he opened it up and started reading the contents. A moment later he looked up at Kathleen, his face an expressionless mask. “Just business, Kathleen. That’s all there is.”
“Okay.” She gritted her teeth at his cold harsh words, rose from her chair and made a calculated attempt to calmly walk to the door. She put her fingers to the knob, then turned around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the old Mac, but he appeared deep in thought, his eyes trained on his papers. What the hell could he be thinking? Why did he open up to her one moment, then clam up the next? He was the most infuriating man she’d ever met.
He looked up from his papers. “Did you need something else?”
That did it! She couldn’t contain her anger and frustration any longer. She yanked open the door and slammed it behind her. When she reached her office, she slammed that door too, fell into her chair, and exhaled all her pent-up emotion. What the hell had she done to deserve this treatment from Mac? He’d grown too darn moody over the years, too serious. She must be crazy to care so much, to let his behavior ruin her frame of mind and, quite possibly, her evening. No. She wouldn’t let his sour humor put a damper on her date tonight. She planned to enjoy herself, in spite of him.
She grabbed her briefcase and opened a desk drawer to retrieve her purse, and hidden below it was that newspaper photo of Mac and Ashley at the Pallenbergs’. Her humor plummeted.
Damn that man ! How could she possibly be in love with such an insufferable pig ?
Chapter 5
The Plaza’s lounge overflowed with people, more than Mac had expected. With luck, he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. Not that it mattered, but he didn’t want to answer any questions. He felt ridiculous sitting alone at a table waiting for a blind date. Forty-nine years old and placing an ad in the Personals. He really had gone insane.
Seven o’clock on the dot. Mac thrived on punctuality—but what about the ladies he expected? What if they showed up at the same time? Why did he send letters to two women? Why did he even send one?
He stared at his beer, deep in thought, not paying attention to the people entering the lounge. Then he heard it. A low, raspy voice. “Are you expecting me?”
She wore short white gloves and stood about five feet two. Her eyes were big, blue.
“Hello.” Mac could barely get a word out of his constricted throat as he stood up and tried not to gape at the petite, dark-haired woman at his side. Somehow he managed to pull out the chair for the creature whose generous breasts nearly spilled out of the extremely low-cut red spandex tank dress she wore.
She slipped off her gloves and offered a hand to Mac in greeting. “I’m Hillary.”
“Mac,” he croaked, then took her hand in his, holding it a second longer than necessary. Hers was warm. His was clammy.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, raking his palm w ith long red fingernails as she pulled her hand away.
Mac returned to his chair, nodding for the waiter.
“What may I bring you?” The man addressed Hillary, his eyes straying to her cleavage.
“Jack Daniel’s, straight up.”
Mac nearly gasped.
“And you, sir?”
“Another Molson. No, on second thought, I’ll have the same as the lady.” Mac smiled weakly. He couldn’t afford to look like a wimp. If Hillary could drink whiskey straight up, he could too.
“Tell me about yourself,” Mac said, unable to think of anything more creative as he fought to keep his gaze on her face. Sitting with a stranger was more than uncomfortable; it was downright miserable. To make matters worse, he looked at Hillary like a display piece—a commodity whose purchase he was contemplating.
“Well,” she said, then appeared to lose her train of thought as she opened the small white purse she held in her lap. She fumbled through the contents and pulled out a pack of Marlboros.
The waiter appeared with their drinks the moment the cigarette touched
“Okay.” She gritted her teeth at his cold harsh words, rose from her chair and made a calculated attempt to calmly walk to the door. She put her fingers to the knob, then turned around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the old Mac, but he appeared deep in thought, his eyes trained on his papers. What the hell could he be thinking? Why did he open up to her one moment, then clam up the next? He was the most infuriating man she’d ever met.
He looked up from his papers. “Did you need something else?”
That did it! She couldn’t contain her anger and frustration any longer. She yanked open the door and slammed it behind her. When she reached her office, she slammed that door too, fell into her chair, and exhaled all her pent-up emotion. What the hell had she done to deserve this treatment from Mac? He’d grown too darn moody over the years, too serious. She must be crazy to care so much, to let his behavior ruin her frame of mind and, quite possibly, her evening. No. She wouldn’t let his sour humor put a damper on her date tonight. She planned to enjoy herself, in spite of him.
She grabbed her briefcase and opened a desk drawer to retrieve her purse, and hidden below it was that newspaper photo of Mac and Ashley at the Pallenbergs’. Her humor plummeted.
Damn that man ! How could she possibly be in love with such an insufferable pig ?
Chapter 5
The Plaza’s lounge overflowed with people, more than Mac had expected. With luck, he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. Not that it mattered, but he didn’t want to answer any questions. He felt ridiculous sitting alone at a table waiting for a blind date. Forty-nine years old and placing an ad in the Personals. He really had gone insane.
Seven o’clock on the dot. Mac thrived on punctuality—but what about the ladies he expected? What if they showed up at the same time? Why did he send letters to two women? Why did he even send one?
He stared at his beer, deep in thought, not paying attention to the people entering the lounge. Then he heard it. A low, raspy voice. “Are you expecting me?”
She wore short white gloves and stood about five feet two. Her eyes were big, blue.
“Hello.” Mac could barely get a word out of his constricted throat as he stood up and tried not to gape at the petite, dark-haired woman at his side. Somehow he managed to pull out the chair for the creature whose generous breasts nearly spilled out of the extremely low-cut red spandex tank dress she wore.
She slipped off her gloves and offered a hand to Mac in greeting. “I’m Hillary.”
“Mac,” he croaked, then took her hand in his, holding it a second longer than necessary. Hers was warm. His was clammy.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, raking his palm w ith long red fingernails as she pulled her hand away.
Mac returned to his chair, nodding for the waiter.
“What may I bring you?” The man addressed Hillary, his eyes straying to her cleavage.
“Jack Daniel’s, straight up.”
Mac nearly gasped.
“And you, sir?”
“Another Molson. No, on second thought, I’ll have the same as the lady.” Mac smiled weakly. He couldn’t afford to look like a wimp. If Hillary could drink whiskey straight up, he could too.
“Tell me about yourself,” Mac said, unable to think of anything more creative as he fought to keep his gaze on her face. Sitting with a stranger was more than uncomfortable; it was downright miserable. To make matters worse, he looked at Hillary like a display piece—a commodity whose purchase he was contemplating.
“Well,” she said, then appeared to lose her train of thought as she opened the small white purse she held in her lap. She fumbled through the contents and pulled out a pack of Marlboros.
The waiter appeared with their drinks the moment the cigarette touched
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