The Naked Truth

A great skill to have in this business. But it didn’t help her with a dress for tonight.

With careful investments, she’d managed to save enough for a down payment on a little house in the Vinings district. Nana would be proud. It wasn’t very big—in fact, it had once been a carriage house on a much larger estate—but it certainly had a good address, and in Atlanta, that was half the battle. With the worst of the rush hour traffic clearing, she made it home in record time. Which, of course, left her lots of time to shower, do her hair and contemplate her closet.

She had all kinds of things to wear on the set, some courtesy of Jane’s wardrobe budget and some of her own. She had jeans and camis to wear on weekends. But a couple of black dresses and the green one could only go so far. Now that she was starting to make the society pages, maybe she should take Jane’s advice and run up her credit card on a couple of evening dresses. If what Cole predicted came true, she was going to be spending even more time in the spotlight. Thank goodness for the lottery—because she’d bet her winnings the station wouldn’t be picking up the tab for her updated wardrobe.

The green one would have to do. It fit like a glove—though she watched her weight like a predatory bird, her hourglass figure would pack on a pound in a heartbeat. And everyone knew the camera packed on twenty in less than that.

A final spritz of hair mist and her grandmother’s diamond chandelier earrings, and she was good to go.

The benefit for Atlanta Reads was being held at the Ashmere mansion. The property had recently been made the headquarters of the Ashmere Trust with the hopes that it could become a moneymaking venture while it retained its Old South beauty. As far as Eve could tell, they’d succeeded in a big way. She stepped out of the cab and the soft, warm evening air caressed her bare shoulders. She draped the green chiffon wrap over one arm and breathed in the scent of ferns and mulch and eucalyptus from the gardens.

Straightening her shoulders, she mounted the fan of steps and swam into the crowd, turning to greet society belles and financiers alike with the grace of a dancer and the confidence of three years in the spotlight.

“Eve. Glad you could make it.”

Eve turned to see Dan Phillips, owner of both the station and the production company that produced Just Between Us, at her elbow. “Hey, Dan. I had to come. Who wouldn’t want to support helping people learn to read?”

“People in television,” he said, so deadpan she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Which was par for the course. “My wife forced me into my tux and out the door at the point of a nail file.”

“Maya’s a smart cookie,” Eve told him. “You won’t regret it. I hear Ambience is catering.”

“Really?” He brightened. “Then I guess I should start schmoozing. I do like to hear people talking about you behind your back, anyway.”

Eve held up a hand. “Just don’t tell me if it’s negative.”

“It won’t be. Everyone in Atlanta loves you.” He paused. “And a few people up north, too, from what I hear.”

Eve didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I’m going to assume you spoke with Mitchell Hayes.”

“I did.”

“And?” She prodded when he took a sip of his martini and didn’t go into detail.

“And nothing. It’s not my decision, it’s yours. Though I made it clear that the show belongs to Driver Productions and if he managed to get you, it would be only at the end of your contract. The show stays here, though what it would do without its host is another headache.”

“You won’t have to worry about that. I told him no.”

Phillips looked her full in the face for the first time. “Did you, now?”

“Of course. We’re doing just fine right where we are. We have great facilities, happy advertisers, and we’re building the viewership in leaps and bounds. Why should I upset the applecart and risk everything on a young network that’s still trying to prove itself?”

“Because it might be the right thing for your career?”

Now it was Eve’s turn to stare at him. “Tell me I didn’t hear you say that.”

He shrugged. “I’ve known for at least a year that the big boys would come knocking. It’s what every regional host wants, Eve—a shot at the national level. CWB is handing you that on a platter. I wouldn’t blame you for jumping at it—though it might be best to wait for more of the networks to offer. Make the station an affiliate as part of the deal.”

Maybe he wouldn’t blame her, but how could she? They’d built a terrific team here, from Jane in makeup to Cole in production. If she agreed to go with any network, what would happen to all of them? They were practically family. The new organization would probably bring in all its own people and move her somewhere else. She’d get national exposure but she’d never see her friends again. She’d already experienced being the one who was left behind. No way would she do that to someone else if she could help it.

