Fast Courting Read online

  BARBARA DELINSKY

  Fast Courting

  Contents

  ONE

  At the instant Antonia Phillips whipped into…

  TWO

  His eyes were dark and piercing. His voice…

  THREE

  The short return trip was made in silence.

  FOUR

  The relentless spatter of the rain masked the…

  FIVE

  Nia raced to the door, leaving it ajar as she…

  SIX

  “Daniel!” she exclaimed, a response that…

  SEVEN

  Nia hadn’t felt so happy in years. She knew…

  EIGHT

  To Nia’s amazement, the week flew by. The…

  NINE

  It was the sound of Daniel’s angry voice that…

  TEN

  Something had changed. It was an almost…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE

  BOOKS BY BARBARA DELINSKY

  COVER

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  One

  At the instant Antonia Phillips whipped into the office of Eastern Edge editor Bill Austen, she sensed something afoot. Of the magazine’s working editorial staff, she was the last to arrive. Four faces turned her way, each bearing a trace of guilt. Instinct told her that the odd welcome had nothing to do with her tardiness.

  “Ooooops…” she murmured, stopping just short of the threshold. “Why do I have the feeling my slip is showing?” It was purely a figure of speech, for, in fact, she wasn’t wearing a slip. What she wore was a smart croppedjacket wool suit of loden green, whose stylish split skirt required no assistance in falling softly to a point below her knee, where it met the rich leather of her boot. She was undeniably attractive, tall and slim, the image of confidence in her own casual way.

  “Come on in, Nia,” Bill gestured, smiling with a hint of mischief that made her all the more alert. “We were just talking about you.”

  “Mmmmmm.” She raised a speculative brow. “I thought so.” She settled into the only free chair and deposited her oversized shoulder bag on the floor, then fished a notebook and pen from it before sitting back. “I’m sorry I’m late. I spent longer with Humphrey at the theater than I’d intended. But the story’s good.” Her apology was to the entire group, though it was outwardly directed at Bill. Again, she sensed an odd air of anticipation. “Uh…is something wrong?” Her violet eyes widened in the silence. “You did get my message, didn’t you?”

  “We got it, Nia. And thanks for stopping to call.” Bill’s grin was overly indulgent, sufficiently out of character to add to her suspicions. He shrugged benignly. “We took the liberty of going ahead.”

  In a habitual gesture, she shook her head to flip the few windblown strands of her heavily layered mahogany hair into place. She needed no mirror to vouch for the acceptability of her appearance. Why, then, the continuing limelight?

  “You were talking about me?” she repeated. Slowly, she perused the group, pertly challenging them to come forward with further information.

  Priscilla Cole, the associate editor with whom she shared chores and an office, offered an indirect explanation. “We were discussing the feature assignments for the June issue.”

  That was no surprise. Hadn’t it been the stated purpose of the meeting? This was March; they were right on schedule. “Great! Where were you before I so rudely interrupted?” Nia grinned, camouflaging curiosity in congeniality.

  “The Ten Most Eligible Easterners.” James Cabot, one of the two senior editors, supplied the clue, pronouncing each word carefully. He was middle-aged, intelligent and straightforward. Nia turned to stare at him.

  “You’ve got to be kidding…” she chided.

  Christopher Daly, the other senior editor, joined the exchange with a smug grin. “Nope.”

  Astonished, she looked at Priscilla. “You’re not kidding.”

  The other woman simply shook her head.

  “Bill?” Nia turned to their leader as a last resort.

  “Why the surprise, Nia?” He was mildly critical. “We’ve discussed the possibility of doing this piece.”

  Nia winced. “To discuss it is one thing; to actually plan it, to put it on the schedule, is another. It’s the kind of thing the scandal sheets do so well. We’ve always stayed a cut above.” Her argument was not unfounded. Eastern Edge had established itself as a monthly magazine with class, appealing to a wide assortment of thinking people up and down the East Coast. It contained a balanced blend of humor, human interest, exposé and education and was both well written and beautifully presented. In the four years Nia had worked for the publication, she had never had cause for doubt.

  “And we’ll continue to stay a cut above, as you put it.” Bill solemnly took command. “Our feature story will be done with taste and sophistication, and with just enough tongue-in-cheek humor to deflect any flack. We’ll approach it with an attitude of intelligence rather than an eye for the spectacular. It will be researched carefully and written by the best.” He hesitated for a fraction of an instant to let his point sink in. “You’ll be doing the men.”

  “Me? The men? Oh no you don’t.” Nia’s gaze narrowed as she suddenly understood the nature of the apologetic looks cast her way by her colleagues. “I won’t be saddled with it. Just because I wasn’t here to defend myself—”

  “It’s got nothing to do with your lateness,” Bill insisted, his customary curtness returning to his voice. “I’d decided to give you the assignment even before this meeting began.”

