Punchline (3 page)

He discovered right then the limitations of sport coats, jeans and oxford shirts. They did nothing to lessen his instantaneous awareness that Belle was all female.

They didn’t hide his masculine reaction very well, either.

“Excuse me!” she snapped. “Would you please move?”

Darryl sighed. This was not a game he could win, at least not in public. “Why don’t you let me see whatever it is you’re hiding?”

After a brief glare, she whirled, slammed a couple of coins into a box and jerked out a tabloid. He glimpsed the headline as it came flying out: Party Prank Leaves Dozens Dazed. Then Belle spun away, blocking his view of the paper.

“Well?” he demanded. “What does it say?”

“You can read it when I’m done!” She took a determined step forward.

Darryl, who towered at least a foot over Belle, reached over her head, plucked the newspaper from her hands and scanned the article.

“Hey!” Belle grabbed for it. “Buy your own!”

“There aren’t any more.” He held it out of her reach and skimmed through the details. When she stopped
jumping up and down like a frustrated basketball player, he politely lowered it so she could read, too.

Darryl’s body hadn’t entirely forgotten her nearness, but his brain was preoccupied with absorbing the details of what had happened at the press party. It seemed that he and Belle weren’t the only ones who had succumbed to the punch, which had been laced with an aphrodisiac.

Although the victims of the prank had managed to keep it quiet for weeks, eventually a waiter in search of extra income had approached the newspaper. Darryl skimmed on, then suddenly felt the air whoosh out of his chest as if someone had punched him. He handed the paper to Belle and pointed to the final paragraph.

At the same time, he heard Elva announcing her departure. She’d given Darryl a ride from the office, but he couldn’t leave now. “I’ll catch up with you later!” he called.

He and Belle needed to talk. Afterward, he would cadge a ride from her, since their offices were only a block apart.

She read the last sentence aloud, her voice crackling with indignation. “‘Among those seen exiting together were arch-rival editors Belle Martens and Darryl Horak.’ Oh, my gosh!”

“At least they don’t speculate about what happened next,” he offered.

“Has anyone seen this? Can we burn it? Can we smash their printing presses and shoot their staff?” she asked.

“This, from an editor?” Darryl grimaced.

“This paper is nothing but trash!”

“Well, nobody believes the garbage they run in tabloids, anyway,” he said.

She let out a disgusted breath. “Channel 17 believed it. That was no coincidence, Darryl. They were after us today.”

“And they got us,” he observed grimly.

“Belle!” one of the women called across the sand. “You coming?”

“Go on without me!” As her friends departed, she turned back to the tabloid. “This just hit the stands today. We’ve got to coordinate our stories.”

He nodded.

“Nothing happened,” she announced.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“We’ve hardly even met.”

“We hate each other.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” she said.

“I’m not.”

Belle took a deep breath. “You know what? I’m starving. Let’s go eat.” Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she set off down the boardwalk so fast that Darryl had to take extralong strides to catch up.

He couldn’t believe the woman’s nerve. She hadn’t even asked if
he
was hungry. Or maybe she realized that what he was hungry for couldn’t be purchased in a restaurant.

She paused at a souvenir stand to buy a Lakers cap and a pair of cheap sunglasses. “So no one will recognize me,” she said, putting them on. “Look how much trouble we’re in already.”

It wouldn’t, of course, have occurred to her to buy a cover-up for her body, as well, he reflected ruefully.

A half block farther on, Belle led the way into a seafood shanty and ordered fried clams, garlic bread, cottage fries and milk. She paid so fast, Darryl didn’t have time to reach for his wallet, which was probably a good thing, because he suspected she would have challenged him to a duel for such a chauvinist act as offering to pay.

“Milk?” Darryl said. “You drink that stuff?”

“I’ve got a craving.” She retrieved her change and marched toward a booth in the gloom caused by smokedglass windows, leaving him alone at the counter.

There was nothing on the menu that appealed to him: no broiled seafood, no fresh salads. Being a he-man didn’t mean you had to swim in grease, a fact Darryl tried to impress upon his readers, not to mention his macho entertainment editor, Greg Ormand.

Greg didn’t believe it, and the cook at this establishment obviously didn’t, either. But Darryl’s stomach was uttering a series of hopeful rumbles, so he ordered the house specialty of fried catfish and hush puppies and went to join Belle.