“You won’t have to worry about it, Dan,” she said. “I told Mr. Hayes no, and I meant it.”

“I’m sure you did.” His gaze caught on something over her shoulder. “But I think he means to make you change your mind.”

Something in his tone warned her, and she turned just in time to see Mitchell Hayes pause on the stairway. He had one hand casually on the polished banister, the other in his pocket, hitching up the jacket of his tux in a way that turned formality on its ear and made it sexy.

What in the world…?

He scanned the crowd lazily, and two seconds too late, she understood what he was doing.

He was looking for someone—and she had no doubt whatsoever who it was.

THE MOST DIFFICULT THING any of these people had to read was probably their bank statement.

Mitch knew he was being a reverse snob. His own paycheck was pretty generous, considering he hardly ever had time to spend any of it, but his annual salary was probably what some of these folks paid in income tax.

His gaze moved from one part of the vast marble foyer to the next, noting a thumb-sized emerald here, a designer suit there, a pair of skyscraper stilettos somewhere else. One thing was for sure—he needed to move to a room where the acoustics were better, or his head was going to split from the sound of high-pitched laughter and conversation shattering on the stone all around him.

He ducked into the nearest room, which turned out to be the location of the buffet, and exhaled in relief. There was no hurry. He didn’t even know if Eve Best was here yet, and he had nothing else to do except catch a movie on HBO back at the hotel. It had taken less than thirty seconds online at the local newspaper’s Web site to find the society listings, and from there to narrow down the field to the three that he’d define as a “benefit.” The other two were for sports and health care, so he’d gambled that a woman who made her living by communication would have a connection with people who communicated with words on a page—and those who were learning to.

He’d give this an hour. If he was wrong, at least he had the sports gig to look forward to.

The same connection at the affiliate station who had sent him the DVDs of Eve’s show had also done some calling around and come up with a spare ticket for this one. He owed her big-time, especially if he succeeded in convincing Eve to come to the network. In fact, a blue box from Tiffany would probably be in order.

Which showed how important it was that CWB get this show. Nelson would probably sign the requisition without even blinking. Or reading it.

He heard someone laugh behind a huge urn filled with stargazer lilies, and he inhaled sharply. After forty hours of recordings, he knew that sound. A strange feeling swooped through his gut, and he stepped cautiously to one side, peering around the flowers.

And there she was, heading for the buffet with an elderly woman, a polished older man and a woman with a neck like a swan. Or a ballet dancer. His gaze dropped to the woman’s feet, which were turned out. Yep.

He’d dated a dancer from the New York City Ballet for six weeks the previous year. He’d discovered about five weeks in that Analiese was much more beautiful onstage as a swan or a princess than she was as a girlfriend, so they’d parted amicably and he’d bought season tickets to the company’s performances. It was the music he liked best, anyway.

Eve and her companions filled plates that weren’t much more than wafers of china, and stood by the windows visiting and eating hors d’oeuvres. Mitch took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and then stopped him.

“Who’s that, do you know?” He nodded toward the window. “That couple talking with Eve Best.”

The waiter glanced at them. “Don’t know who the old lady is. But that’s Roy and Anne Best with Eve there. Must be related. He was a developer before he retired. Put in that new retail complex in Decatur. Word is he’s looking to buy a share in the Thrashers.” His gaze swung to Mitch. “Too bad they didn’t make the playoffs this year. You follow hockey?”

“Sure do.” Hockey, soccer, snowboarding. Anything but football or baseball, a preference that would probably get him hung in one or two southern states. “Thanks.”

“Enjoy your evening, sir.”

Roy Best moved slightly, giving Eve an unobstructed view of the window, which reflected the brightly lit room.

Mitch realized that he was standing in that reflection at about the same time she did. So much for lurking behind the flower arrangements while he waited for a moment to speak to her alone. She turned, and the light slid along the silk folds of her strapless gown, which crisscrossed across her breasts and hips, throwing every curve into perfect relief before it cascaded in folds to the floor.

