Without a Net Page 5

  Turned out her father wasn’t home. It was Logan who answered the door.

  At thirteen, he’d been a lanky adolescent with dreamy blue eyes behind wire-frame glasses, a mop of unruly dark hair, and features so similar to hers that if not for the fact that he was already taller and clearly male, she might have been staring at a mirror.

  Looking back on that meeting so many years ago, Eva marveled at the fact that her father had been able to keep his two families apart and in the dark for so long. Granted, this was before the days of ubiquitous internet, before individual anonymity was swept away by universal social networking. And her parents had divorced soon after her father left, her mother remarrying three years later. Still, it boggled the mind that a parent could be so callous as to deprive his children of the connection they should have had by virtue of blood.

  Luckily, her mother understood Eva’s desire to reach out and embrace her newly-discovered half-brother. She graciously accepted Logan into the fold, despite the fact that he was living evidence of her former husband’s infidelity. Logan’s own mother was long dead by then, and his father indifferent, once he understood he had nothing to lose by ceding to the inevitable. And so Logan became a frequent visitor to Eva’s home in the Valley, then to her apartment near UCLA, and later still to the house she and Roger shared in Santa Monica.

  Since Roger’s death, Logan made it a point to come over at least a couple weekends a month. He’d check on Eva, play with Ben, and take care of any yard work or house maintenance jobs that had accumulated since his last visit.

  “You ready for some baseball?” Logan said, ruffling his nephew’s hair.

  Ben grinned. “Got my lucky glove right here.”

  “Good man. What about sunscreen and a hat?”

  “Oh, yeah. Give me a minute.”

  “You’ve got twenty. I still want to talk with your mom.”

  Ben darted toward the stairs. Eva listened to the clatter of his footsteps overhead and shook her head. “I wish I had so much energy.”

  Logan studied her, eyes sharp behind the wire frames. “You doing okay?”

  “Fine.” She led the way to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not really. We’ll grab something once we get to Anaheim. Game doesn’t start till six. I could do with some coffee, though.”

  Eva busied herself preparing a fresh pot. “Thanks for taking him.”

  She was doubly grateful to Logan for stepping in and providing Ben the opportunity to experience some of the things that Logan himself had probably missed out on as a child. They’d never talked about it, but somehow she doubted that their father had been particularly hands on. Too busy building his career as an elite orthopedic surgeon. Taking his son to a baseball game would have been a waste of his time.

  “My pleasure. We’ll have some fun, and you’ll get the chance to relax a little.” He watched her moving around the kitchen. “You look tired.”

  “Gee, thanks. Exactly the sort of thing a girl wants to hear.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Something going on?”

  “You mean, besides the usual?”

  “Yeah. Besides that.”

  She shrugged. “I’m getting more work, which is good.”

  “If you need money, I can—”

  “Thanks, but no.” Her mother and stepfather had already offered, and she’d turned them down as well. At some point, she had to be an adult and stand on her own two feet. While she appreciated her family’s moral support, as well as the legal assistance that Angie was providing, she drew the line at accepting money. As long as she was able to support herself and her son, she could still afford to maintain some sense of dignity and independence.

  She poured Logan a cup. “Did you see the news this morning? About Blackwell’s son, Harry, committing suicide?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think Harry was in on it?”

  “You mean the Ponzi scheme?” He picked up the cup and took a sip. Steam fogged his glasses. “I don’t know. Grace says not.”

  “Who’s Grace?”

  “Harry Blackwell’s ex-wife, Grace King.”

  “Oh.” She paused, thinking back over the last few months of coverage of the Blackwell financial scandal. “I don’t think I’ve heard any interviews with her.”

  “Probably because she hasn’t given any.”

  “Then how do you know what she said?”

  He set his cup on the counter and removed his glasses, using the bottom of his T-shirt to polish the lenses. “We bumped into each other. She’s back in town.”

  “Wait a minute.” Eva frowned. “Didn’t you used to go out with a Grace King back in college?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is the same Grace King who married Harry Blackwell?”

  His lips tightened. “Yes.”

  “And now she’s back, and you’re…talking?”

  Logan slid the glasses back on. “No law against catching up with an ex-girlfriend, is there?”

  “I guess not.” She tried to decipher his expression. Before she could ask anything else, Ben loped into the kitchen, wearing his baseball cap and glove, and carrying a tube of sunscreen.

  He skidded to a stop in front of Logan. “I’m ready!”

  “Okay, champ. Say ’bye to your mom.”

  Ben accepted Eva’s hug with barely masked impatience. “’Bye, Mom.”

  “Have fun. Listen to your uncle.”

  Logan winked. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

  “Try not to feed him too much junk,” Eva said, trailing them to the door. “Ben, don’t forget your jacket.”

  She waited until they drove off before shutting the door. A quick glance at the clock showed she had twenty minutes to finish tidying up before Nina came by with her prospective buyers.

  The afternoon and evening stretched before her. There was plenty to do.

