pretty well for tips.”
From the corner of her eye, Erika caught a swift movement, almost a blur. It was too fast to be any of the club’s members, she thought. They were never in a hurry, not here.
Realization dawned, and she ducked—but it was too late. The photo flash popped directly in her eyes, almost blinding her for an instant.
The photographer held his camera above his head, shaking it in triumph as if it were a trophy. Then he dodged past a determined-looking waiter, out the archway from the lounge into the club lobby, and through the front door to the street.
Denby blinked and said stupidly, “What was that?”
“The Sentinel,” Erika said grimly. “I’d suggest, if you want to claim a tipster’s fee, that you’d better hurry—before the paparazzi beats you to it.”
She turned away, and the waiter who had tried to stop the photographer stepped into her path. “Ms. Forrester, Mr. La Croix asked me to give you this.” He held out a folded sheet of paper that she recognized as club stationery.
For a moment, she’d forgotten all about Felix La Croix and the reason for her lunch date, but the solidity of the heavy sheet of parchment in her hand brought it all back.
The note was brief and to the point. “I’m sure you understand why I didn’t wish to be part of the show. I’ll be in touch when I’ve had a chance to think things through.” It was signed with his initials.
Felix La Croix had been there, witnessed Denby’s little act and opted to walk out. She couldn’t exactly blame him for fading away rather than letting himself be drawn into the scene. At least he’d left a note.
“Will you be coming into the dining room now, Ms. Forrester?” the waiter asked.
Her stomach turned at the very idea of food. “No—thank you, Harry.” She retrieved her portfolio from her chair and her trench coat from the cloakroom, stuffing Felix’s note into her pocket. There was plenty to be done back at the office…
Except that right now she didn’t feel like facing Kelly and fending off questions about how the negotiations had gone and why she was back so early.
She’d go home and lie down, she decided. It was only a few blocks to the apartment complex, and Stephen was guaranteed to have something on hand to settle an unhappy stomach.
But Stephen wasn’t in the office; Amos was. A sandwich lay on the desk blotter, and beside it was a yellow legal tablet filled with scrawled and scratched-out sentences.
Erika checked on the threshold. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She started to back out.
He stood up. “Come in. What can I do for you?”
Her head was still spinning; that must be why she had the sense that he actually sounded friendly. “What hit you? You sound positively civil. Oh, I know. You’ve decided you wouldn’t mind going to that banquet after all—rubbing elbows with publishers and famous authors.”
“I told you, it depends on the benefits. You look as if you just lost your last friend.”
Erika sighed. “Do you have something for heartburn?”
He waved a hand toward the sandwich. “Italian sausage, onion and Swiss cheese. If that doesn’t do it, nothing will.”
“I meant something to treat it, not cause it.” She swayed a little.
Amos seized her arm and guided her toward the wing-backed chair.
“I’m fine, really,” Erika protested. “I just lost my balance, that’s all. I’m not going to faint.”
“In any case, sitting down won’t hurt you a bit. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing much,” she said lightly. “A ghost from the past, paparazzi popping out from the potted plants at what’s supposed to be the most private club in the city, and a business deal gone sour.”
“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t anything important.” He pushed aside the sandwich.
She pointed to the tablet. “Is that your book?”
He frowned at the scratched-out sentences. “A small piece of it.”
“How’s it going?”
“Slowly. Too many interruptions.”
“I could have told you that. This may look like an easy job, but it’s not.”
“Only because Stephen has spoiled all of you.”
“And especially me,” Erika said steadily. “You might as well say it as think it. Though I don’t see why you said I needed a keeper.”
“What you need is a combination ladies’ maid, secretary and bodyguard. It would fall more along the lines of a wife, actually.”
“A wife?”
“Yes, I think that covers it.” He sounded quite pleased with himself.
“And that’s your definition of a wife? My goodness, you have a twisted view of the world…Though come to think of it…”
Something was nagging at her. Ladies’ maid, secretary and bodyguard…
She had the secretary, and she was perfectly capable of picking up her own clothes. But the bodyguard…
“You know, I think you’ve hit on something,” she said. “Not a wife, of course—that would really give the tabloids something to talk about. But a husband…now that’s another thing entirely. Amos—darling—what do you think?”
CHAPTER TWO
AMOS could think of only one reason why she could possibly want to know what he thought of her harebrained scheme. The explanation was ridiculous, it was insane, it was nigh impossible. But it was the only one he could come up with which even began to cover all the facts.
He stared across the desk at Erika, still trying to convince himself that she hadn’t really said what he thought he’d heard. She was perfectly calm, her violet eyes wide and showing the same sort of mild interest as if she’d just asked his opinion of the latest hit movie.
She didn’t look like an alien. But this madcap idea of hers belonged to an entirely different planet than the one he lived on.
A husband…that’s another thing entirely…
She’d actually asked for his opinion, he reminded himself. “Amos—darling—what do you think?” she had said. So he had not only the right but the obligation to answer.
Of course, if he told her what he thought, she’d probably try to have him arrested for using indecent language in the presence of a lady. And she’d be right—at least about the indecent language. As for the part about the lady, that was open to debate.
“What kind of a lady…” He stopped to clear his throat and started over. His voice felt rough. “A lady doesn’t propose marriage to a perfect stranger.”
Her lovely face went blank for an instant, and then as understanding dawned, her eyes brimmed with horror. “You thought I was suggesting I wanted to marry you?”
Now his head was really spinning. Amos—darling… But if that wasn’t what she’d meant, where had he gone wrong? “It sure sounded that way to me.”
“Then you’re hearing-impaired as well as arrogant. All I said was—”
“All right, all right. I get it.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “And boy, is that a relief.” You bet it is.
“How could I be proposing to you? I don’t even know your last name.”
Amos didn’t enlighten her. It wasn’t like she was asking for a formal introduction,