"Yeah, okay." Kevin shot a quick glance at Rick, who was frowning. "Go in and get settled. Laura's
on her way up. Just so you know, the first few calls I've got queued up are typical Monday nighters—we've got two rocky relationships and one Saturday-night date that went south."
Nodding, Taylor disappeared into the studio.
Rick flipped on the audio controls, speaking to Kevin without glancing his way. "I don't like the way
that sounds."
"No. Me either," Kevin agreed. "So let's keep on our toes—just in case."
"Done."
Rick cut the conversation short as the door opened and Dennis walked in, a box of doughnuts in his hands.
"Pull up a chair," Rick said, waving him over. "The teenage angst is about to begin." He grimaced, his mind taking a brief detour. "Which is nothing compared to the adult angst that lies ahead for these lucky adolescents."
8:32 P.M.
Taylor finished off her bottle of Poland Spring as the commercials on the half hour came to an end and the WVNY jingle sounded. Her thirst was quenched, her mouth and throat were moist, and she was
ready to address the next caller.
She glanced at her computer screen, where the calls were queued up. As always, Kevin had typed in some key phrases to prepare her. The first line read: Fred. Young guy in high school. Has it bad for
a girl in one of his classes. Can't find a way to tell her. Definitely can't confide in his parents.
A wistful smile touched Taylor's lips. Yeah, she remembered those awkward days.
She punched up the call. "Welcome back, everyone. This is Taylor Halstead, ready to take your calls. Fred, I understand there's someone special—someone you'd like to get to know better."
"I already know her," he replied in a voice Taylor instantly recognized.
It was Romeo.
"In fact, I know her better than she thinks," he continued. "Like tonight, for instance. Tonight of all nights, I know she's superstressed and needs to unwind. I want to take her out for dessert. How about
it, Taylor? Eleven o'clock?"
Taylor's heart began slamming against her ribs. Kevin and Rick had both gone pale, and Kevin reached over to disconnect the call.
With a hard shake of her head, Taylor stopped him. "I appreciate the invitation, Fred," she said, speaking as calmly as she could. "But I'm only available on counseling matters and, even then, only during airtime. I'm sure there's someone in your school who'd love to go out with you. Give her a call. I wish you luck."
Taylor could hear him cajoling as she hung up.
Kevin flipped to commercial. Then he keyed up the mike, his jaw tightening as he saw her bury her face in her hands. "Dammit, Taylor, I'm sorry. The son of a bitch disguised his voice. He's never tried that
one before. He's also never called himself Fred. It's always been Romeo."
"Yeah, well, he picked a lousy night to get creative."
"I know. And I picked a lousy night to screw up. Regardless, it was just a coincidence. A harmless come-on. Don't let your imagination run wild." Kevin blew out a self-deprecating breath. "You can slug me after the show. I really blew it."
Slowly, Taylor raised her head. "It's not your fault," she assured him. "We all know that if someone wants to get through badly enough, they'll find a way to make it happen."
"Yeah, well, it won't be happening again."
Taylor stared blankly ahead, apprehension shimmering through her. "How did he know that I was superstressed?" she murmured. "What was it he said—that tonight, of all nights, I needed to unwind? How did he know that?"
"It's a line, Taylor." Kevin had already signaled for a prerecorded disk to be brought in, should it be needed. But he intended to calm her down. The best thing for her right now was to continue with the show.
"A line?" she repeated dubiously.
"Yeah, guys use it all the time. Romeo or Fred or whatever his name is has used it before. Every night is the night for him. I've told you that. He wants to go out with you. And he's dense enough to believe he can make it happen. Sure, he's a space cadet. But he's not a wacko. None of the signs are there. No psycho threats, no weird sexual references, no personal, inside knowledge about you or your life."
Taylor nodded. "True."
"I realize this is the last thing you needed to happen tonight," Kevin added in a soothing tone. "But put
it in perspective. Nothing the guy said was new. It was the same old, same old. His usual come-on. So
his timing sucked. Don't let it get to you."
"You're right." Taylor shot her producer a weak smile before glancing at the lineup of calls on her screen. "Are you sure you're not the counselor here?"
"Positive." He grinned. "I just learned from a pro. Now the commercial's ending. Grab that mike and do your stuff."
"Nice job," Rick commented once the communication line between the two rooms had been shut off.
"Yeah," Kevin muttered back. "Now let's hope everything I said is true."
Rick gave a tight nod, adjusting the audio controls. "If Romeo happens to call again—"
"I'll recognize whatever voice or name he uses," Kevin finished. "I'll grill the hell out of the guy. And if
I get the slightest vibe that he's anything but a lonely, innocent nerd who's hot for Taylor, I'll call the
cops and have them put a trace on the call."
"Good." Rick studied Taylor through the glass, a troubled expression on his face. "It's best not to take chances."
