Starstruck by Anne McAllister Page B

past her out the door. She knew full well that Joe Harrington was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, already a thing of the past, an event to tell her grandchildren about. What on earth would he ever call her for? To get his jeans and sweat shirt back? Hardly. He could certainly afford new ones. But it had been worth saying, just to see the expression on Frances’s face.
     
     
    F rances could have said the same about her.
    “I told him,” Frances said the minute Liv walked back in the news room door. “And he said to tell you he always paid up. What in heaven’s name does he mean?”
    “Who?” Liv asked, her mind still full of Paganini and a violist with a charming Portuguese accent.
    “Joe Harrington. Who else?”
    “What?” Liv sank into her chair, stunned, the Portuguese violinist abruptly consigned to oblivion. “Joe Harrington called here? Me?” It wasn’t possible.
    “Well, you said—”
    “I was joking,” she replied weakly.
    “Nevertheless, I’d know that voice anywhere.” Frances’s eyes went all dreamy again. “Such vibrance. S o sexy.”
    “For God’s sake, what did he say?”
    “Not much,” Frances replied with a shrug. “He wanted to talk to you. I told him you weren’t here, and I gave him your message.”
    Liv went crimson, remembering the message.
    “And he said he’d call back later.” She gave Liv one of her doting-mother smiles. “ I knew you’d make an impression.”
    Liv shook her head, confused. This couldn’t be happening, not when she’d spent all morning putting him out of her mind. “He must’ve left something in my car,” she improvised, then thought, maybe he really did want his clothes back!
    “What’s up with the quartet?” Marv asked, materializing beside Liv’s desk, cigar in place in the corner of his mouth.
    “Quartet?” He might as well have been speaking to her in Hungarian.
    “Where’ve you been all morning, then?”
    Liv shook her head blearily again, like a drunk come-to to find herself in an unknown neighborhood, then fumbled through her purse, her mind in as great a disarray as her bag.
    “Don’t mind her,” Frances explained. “She just had a call from Joe Harrington.”
    “No kidding.” Marv looked impressed. “Another story?”
    “No.” Liv was positive about that, then wished she weren’t, for what other reason would Marv think he had for calling her?
    “Oh.” Marv regarded her curiously, chewing on the cigar. “He did want more from you than the interview then.”
    “Marv!” Liv glared at him, mortified. How dare he say such incriminating things in front of Frances?
    He spread his hands, looking sheepish and even had the grace to blush. “Sorry,” he said, turning to beat a hasty retreat to his office. “Let me have that material on the quartet, if you remember who they are, as soon as you can.”
    “Sooooo,” Frances said, eyeing Liv narrowly. “He didn’t make a pass, huh?”
    “Oh, you know Joe Harrington,” Liv mumbled, still mortified. “He says, ‘Pass the p eas,’ and it sounds like a pass. ”
    “Where in an interview do you say a thing like ‘Pass the peas,’?” Frances wanted to know.
    “That was just an example,” Liv retorted irritably. “Don’t be so literal. You know what I mean—pass the peas, I need a towel—”
    Frances’s eyes grew like mushrooms, almost popping out of her head. “This gets more intriguing by the minute.”
    “Not really,” Liv said, ducking her head to rummage through her bag for the quartet notes and to avoid Frances’s speculative gaze.
    “Well, I think there’s hope,” Frances said. “Especially if he’s calling you.”
    “Dream on,” Liv said. “We’ve seen the last of him. He went to Portland today. Who knows where he’ll be tomorrow. He probably lost his little black book and thinks it might be in my car. He’ll probably ask me to send it on.”
    “We’ll see,” Frances said. “I, for one, don’t think we’ve heard the last of this.