A Lion After My Own Heart (3 page)

"Why, yes. I'm a member of the press. I'm with the
Boston Globe
. So to be fair, I'll give you five seconds to run."

Alexander cocks his head to one side as he takes me in, from pumps to French twist, and his smile is quizzical, curious. "Run? Why on earth would I want to run from you?"

Did he just say that? My heart tries to do the high jump and collides with the bar. I gulp, fighting to keep my cool expression. "Because. I came to this event with nefarious intentions."

He takes a step closer. The ice clinks in his drink. I could reach out and touch him now. He smells amazing. No cologne, just a masculine scent, clean and enticing. His blue eyes are smoldering, as if embers from a campfire are burning in their depths. "Just how nefarious are we talking, here?"

I smile apologetically. "I'm on the hunt. I'm closing in on my prey."

"Prey?" His smile is dangerous. "I am nobody's prey."

I lower my voice. Not on purpose. It's just that suddenly I can barely breathe. "Oh, yes, you are. You're mine."

Alexander takes another step closer. There are only inches between us now. Where are these words of mine coming from? I'm possessed, insane, speaking as if I were a femme fatale and not a chubby reporter who spends her evenings at home like some kind of shut-in.
It's his eyes
, I tell myself.
There's a sadness there that I have to understand. It's his lips. His everything.

"Alexander!" A voice calls from the lobby, low but pitched to carry. We both look back, and I see a young man in a suit who's beckoning urgently. "Two minutes till you're up!"

Alexander takes a deep breath, then turns back to me. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to regretfully escape your clutches."

My mind races. "An interview. One quick interview. That's all I ask." He bites his lower lip in a way that makes me want to kiss him. I know he knows he shouldn't. An exclusive interview just as he's crafting his message, his platform? "It's the least you can do," I say quickly. "To pay me back for keeping your ferns in line."

He laughs, and it's a warm, golden sound, like sunshine pouring through opened shutters in the late afternoon. "Well, in that case. But nothing on the record." He hesitates, and his eyes narrow just a fraction. "Dinner, tomorrow."

"Sure." He could be proposing we meet in a sewage processing plant for breakfast and I'd agree. "Here's my card. Will you call me?"

He takes it without looking and slips it inside his jacket. "Count on it, Miss Cole." And with that he strides past me, and I turn to watch him cross the lobby, handsome and confident and without a trace of that sadness I saw haunting his face. His aide ushers him into the ballroom and I drift after him but remain at the door. I watch as Alexander climbs up onto the stage to standing applause, hands raised as if asking people to not be so generous, and takes the mike.

His speech is perfect. Short, humorous, but given with real heart and ending on a fighting note that stirs the blood and earns him another round of vigorous applause. The women, I notice wryly, are applauding louder than the men. Alexander smiles broadly, reaches out to shake hands with people who step up to him, and then the lights dim slightly as more upbeat music begins to play. I know how this will play out. People will begin to dance while backroom deals are made, securing larger contributions and campaign promises.

Erin catches sight of me and walks over. "Is everything OK?"

"Oh, not too bad," I say. "I'm having dinner with Alexander tomorrow night."

"Right," says Erin, smiling. "Come on. Let's see if we can get you close."

"No," I say, taking her arm as she moves to lead me into the crowd. "I'm serious. Dinner tomorrow, though the interview is to be off the record."

Erin stares at me, disbelieving, and then her eyes go wide. "Seriously?"

Only then does it really hit me. Dinner. With Alexander Adams, the new mayoral candidate. Forget the story. I'm going to sit across from him for a whole dinner, one on one. What have I done? My eyes go wide with sudden panic. What will I say? How can I keep up my end of the conversation for a whole hour? By telling him about my favorite Netflix series?

"Myra?" Erin takes my arm. "Are you OK?"

"Mostly," I whisper. "Just a little panic attack. A very little one. What will I wear? How can I be witty and charming for a whole hour?"

Erin grins and gives me a squeeze. "You'll do great. But how? How did this happen? And when? Were you passing secret notes all through dinner?"

I laugh weakly and tell her about my attack on the fern and Alexander's subsequent interest. And my lines. Did I really tell him he was my prey? Oh, god. What was I thinking? "I'm certifiable," I tell Erin knowingly. "I said the craziest things to him. I told him I would give him a five-second running start before I attacked."