As he slipped into the booth, she folded her sunglasses and hat onto the table. “Here’s the story. We left the party together. Then we went our separate ways.”

“What if someone saw you leaving my house?” He ran his fingers through his precision-cut black hair. “Those tabloids pay big bucks to informers. If they find out we lied, it will be obvious why.”

“I suppose so.” Belle drummed bright-red nails on the tabletop. “Okay, so we went to your place and argued, and then I left.”

“The next morning?”

She sighed. “Maybe nobody else will read the item. Maybe we won’t have to explain this.’’

“Belle,” said Darryl. “This is Los Angeles. We have an entire industry, of which we are a part, that feeds on meaningless trivia like this.”

“What rotten luck!” She glared as if he were singlehandedly responsible for their dilemma. “The first man I’ve…indulged myself with since my engagement broke off, and it had to be you!”

“Doesn’t that tell you something?” He knew he was tempting fate, but he enjoyed watching her bosom heave with fury. Especially when it was only restrained by tiny bits of string that threatened to unravel at any moment.

“Doesn’t that tell me what?” she retorted.

“You could have gone home with anyone,” he said. “Subliminally, you must find me attractive.” “How do you know it wasn’t
you
who selected
me?”
she returned, then fell silent as a waiter shuffled over and dumped their orders on the table.

“Would you quit staring at my chest?” Belle snapped at Darryl after the man departed. “You’re making me mad on purpose.”

“But you bristle so picturesquely.”

“If you’re not careful, I’m going to take my food and eat it somewhere else,” she snarled.

“You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He stopped nibbling at his fried catfish, which tasted better than it ought to. “Because you have to give me a ride home. I came with my art director.”

She paused with a forkful of clams halfway to her mouth. “But I came with a couple of women from the office. I was going to ask
you
for a ride.”

She appeared more annoyed by this circumstance than Darryl. Indeed, his continuing exposure to Belle in her state of semiundress was making a return to the office less and less appealing.

“Let’s share a cab,” he said. “We’ll go to my place and you can help me string my kite.”

“Excuse me?”

He reached across the table, grateful for the dark seclusion of their booth, and fingered a bit of yarn poking from the side of her bikini bra. “One tug and we’ll have plenty of string. But I don’t suppose we’ll feel like flying a kite.”

“It’s an old bathing suit. I happened to have it in my desk,” she snapped. “If you’re so in love with it, I’ll have it delivered to your office.”

“It won’t be the same without the contents,” Darryl protested.

Belle dropped her fork with a clang. “For your information, these aren’t contents, this is my own personal body!”

“And a very nice half-naked one, too.”

“Everybody dresses this way at the beach!”

“Besides, I know what you look like without it.” He kept his voice low enough so no one else could hear. “How about a rematch?”

She choked as if too many words were fighting to escape at once.

Someone opened the restaurant door, bathing them in a burst of sunlight. Darryl leaned back, delighted by the scene before him: Belle sputtering in fury, while the bright light turned her hair and eyes into red, amber and gold fireworks.

“Don’t you see, it’s perfect,” he teased. “We could have the ideal relationship—physical, intense and forgotten as soon as we’re out of each other’s sight. Maybe once a week, until we get bored. What do you say?”

He didn’t know why he kept teasing her, except that it was fun, and he couldn’t wait to hear what she would say next.

“Call someone to pick you up,” she managed to gasp after several speechless moments. “Make sure he has a car roomy enough to accommodate your swelled head!”

With that, she clapped on her hat and sunglasses, picked up her tray and went to sit by a window.

A
S SOON AS
she’d put a short distance between herself and Darryl Horak, Belle could think of a dozen rejoinders she should have made.

But she knew none of them would have erased the self-satisfied grin on his face. The arrogance of the man appalled her. How could he even suggest that she would want to come near his bedroom again?

He was obviously accustomed to females who gazed adoringly at his thick dark hair and intense eyes and lean hard body, females who agreed to everything he suggested. He deserved a woman like her, Belle reflected, someone who would stand up to him.

She wished she remembered how it had felt to make love to him. Not that she considered Darryl even moderately desirable, Belle reminded herself. She downed the last of her milk and let it ease the queasiness in her stomach.

