She smiled. “That sounds nice. Thank you,” she murmured to the waiter when he approached and placed two steaming cups on the table in front of them. Latimer leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and grabbed the drinks. She accepted the mug gratefully, cradling the drink with both hands.
“Cider,” he said, inhaling the steam from his cup.
Harper took a drink. “And . . . whiskey?” she added, stifling a gasp. The beverage was tasty and warming, but strong.
He smiled and set down his cup. “Blended bourbon, actually. Would you prefer something else?”
She shook her head and took another sip. “It’s delicious. I just wasn’t expecting the up-front punch.”
“Just like you weren’t expecting all that talk about the film.”
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said frankly, turning toward him.
His expression sobered.
She hadn’t meant to say her impulsive thought out loud. She cleared her throat and clutched the intoxicating beverage tighter in her hand. “I mean . . . I hadn’t put Jacob Latimer the icon and you together, when we met down there on the beach.”
“Icon,” he repeated slowly, that X-ray stare narrowing on her. “An icon is representative of something. What do you think I symbolize?”
She laughed but squirmed a little in her seat. “I don’t know. The American Dream, rags to riches, glamor and wealth, mystery and speculation, and—”
“Ill-gotten gains?” he murmured, his silky tone at odds with the sudden glacial quality of his eyes.
Jesus. The rumors about him being paranoid are true.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” she replied.
“I’m not a symbol of anything.”
He closed his eyes briefly, as if to calm a sudden rough chop of emotion. When he opened his eyelids, he once again seemed completely under control, if a little weary.
“I’m sorry if I seem suspicious,” he said slowly. “It’s a constant battle to keep my private life private. Cyril is interested in your story for the film, and I want to help him if I can. But I don’t usually allow the press into my home. The invitation was for you. Harper McFadden. Not a member of the press. I want to make that clear from the outset. From what I’ve learned about you, I assume you’d have the decency to tell me right now if you planned to print anything you learned here tonight.”
“I didn’t come here for that,” she said stiffly. “And you’re right. I’d tell you if I was planning on publishing anything about tonight. Or about you.”
He merely regarded her steadily for a moment by way of response, and then transferred his gaze to the fire. Her brief flash of annoyance in reaction to his suspicion seemed to drain away under the influence of the flames, the strong drink . . . and her heightened awareness of him. For a few moments, neither of them spoke.
“I can only imagine how hard it must be for you to live your life away from prying eyes, rumors, and misunderstandings,” she said at length. “But I’ll remind you that you were the one to ask me here tonight. I didn’t come with any underhanded motivations.”
“So you definitely didn’t come because of interest in doing a story on Jacob Latimer or Lattice?” he murmured.
“For the newspaper?”
His small shrug caused his jacket to brush lightly against her bare arm. A shiver of awareness passed through her. She glanced sideways at him. She hadn’t been able to discern it on the beach when he was wet, but his hair was somewhere between a dark ash blond and light ash brown. It blended ideally with his arresting eyes—all those colored shards of amber and brown, the green only adding another layer of complexity. He was almost alarmingly handsome.
“No,” she replied. “I always tell people when they say something along those lines: it’s like if you invited a food critic to your house for a dinner party, or a psychotherapist, or . . . anything, really. They aren’t going to publically critique your meal or waste time developing a personality assessment. I exist beyond my job, you know.”
“So why did you come?” he asked.
“I was interested. Who wouldn’t be curious? About this place. About you. I may not be planning on writing it, but I love a good story as much as anyone.”
His brows slanted. “What are you so curious about, exactly?”
“You’re awfully young,” she stated with blunt honesty.
“Age is relative, isn’t it? You’re young, too, to have found so much success in your chosen field, to have been given so many awards in journalism.”
A wave of warmth and relaxation went through her as she watched his mouth move. Her limbs tingled. The pleasant sensation somehow twined with his mellow, seductive voice. What was in this drink, she wondered, idly taking another sip. Liquid Xanax?
“Any success I’ve had is comprehensible,” she said after a short pause. “It followed a logical path. Your success is astronomical for someone so young and who, from what I understand, wasn’t born into wealth.” Despite her entrancement at his closeness, Ruth’s earlier references to his shrouded, possibly illegal rise to riches and power came to mind.