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I’m with the Mannon reservation.”
    The girl blew a russet-colored curl out of her eyes and glanced up from the messy stack of menus she’d been straightening. “Your party’s already seated. I’ll take you to the table in a sec, okay?”
    A deep and now familiar baritone answered for her. “That’s all right, Maag, I can take her.”
    Heart doing double time, Macie turned slowly around. Her gaze collided with a pair of impossibly blue eyes, and for a powerful few seconds, her tumbling heart seemed to spiral, then slip. “Dr. Mannon?” she said, finally finding her tongue.
    “Ross.” His deep voice, reminiscent of boots crunching on gravel, sounded slightly different in person than it had on the phone the other night; the telltale Texas intonation lengthening his vowels in a softer, less formal, sexier way. “You must be Miss Gray?”
    Macie nodded, feeling her knees turn to wax—melting wax. “Y-yes, I’m she…I mean me.” Jesus, get a grip.
    After their phone conversation earlier in the week, she’d known she needed to put up a double-walled guard. The guy had been charming—but then she’d prepared herself for that. He was, after all, a media personality. That he was also majorly into classic movies had taken her by complete surprise. North by Northwest was his favorite film, too! Really, seriously! There’d been times during their almost hour-long talk when she’d found herself forgetting she was supposed to be acting out a role and had just been…herself.
    That he was also “prettier” than his publicity picture was so not fair. Wearing a tweed blazer, comfortably worn jeans, and slightly scuffed Western boots, he might have walked out of the pages of an American Eagle Outfitters catalog.
    She opened her mouth to invite him to call her Macie when she remembered where she was and, more importantly, who she was supposed to be. “Martha Jane.” She hesitated, smiled, and stuck out her suddenly shaky hand.
    “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Holding her gaze, he slid his big hand around hers in a firm but not crushing grip.
    Ma’am. Now there was a word she hadn’t heard in a while, certainly not since the move to Manhattan. She glanced down at their joined hands, hers eclipsed by his broad palm and tapered fingers, and felt a spark somewhere between static electricity and lightning rush from her fingertips to her elbow.
    Shivering, she pulled away and reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?”
    He shook his head. “Sam and I just got here a couple of minutes ago.”
    “Sam?”
    “My daughter, Samantha.”
    “Oh, yes of course.” Talk about blowing it off the bat.
    “I had to take her out of school for a…doctor’s appointment. Trip down go okay?” he asked, deftly turning the conversation back to her. Maybe her reporter’s instincts were on hyperdrive, but he suddenly seemed on edge.
    “It did, thanks. I love riding the train. It gives me a chance to read.”
    She started to bring up his book, but a tall teenage girl interrupted, sidling to Mannon’s side. “Are we going to order or what? I’m starving.” Hands stuffed into the pockets of her black Ducoti leather biker jacket, Samantha Mannon turned stony eyes on Macie.
    Though they’d just met, Macie sensed the shift in Mannon. He turned toward the girl but not before Macie caught him wince. “Mind your manners, Sam. We have a guest.” Expression shuttering, he looked back to Macie. “Miss Gray, this is my daughter, Samantha.”
    Macie held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Samantha.”
    “Sam,” the kid corrected. Lip curled, she stared down at Macie’s hand as though wondering when she’d last washed it.
    Dropping her arm, Macie admitted the daughter wasn’t at all what she’d expected. With her razor-cut medium brown hair, piercings, and torn-at-the knees jeans, Samantha Mannon looked more like a biker babe than the daughter of one of the country’s