She simply felt curious about what it had been like to sleep with him. There was nothing unnatural or demeaning in speculating about something you had experienced while in a state of unconsciousness.

Once her curiosity was satisfied, the man would never cross her mind again.

She picked up the tabloid and pretended interest in a space alien story while Darryl went to a pay phone in the corner. When he hung up and strolled toward her table, she transferred her attention to the tabloid’s horoscope, which declared that she must stop letting people walk all over her.

“I called my office and yours,” he said when he reached her. “They’re both sending someone to pick us up.

He moved on. Two college-age girls at the next table twirled their long hair and pursed their lips in admiration as he passed. One uttered a wolf whistle.

Belle didn’t know why she found their behavior so irritating.

A
NITA
R
IOS,
the food editor of
Just Us,
sat on the edge of Belle’s desk eating a chili dog. “Nobody believes that nonsense about you and Darryl. Nobody. Not me, not this chili dog—and if you don’t think it’s alive, just ask my stomach.”

“But has everybody seen it?” Belle demanded, rattling the tabloid. She’d spotted two copies that her staff must have picked up at lunch break.

“Well…yeah.”

Today was definitely turning into one of
those
days. Even getting back to the office had turned out to be a battle.

When Darryl’s macho entertainment editor, Greg Ormand, had showed up at the restaurant to fetch his boss, he’d failed to recognize Belle in the hat and sunglasses and had favored her with a bold stare.

Darryl had grabbed the guy’s arm with unnecessary force, just as Janie Frakes had marched in to rescue Belle. Janie and Greg had recently broken off a fiery relationship, and Janie had witnessed Greg’s leer. She had let him know in no uncertain terms what she thought of his adolescent need to flirt with every female he encountered.

Greg had responded with such adjectives as “controlling,” “jealous,” “frustrated” and “too thin.” The teenagers at the next table had stared in awe at the soap opera.

On the drive back to the office with the angry Janie, Belle had found neither peace nor sympathy. And now, the tabloid had invaded her inner sanctum.

“By the way,” Anita said, downing the last bite of chili dog. “What
did
happen that night?”

“With Darryl?” she asked with what she hoped was innocence. “We both fell asleep. The next morning, we woke up, took one look at each other and screamed.”

That was true, as far as it went.

Anita licked her fingers. “Channel 17 called. They want to interview you about the rock party, the spiked punch and all.”

“And all” meant Darryl. “Not interested,” muttered Belle.

The food editor shrugged. “I’ve never known you to pass up an opportunity for publicity. Must be a reason, hmmm?” And off she went, brown hair curled into what looked to Belle like question marks.

The whole office must be thinking the same thing. And she had to admit, if nothing had happened, why would she turn down a chance for publicity?

She stuck her head out the door. Her secretary, Lisa, gave her a startled glance and began typing at her computer.

On Lisa’s desk lay a copy of the tabloid. On the far side, craning his neck to read it, stood Tom, the gangly but efficient young man who served as traffic director. That all-important job involved shepherding editorial copy, ads, layouts, tear sheets and every other aspect of the magazine to the right people at the right time.

“Call Channel 17,” Belle snapped at the secretary. “Tell them to hightail it over here. And, Tom, I’ll need you in my office.”

T
HE VOLLEYBALL GAME
always started around 6:30 p.m. At quarter past six, when Darryl showed up at the beach
a few blocks from his house, the usual gang of neighborhood sports enthusiasts were grouped in a huddle instead of warming up.

“What’s going on?” he called, and promptly realized he should have known the answer. At the center of their semicircle rested a tiny battery-operated TV set, tuned to the Channel 17 news.

After he’d returned to the office, Darryl had been plagued by sly insinuations and open teasing about Belle Martens and their escapade. Everyone, it seemed, had either read the article or heard about it.

Now, as he approached his friends, he heard the broadcaster say, “And when we return, we’ll have that item you’ve been waiting for—sexy editor Belle Martens talks about her alleged night of love with arch-rival Darryl Horak!”

Several faces turned guiltily toward him. Most of his friends greeted him in an offhand manner phony enough to merit a grand jury indictment.

So Belle had given an interview. Why was he not surprised? He hoped the woman would deny everything. Otherwise…well, otherwise he would have to retaliate.

