A Private Affair. Donna Hill

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      That was nearly three months ago, Nikita reflected. Her twenty-sixth birthday was dogging her heels, and she still had no job. Her savings were almost depleted and she refused to ask her parents for a dime. It was bad enough having to see her father’s “I told you so” look every time they passed each other. The reality was, she had no experience or educational background to break into journalism. All she had was determination and a dream—one that she’d pushed to the back of her mind in pursuit of her parents’ dream. God, she didn’t want her parents to be right.

      Maybe this interview would pan out. The woman said she was willing to train her as long as she didn’t mind playing Girl Friday in the process.

      She ascended the stairs from beneath the subterranean world of New York City, finally free from the press of damp flesh. She felt like taking a shower. Looking around to get her bearings, she fished in her pocketbook for the address: 803 Eighth Avenue, corner of Twenty-first Street. At least a ten-block walk.

      She looked down at her low-heeled shoes, thankful. “All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes,” she muttered.

      Turning off Fourteenth Street she walked along Sixth Avenue, peeking in the antique shop windows, outdoor cafés, absorbing the laid-back atmosphere. She inhaled deeply and smiled. She was growing accustomed to exhaust fumes and the intangible aroma of leftover garbage. She turned down Eighteenth Street, intrigued by the tree-lined block and stately brownstones. Sparkling plate-glass windows gave sneak previews of crystal chandeliers or high-tech track lighting, oversize living rooms, mahogany fixtures and hardwood floors. Couples in all shades and combinations sat on stoops, or strolled down the avenues. This is a neighborhood, she thought. Not the sterile, pristine, patrolled area in which she existed. She could like it here.

      A moving truck was up ahead and she wondered if they were coming or going. She walked a bit faster, her thoughts outrunning her pace. If they were moving out, she’d ask about the vacancy. If she got the job, she’d be able to pay her rent. In the meantime, she could sell her Benz…. She slowed, nearing the truck.

      The double-glass and wood door at the top of the stoop was propped wide open, like a woman awaiting her lover. She looked around and didn’t see anyone. Taking a breath, she turned into the yard and was about to go up the steps.

      “Lookin’ for somebody?”

      She looked up into dark, haunting eyes. Her heart pounded a bit too hard. “Uh, not really. I mean, I was just wondering if there’s an apartment available.” He’s gorgeous. She cleared her throat and backed up as the lean, thoroughly masculine figure gave her a long, slow look that made her feel like he’d just undressed her, then bounded down the stairs.

      “Not that I know of.” Damn, she’s fine. He towered over her—catching a whiff of sea breeze and baby powder—on his way to the van. A pulse pounded low in his groin, unsettling him with its suddenness. He turned back in her direction, his long black locks swinging across his bronze shoulders. Dark eyes held her in place for a brief moment before dancing away. “Sorry.”

      She shrugged, wanting to appear as cool and unaffected as he did. “No problem.”

      He leaned against the truck, his arms folded across his chest as he watched her walk away. “Good luck.” He wanted to say more, talk to her and make her stay a minute. He didn’t.

      Nikita stopped and turned. Her insides seesawed when she saw him grin. It made his eyes kind of crinkle. She smiled, and his stomach clenched. “Thanks.” She continued on, with just the slightest tremor in her legs, wondering what she could have said to a man like that to lengthen the moment. Nothing.

      “Nice.” Quinn hummed in appreciation as he watched her departure until she reached the corner and turned. For a moment he saw the light again.