her mind: “Harrington’s a man of mystery, a very private man whose public antics on and off screen have led millions to think they know him well, when, in fact, they don’t know him at all.”
True, true, true, Liv thought, gathering up her purchases and stepping back into the heat of the lovely June evening. How many millions would guess that at this moment the famous Mr, Harrington was sitting in a rusty VW bus, nose buried in a three-month-old Soccer Digest , waiting for nobody-reporter and mother of five, Olivia James, so he could take her down to his rented house and cook her dinner?
“Hi. Took you long enough.” He looked up giving her a warm, friendly smile that made her glow.
She handed him the bags and climbed in “I know. But not as long as you would have taken. Nobody asked for my autograph.”
“True.” He peered into the sacks. “What’re we having?”
“Steak, potatoes, salad. Can you manage that?”
“Definitely. I’m a whiz. Especially good at hash browns. I hope you don’t want
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