“Hey, Darryl!” a female voice called, and the attention of everyone was instantly diverted by Miss March, brunette mane bouncing as she jogged. Mindy had swapped her swimsuit for a shrink top and microscopic shorts. Darryl wondered how she’d found him, but then, it was common knowledge that he lived in Redondo.

It might also be a coincidence, but experience had taught him that when it came to ambitious people, there were no coincidences.

“Okay! Here goes!” came a shout around him, and everyone’s attention riveted on the screen.

First came a shot from the beach that afternoon. Belle could be seen ducking behind Darryl, who stood grinning foolishly. Then the picture cut to Belle’s office, a
stylishly decorated but cluttered room enlivened by posters of Keanu Reeves and Denzel Washington.

They hadn’t run one second of his spiel about how
About Town
chose its centerfolds. This didn’t bode well.

In the office, reporter Kate Munro posed beside Belle. “Now, tell me,” she cooed as if they were intimate friends. “That night when you and Darryl Horak staggered out of the party together, you didn’t go play Trivial Pursuit, did you?”

“Any time spent in Mr. Horak’s company would have to be considered a trivial pursuit, but no.” Belle’s chin rose and her eyes sparkled at the camera. “We discussed circulation figures.”

“You mean for your magazines?” Kate’s voice dripped disbelief.

“Certainly not!” chirped Belle. “I mean our personal circulation figures. Which I’m not about to reveal, except to say that mine were a touch more spectacular than his.”

With this remark, she draped her arm around someone off-camera. The camera pulled back to reveal a gangly young man squinting into the lights with an embarrassed grin.

“And this is…?” said the reporter.

“My friend Tom,” Belle announced. She’d changed from her swimsuit into a red sundress that plunged downward on both sides, revealing the outer edges of her breasts.

“What a babe,” said one of the volleyball players.

Mindy wrinkled her nose. “I think she’s tacky. Although if she offered to put me in her magazine, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Shhh!” said everybody else.

That fellow Tom couldn’t even lift the beginner weights at the gym, Darryl sneered silently. No doubt it was an
act, anyway. He was probably either the parking attendant or the janitor.

Darryl just wished Belle hadn’t flung her arm around the guy’s shoulder. She was so short that the gesture pressed her tight against him, and the man’s grin widened until it nearly split his face.

“So you and Darryl Horak swapped war stories and one-upped each other?” probed the reporter. “Even though everyone else who drank the punch swears it induced sexual abandon?”

“Some aversions go too deep to overcome, I guess.” Belle smirked.

The watchers filled the air with hoots and whistles. “Guess she put you in your place!” someone taunted.

The picture switched to the male and female co-anchors. “We’re trying to reach Darryl Horak for a response’, said the man. “We hope to have more for you on the nine o’clock news. And now for the weather…”

Chortling and swapping wisecracks, the volleyball players abandoned their viewing circle and headed toward the net. Mindy joined in, although she appeared more interested in watching-Darryl than the ball.

He didn’t enjoy her attention. He wanted to be left alone to stew about what he’d seen.

So Belle was sticking to the party line, that nothing had happened. Well and good, except that her digs about him couldn’t be allowed to pass without response.

Darryl hated to lose. He particularly loathed being made to look like a jerk on television. And he had no doubt that the marketing director for the megamall would be watching this tiff with great interest.

He put in a call to the TV station from a pay phone, then returned to play a killer game of volleyball. A guy had to work off his frustrations somehow.

The sun was setting over the ocean in a smog-enhanced display of pinks and golds when the camera crew found
him. Sweat soaked Darryl’s black T-shirt, and he could feel the jeans clinging to every muscle in his thighs and calves.

His companions appeared equally wrung out, except for Mindy. Her only indication of a hard workout was that her shrink top appeared to have shrunk even more.

Kate Munro headed toward him, determination overwhelming her obvious distaste at the sand pouring into her pumps. Darryl paused with the volleyball under his arm, and didn’t object when Mindy came to stand beside him.

He would give Belle a taste of her own medicine, he reflected. With any luck, that would be the end of the whole stupid business.

B
ELLE STOPPED AT
a pharmacy on her way home. Her stomach had been bothering her for three days, and she’d run out of antacids.

Stalking down the aisle with a small cart, she mentally reviewed the telecast of herself, which she’d just watched at the office. Working late was par for the course, particularly when deadlines had to be met, and usually she didn’t mind.