  An old friend had emailed earlier that day, asking her to redesign his website and menu layout. She’d helped him out with free marketing in the past, and now that his business had expanded, he could actually afford to pay for her work.

  There were also documents to review ahead of next week’s meeting with Quinn about the lawsuit. And the posters she’d promised to do for the elementary school’s final fundraiser of the year were only half done.

  She checked her iPhone to make sure she hadn’t missed any important calls or emails. Nothing.

  Annoyed, she swept through the house, putting away and straightening what she could to at least give the semblance of order, instead of the usual barely contained chaos where nearly every room bore the stamp of her rambunctious eight-year-old son.

  When Nina arrived, Eva handed over a spare key, barely stifling the impulse to ask her if she knew where Max was. Or more to the point, whom he was with.

  Nina wasn’t her brother’s keeper. And it shouldn’t matter to Eva what Max did with his free time. He could sleep with every single Laker Girl—all at once, if he wanted—and it still wouldn’t make one iota of difference to her.

  What she was concerned about was whether or not he liked her ideas for his book cover. And if so, was he going to hire her to design a marketing campaign that would put his book on the literary map? Yesterday, he’d seemed pretty eager to get on with the publication process. So why the hell was he dragging his feet about it today?

  Chapter 9

  He called shortly after five. Eva had just settled into a beanbag chair at the library, ready to take a small break from programming, when her iPhone rang.

  “I love it,” Max said. “When can we meet?”

  “Really?” She lowered her voice when the librarian gave her a dirty look. “Can I call you back in a few minutes?”

  She tucked her sketch pad and computer away in her bag. Despite some initial problems concentrating on the task at hand, she’d managed to get a good start on redesigning her friend’s outdated website. The process engaged her attention so completely that she’d nearly succeeded in pushing
Max out of her head. Now here he was again, front and center.

  With an apologetic smile, she skirted the circulation desk and exited the library. Resting the bag on a metal bench out front, she wiped a sweaty palm on her jeans and took a deep breath. Max answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” he said. “I’ll pick you up. We can go somewhere and talk about the next step.”

  She tamped down a twinge of annoyance at his presumption. Okay, so she might not be one of his usual bimbettes, but that didn’t automatically mean her schedule was open on a Saturday night. She could have had a date lined up already.

  Her shoulders slumped. Who was she kidding? The last time she had gone out with anyone but Roger, UGG boots were just coming into vogue. So, fine, no date. But she did have a son. Under normal circumstances, arranging a babysitter on such short notice would be nearly impossible. It was pure chance that Max had caught her on the one night Ben wasn’t due back until nearly ten o’clock—way past his usual bedtime.

  But Max couldn’t know that. He was simply assuming that Eva would drop whatever she was doing and jump at the chance to see him.

  Unless…

  “Eva? Hello?”

  Nina might have let something slip. She promised to be discreet about showing the house, but maybe she wouldn’t consider a passing remark to her brother a breach of confidence.

  Eva glanced at her watch. How long did it take to show a house, anyway? Was it too early to stop by and change out of her distressed jeans and seen-better-days T-shirt? Then she reminded herself this wasn’t a date.

  “I can meet you in half an hour for coffee,” she said. “Same place as before.”

  His voice dropped to a husky tone that raised goose bumps along her exposed arms. “How about a drink instead? The Wilshire Restaurant is just down the street from there.”

  “I’m not dressed for it. Besides, if we’re going to talk business, we need someplace where we don’t have to shout to be heard.”

  “We can sit on the back patio. It’s quiet, especially this early in the evening. And I’m sure whatever you’re wearing is fine.”

  Oh, he was good. She was almost afraid of seeing him again in person. A woman could only resist so much.

  “One drink,” he said. “What can it hurt?”

  “Fine,” she agreed. “One drink, and then business.”

  “Sounds like a plan. And if you change your mind about dinner—”

  “I won’t.” She picked up her bag and started walking. “See you there.”

  ###

  The patio was quiet, just as Max predicted. Heat lamps helped ward off the evening chill. Fairy lights strung along overhead wires and around nearby trees created a magical ambiance.

  “So what did you think of the book?” Max said. He’d shed his sports jacket the moment they were seated, and Eva found herself transfixed by the contrast of white open collar shirt against tanned skin.

  “I liked it,” she said, forcing herself to pay attention to what he was saying rather than how he looked. “Especially the twist at the end. Totally didn’t see it coming, but it worked.”

  She took a sip of her cocktail, the most innocuous sounding of the “Seven Deadly Drinks” on the menu. The taste of rum and ginger exploded on her tongue and slid like liquid fire down her throat. She coughed, and Max leaned in to tap her between the shoulder blades.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, fine.” She waved him off, more alarmed by the effect of his touch than the burn of the liquor. The second sip went down more easily. She licked her lips. Not bad at all, once you knew what to expect. She glanced at Max from the corner of her eye. “If this whole medicine thing doesn’t work out, you might have a second career in writing.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “I’m serious, Max. Have you shopped the book around to literary agents or publishers?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? It’s terrific. I can definitely see it becoming a bestseller.”

