"You're from where? And
you want to do what?" Lara was certain she blushed from
her toes to the top of her head. The event was supposed to
have been an anonymous fundraiser. The tall, dark, hunk of
beefcake standing at her door had to be joking.
"Total Man Magazine. You're Lara
McKenzie, right?"
She remembered a phone call from the
magazine the other day, but she'd been too caught up writing
her book to really pay
attention to what they'd said. Now it clicked. Something about
sending out a reporter. But wasn't that supposed to be next
week? "I thought this was about my book."
His lips curled in a devilish smile that
turned her knees to jelly. "No, it's about the fundraiser."
" The fundraiser isn't newsworthy."
"Sure it is. You came in first.
That's big news."
He couldn't hide his smirk. This was the most embarrassing
moment of her life.
Mr. Too Sexy To Be Legal flashed his
drivers license and magazine I.D. "My name's Mark Whitman.
Can I come in and ask you a few questions about your, uh,
win?"
Oh dear God, where was the nearest hole
she could crawl into? "Why?"
He arched a dark brow, his whiskey colored eyes making her
wish he was standing at her doorstep for any other reason than
her winning the fundraiser.
"Have you ever read our magazine?"
"No."
"Trust me, what you did is a guaranteed
sell out."
Great. Just what she didn't want to hear. "What
if I refuse an interview?"
He shrugged, leaning his broad shoulder
against her doorway. "We'll
write about it anyway, and then add our own comments."
Mortification ran rampant through her. The knowing smile on
his face was enough to make her regret answering the door.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know," he added. "It
was for a good cause."
"If the shoe was on the other foot
and I was here to interview you about. . .that subject, how
would you feel?"
He shrugged, not in the least bit embarrassed. "I'm
a guy. We're always bragging about our capabilities."
Lara blew out a breath. Who could she blame for entering that
stupid contest, anyway?
Nancy, that's who. It was Nancy's fault. She made a mental
note to kill her best friend. Maybe she'd been drunk when she
agreed to do it. Unfortunately, she did have a lot of experience
in that area. And she knew she could bring in a lot of money
for the Women's Center. But she had no idea the results would
be made public.
"Can I come in or should we do the
interview right here?"
"My, uh, sex life is private." Yeah,
right. Sex and her life had absolutely nothing in common.
But Mr. Hot
As Hell Reporter didn't need to know that.
"If it's so private, then why did
you do the fundraiser?"
She gave up. Maybe the article would increase sales of her
books. Lara stepped aside and Mark walked in, his gaze darting
around her living room. His perusal of her messy house only
added to her embarrassment. This guy had to be from New York,
and this was small town Pennsylvania. She lived in a tiny rented
house filled with old, cheap furniture. Her research notes
littered every mismatched table in the room.
"Sorry for the mess. I was reorganizing."
"You're nervous," he commented,
casually moving a magazine aside. He sat on her ugly brown
and orange sofa,
pulling a laptop out of his backpack.
"Me? Nervous? Hardly." She
swiped a loose curl behind her ear, hoping she didn't look
as bad as she felt. At least
she'd brushed her teeth this morning. And the plaid pajama
bottoms and Penn State t-shirt covered her body, even though
they didn't match. She sighed and plopped into the chair next
to the sofa.
Why did it even matter how she looked? Someone like her could
never attract a guy like Mark Whitman.
Mark smiled, his mouth bringing her attention to his dark moustache.
His hair was raven black and curled at the ends. Well-worn
jeans hugged his long legs and the black t-shirt stretched
tight across his wide chest.
Didn't it just figure? Mark Whitman was the image of her fantasy
man. The one she imagined when she wrote her books and thought
about at night when she laid alone in her bed.
"Ready?" he asked.
No. "Sure."
"How does it feel to have logged
the most hours in the annual Masturbation-a-thon?"
She was going to die. Right here, right now. No, first she'd
kill Nancy. Then she'd die.