But tonight she’d felt like going home and resting. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with the flu.

At least the broadcast had flattered her, according to Janie and Anita, who had also stayed late. Their only regret, voiced after Tom had departed, was that they hadn’t had a more macho specimen on hand.

Oh, well, he’d enjoyed himself, and the point had been made. Belle didn’t need Darryl. She could get any man she wanted.

Except that she didn’t want any of them. Not since her hideously close brush with matrimony the year before. Belle’s thoughts flicked back to that arch-villain of villains, her former fiancé, Fred Lowell.

At first, he’d seemed close to ideal: handsome but not flashy, steady but not dull, financially solvent and totally enamored of Belle.

His occupation as a stockbroker had further endeared him to her. She didn’t want to make the mistake of marrying someone in the public eye. Too many marriages between royal egos disintegrated as careers surged.

Fred had raved about her glamour and had seemed to enjoy escorting her to fancy restaurants. He’d filled her ears with tales of the killings he’d made on the stock market for his clients and, he’d insinuated, for himself. Okay, so Belle hadn’t been wildly in love with Fred, but she’d been wildly in love with the sense of security he brought.

Until the day federal agents had marched him off to face charges of fraud. And selling stocks without a license. And misrepresentation and breach of trust and a bunch of other allegations.

Fred Lowell turned out to be a con man who was participating in the witness protection program after testifying against a drug dealer. He had made the feds look like idiots and Belle feel like a fool, and he got convicted to the tune of a long prison sentence.

The only blessing was that they hadn’t publicly announced the engagement, so she’d been spared the full glare of the news cameras. To the reporters who’d phoned, she had described Fred as a business acquaintance who’d been advising her on investments.

Fortunately, she hadn’t made any. On her salary, she couldn’t afford to.

Belle left the pharmacy with only the vaguest idea of what she’d purchased. She was a disorganized shopper who rarely made lists, and tonight she’d gone down the aisles and through the checkout in a weary and preoccupied daze.

Well, if she’d bought anything she didn’t need, she would donate it to charity.

As she picked up a couple of cartons of Chinese food a block from home, Belle reminded herself that she’d sworn to go on a diet. But she couldn’t handle one tonight. Not when the newscasters had promised to air Darryl’s rebuttal on the nine o’clock news.

As she pulled into the carport of her condo, in a small development tucked among the houses and apartments of the Palms area, she checked her watch. Half an hour to go She was unlocking the front door when her neighbor,

Moira McGregor, poked her head out.

“That was fun today.” Moira was the high-spirited octogenarian who had been among the swimsuit participants. “Which issue will the picture be in?”

“Next May.” Belle propped the door open, sacks clutched in her arms. “Thanks for coming.”

“I saw you on the news,” said her neighbor. “I don’t care what anybody says, I hope you banged that man’s brains out. He’s a good looker, even if he is stuck on himself, and you deserve a little fun.’’ With that startling remark, the old gray head disappeared into the condo.

Belle staggered into her living room and dropped the pharmacy sacks on the coffee table. One flopped onto its side and the contents spilled out, giving her a clear view of what she’d purchased.

Now why had she bought sunscreen with a protection factor of fifteen when she meant to get twenty-five? And she didn’t need conditioner, she needed mousse.

Most perplexing, how could she have thrown in a pregnancy test when she’d been reaching for the manicure set right next to it?

With a grimace of disgust, Belle carted her Chinese food into the dining area.

As she downed the aromatic shrimp and beef with broccoli, she reflected that she ought to finish decorating the condo. She’d purchased it three years ago, only to watch real estate prices plummet in Southern California.

Since Belle hadn’t intended to sell the place in the near future, the decline in value of her condo had had no immediate effect except to make her feel poor. Therefore, instead of consulting an interior designer, she’d relied on her own taste in picking up a few items here and there.

Unfortunately, she tended to fall in love with individual objects without considering how they fit into the overall scheme. As a result, a Regency sofa reigned over a modern brass-and-glass coffee table and a huge Oriental vase full of dried pampas grass.

Belle had failed to pull the whole thing together, and had even worsened the effect by adding an inexpensive Persian carpet and an armoire picked up at a garage sale in Beverly Hills. And her ever-expanding collection of books was crammed into makeshift shelves supported by cinder blocks.