Conner wondered about that. It had been a reporter who’d uncovered his father’s second family and that had hardly helped him or Jane. The only thing that could help in those situations were adults who behaved like adults. Parents who understood that their first duty was to their child. Something his father hadn’t ever understood.
“I’m glad that you found a career that could help you,” Conner said and he meant it. Though it was the one thing that was keeping her from being his.
The car slowed to a halt in front of a walk-up apartment building.
“We’re here,” she said.
Conner grabbed her wrist before she could open her own door to get out. “I’ve tried to get you out of my mind.”
“Me, too,” she said.
He smiled. “Would you please consider negotiating with me again? I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep or even have a moment’s peace until we get this resolved.”
She nibbled her bottom lip and he leaned in to kiss it.
“Stop chewing your lip to bits. You know you want to figure out something between us.”
“I do. Want to come up and have a drink? We can discuss it in my living room instead of in the backseat of your car,” she said.
“Yes, I would like that,” he said.
Randall got out of the Rolls and opened the back passenger door. Nichole slid out of the car. Conner joined her on the sidewalk, telling Randall he could have the rest of the night off.
“Um … how do you plan on getting home?” she asked.
“A cab.”
Conner followed Nichole up the three flights of inside stairs to her apartment. When she unlocked the door and opened it, she stood there, hesitating for a minute. He knew that once they moved forward into her place, something would change between them.
This would be the first time they’d been somewhere private together. Not his mother’s party or his office or his sister’s apartment, but Nichole’s home. And there was the promise of intimacy in that.
Nichole figured that of all the men she’d invited back to her place, Conner was the most dangerous. He wasn’t one of her just-for-fun guys, that was for sure. She couldn’t even blame that on him. She was the one who wanted something more.
She’d like to say it was because of the chemistry between them, but she knew the mere chemistry was for boy toys. What made her want more with Conner was the depth she’d glimpsed in him. She knew there was more to him than met the eye and her subconscious was driving her to uncover this man’s mysteries.
She led him into her apartment, which was a respectable size for New York but not nearly as large or glamorous as Jane’s had been. She put her keys on the table in the hallway and as soon as he entered she closed the door behind him.
“Welcome to my home,” she said. “I’ve had enough alcohol tonight so all I’m serving is soft drinks or coffee.”
“Coffee sounds great,” he said.
“The living room is through there,” she said, pointing down the very short hallway. “Make yourself comfortable while I get the coffee. Do you take cream or sugar?”
“Both,” he said.
She walked away without looking back. She needed to regain her focus, maybe recall that she was trying to find out about him, not tell him every detail of her own life. But she knew that, somehow, if talking to him about her past helped him relax and eventually trust her, then she’d bare it all.
Hell, she’d seriously considered becoming his mistress for the story. Now she thought it might have been easier to sleep with him than to reveal the parts of herself she’d rather keep hidden.
She had one of those Keurig machines and absolutely adored it. She made coffee at all hours of the day and night now, and she could change blends without having to throw out the entire pot of coffee. Willow called the Keurig her dealer. And Nichole had laughingly agreed that coffee was definitely her drug of choice.
She made two cups in the matching I ♥ New York cups she’d bought when she’d first come to the city as a student. She put them on the serving tray that had been her grandmother’s, then placed the sugar dish and creamer next to the cups, along with spoons and napkins, and finally made her way to the living room.
She’d heard if you didn’t look at a full cup it wouldn’t spill, but the path of coffee stains on her carpet from the kitchen to her home office proved otherwise.
She had expected Conner to be sitting down on the couch or in her recliner. Instead, he was standing up studying the pictures that hung on the wall of her living room. He was in front of a photo of her with her parents on graduation day.
Though he didn’t say anything, she could almost sense that he was remembering what she’d told him about her mom earlier. “Seeing her like that, it’s hard to believe she has any problems.”
“Absolutely,” Conner said. “She looks happy and proud of you. They both do.”
“As I said, I’m an only child so I was always their entire world.”
“That’s good. I can stop thinking of you as the Little Match Girl.”
“Thank God. I never want you to think of me that way. Come and get your coffee,” she said.
She set the tray on the coffee table and then sat down in her recliner so she wouldn’t be seated right next to him. His arched eyebrow told her he knew what she was up to.
He added milk and sugar to his drink while she wiped up the coffee that had spilled out of her cup and pooled on the tray.
“Do you?” he asked, holding up the coffee mug.
“Huh?”
“Love New York?”
“Oh, yes. I do. I was so terrified when I first got here, but that quickly faded,” she said. “What about you?”
“I don’t especially love it. More like tolerate it,” he said. He took a sip of his coffee and then leaned against the back of the couch, crossing his legs.
As he settled in there in her house, Nichole knew the last thing she wanted was for him to go home tonight. She wanted to be curled up next to him now and then make love to him in her queen-sized bed later. But the only way she could do that was if she figured out how to get her story and her man.
She thought about the night and the dinner they’d shared. She hadn’t minded talking about her past when she’d known that it was only Jane, Palmer and Conner who would know about it, but if she’d thought that one of them might blog or tweet about what she’d said she would have felt differently.
“I think I get what you meant when you asked me how I’d feel if everyone read about my personal life,” she said.
“Do you? Given your past, I think you’d want to keep it hidden,” he said.
“That’s what I mean. But most of the people who know me can guess that there is something in my past that keeps me from being in a committed relationship.”
“And that has any bearing on this how?” he asked.
“Give me a second. I’m fiddling around with the problem between us. If we can find a way for me to write the story without asking you any direct questions about your past, would that be okay?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I thought the golden ticket was me talking about