  His lips quirked. “I don’t know. The competition’s pretty fierce.”

  “Maybe, but you certainly won’t win if you don’t get in the race.” She lifted her glass, blinking when she realized there was only ice left.

  Max signaled their waiter for a refill and an assortment of flatbreads.

  “I’m not hungry,” Eva said.

  “But I am,” he countered. “And if you change your mind, I’m happy to share.”

  Her belly rumbled, reminding her that it had been hours since she last ate. She frowned. Maybe drinking on an empty stomach wasn’t such a hot idea. An appetizer would at least help sop up some of the alcohol. And it didn’t obligate her to anything—not dinner, and certainly not getting naked with the man who was sitting beside her. Even if he was drop-dead gorgeous and a lot smarter than she’d initially given him credit for. Not that she’d ever thought he was stupid. He had to have some brains to get through medical school. But she knew lots of doctors who weren’t too bright when it came to human relations.

  Her father was a case in point. Brilliant when it came to repairing fractures and doing joint replacements, but dumber than dirt when it came to dealing with his family. Why else would he have gotten another woman pregnant while still married to his wife? And why else would he have alienated both of his children, and rebuffed all of Eva’s attempts to bridge the gap?

  Until last night, Eva would have sworn that Max was cut from the same cloth. Love ’em and leave ’em and never look back. But then she’d read his book. Could a man that callous write with such sensitivity and insight? She didn’t think so.

  Their waiter returned with drinks and a wooden platter of what appeared to be square pieces of exotically garnished pizza. Max lifted a slice topped with prosciutto, burrata cheese, and arugula.

  “Here,” he murmured. “Just try a bite.”

  His eyes focused on her mouth. Without even meaning to, she parted her lips and leaned forward. His nostrils flared. She bit into the soft dough and chewed slowly, savoring the flavors of balsamic and tomato mixed with smoky cheese and cured meat.

  “Mmm.” She licked her lips. “Delicious.”

  “Yes.” His eyes darkened, and he took his own deliberate bite.

  “It’s getting a bit warm, isn’t it?” She glanced around, zeroing in on a nearby heat lamp. “Do you think they could turn that down?”

  While Max flagged down a passing busboy, Eva took another sip of her drink.

  Max turned back and caught her eying the flatbread. He nudged the platter in her direction. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks,” she said, picking a slice. “It’s too good to pass up.”

  He grinned. “Wait till you try the one with wild mushrooms.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes before she returned to their earlier conversation. “So you’re absolutely, one hundred percent sure you don’t want to shop your book around?”

  “Let me ask you something. You used to work for a big advertising firm, right?”

  A long time ago, but she’d included that tidbit on her website. “Yes.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I was pregnant with Ben. My doctor put me on bed rest.” At his questioning look, she shrugged. “Placenta previa.”

  “And then, after you delivered?”

  “I stayed home with Ben.”

  “But at some point you decided you wanted to go back to work.”

  She opened her mouth to take issue with his word choice, then hesitated. This was neither the time nor the place to hold forth on how much work was involved in being a stay-at-home parent. Tonight was supposed to be about Max’s book.

  Before she could redirect the conversation, Max continued. “And you decided to go it alone. Why? Why not return to the firm?”

  “Fine,” she said. “You’ve made your point. You don’t want to cede control.”

  “Bingo,” he said. “You sign, and all of a sudden it’s no longer your baby. The editor determines content. C
hange this, rewrite that, ad infinitum. The marketing department decides your title. The art department picks your cover. And you get a measly advance against a six or eight percent royalty. Plus they get the right of first refusal for anything you write later, unless you’ve got a shark for an agent. And that’s assuming the book even gets picked up. After the bloodbath of the last couple decades in the publishing industry, there’s only five big publishers left. And they’re not interested in gambling on unknown authors who write genre fiction and are unlikely to ever rise above the mid-list.”

  “But what if you do land a contract? Wouldn’t that give you access to a wider audience?”

  “Maybe, but not necessarily. There’s a glut of mysteries and thrillers out there. The only market bigger than that is romance. And you know what happens to all those books? They sit on the shelves for a few weeks, and then they get sent back to the publisher, covers stripped, to make room for the next batch.”

  “What about e-books?”

  “Good question,” he said. “E-books are certainly becoming more popular. But legacy publishers are still approaching the digital market the same way they do print. Same control issues. Same cost structure, even though there’s infinite digital shelf space, and negligible overhead for distribution. And they jerk authors around when it comes to paying royalties, figuring some small percentage of so-called ‘net receipts’—which they can pretty much define in any way they choose without regard for the book’s actual price. There was even a class action lawsuit in which authors accused one of the big romance publishing houses of playing shell games. The claim was that the publisher created a sham corporation specifically for tax purposes, and then laundered net receipts through this entity by way of some intercompany licensing agreement. As a result, the authors got paid three to four percent of the e-books’ cover price instead of the contracted fifty percent.”

  Eva blinked. “How do you know all this?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately. When I can’t sleep, I surf the web.”

  “Wow. You learned all that online?”