She looked like a goddess.

A really angry goddess.

She said something to her companions and stalked across the floor to where he stood next to the lilies, and he braced himself for thunder and lightning.

“I saw you when you came in, Mr. Hayes. How did you get in here?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Eve. You look beautiful.”

Her step hitched in surprise, and then she recovered. “Thank you. If you’re following me, the answer is still no.”

He managed to arrange his face in an expression of mild surprise. “I wasn’t, actually. I have a ticket, bought and paid for and arranged in advance.”

Okay, so two-thirds of that was true.

She narrowed her eyes at him and looked so completely touchable that he had to put his champagne down on the nearest table and stuff his hands in his pockets. What he really wanted to do was reach out and run them down her bare arms.

“I don’t believe you.”

He reached into his jacket. “I have it right here if you want to look at it.”

“No, of course not. Fine. Enjoy yourself.” She turned to walk away.

“And I’d heard such great things about Southern hospitality,” he said with regret to the nearest lily.

That stopped her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that I’d expected you to be a little more gracious in a social situation. Given your reputation for making people feel at ease and all. It certainly comes off on the screen.”

“Are you implying that I’m not making you feel at ease?”

She made him feel hot and slightly out of control and hornier than he’d felt in at least a year. “You could say so.” A pause. “Not that it matters. We only met today. Please.” He indicated the couple by the window, now chatting with a couple of guys in suits. “I don’t mean to keep you from your friends.”

“That’s my grandmother—my father’s mother—and my aunt and uncle.” The words came out slowly, as if she were reluctant to tell him anything personal, but now felt as though she had to in order to be polite.

“Are they here from Florida?” Again the narrowed eyes. “I did my research, Eve. That’s where you grew up, right?”

“Yes. And no, they’re not. All my dad’s family is here in Atlanta.”

His face relaxed into the first sincere smile of the evening. “It must be nice to have family so close. All mine are in New Mexico. I’m lucky to see them once every couple of years.”

“Planes fly both ways.”

“They do,” he allowed, “but after the November sweeps, things go crazy. I can never get out of New York during the holidays.”

She nodded slowly. “I know. Before she died, I only saw Nana—she’s the one who raised me—in the summer during our hiatus, and Florida in July is, well…”

“I know.” He took a breath as he caught a tune floating over the sounds of conversation. “Not to change the subject, but would you like to dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yes. An ancient rite performed in praise of the gods.” He surprised her into a smile, and his concentration fell into pieces. “My God, you’re beautiful,” he blurted.

Then he gave himself a mental slap and waited for her to walk away.

3

MITCH NEVER LOST CONTROL. He was always calm, cool and unbiased…which, now that he came to think of it, hadn’t been standing him in good stead lately. Was that why his last two bids for shows had fallen through? Because he hadn’t shown enough passion for the chase? For them?

Was that why his longest relationship in the last couple of years had topped out at six weeks?

Was that why he kept striking out with Eve Best?

But instead of rolling her eyes at his ineptitude, or sidestepping away as though he might be a stalker, Eve smiled again.

“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all day,” she said, then held up a finger. “No, the second thing. The first thing was about your family in New Mexico. I’d love to dance. Thank you.”

Relieved and slightly dazed at this reversal of his expectations, he offered her his arm. She took it and they followed the sound of Duke Ellington into a massive glassed-in conservatory that had been converted into a ballroom. At one end, a big band played, perspiration trickling down the faces of the guys blowing trumpet and trombone. Fairy lights glittered in swaths along the wrought-iron ribs of the ceiling, and palm trees stood at intervals along the walls, with the windows opened to the night air. It felt like something out of the twenties, when mad young things danced the Charleston and the world held every possibility.

Maybe his world held possibility, too, Mitch thought as he whirled Eve into a spin and then took her in his arms. And he didn’t mean for business, either. Tonight he was an ordinary man dancing with a desirable woman, and he would leave business out of it and enjoy every second.