Erin snorts with amusement. "Maybe that's why he agreed to dinner. Watch out, Myra. You may find dinner turning into something else."

I startle and then frown at Erin. "Yeah, right. No way." Erin waggles her eyebrows, and I thwap her arm. "No way!"

"Come on," she says, laughing. "Let's get some more drinks."

I shake my head. The idea of hanging around doesn't appeal at all. I'm overwhelmed as it is. And - well, I don't want him to see me just standing there with a drink in my hand. Instinct tells me to leave, to let him think about me without seeing me around. "No, I'm going to head out. But thank you, Erin. A million times over."

Erin smiles that wonderful smile of hers again. "You're welcome. Promise me you'll tell me how tomorrow goes."

"Oh, sure. I haven't done any disaster reporting before, but tomorrow's as good a time to start as any."

Erin snorts again and kisses my cheek. I head back to the coat check, grab my overcoat, and step out into the freezing Boston night. I still can't believe it. All the way home in the cab, I keep telling myself:
I'm having dinner with Alexander Adams. Tomorrow night. I can't believe it!

God help me.

Chapter 3

Now, I'm a real professional. When push comes to shove, I'm not afraid to do some real work. Which is why I hit the office at eight the next morning, a cup of joe in hand the size of a plant pot. I smile and wave at my co-workers, then get to work researching Mr. Alexander Adams. I'm going to know more about him by the time we have dinner than the IRS.

Except... after a few hours of research, I keep coming up with a big blank. There's no information on him dating back more than thirteen years ago. It's as if he stepped out of the wilderness when he enrolled at Harvard. I call their admissions office on the off chance they're willing to share his application, but a) they're closed and b) I know they never would. Where did he go to high school? Where was he born? Why is there such a huge, gaping hole in his past?

Most people would be dismayed at hitting such a wall. Me? I love it. For me, there's nothing like a challenge. So I start calling around. Over the years of being one crazy-dedicated reporter, I've established a surprisingly large number of contacts. Freddie, a patrolman from Southie, confirms that Mr. Adams has no criminal record. No surprise there. I head over to the public library and spend a couple of hours going through old newspapers, scanning for any mention of Mr. Adams. Here he is at a town hall meeting supporting a pay raise for teachers. Here he is at a climate change rally, arguing that we need to be better stewards of our planet. Here he is at the tragedy that struck Boston a couple of years ago, holding hands with a grieving mother.

All that in the last six months. Before then? He was an aide to Samantha Briggs, a previous commissioner. No speeches or quotes then. Before that? He was involved in Roger Delcarte's failed run for mayor as a lower echelon aide. I call both Briggs and Delcarte, and both of them speak in glowing terms of Alexander, recounting his initiative, integrity, and tireless energy. Yet when I ask them about his past, they both draw blanks. Neither of them knows anything about his life before college.

Interesting. I ride the subway up to Cambridge, and go to Harvard's library, where I go through yearbooks until I find Alexander. Class of 2002. I examine his youthful face. It's fascinating. Even then, he had his clear-eyed, confident stare, his regal bearing. I read his quote:

An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.

Martin Luther King, Jr. I nod, and see that he was a member of crew, of the wrestling team, captain of the debate team, led the Model United Nations delegation, and on and on. The list is enormous. Nothing about his past. I then go to the school newspaper and go through all the issues that came out while he was in school. It takes another four hours, but finally I strike gold. An article was written about a dozen seniors who had scored jobs in politics, and one of them is Alexander Adams. In his little profile, I finally catch a name:
Honeycomb Falls
. His hometown.

I grab my phone and Google it. There: a small town in Western Mass, tiny population, almost on the border with Vermont. Some photographs show an idyllic place, the kind of small town that most politicians describe when they talk about 'Main Street'. It's actually really cute.

I have to admit I'm disappointed. For all the secrecy, I'd kind of expected something sordid, like his having been raised by a cult or something. Huh. Well, I guess I'll ask him about his childhood when I see him tonight.

I sigh and look at my phone. My heart tries to lurch out of my chest in sudden panic. I have only two hours to go! As if on cue, my phone rings with a Boston number. I answer, breath choking in my throat. "Hello?"