10:45 P.M.
Laura poked her head into the small, cluttered office one floor down from the broadcast studios that Taylor used to answer e-mails, catch up on research, and conduct preliminary phone interviews with upcoming guests.
"Hi." Taylor looked surprised to see her. "I thought you'd gone home."
"I wanted to check on you."
"I'm fine."
"Good." Laura cleared her throat. "Look, I know you said you didn't want me to transfer any calls through to you, but there's a guy on the phone. It's not Romeo," she added hastily, seeing Taylor go
rigid. "His name is Reed Weston. It's the third time he's called in the past twenty minutes. I asked him what it's about, but all he'll say is that it's personal. He sounds perfectly normal. Do you want to take it, or should I blow him off?"
The relief that swept through Taylor was staggering. "I'll take the call," she told Laura. "You go on
home. And thanks for being such a great guard dog." She waited until Laura had complied, then lifted
the receiver and punched the flashing button. "Hi."
"Hi, yourself." There was light static accompanying his voice. He was obviously on a cell phone.
"Getting through to you is like getting through to a CIA operative. On top of that, don't you ever go home? And here I thought I was a workaholic."
Taylor smiled. "My assistant is very protective. Besides, I didn't realize you and I had made plans."
"We didn't. I made them for us. I want to see you. I've driven around the block so many times, the
cops in the neighborhood squad car are giving me the fish eye. I actually considered taking my chances and double-parking long enough to come up and get you."
"Right. And your Mercedes would be towed away three minutes later."
"Exactly. So give me a break and come out."
Massaging her temples, Taylor sighed. "Seriously, Reed, I'm not up for anything heavy tonight,
certainly not a self-defense lesson. I can barely see straight."
"Nothing heavy. And no lesson. I just brought you a can of pepper spray for your purse. I'll trade it for
a glass of wine at your place. Deal?"
God, that sounded good. A reprieve from the tension of the past few days and, yes, a chance to see
Reed. "You're a good negotiator, Counselor. Deal. Give me five minutes to wrap up. I'll meet you wherever it's easiest."
"I'll crawl down Seventh. I'll pick you up right in front of y
our building. Near the streetlights and the security guard," he added pointedly.
"I'll be there."
CHAPTER 11
Ten minutes later, Taylor slid in next to Reed, shut the car door, and settled back with a sigh.
"Normally, I'd be furious. I don't like people making decisions for me. But in this case, I'll make an exception."
Reed pulled away from the curb. Turning right, he headed west to Tenth Avenue
, then north toward Taylor's apartment. "Normally, I don't make decisions for people. But I happened to tune in and catch
a chunk of your radio show tonight."
"Ah, so you heard Romeo hit on me."
"Who?"
"Romeo. The guy who wanted to take me out for dessert. He's one of my regulars. Only this time he called himself Fred and got by Kevin." Taylor explained what had happened, along with the background on her amorous caller.
"No." Reed didn't look happy. "I missed Romeo's performance. I just picked up on something in your voice—a kind of edgy quality. I thought a glass of wine might help."
"It's been one of those days. Romeo was just the straw that broke the camel's back." Taylor slanted
Reed a look. "By the way, I'm also not used to being so easily read."
"That part you'd better get used to. I admit you've established one hell of a facade. Me, too. One problem. We're unusually attuned to each other—or hadn't you noticed?"
"I noticed."
They were silent for the rest of the ride, but it was a companionable silence, not a strained one.
"You look pretty exhausted yourself," Taylor commented, once they were settled on her living room
sofa with two glasses of Cabernet. "In fact, as long as we're being so up-front, I got the distinct feeling that the restructuring of your life you mentioned yesterday involves something major—something that's throwing you for a loop. Care to share? I'm a good listener."
He smiled. "No arguments there. I heard your listening skills on the air tonight. Unfortunately, none of your advice would work for me. I'm not a teenager anymore."
"That's interesting, because you're acting like one," she noted. "Evading my questions and my offer to help. Typical teenage behavior. I take it you don't want to open up."
Reed's smile vanished, and he sank back against the sofa cushion. He didn't look offended; he looked weary. "It's not that I don't want to. It's that I can't. Not yet. The situation is fluid. To discuss it would
be unethical."
"Ah. It involves a client you're uncomfortable representing." Taylor took a sip of wine. "I imagine
you've had a fair share of those."
"Too many." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a can. "Here's the pepper spray I promised. It's still one of the best deterrents out there. Burns the assailant's eyes like hell, and gives you time to
run and to scream for help."
"More peace of mind." Taylor gave him a grateful smile, taking the can and tucking it into her pocketbook. "Thank you."
