Interrupted Lullaby. Valerie Parv

ruefully. “I’ve never been stopped by a challenge before.”

      “I’m not a challenge, Zeke. I’m part of your past, as I’m sure you told the magazine reporter.”

      “I didn’t tell them anything except that it was your show and I was there to observe.”

      She glanced away from the traffic long enough for him to register her surprise. “And are you?”

      “I’m not the enemy, Tara. You may think I am because of my exposé on charities that help themselves more than other people, but so far your foundation doesn’t seem to be one of them.”

      It was more than she had expected from him and she felt heat blaze a trail through her. “Thank you.”

      In fairness he had to say, “Don’t thank me yet.” He paused, then added, “Save it until I have enough material to write the column.”

      She felt her pulse jump. The thought of him investigating her was almost more than she could handle, but she refused to let him see it. “Then you’d better get yourself a car,” she said through gritted teeth. “I don’t make a habit of driving audience members home.” Especially not this one.

      “Turn left here. You can pull into the driveway at the end of the road,” he said.

      She did so, not sure whether she was glad or sorry that they had arrived at his apartment building. The street was a steep one, leading down to the harbor foreshore, with the city ferry terminal only a short stroll away. In front of them was a swathe of parkland, then the water sparkling like black velvet strewn with diamonds. Zeke explained that his apartment occupied the entire ground floor of the old Federation terrace house that had been converted into a duplex. The view must be sensational, she thought.

      “Nice place,” she commented tensely.

      “It came with my new job,” he said. “Would you like to take a look at the view?”

      “I can see it perfectly well from here.”

      “Scared, Tara?”

      His softly voiced challenge was all it took. She wasn’t scared of him, nor of her ability to deal with the situation. In comparison with what she’d been through since he’d left, Zeke Blaxland was a piece of cake. “Very well, but I won’t stay long. I’m starting on a book, and the only time I get to work on it is early in the morning.”

      “About the foundation?” he guessed. She nodded. “You always said you wanted to write, but I thought it was going to be a torrid romance.”

      She was painfully aware that the vision had been fueled by their affair. This time she would have to look somewhere else for inspiration. “I changed my mind,” she said flatly.

      “Pity. But I’m glad you’re following your dream.”

      She could say the same for him. According to the same media grapevine from which she had learned about his marriage, Zeke’s column was now published in a dozen countries in several languages. He also did an op-ed piece on a national morning television show. She had first seen it in hospital after the baby was born and it had almost been her undoing. But after a year or more of being confronted with his image everywhere she turned, she was immune to the effect, or so she tried to assure herself.

      Liar, she taunted herself silently. She would never be immune to the sight of Zeke on television or anywhere else. She had only to glance sideways to remind herself of how vulnerable she still was to his brand of charm. Charisma was an overused word, but he had it in spades.

      Even when she looked resolutely away, his presence radiated toward her like a beacon. You’re a moth to his flame, she told herself scathingly, forcing herself to remember what happened to moths when they flew too close to the light. It didn’t stop her from getting out of the car, locking it and following him inside.

      She might have known his apartment would be spectacular. He never did anything by halves. From a plant-filled atrium, he led her into a vast living area furnished with Corbusier chairs and sofa separated by a mirrored coffee table. Her high heels clicked against the white Italian tiles covering the floors.

      Beyond the living room, a dining area contained a fruitwood table surrounded by a dozen rope-seated chairs. A handcrafted boat sat atop a trestle side table, and above it a brass mirror was angled to reflect the view. Kelim rugs and softer natural elements, terracotta pots and baskets of plants, relieved the coolness of the tiled floors.

      “It’s lovely,” she admitted, impressed in spite of herself. Home-making hadn’t been among Zeke’s inclinations when they were together. His previous apartment had been beautifully but impersonally furnished by the simple means of buying several room lots complete with accessories from a fashionable furnishing store. This apartment was another matter. It exuded a feeling of home that she wasn’t accustomed to associating with Zeke. “Did you hire someone, or is this your own work?”

      “A bit of both,” he conceded. “I had good advice, but I knew what I wanted.”

      He usually did. She accepted the glass of sparkling spring water he offered her, foolishly pleased that he had remembered she never drank when she was driving. It bothered her to think she might be what he wanted, because she already knew how hard it would be to refuse him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to, only that she had to. Having ridden the emotional roller coaster with him once before, she’d be crazy to climb aboard it again.

      She tensed as he moved up behind her, but it was only to steer her closer to the spectacular view. His hands on her shoulders felt warm, strong. A molten sensation flowed along the length of her spine and pooled beneath the curve of her stomach.

      “You wouldn’t believe how much I missed this.”

      She found her voice with an effort. “The harbor view?”

      He turned her again until he was looking directly into her eyes. “This view.”

      The raw emotion in his gaze made it clear the harbor wasn’t in the race. She had half expected it, she told herself, forcing herself not to move. It was the test she had set herself by agreeing to come with him.

      When she said nothing, he began to massage her shoulders with gentle but persuasive movements until she wanted to melt. “No comment, Tara?”

      She shook her head. “It is the approved journalistic phrase.”

      He frowned. “In my experience it’s used by people who have something to hide.”

      She jerked away from his hands as if stung. He couldn’t know her secret, but conscience made her react. Or else it was the unnerving effect of his nearness. Both, she suspected. She was mad to put herself through this. As a test of her indifference to him, it was already a failure.

      He studied her intently. “What is it, Tara? Did I say something?”

      She fought the urge to wrap her arms protectively around herself, and walked to the wall of windows looking onto a vast terrace. The view might as well have been painted on for all the impact it had on her. She was far more aware of the man behind her. “This wasn’t a good idea.”

      “On the contrary. It’s the only good idea I’ve had in a long time.”

      Turn and face him now, or you never will, she commanded herself, but found it almost impossible to do. Almost as hard to say lightly, “Am I hearing things? Zeke Blaxland is a positive fountain of good ideas.”

      “You know I was speaking personally.”

      As much to remind herself as him, she said, “Not an area I have a right to go into.”

      His gaze hardened. “Because you don’t feel anything for me anymore, or because you do?”

      How did one answer the unanswerable? She picked up her bag and started for the door, but he was there before her. “You can’t leave yet. I asked you a question.”

      “I can leave anytime I please,” she said, not at all sure