promptly at five o’clock—and now he wasn’t even showing up.
“Excuse me,” she said to the man at the desk. “Are you sure he didn’t just sneak past?”
“Joe Harrington?” His voice implied that Joe Harrington, like the royal family, couldn’t possibly sneak anywhere.
“Well …” She couldn’t wait much longer. She had hurried home, popped the casserole in the oven, picked up the cleaning, fetched the rabbit from the vet’s—and it was hopping around the back of her VW bus this very moment. It might last an hour or so in there without dying of heat prostration, but it had been there almost that long now. And the casserole would burn … and Jennifer was waiting
“Look!” the desk clerk sounded triumphant. “Here he comes now!”
Liv turned, not knowing exactly what to expect. But whatever it had been, it wasn’t what she got. All the news photos and publicity shots she’d ever seen of Joe Harrington had made him appear suave, debonair, sexy and totally in command. But that hadn’t even begun to capture the sheer magnetism of the man now approaching the desk. Even dressed in the wholly unexpected gray sweat shirt, much-laundered jeans and running shoes without socks, and carrying a suitcase that looked as though it had seen him through ten years at summer camp, Joe Harrington was a force to be reckoned with. His lithe but well-muscled body was apparent despite the disreputable clothes. He looked disgustingly attractive for a man who, by rights, ought to be showing signs of dissipation, Liv thought with annoyance. His brown hair was thick and shiny, the tendency to curl giving him a boyish look at odds with the sense of full-adult masculinity that emanated from him. She could see how he would inspire men like Tom, but they would never achieve the same effect in a million years. She swallowed hard. Darn it, Olivia, she told herself firmly, shape up. He’s got every woman in the wor ld falling at his feel He doesn’ t need you, too.
She wiped her hands furtively on the sides of her rust-colored linen skirt and then walked briskly toward him, extending her hand. “Mr. Harrington, I’m Olivia James with the Madison Times. Your Mr. Gates said you would speak with me this afternoon.” She focused on the potted palm somewhere just past his left ear. One look at his green gaze, even diminished by the ho rn -rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, had unnerved her so badly that her hand shook.
“Miss James,” he drawled. “Yes, Tim mentioned it to me while I was in Milwaukee.” He was holding her hand far longer than it should have taken for a perfunctory handshake. His hand was warm and slightly rough to the touch. Liv tugged hers away, but he hung on, apparently unwilling to let her go. What did he mean, “mentioned it,” for heaven’s sake? It was his idea!
Her gaze flickered back to meet his. “If you’ ll let go, Mr. Harrington,” she said, grateful that her usual asperity hadn’t entirely deserted her, “we could sit down over there and get this over with.”
His eyes widened momentarily at her words and tone, but then a slow grin appeared on his face. A seductive grin, Liv decided, wishing she had a suit of armor. “Joe,” he corrected easily. “Call me Joe. And you’re Olivia?”
Ms. James, she wanted to say. Or Mrs.— which would be more to the point. But she nodded, trapped, managing only a croaking, “People call me Liv.” What was wrong with her? Surely she’d seen a handsome man before!
“Well, Liv,” he said, still not relinquishing her hand, “I’m delighted to talk to you. But we’re running a little late and— ”
No kidding, Liv thought. “I won’t take much of your time, Mr. Harr—Joe,” she amended quickly, seeing his frown.
“I have an idea,” he said, the slow smile beginning again at the comers of his mouth, spreading to reveal the famous boyish grin tooth by tooth. How does he do that, Liv wondered. “I’ve got to get cleaned up
“Excuse me,” she said to the man at the desk. “Are you sure he didn’t just sneak past?”
“Joe Harrington?” His voice implied that Joe Harrington, like the royal family, couldn’t possibly sneak anywhere.
“Well …” She couldn’t wait much longer. She had hurried home, popped the casserole in the oven, picked up the cleaning, fetched the rabbit from the vet’s—and it was hopping around the back of her VW bus this very moment. It might last an hour or so in there without dying of heat prostration, but it had been there almost that long now. And the casserole would burn … and Jennifer was waiting
“Look!” the desk clerk sounded triumphant. “Here he comes now!”
Liv turned, not knowing exactly what to expect. But whatever it had been, it wasn’t what she got. All the news photos and publicity shots she’d ever seen of Joe Harrington had made him appear suave, debonair, sexy and totally in command. But that hadn’t even begun to capture the sheer magnetism of the man now approaching the desk. Even dressed in the wholly unexpected gray sweat shirt, much-laundered jeans and running shoes without socks, and carrying a suitcase that looked as though it had seen him through ten years at summer camp, Joe Harrington was a force to be reckoned with. His lithe but well-muscled body was apparent despite the disreputable clothes. He looked disgustingly attractive for a man who, by rights, ought to be showing signs of dissipation, Liv thought with annoyance. His brown hair was thick and shiny, the tendency to curl giving him a boyish look at odds with the sense of full-adult masculinity that emanated from him. She could see how he would inspire men like Tom, but they would never achieve the same effect in a million years. She swallowed hard. Darn it, Olivia, she told herself firmly, shape up. He’s got every woman in the wor ld falling at his feel He doesn’ t need you, too.
She wiped her hands furtively on the sides of her rust-colored linen skirt and then walked briskly toward him, extending her hand. “Mr. Harrington, I’m Olivia James with the Madison Times. Your Mr. Gates said you would speak with me this afternoon.” She focused on the potted palm somewhere just past his left ear. One look at his green gaze, even diminished by the ho rn -rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, had unnerved her so badly that her hand shook.
“Miss James,” he drawled. “Yes, Tim mentioned it to me while I was in Milwaukee.” He was holding her hand far longer than it should have taken for a perfunctory handshake. His hand was warm and slightly rough to the touch. Liv tugged hers away, but he hung on, apparently unwilling to let her go. What did he mean, “mentioned it,” for heaven’s sake? It was his idea!
Her gaze flickered back to meet his. “If you’ ll let go, Mr. Harrington,” she said, grateful that her usual asperity hadn’t entirely deserted her, “we could sit down over there and get this over with.”
His eyes widened momentarily at her words and tone, but then a slow grin appeared on his face. A seductive grin, Liv decided, wishing she had a suit of armor. “Joe,” he corrected easily. “Call me Joe. And you’re Olivia?”
Ms. James, she wanted to say. Or Mrs.— which would be more to the point. But she nodded, trapped, managing only a croaking, “People call me Liv.” What was wrong with her? Surely she’d seen a handsome man before!
“Well, Liv,” he said, still not relinquishing her hand, “I’m delighted to talk to you. But we’re running a little late and— ”
No kidding, Liv thought. “I won’t take much of your time, Mr. Harr—Joe,” she amended quickly, seeing his frown.
“I have an idea,” he said, the slow smile beginning again at the comers of his mouth, spreading to reveal the famous boyish grin tooth by tooth. How does he do that, Liv wondered. “I’ve got to get cleaned up