"Taylor." Reed set down his wineglass. "We're not playing tit for tat. I can't get into what's going on
with me. When I can, I will. Your predicament is different—and a lot more dire than mine, based on
what I'm seeing. Tell me what's got you so upset. You're even more strung out now than when I saw
you yesterday. And you look tired enough to collapse."
Taylor wished he weren't so damned insightful. "Reed, stop." She heard the ambivalence in her voice.
"I hardly know you. It's a little soon to spill my guts."
"Fair enough. So who have you been spilling your guts to—your parents? Friends? Therapist?"
She knew where he was going with this. And she was too worn-out to play dodgeball. "My parents
aren't the gut-spilling type. My friends are aware of the basics. And my therapist knows my state of
mind only up through Thursday of last week. Satisfied?"
"No, just proven right. The bottom line is that you've confided in no one." Reed turned to face her. "Now, why doesn't that surprise me?"
"Because you see yourself?"
"Bingo." A pause. "At least tell me the basics—the part you told your friends."
The wine and the fatigue were mingling together, swirling slowly through Taylor's consciousness.
Dulling her inhibitions. Lowering her reserves.
She polished off her Cabernet and put down her glass, twisting around to face Reed. "You want honesty? You got it. When I heard your voice on the phone tonight, I saw an opportunity for two things—to numb my fears with wine and to drown them out with physical pleasure. I leaped at both chances. I've got a
low tolerance for alcohol, so one glass of wine, maybe two, and the numbing's a fait accompli. As for the drowning—that kiss we shared yesterday was amazing. Thinking about it was the only thing that got me through the past twenty-four hours. So ..." She scrambled to her knees, tilting up her chin and leaning closer so their faces were practically touching. "The wine's right on track. What about you—are you game?"
He reached out, threaded his fingers through her hair, his palm gliding beneath to caress the nape of her neck. "You do realize you just announced that you're using me?"
"Mmm." Taylor's eyes slid shut, and she moved her head against his hand. "I'm not using you. I'm
losing me."
"Does that mean I get to find you?" He pulled her onto his lap, lifting her arms around his neck.
"Tonight? Yes." She'd barely breathed the word when his mouth came down on hers, absorbing the sound with his lips. He slid one arm under her back and lifted her up and into the kiss, devouring her
with a hungry intensity Taylor felt to the tips of her toes. She twisted closer, her breasts flattened against his chest, her breath emerging in short, shallow pants that mixed with his. His tongue slid inside, took hers in prolonged, erotic strokes.
Taylor heard herself moan. She went with the sensations, her heart slamming against her ribs, her entire body starting a slow burn that spread and intensified at an almost frightening rate.
She had no idea how long they sat there, kissing as if they wanted to consume each other. All she knew was that it felt wonderful, that he felt wonderful. His hand was under her sweater, massaging the bare skin of her back, but he made no move to unhook her bra, although his fingers paused there more than once. Nor did his lips leave hers, except to move to her neck, the pulse at her throat, and, finally, to feather soft kisses across her cheeks and nose before he raised his head.
Taylor's own head was spinning. She relaxed her grip around Reed's neck, sinking back on his lap and blinking as she gazed up at him. He was as winded as she, and a fine sheen of perspiration dotted his forehead.
He watched her from beneath hooded lids. "You okay?"
She nodded, licking her swollen lips. "I'm fine. You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did," he interrupted. "Nothing else is happening. Not tonight. I told you slow. I meant it."
She searched his face. "You're an unusual man, Reed Weston."
"Not really. I'm crazed as hell to get inside you. But I have an ulterior motive for my patience. I'm determined to make you trust me. And that's not going to happen overnight—especially not if I rush
you into bed. So I'll take things in increments, physically and emotionally." His fingers slid gently up
and down her arms. "Talk to me. I'll settle for the basics, as you put it. What's got you so freaked out?"
Taylor released a sharp breath. She didn't want to descend to reality. She wanted to stay where she
was, floating in the removed and exquisite pleasure of the past few minutes. But, as she so often told
her students and callers, escape was no solution. Your problem either followed you wherever you went, or waited to sink its claws into you when you returned.
It was time to practice what she preached.
She told Reed about the incident at the cemetery on Saturday and about the dis
turbing phone call in the wee hours of Monday morning.
"My common sense tells me the two incidents were unconnected, that the whole thing's just an eerie coincidence, but—" She broke off, sliding to her feet and walking over to the window, staring out into
the night sky.
"But?" Reed grilled her.
"But it's thrown me. I'm a mess. Suddenly everyone seems suspect.
I start shaking when guys flirt with me on the street, when my regulars-who-hit-on-me-for-a-date call the station; you name it. This kind of paranoid behavior is so unlike me, I can't tell you."
Reed rose, came to stand behind her. His hands were tense as he planted them on her shoulders, urging her around to face him. "Taylor, do you think you're being stalked?"