Cause For Scandal (Dynasties: The Elliotts #3)(18)
Author: Anna DePalo

“Houston is next, at the end of the month, then L.A., and I’ll be going abroad soon.” He paused. “But I’ll be staying in New York until the end of the month.”

“Oh?” she said, tamping down an annoying little thrill.

“Yeah, I’ll be catching up with family.”

She knew from her background research that he’d grown up in New York. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you.” She turned off her tape recorder because she’d gotten what she needed for her article.

He gave her a sly grin. “Unlike you, you mean?”

She refused to take the bait. “The bio on your Web site says only that you grew up in New York.”

“That’s purposeful. I like my privacy.” He tossed her another quick grin. “But if you’re curious, I grew up on the Upper West Side.”

She wondered whether he’d lived within a stone’s throw from where she lived now.

“My father’s a professor at Columbia University,” he elaborated, “and my mother’s a psychologist in private practice.”

She tried to picture him as the son of an academic and a shrink, and failed.

He gave her a wry smile. “Yeah, I know. Hard to believe.” He paused. “But not as bad as it sounds. My father’s an archaeologist, so we spent most summers on digs in South America and the Middle East.” He shrugged. “That probably explains why I picked a career that requires lots of travel.”

“Did you always know you wanted to be a musician?” she asked.

“You mean, a rock star?” he asked mockingly, then shook his head. “No. For a while I followed the path that my parents expected of me, but a month before graduating from Columbia, I landed my first recording deal.”

“What did you major in?” she asked, surprised he’d graduated from a prestigious Ivy League university. He certainly didn’t have the pedigree of a typical rocker.

“Music. On and off campus. What about you?”

“English, with a minor in journalism.” She added, “At NYU.”

“High school?”

“Private school in the Hamptons. What about you?”

“Horace Mann,” he said.

They smiled at each other until she cleared her throat. The conversation had gotten way too personal. How had that happened? “Okay, I’ll just need some photos of you to accompany the article,” she said.

He stood up. “Right. Where do you want me?”

She gave him a quick look. Was he coming on to her?

He just looked back at her blandly.

She stood, her digital camera in hand. “Er, somewhere bright but not in direct sunlight. Also, we’ll want a backdrop that’s not too busy.”

“How about if I sit on the arm of that chair over there?”

She nodded. “Sounds good. Then we can take some of you standing in front of the living room wall. That’ll provide a solid, off-white background.”

As soon as he was ready and she’d adjusted her camera, she started snapping shots.

“Big smile,” she said, and he obliged, giving her a disarming smile.

He was a natural in front of the camera, changing the angle of his head but still looking great in every shot.

She warmed as he looked at her through the camera’s viewfinder. What she read in his blue eyes was enough to quicken her pulse. It was a good thing that the camera was between them, she thought, mitigating the power of his potent appeal.

All the while, she somehow continued to coax reactions from him. “Don’t smile. Give me serious,” she said, snapping away. “Now tilt your head down and look up at the camera.” Snap, snap. “Now turn your head to the side and slant me a look.” Snap, snap.

By the time he’d posed straddling the chair, and then moved to pose in front of the wall, the air in the room had become sexually charged.

“Now give me smoldering,” she said unthinkingly.

He did, and she thought, Oh, my.

It was like experiencing vertigo. She was felt dizzy and breathless.

She lowered the camera and pretended to fiddle with it. “Okay, that’s it.”

He walked toward her and when he reached her, he slid his hand under her hair and around the back of her neck, exerting subtle pressure to force her head up to his.

She barely had time to close her eyes before his lips feathered across hers. Once, twice, three times, and then he was there, claiming her mouth in a kiss that was so sweet, so deep, so satisfying that her knees nearly buckled. The hand holding her camera went limp by her side.

When he finally pulled back, she whispered, “Why did you do that?”

“Because I wanted to,” he said.

She looked at him mutely.

“Because you were turning me on. Because I wanted to confirm that what I experienced on Thursday night wasn’t just a fluke.”

“We can’t.”

“Can’t or shouldn’t?”

“Both.”

“Why? You’re not engaged anymore, remember?” He rubbed his thumb across her lips. “What are you doing Friday night?”

“I’ve got plans. There’s a party for The Buzz at my cousin’s restaurant, Une Nuit.”

“Invite me.”

The letters M-I-S-T-A-K-E flashed across her mind.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Don’t I deserve a thank-you for submitting to an interview? Besides, you’ll be helping The Buzz. I’m sure the staff there would love a personal connection to another celebrity.”

He was persuasive, she’d give him that.

He bent for another kiss, and she ducked. “Okay,” she relented as she scooted past him to gather her stuff and, more importantly, to put some space between them.

For The Buzz, she promised herself. Only for The Buzz.

Seven

U ne Nuit, located on Ninth Avenue on the Upper West Side, wasn’t what Zeke had been expecting. He’d looked up the restaurant before coming over, so he knew it was known for its French-Asian fusion cuisine, but he was still surprised by the ambience. The decor was seductive with low red lighting, black suede seating and copper-top tables.

At Summer’s insistence, they’d planned to meet at Une Nuit rather than at her place. He figured she didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to them as a couple.

After getting a drink at the bar, he scanned the crowd that was standing and milling about and spotted Summer laughing with some guy who looked like a male model.

Frowning, he made his way toward her, aware of the glances thrown his way. He was used to looks and whispers when he was recognized.