Vanessa shut off the answering machine and dialed the Harmons’ home number. Janet answered the phone.
“About dinner at DeAngelo’s,” Vanessa said, after saying hi. “Am I being set up to meet Mr. Macho, or what?”
Janet laughed. “I take it you’re referring to Nick?”
“And you’re hedging,” Vanessa accused.
“Okay, yes—we want you to meet Nick. He’s a darling, Vanessa. You’ll love him.”
“That’s what you said about that guy who wanted to take me parking,” Vanessa reminded her friend. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
“He’s nothing like Parker,” Janet said gently. She could be very perceptive. “It isn’t fair to write Nick off as a loser without even meeting him.”
The encounter with Parker had inclined her toward saying no to everything, and Vanessa knew it. She sighed. She had to be flexible, willing to meet new people and try new things, or she’d become stagnant. “All right, but if he turns out to be weird, Janet Harmon, you and Paul are off my Christmas-card list for good.”
That damned sixth sense of Janet’s was still evident. “The appointment with Parker and his attorney went badly, huh?”
Vanessa took a steadying sip of her tea. “He’s going to publish that damned book, Janet,” she whispered, feeling real despair. “There isn’t anything I can do to stop him, and I’m sure he knows it, even though he seems to feel some kind of crazy need to win me over to his way of thinking.”
“The bastard,” Janet commiserated.
“I can say goodbye to any hopes I had of ever landing a job as a newscaster. I’ll never be taken seriously.”
“It’s late, and you’re tired,” Janet said firmly. “Take a warm bath, have a glass of wine and get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”
Exhausted, Vanessa promised to take her friend’s advice and went off to bed, stopping only to wash her face and brush her teeth. She collapsed onto the mattress and immediately fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming that Parker was chewing her cash card and spitting the plastic pieces out on the pitcher’s mound.
She awakened the next morning in a terrible mood, and when she reached the studio complex where the Midas Network was housed, her co-host, Mel Potter, looked at her with concern in his eyes.
A middle-aged, ordinary looking man, Potter was known as Markdown Mel in the telemarketing business, and he was a pro’s pro. He had ex-wives all over the country and a gift for selling that was unequaled in the field. Vanessa had seen him move two thousand telephone answering machines in fifteen minutes without even working up a sweat, and her respect for his skill as a salesman was considerable.
He was, in fact, the one man in the world, besides her grandfather, who could address her as honey without making her hackles rise.
“What’s the matter, honey?” he demanded as Vanessa flopped into a chair in the makeup room. “You look like hell.”
Vanessa smiled. “Thanks a lot, Mel,” she answered. “You’re a sight for sore eyes yourself.”
He laughed as Margie, the makeup girl, slathered Vanessa’s face with cleansing cream. “I see by the papers that that ex-husband of yours is in town to accept an award at his old high school. Think you could get him to stop by the studio before he leaves? We could dump a lot of those baseball cake plates if Parker Lawrence endorsed them.”
Now it was Vanessa who laughed, albeit a little hysterically. “Forget it, Mel. Parker and I aren’t on friendly terms, and I wouldn’t ask him for the proverbial time of day.”
Mel shrugged, but Vanessa had a feeling she hadn’t heard the last of the subject of Parker Lawrence selling baseball cake plates.
Twenty minutes later Vanessa and Mel were on camera, demonstrating a set of golf clubs. Vanessa loved her job. Somehow, when she was working, she became another person—one who had no problems, no insecurities and no bruises on her soul.
The network had a policy of letting viewers chat with the hosts over the air, and the first caller was Parker.
“Hello, Babe,” he said, after carefully introducing himself to the nation so that there could be no doubt as to who he was. “You look terrific.”
Vanessa’s smile froze on her face. She tried to speak, but she couldn’t.
Mel picked up the ball with admirable aplomb. “Thanks, Parker,” he answered. “You look pretty good yourself.”
Even the cameraman laughed at that.
“Giving up baseball for golf?” Vanessa was emboldened to say.
“Never,” Parker answered confidently. “But I’d take ten of anything you’re selling, Baby.”
Vanessa was seething inside, but she hadn’t forgotten that several million people were watching and listening. She wasn’t about to let Parker throw her in front of a national audience. “Good,” she said, beaming. “We’ll put you down for ten sets of golf clubs.”
Parker laughed, thinking she was joking. Vanessa wished she could see his face when the UPS man delivered his purchases in seven to ten working days.
2
The man was impossibly handsome, Vanessa thought ruefully as she watched Nick DeAngelo approach the table where she and the Harmons had been seated. He was tall, with the kind of shoulders one might expect of a former star football player. His hair was dark and attractively rumpled as though he’d just run his fingers through it. But it was the expression in his eyes that took hold of something deep inside Vanessa and refused to let go.
Suddenly Vanessa’s emotional scars, courtesy of Parker Lawrence, got the best of her. She could have sworn they were as visible as stitch marks across her face and she was positive that Nick DeAngelo could count them. Her first instinct was to run and hide.
Grinning, Paul stood to greet his friend. “You survived the flu,” he remarked. “From the way you sounded, I didn’t think you were going to make it.”
A half smile curved Nick’s lips, probably in acknowledgment of what Paul had said, but his gaze was fixed on Vanessa. He seemed to be unwrapping her soul, layer by layer, and she didn’t want that. She needed the insulation to feel safe.
She dropped her eyes, color rising to her cheeks, and clasped her hands together in her lap. In a matter of moments, a decade of living, loving and hurting had dropped away. She was as vulnerable as a shy sixteen-year-old.
“Vanessa,” Paul said gently, prodding her with his voice. “This is my friend, Nick De-Angelo.”
She looked up again because she had to, and Nick was smiling at her. A strange sensation washed over her, made up of fear and delight, consolation and challenge. “Hello,” she said, swallowing.
His smile was steady and as warm as winter fire. Vanessa was in over her head, and she knew it. “Hi,” he replied, his voice low and deep.
The sound of it caressed the bruises on Vanessa’s soul like a healing balm. She was frightened by his ability to touch her so intimately and wondered if anyone would believe her if she said she’d developed a headache and needed to go home to put her feet up. She started to speak, but Janet Harmon cut her off.
“I hear you’re opening another restaurant in Portland next month,” she said to Nick, her foot bumping against Vanessa’s under the table. “Won’t that take you out of town a lot?”
The phenomenal shoulders moved in an easy shrug. Nick DeAngelo was obviously as much at home in a tuxedo as he would be in a football jersey