"Ms. Cole?" It's almost weird to hear Alexander's voice after researching him all day. I feel vaguely like a stalker.

"Mr. Adams. You called."

"Are you still available tonight for dinner?" Ooh, his voice. I cross my legs and squeeze.

"I am."

"Wonderful. How does Dorsia sound, at eight?"

"Dorsia? Wonderful. Great! I'll see you there." Dorsia. That's the most exclusive restaurant in Boston right now. I know about it in much the same way people know about insanely gorgeous hotels in the Maldives.

"I'm looking forward to it, Ms. Cole. Goodbye." And the line goes dead.

I feel wrung out. Dorsia! Alexander Cole! Two hours? I leap to my feet, grab my purse and notebook, and literally run out of the library toward the subway.

Again I'm dropped off by a cab, and while I'm wearing last night's fabulous overcoat, this time around I'm wearing a beige sweater over a pair of black slacks. I've also opted for flats; I don't trust myself in heels around Mr. Adams. I hop out of the car, pay the fare, then turn to Dorsia. It's downtown, windows lit up with gold light that shows every table occupied, a flotilla of waiters weaving amongst them, carrying dishes and bottles of wine. I stride up to the front door, slip gratefully into the warmth within, and step up to the concierge.

"Table for two. Under Mr. Adams?"

The man's eyes actually go wide, and then he almost bows and gestures that I should follow him. We head to the back of the restaurant, and I immediately spot Alexander as he rises to greet me. Some part of me, the cynical side that's grown used to dealing with self-important men, expected him to be half an hour late. The fact that he's already here is impressive.

"Ms. Cole. Thank you for joining me." His voice. I need to record it and then play it for hours on end so that I can get over its effect on me. I need immunity. 'Cause right now I feel like melting into a simpering puddle. How can it be so rich and deep and masculine?

He helps me slip out of my overcoat, and I enjoy the sensation of having a gorgeous man being so courteous, his fingertips brushing my shoulders as I step free. "Actually, I believe I should be thanking you," I say as he pulls out my seat. I lower into it, and then smile up at him. "After all, I was the one who requested this interview."

Alexander sits across from me, and I have a long, aching moment to drink him in by candlelight. His gold hair glints and gleams as if it's burnished, and his blue eyes seem to devour me. My mouth goes dry and my pulse begins to race. His eyes are inhumanly gorgeous, a rich cobalt blue that speaks of intelligence, passion, and hunger. His mouth is wide and sensitive, and I almost imagine I can see a corona of light glowing behind his head. How the heck am I supposed to write an unbiased profile on him?

"I'm your willing prey, then."

Something about him loosens my tongue and makes me bold. "You're not afraid of my claws, then?"

"Afraid?" He leans back as the waiter approaches and presents him with the wine list. "Should I be, Ms. Cole?"

Shivers run down my spine at hearing my name come from his lips. I watch him as he points out a bottle to the waiter and turns back to me. "I'm a reporter, Mr. Adams. You're safe as long as you're not hiding anything... salacious."

"Salacious?" He leans forward. The air between us is crackling. I've never felt this kind of chemistry with a man so quickly. It's as if the candle at the center of the table is burning up all the oxygen. I feel lightheaded. God knows what the wine is going to do to me. "I'm a mayoral candidate, Ms. Cole. I'm a clean, sober, principled man. I'm afraid you'll find me very boring."

"Hardly," I say before I can stop myself. The waiter steps up, preventing me from just telling him outright how hot he is. The bottle is presented, then the cork, then the wine is poured into the glass. The few men I've been on dates with - is this a date? - usually make wry faces, as if they're amused by this old tradition, but Alexander handles himself with dignity as he inhales the bouquet and then nods appreciatively to the waiter. A dark red wine is poured into my voluminous glass, and the bottle set to one side. I pick up the glass and inhale. Ah, divine. Raspberries, old leather, a hint of dark chocolate. I glance at the bottle. A pinot noir.

Alexander is watching me as I sip the wine. I suddenly feel like I'm being judged. The wine slips over my tongue, and I can't help it, I let out a small, appreciative moan. Alexander's eyes narrow a fraction, and a predatory glint enters his eyes. Did my moan turn him on just a little? This wine is several grades above my usual quality. It's amazing. If I could afford this kind of wine, I'd have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner.