Staying Single

Way to insert foot in mouth, Francie!

“Really? How interesting.”

Ignoring his teasing grin, she said, “As I explained, our firm is a small one, so we’re able to give our clients more individualized attention. Details are very important in this business, as you are certain to find out, no matter who you decide to sign with.”

He smiled that devastatingly sexy smile again. It was a sin for a man to have such straight, white teeth. Francie had paid a fortune to have hers fixed. In fact, she was still paying the orthodontist, would probably be paying Dr. Rosenblat until the day she died, or needed dentures.

“I like the sound of that, Ms. Morelli, or can I call you Francesca, since there’s a good possibility that we’ll be working together? I hope you’ll call me Mark.”

“How did you know my—”

“The brass plate on your desk.”

She nodded. “Ah, of course.” Francie was dying to ask Mark about his last name. Though Matt’s last name was Carson, his parents’ last name had been Fielding, due to a divorce and remarriage in his family. He had never mentioned anything about having a brother.

Matt had made a habit out of surprising her with all sorts of things—romantic gifts, tickets to concerts she’d been dying to see—so when he refused to give her the name of his best man and had insisted on issuing the invitation himself, saying only that it was a big surprise and she would have to wait until the day of the wedding to find out, she didn’t insist.

Most grown men were really just little boys at heart, and Matt had been no different.

At any rate, Fielding was a pretty common name in the Philadelphia area, so she wasn’t going to start getting paranoid about every person she met with that moniker. And Mark Fielding didn’t look a thing like Matt, who was at least three inches shorter and had brown curly hair, not black waves that tempted a woman’s touch.

Stop it, Francie! This line of thinking is only going to get you into trouble, and you have plenty of that already.

Not to mention that Mark starts with the dreaded letter “M,” Francie reminded herself.

What is it about M names anyway? First Marty, then Mike, Matt, and now Mark. She had a serious alphabet problem.

“Was it something I said?”

Her cheeks filled with color again. “Sorry. I have a bad habit of zoning out. And yes, you may call me Francesca or Francie, if you like, which is what most of my friends and family call me.”

The waiter came to take their order. Francie decided on the crab cakes, which was the chef’s special for the day, while Mark opted for scallops in white wine sauce. They shared a bottle of chardonnay.

“So what kind of media coverage can I expect, if I decide to sign with Baxter? I was hoping to get on some talk shows, maybe a few radio spots.” Mark forked salad into his mouth as he spoke, and Francie had a difficult time concentrating on his words and not his lips.

“There’ll be book signings, of course. And with your affiliation with the Associated Press, I don’t see a problem getting the TV talk shows interested. From the little you’ve told me, your work sounds fascinating, not to mention topical.”

“It can be. But it can also be heart-wrenching at times. There’s a lot of poverty, death and disease in this world, and I’ve seen and photographed most of it.”

Over their main course, Mark told her what he’d seen in Africa—the deaths from AIDS, the famine—and detailed many other atrocities he’d witnessed in the countries he’d visited and photographed.

“I admire your ability to be able to deal with such things. I don’t think I could.”

“It’s been difficult at times,” he confessed, sadness filling his eyes. “I’ve had the opportunity to photograph some of what’s been going on in North Korea, and it sickens me. The children look like prisoners in a concentration camp. They’re so undernourished and badly treated. I wish our government could do something about it.”

“You talk with a great deal of passion, Mark. That will be an asset when you’re interviewed.”

“It’s not just talk. I feel very passionate about my work. I’m passionate about a great many things, actually.”

His gazed dropped to her lips and Francie reached for her water glass, trying to quench the heat she suddenly felt between her legs.

What on earth was wrong with her? She’d just broken off her engagement, left her groom at the altar, and here she was affected by yet another man!

Not good, Francie. Definitely not good.

“Is there a problem? You look a little flushed.”

She pasted on an innocent smile. “Why, no. I just think it’s rather warm in here, don’t you?”

“Not at all. I think it’s perfect, as a matter of fact. Great food, a charming companion. What more can a man ask for?”

Think about work, Francie, she told herself. “What made you decide to become a photographer?”

“It was something I’d dabbled with in high school. Once I knew I was pretty good at it, there was no holding me back. I snapped photos of everything, almost drove my parents nuts.”

Noting Mark was finished with his lunch, she asked, “How was your meal?”

“I enjoyed it very much. This restaurant was an excellent choice.”

“Would you care for dessert? The pastry chef is very good here.”

“No thanks. I need to stop by my new apartment, make sure the furnishings have been delivered as promised.”

“You rented an apartment? Does that mean you’re planning to stay on awhile? I thought Associated Press photographers were on the road a lot.”

“We are. But I requested assignments closer to home. I’m a bit travel weary and like the idea of putting down roots for a while. With my seniority, it wasn’t a problem.”

“So, where’s your new apartment?”

“It’s called The Stones at Rittenhouse Square. Do you know of it?”

Francie’s mouth fell open, and her eyes widened. “But…but that’s where I live.”

Mark smiled, his right brow shooting up. “Really? What a nice coincidence. I guess that means we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then. I hope so, anyway.”

Warning bells clanged in her ears and red flags waved wildly in front of her eyes, but as she gazed into Mark Fielding’s big blue eyes, so filled with promise and passion, Francie ignored them completely.

4

PUSHING the rented sofa to a position beneath the bay window that overlooked the park across the street, Mark stood back, hands on hips, and surveyed the room.

Depressing at best, he decided.

It didn’t come anywhere close to his elegantly furnished room at the Ritz-Carlton. But hey, it was temporary. Which was good. Because if he had to spend any significant amount of time with the red-brocade sofa and green-velvet wing chairs he might have to commit himself to an asylum for the criminally design challenged.

This had been a last-minute arrangement, so he couldn’t afford to be too picky. Plus, it accomplished an important goal—living in close proximity to Francesca Morelli. Beggars can’t be choosers, his stepmom always counseled, and she was usually right.

As if conjured up by his thoughts, the cell phone rang, and it was Laura on the other end. “Mark, are you okay? We haven’t heard from you in days.”