“So how long are you going to make me wait?” she asked.

The green silk of her dress moved gently under the hand he had flattened on the small of her back. Besides the heat of her body, he felt the movement of toned, controlled muscles and the beginnings of the curves of her hips.

“Wait?” He’d oblige her in the nearest closet, if she wanted.

“For CWB’s counteroffer. Didn’t you come here to talk business?”

Oh. He’d forgotten all about CWB.

“No. I came to contribute to Atlanta Reads. And to ask you to dance.”

“One out of two isn’t bad,” she murmured. He spun her into another turn and whirled her back. “Not that I believe either one.”

“Literacy’s a good cause,” he said. “My pet charity is Music on the Street.”

“Mmm, that’s three honest things. Tell me about it.”

“It’s a grassroots organization that teaches innercity kids an instrument. They play in a band that gives concerts on basketball courts, in gyms, wherever they can get space. We fund the instruments and the teachers, because the schools can’t.”

She leaned back to look into his eyes, and his thinking ran aground on that clear green gaze.

“What’s your instrument?”

He nodded toward the band. “Trumpet. Or it used to be. I’ve been racking up so many frequent flyer miles I’m way out of practice.”

“Security would probably confiscate your horn as a dangerous weapon, anyway,” she said with a twinkle. The music segued into a slower number and instead of thanking him and leading the way off the dance floor, she fit her body closer against his. He slid his arm farther around her waist and tucked the hand he held against his shoulder.

Whatever witty and self-deprecating comment he’d been about to make fizzled away into soundlessness. All he could think about was how good she felt in his arms—how warm and silky her skin, how intoxicating her scent. The weight of her breasts against his chest and the brush of her thighs as they moved together across the dance floor were making him crazy.

Making his body temperature rise.

And that wasn’t all.

“Mr. Hayes, I’m shocked,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear.

He had two choices. He could make a break for the door and hope he could bribe his way onto the next flight to New York, or he could brazen it out and hope the sense of humor she displayed on TV was real and not put on for the camera.

“I am, too,” he whispered back. “Usually I’m much better behaved than this. But then, I’ve never danced with you before. Now I know I have limits.”

She giggled, tried to choke it back, then seemed to give up. She threw back her head in an honest-to-God laugh. Both arms crept up around his neck.

“I meant I was shocked you weren’t going to counteroffer.” Her voice wobbled with laughter.

Oh, no. Could he just go into cardiac arrest right here and now? Maybe if he went out on a stretcher she’d look at him with pity instead of…what was this?

Her face was alight with humor, not malice or derision. And in her eyes he saw appreciation and a lowering of her guard.

“Mitchell Hayes, you win the prize.”

“And what would that be?” he asked, trying to keep his head up in a sea of embarrassed misery.

“You’ve told me five honest things in the space of half an hour. That’s more than I’ve been able to squeeze out of half the guests we have on the show—and a lot more than I usually get out of the men I’ve dated.”

He huffed a breath of laughter and tried not to think about the way her arms were looped around his neck, bringing that delectable body even more flush against him. “So what’s the prize?”

“We’re going to start over. You don’t scout for a major television network, you never came to my office. I’ve just met you and learned that you’re from New Mexico, you love your family, and you play the trumpet and want kids to enjoy music the way you do.”

“You left out the fifth thing.” What was it his dad used to say? In for a penny, in for a pound.

She shrugged, and flashed that enchanting triangular smile. “Your body’s very honest, too,” she said. “I like that in a man.”

JENNA HAMILTON read the brief one more time in the cab: Skinner v. Best, Kurtz, Crawford, Reavis, Haas. The rolling in her stomach was due less to reading while in motion than to the simple fact that this was the biggest, most public case she’d ever had to handle.

And she wasn’t sure she could do it.

No, no. Scratch that. She’d learn as she went, and get the best advice she could find. She’d already read every scrap of case law in the online library—and she’d branch out to libraries in other states if that’s what it took to win this case.