  “Why not…” She looked quickly around, but Priscilla was the only other female in the room. Priscilla Cole was a petite woman who was, at thirty-four, Nia’s senior by five years. She was quiet and hardworking, excelling in articles that relied more closely on research and less directly on personal interviews. A talented writer, she was even more skilled as an editor, able to quickly diagnose and treat copy problems over which others might agonize for hours. But she was single and vulnerable, precisely the type who would be eaten alive by the nearest most-wanted man, Nia mused. Much as Nia was reluctant to handle this assignment, she couldn’t, in good conscience, will it on Priscilla.

  “Why not one of the staff writers?” she made a blind stab.

  Bill only shook his head. “Not skilled enough. Or tested. In the hands of some of the staff writers, this piece could easily resemble something in those scandal sheets you scorn.”

  Nia’s gaze shot to the men beside her. “Why not either James or Chris? They’re competent enough.” She grinned, only to have her amusement wiped away by Bill’s summary dismissal.

  “I want a woman to interview the men. After all, the piece should be written from a woman’s point of view. You’re the perfect choice.” His expression held discouraging finality.

  “The perfect choice?” she echoed in dismay. “I’m the worst choice, Bill. I hate eligible bachelors! You know that.”

  She swung around as Chris, who was sitting next to her, laughed. “Present company excluded, of course,” he quipped, beaming endearingly.

  “Of course.” She recovered quickly, reaching over to squeeze his arm affectionately. She was genuinely fond of Chris, who had moved into the slot of senior editor soon after she’d joined Eastern Edge as a staff writer. He had remained a close friend when she convinced him that she wanted nothing more. Indeed, he had been one of the more vocal proponents of her appointment as associate editor the year before. Turning, she addressed Bill again. “You know what I mean.”

  “I know where you’ve been, Nia, if that’s what you’re getting at.” His voice lowered with his head. “I think it’s precisely that background that will make you much more critical in your analysis. Your
piece will be that much more intelligent and less emotional.”

  As Nia shook her head, wisps of brown brushed her shoulders. “I don’t know, Bill. I disagree with the whole thing on principle.”

  “What disturbs you?” James asked, succinct as always.

  “I…I suppose it sounds too much like a one-way dating service. We will be including the phone numbers of these magnificent specimens, won’t we?” she jibed facetiously.

  James ignored her. “What if we concentrated, as I think Bill has in mind, on the real character of these people? What if we gave it a different slant? An in-depth slant? What if it were a documentary rather than an advertisement?”

  His argument had some merit, yet she wasn’t ready to admit it. “Aren’t you uncomfortable with the idea of a feature on available men and women?” she shot back, drawling the last words in attempted humor. James was the most conservative of the lot; his outward support of the project surprised her.

  “No.” His smile was only slightly self-conscious. “I’ll be doing the other half.”

  “The women?”

  “I believe that’s all that’s left,” he deadpanned. Had Nia not known James Cabot for such a long time, she might have found his wry wit unbalancing. But she was as fond of him as she was of Chris.

  “You’re a happily married man, James. Aren’t you going to feel…uncomfortable …?”

  “Why would I? The job doesn’t require that I proposition my subjects.”

  Priscilla spoke softly. “Don’t you see, Nia? His marriage gives him an advantage of detachment, just as your…your…”

  “Divorce.” Nia supplied the blunt word when her friend stumbled and blushed. These were the people she worked with every day of the week. They knew of the marriage that had caused her such distress and had finally disintegrated shortly before she’d come to work here. Boston had been David Phillips’ hometown; as a celebrated sportswriter, he had left his mark here. It was ironic that he had relocated to Texas, whereas she had chosen to stay in the East. But she did love Boston. To date, the only drawback to her decision was the recognition factor of her name; the whole of New England seemed to know she’d been David’s wife. Fortunately, the whole of New England didn’t know the details of the marriage or subsequent divorce.

  Priscilla’s words cut into her thoughts. “You and James can approach this assignment from a more impartial viewpoint, since you’re both, theoretically, immune.”

  “Now, just a minute!” Chris sat forward, ready to do gentle battle. “I wouldn’t exactly call Nia ‘immune’ to men. I happen to know that she’s no recluse.”

  Nia rolled her eyes heavenward in a plea for strength to face what was to come. “Ah, so this is let’s-discuss-Nia’s-social-life time?”

  But Chris was insistent. “You do date. I’ve intercepted more than one of those deepvoiced phone calls from ‘a friend.’ Priscilla’s trying to make you out to be some kind of…of…eunuch!”

  “Eunuch? My God, that’s priceless!” Nia burst into a spontaneous gale of laughter. “You see, I don’t need any eligible bachelor to spice up my life when I’ve got you, Chris!” Forgetting her original objection to the assignment, she gave in to the ready relaxation that was part and parcel of these editorial gatherings. The give-and-take here was one of her favorite aspects of the job.

  Bill saw his opportunity and seized on it. “What have you got against ‘eligible bachelors,’ Nia? I mean, after all, we’re only asking you to write about them, not marry one.”

  Nia laughed again, enjoying herself with her friends despite the shadow of this unwelcome assignment. “I wouldn’t do that, Bill, if you begged me on bended knee. I’ve had my fill of marriage, and of husbands who see themselves as eligible bachelors. In fact,” she pressed her point, pleased that her thoughts were as rational, “I have serious doubts that I could consider any man as ‘eligible’ if he does himself.”

