Dreaming Ivy. Rhonda Lee Carver

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      “Now aren’t you the one presuming a bit?”

      “That you play off people’s beliefs? Not at all.”

      “Aren’t you presuming that I’m an ass? Maybe I should presume you’re an ass. I’ve had warmer welcomes from evil spirits.”

      Her palm ached to slap him. She’d never hit someone in anger in all her life. She’d hit him earlier in self-defense. “Me? An ass? How dare you!”

      “No, how dare you. You think you can dish up your subtle put-downs with a side of smile and a flash of blues and I’m supposed to grin and bear it. I have no doubt that you got roped into this assignment. Secretly, you wish you had more to write about than a mother giving birth to her baby in the back seat of a Honda Accord or a flasher giving the Mayor a shot of nudity on the lawn of the courthouse. Remember something, sweetheart, we may have to share this space for the next two weeks, but I don’t have to like it. If you can’t take the heat, I suggest you jump out of the pot.”

      “You’d like it if I got all flustered and furious and walked out of here, wouldn’t you? Let me warn you, it isn’t going to happen. I can tell you that much. While you’re here, I’m here. Like it or not. I was just trying to be nice–to break the ice, so to speak.” She started to walk away, and then stopped. She wasn’t finished with him yet. “And another thing, you should feel lucky that your work sold two million copies. I’m sure it was simply because of people’s rooted fascination in ghosts because if they met you and if first impressions had anything to do with it, you’d be selling peanuts out of a cart on some street corner.” Her words dripped with ice and she didn’t care one bit.

      “For someone who doesn’t know a lot about my work, you definitely know about my sales revenue. You sure you haven’t read one or two?”

      “Don’t embarrass yourself.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can appreciate anyone who can pick up a camera, point and click.” She took a deep breath. “I won’t drop to your level of insults.” She sniffed.

      He was undisturbed by her disaffection. In fact, he curved his lips into a smile as he went back to recording in his notebook. “Are you finished?” he asked without looking her way. He was casual about the situation, like he had smashed a bug and was flicking it into good riddance.

      Ivy knew the squabble should end, but something inside her just couldn’t let it rest. Getting everything out in the open absolved any chance that later she’d let him have it. “I haven’t yet given my opinion of you yet,” she stated.

      “You could have fooled me.”

      She kept her tension in check. No sinking. “I think you hold a personal grudge against me because I am a journalist. Not me as an individual, but all journalists as a group.”

      “Okay,” he tossed over his shoulder, unconcerned.

      “I read the articles written about you and your ex-wife. They called you a man who used his wife’s place in society as a ladder for success.” The tensing of his shoulders and the tightening of his jaw told her she’d struck a chord. Had she stepped over some hidden boundary of human kindness? She did feel better–slightly. Now who was the bug being smashed?

      He remained quiet. She’d given up on receiving a reply, but at last it came. His gaze connected with hers, and when he spoke it was eerily low and husky. “I see that my first impressions aren’t award-winning but they sure are interesting. You’ve gained a lot of information about me in this ten-minute chitchat that proves to you the logic behind the mumbo-jumbo that filled those trash magazines. Most reputable journalists wouldn’t cite information they’d found in a tabloid.” He smirked. “You’re like the fly that won’t quit biting the horse’s ass.”

      She laughed. She couldn’t resist. “And you’re the horse’s ass in that statement? It’s nice to see we agree on something.”

      He apparently didn’t find the humor as she did. He threw his notebook and pen down onto the floor and took three paces toward her. She sucked in a breath. He came so close that she could smell his cologne and see that he had two different colored eyes. One was a lighter green and the other was darker. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you, Ivy?”

      His closeness was much like a sweet, cool breeze across her clammy skin. It felt good, and she didn’t like it. She blurted, “It’s no secret your life has been–” She carefully searched for the right word. “–eventful in the media.” Had he taken another step closer? She needed to get away but the only way she had to go was out the window or through him. “Why are you standing so close?”

      His eyes were focused on her lips. Did he want to kiss her? “How many times are you going to do that?”

      “Do what?” Her words were a whisper.

      “Invite me to kiss you?”

      She opened her mouth and nothing came out. It took a good five seconds before the words traveled from her near-man-alert brain to her tongue. “I’m inviting you to do no such thing.” Her voice cracked.

      He reached up, took one silky strand of her hair, wrapped it around his finger and lifted it to his nose. Ivy thought men only did such things in romance novels. It especially didn’t happen in her life. “I’ve lost count on the times you’ve looked at me and silently asked me to kiss you.”

      “You can’t count very high, can you?” She couldn’t believe he had the nerve to accuse her of such ludicrous nonsense. He could make her all hot inside, but she didn’t want him to kiss her. Hell no. “Do you come with a badge of warning–insanely arrogant, converse with at your own risk?”

      He dropped the wisp of hair. “In my attempt to prove a point to you the reason behind it is lost between my rapidly beating heart and the bulge behind my zipper.” His eyes were molten. That should have been warning enough to stand clear. “Don’t worry, Ivy. Although physically I am a red-blooded male, fact is, you’re not my type.”

      She stiffened. Why had his comment been a direct hit to her ego? Why should she care what his type was and whether she matched the criteria? He was hot, sure, but not her style, either. She liked men who were kind, sweet and worth a damn. “What are you doing in Morgan Sites, Max? Shouldn’t you be off in some other part of the country pointing and clicking your equipment?”

      His jaw tensed underneath a five o’clock shadow. “I’m curious, Ivy, is it safe to take time away from your newspaper? Aren’t there a few more leprechauns that are in need of saving from elderly criminals?”

      She cringed but kept her back straight. No cowering under his ego. Men like Max thrived on other people’s weaknesses. “It was a gnome. And it was only one story.” Dammit! She knew that story would somehow come around to haunt her. Just why did it have to be from a man like Max Shepard? “I’ll admit, it’ll win no Pulitzer Prize, but it served its purpose.”

      “I bet it did.”

      She could not argue with him on this subject. There was no defense she could use. He’d been all over the world. He was known for his work. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Divorce can make someone bitter–”

      His face went cold. She realized immediately this was a point of contention for him. Wasn’t she trying to douse it and not add flame to the fire? She’d only meant to say that he had a right to be angry, but she’d screwed that up.

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