As the station’s corporate lawyer, and a junior lawyer at Andersen Nadeau who had her eye on a partnership some day, this was her chance to shine. Eve and the others expected her to pull it off, and she wouldn’t disappoint them if she could possibly help it.

The cab pulled up outside the offices of Kregel, Fitch and Devine, which had once been a brick warehouse but was now part of the trendy Decatur district. She paid the driver and took comfort in the knowledge that she knew the details of Liza Skinner’s suit inside out and backwards. Not only that, the file rested in her Kate Spade tote. If there was ever a secret weapon designed to give a woman confidence, it was that.

When the receptionist caught sight of it a moment later, she straightened and announced her right away. The butterflies in Jenna’s stomach settled down. Maybe it was a sign of things to come. She took a firmer grip on the handles and followed the young woman into a spacious office that had enough of the warehouse’s bricks and pipes left showing to give it an edgy, industrial look while screeching “major interior designer” at every turn.

A tall man crossed the room, his hand outstretched.

Nice suit, was her first thought.

Nice hands, was her second, as Kevin Wade shook hers.

“Thanks for coming, Ms. Hamilton,” he said, his voice a smooth bass that tickled something deep inside her. “My client and I appreciate your willingness to be flexible.”

His café-au-lait skin was just a shade lighter than hers, and his brown eyes held a male appreciation that made her body sit up and take notice. No, that wasn’t it. Her spine was straight to give the impression of control, not because it would throw her breasts into prominence. Nuh-uh.

“We might be at this for a while,” she replied, “so please call me Jenna.”

“And I’m Kevin to my friends.”

She didn’t bother to point out that friends was the last thing they were—or were likely to become. Too bad. But with this much money at stake, it was far more likely they’d wind up on either side of a courtroom, each doing their best to grind the other into defeat.

Instead of seating himself in the power position behind the desk, he waved her over to an area by the window that contained a couple of couches facing each other across a low, square coffee table. Some case law and several manila folders already lay on it, as though he’d been doing the same thing she had in the cab.

As they went through the points of Liza Skinner’s lawsuit, she realized that he was darned good at his job, and that this was more of a challenge than she’d anticipated. If only she could focus on the numbered paragraphs of the filings instead of the way his long-fingered hands lay on the papers, or the way she’d get a whiff of his delicious cologne every time he got up to fetch a highlighter or a box of paper clips. This was not going to win Eve and the team what they wanted.

She reined in her errant thoughts with a stern hand. “Kevin, I’m afraid that’s not going to be acceptable to my clients,” she said after he reiterated Liza Skinner’s position on one particularly irritating paragraph in the brief. “The fact is, the lottery winners are not willing to cut her in on a share of the money—nor should they have to. It’s regrettable that they and Ms. Skinner didn’t think to set down the terms of their agreement in writing before they bought the tickets. But without any kind of contract, it’s impossible to hold my clients to what she’s demanding.”

“They were friends,” he reminded her. “Would you make your friends sign something before you gave them tickets, say, for a birthday gift?”

“This wasn’t a gift,” she said. “They all played the same number each week and they all went in on it together—except for Ms. Skinner. She was out of town, out of state—out of my clients’ lives permanently, for all they knew. Any reasonable jury would see that her claim is groundless.”

“It can’t be groundless if there was a verbal agreement,” he pointed out. “She may not have told them she was leaving town, but she never told them she was leaving the group.”

“Regardless of whether she told them or not, I think her departure managed to state it pretty effectively.”

“But metaphors don’t stand up in court.”

He smiled at her, and Jenna lost her focus. That smile had probably gotten what he wanted out of every judge in town. Well, it wasn’t going to work on her.

“The members had a verbal agreement, and Ms. Skinner contributed to the pot.” He pointed to the relevant paragraph in the complaint.

“They won after her monetary contributions ran out,” she reminded him, pointing to the paragraph that countered his in the brief she’d filed that week. “My clients may have played what she’s calling ‘her’number out of a sense of friendship, but in practical terms, she herself was not a party to the win. She can’t own a number.”