Surrender to a Donovan. A.C. Arthur

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СКАЧАТЬ me Sean,” he said. If it were possible, his voice sounded even deeper than it had just seconds ago. “And you’re Mrs. Dennison?”

      “Yes, I’m Ms. Dennison.” She clapped her lips shut, appalled that she’d actually stressed the Ms. “I’m Tate,” she said in an effort to correct herself.

      “You write the ‘Ask Jenny’ column?”

      She nodded. “I do.”

      He slipped his hands into his pockets and began looking around her tiny office. He wore a slate-gray suit and a crisp white shirt with an aqua-blue tie. The colors seemed to highlight the buttery tone of his complexion. His head was completely bald, his goatee, full and trim around the bottom half of his face. He was startlingly fine up close, and Tate had to gulp to keep from drooling.

      When he stopped looking he turned to her again. Tate shifted from one foot to the other. His stare was intense, as if he were looking straight through to her soul. Her heart hammered, and the palms of her hands sweated profusely.

      “Forgive me for staring,” he finally said. He looked away only because he was shaking his head. Then his eyes, the warm brown orbs, seemed to zoom right back in on her. “I just pictured the writer of this column a little differently.”

      A ping of offense vibrated through Tate’s chest, and she stood a bit straighter, staring at him with a little more heat than she had been. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

      “I thought you’d be older,” he said abruptly.

      “Well, I thought you’d be more professional,” she said.

      Again her lips clamped shut. Tate needed this job, desperately. But she wasn’t about to be disrespected for the sake of a paycheck.

      His hands came out of his pockets and went up into the air as if she’d been trying to stick him up.

      “My fault,” he said. There was a twinkle in his eyes, sort of like they were smiling at her. Because his mouth certainly was not. He had the same quizzical expression he’d had when he came in. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Just that from reading the column and the advice provided, I assumed the writer was a more mature, experienced woman.”

      “I assure you, Mr. Donovan, I’m very mature. And experience doesn’t make up for common sense. I graduated third in my class with a degree in journalism. I minored in English and have worked on two widely distributed newspapers before coming to Infinity. Is there a problem with my work?”

      He was shaking his head before she gave him a chance to answer. “Absolutely not. In fact, I was coming to get a feel for the possibilities.”

      As he spoke he took a step closer to her desk. Now, he didn’t look as imposing as he had seconds ago when he’d made his “older” remark. Still, Tate’s thighs began to quiver, and her heart beat a quick rhythm in her chest. She flared her fingers, made a move that she hoped seemed natural and wiped her palms on her skirt. “What kind of possibilities?”

      “Maybe we can discuss them over dinner,” he said, his fingers touching the edge of her desk as he leaned forward slightly.

      He was a very tall man. And Tate considered herself tall for a woman, at five feet nine inches. Even so, she had to look up at him, into those eyes that seemed so deep and so assessing.

      “No,” she snapped. “I can’t go to dinner with you.” She spoke quickly and moved her arms for some unexplainable reason. The action sent her hands flailing until one smacked into a picture frame on her desk, sending it toppling over.

      Of course it would fall right in front of him, and of course he’d pick it up and look at it instead of just setting it upright. Or just leaving it alone and getting out of her office.

      “Who’s this?” he asked, examining the picture.

      Now she was flustered and offended all over again, even though she’d never really calmed down. He’d asked the question as if he deserved an answer. He was her boss, not her man. She took one deep inhale and slowly released the exhale. Okay, she was overreacting. He was only asking a question. Actually, he was asking a lot of questions, but he was the boss, so he could do that.

      “It’s my daughter,” she said, reaching for the picture. It took everything in her not to snatch it from him.

      “She’s cute. How old is she?”

      He didn’t give her the picture.

      “Two.”

      He looked up at her, one eyebrow arching as he asked, “And you’re not married?”

      “You don’t have to be married to have a baby. But for the record, yes, I was married to her father when she was born. Now, I’m not.” There, he could go now. She touched the edge of the frame in an effort to take it from him.

      He held firm.

      “So you’re divorced?”

      “Yes. I mean, almost. I mean, was there something I could do for you, Mr. Donovan?” She snatched the picture from him and wasn’t really sure she cared what he thought at that moment.

      “You can call me Sean. I’ll let you get home to your daughter. But I’d like to talk to you about the column. I’ll have my secretary call you with some available times for us to meet.”

      He’d already stepped back from her desk and was headed to the door when she said, “That’s fine.”

      Her words stopped him, and he turned back to look at her. “Yes, that’s very fine,” was his parting reply.

      Tate dropped into her chair, clutching the picture of Briana to her chest and let out another deep breath. That was a tension-filled meeting. A confusing meeting. A “damn-oh-damn, that man is too damned fine” meeting.

      Chapter 3

      They’d tried mashed potatoes for dinner. That had gone over well, Tate thought with a smirk. At two years old, Briana already had plenty of personality. And along with that personality came a pickiness with foods. Tate had mistakenly assumed that any type of baby food would do as long as she didn’t have an allergic reaction to anything. She was sadly mistaken.

      Briana did not like any of the green vegetables. The result was green splatters all over the kitchen floor, the high chair and whatever Tate was wearing that day. Miraculously, Briana herself remained untouched by the ill-smelling guck. Tonight Tate had tried another tactic—she’d whipped up some homemade mashed potatoes and mixed them with the ingredients from her mother’s chicken soup recipe. Briana wasn’t a fan of the broth, so Tate’s plan was to see if she’d eat the chicken and vegetables if they were submersed in another texture. The first few spoonfuls had gone okay, so Tate had relaxed and let herself enjoy the bonding time with her daughter.

      Then Briana made a face that originally Tate thought was funny but soon became concerned about. She looked like she wanted to cry but couldn’t quite get it out. Afraid she might be choking, Tate hurriedly scooped her out of the high chair and began patting her back. Maybe her windpipe had been clogged. But as soon as Tate began patting Briana’s back, there was an explosion—both from her mouth and inside her diaper. It had taken СКАЧАТЬ