  Priscilla frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  Nia turned to her patiently. “By simple virtue of the fact that a man considers himself to be one of the East’s most eligible, he would be far too arrogant for me.” She cocked her head in jest. “I prefer the modest man, the strong, silent type. And he’s the one who would never consent to be interviewed.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing.” Bill exerted his authority once more. “The eligible easterners you’ll be interviewing haven’t chosen themselves for anything. We’ve chosen them.”

  “Who chose them?” Chris sallied with a smirk, then looked around the room. “I don’t recall any democratic discussion.”

  “Democracy goes only so far,” Bill rejoined. “It was the senior echelon of management that chose the victims.”

  “Victims. Hmmph.” Nia grimaced, then added under her breath, “They’ll love every minute of the adulation.”

  “Say what you will,” Bill went on undaunted, “but it’s been decided. Unless, that is,” his lips twitched at the corners, “any of you care to take on the publisher, the executive editor, the managing editor and myself.”

  As he had anticipated, there were no takers. Whereas the camaraderie among the present group was strong and lively, the holders of those other positions brought to the arena far greater formality and far less spontaneity. Bill Austen was, more often than not, a buffer between the groups.

  Nia, for one, recognized the brick wall she faced. With a sigh of tentative resignation, she raised her eyes to Bill’s. “Who are they, anyway…these unsuspecting souls?”

  Bill cleared his throat, lifted a piece of paper from the haphazard pile on his desk and flipped a pair of bifocals to his nose. “The women first.” As he proceeded to read, Nia listened carefully, jotting names down, noting that the list consisted of a college dean, an obstetrician, a state legislator, an interior designer and a marine biologist. Their names were vaguely familiar, though far from the very visible ones she had expected.

  “What do you think, Nia?” Bill tested the editorial waters, following her reaction more closely than those of the others. She was evidently his main source of immediate worry.

  “Not bad, Bill.” She nodded, granting qualified approval. “They do seem to span the coast. Actually, I had expected a more…glamorous lot.”

  “Then perhaps you begin to see what we’re aiming at. The undiscovered, so to speak.”

  Chris’s eyes twinkled. “Virgin territory.”

  “Is that line of comment necessary?” Priscilla moaned.

  James supported her. “She’s right, Chris. It’s irrelevant. As a matter of fact, I believe at least two of those ladies have been married before.”

  “Happens to the best of us…” Nia added her postscript instants before Bill quelled the banter.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…” He rapped his pen on the desktop. “If you could control the color commentary until I complete this list, we might all be able to get back to work.”

  “That’s right!” Chris seconded the suggestion. “Let’s hear Nia’s line-up. The suspense is killing me.”

  Nia leaned closer, delivered a stagewhispered “I love you, too,” then began to write as Bill solemnly intoned the roster.

  “The Honorable Jonathan Trent, Justice of the Supreme Court of Errors of the State of Connecticut; Thomas Reiss, native Vermont author; Paul Kiley, President and Chairman of the Board of the Landover Foundation; Arthur Wallis-Wright, Concertmaster of the Boston Symphony Orchestra; and, finally, Daniel Strahan, Head Coach of the New England Breakers.”

  The silence that prevailed as Nia stared at the names now glaring from her paper gave proof of her role as the outspoken one of the crew. It was as though the others were holding their breath, cautiously awaiting her reaction. Even Bill had to admit that her outbursts were usually well founded, though she was impulsive enough to speak up when it might be wiser to remain silently accepting. In many ways Bill found her a challenge. It was his job to temper her vehemence and help channel its underlying spirit into her writing. She was widely considered t
o be a superb journalist, but it was largely her ardor that made her work unique.

  “Well… ?” he prodded at last. “How do they strike you?”

  She continued to study the list, dark head downcast, violet eyes hidden from general view. To all appearances, she was immersed in thought. In reality, she grappled with a world of inner demons playing havoc with her past. Uncomfortable, she shifted in her chair. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, more pensive.

  “Interesting.”

  “Interesting.” Bill nodded, mocking her passivity. “Is that all?”

  “What more can I say?”

  “Well, for openers, do you think you can write a good feature story around these five?”

  She looked down at the list again, idly fingering the gold locket at her throat. “It’s a varied group, just as the women are. They come from different areas. Different occupations. All of them relatively unfeatured—except Strahan. Why was he included?” Her attempts to keep her voice even were only marginally successful; even she heard its slight waver.

  “What’s wrong with Strahan?” Chris asked. “He’s brilliant! The Breakers haven’t done so well since the franchise was formed!”

  It was Priscilla who stage-whispered, in a rare display of playfulness, “In case you hadn’t heard, Chris is into basketball this year. Everybody loves a winner.”

  “Uh-uh.” Chris held up his hand and eyed the two women in good-natured rebuke. “I’ve always been a basketball fan. It’s just that this season I’m not afraid to admit it.”