Authors: Nan Ryan
Thanksgiving came and Kay, Sullivan, Jeff and the rest of the crew took part in what was referred to as “Cowboy Bill’s Annual Thanksgiving Dinner.” A big, burly man with a heart as large as his person, Cowboy Bill had organized and given his time and money to this worthwhile project for over twenty years.
Grateful, hungry people showed up by mid-morning outside a spacious leased warehouse. There, dozens of turkeys were being sliced, tubs of dressing being stirred, and the aroma of freshly baked pumpkin pies permeated the air.
Kay, Sullivan and the Q102 crew, white dish towels tied around their waists, acted as waiters. They were joined by other area radio and television personalities and by the time the last slice of white meat had been enjoyed, hundreds of diners had been served.
It was a lovely day for Kay. Sullivan, in a jovial mood, hurried between the long tables with platters of food on his arm. More than once, he’d caught her eye across the room, and smiled as if to say isn’t this fun? Isn’t this like old times?
After the big meal had been served and the crowd had departed, the working media teams sat down to eat. Sullivan, a plate piled high with turkey, dressing and all the trimmings, was the last to come to the table. Kay, already seated, felt her heart speed just a bit when he came to stand directly behind her and said teasingly, “Is this seat taken?”
“Damn straight it is,” said the devilish Jeff Kerns, scooting closer to Kay. He shot a look up at Sullivan, daring him.
Sullivan, carefully balancing his full plate in one big hand, bent close to Jeff’s ear. “Move over, Kerns, you’re in my spot.”
Kay said nothing, but she smiled warmly at the man who gracefully slid over the bench and took his place beside her, gently nudging Jeff aside. “You don’t mind, do you?” Sullivan’s eyes were on her face. Those expressive eyes held a warm, shining light.
Kay smiled at him and made no reply. None was necessary. He knew very well she didn’t mind.
It was nighttime when they all exited the warehouse. Kay remained silent when Sullivan possessively took her arm and guided her to her waiting Porsche. Calling their good nights to the others, they walked across the crunchy ground. Sullivan, the collar of his tan cashmere coat turned up around his cold ears, smiled down at Kay, and she gave fleeting consideration to inviting him over for coffee or a drink.
“Kay,” Sullivan said as they reached her car, “you drive carefully.”
She turned to face him. “Sullivan, I—”
“Yes?” he was looking down at her, standing very close, his dark hair blowing in the cold winter wind.
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
“It was, wasn’t it,” he said, turned and went to his Mercedes.
Rating period ended on December fifteenth, and at ten o’clock on that date, Sullivan Ward turned off his mike, rose from his chair and let out a loud shout of relief. Kay, laughing, stood up, stuck out her hand and said merrily, “Shake, partner. We did it!”
“We sure did, baby,” Sullivan said, and ignoring her outstretched hand, wrapped his long arms around her and crushed her to his tall frame. He rocked her back and forth in uninhibited glee and Kay thought she would surely die of happiness. Instinctively, she molded her small body to his, loving the warmth and strength of that very male physique pressing against her. Tentatively lifting her hands, she put them to Sullivan’s trim waist. The rocking ceased. The laughter died. Sullivan, as though coming fully to his senses, eased her away from him.
“Okay, you guys—” Jeff stuck his head in the door “—it’s time to celebrate. Be at Leo’s in fifteen minutes for champagne brunch.” He was gone before they replied.
“Hungry?” Sullivan smiled down at her.
“Famished,” she replied.
“Shall we?” He took her hand in his.
“You bet.” She clung to his hand and they both laughed and giggled like children when, in their elation, they completely forgot to don their coats and almost froze crossing Broadway in the frigid December air.
Betty Shults, Sam’s happy wife, insisted on having the station Christmas party at their impressive home in the foothills of West Denver. Begging Kay to come over early and help out, Betty really wanted the opportunity to visit with Kay before the other guests arrived. Kay agreed, and shortly before six o’clock on the appointed date, she arrived at the Shults home dressed in a long, lush, figure-hugging dress of jet-black velvet.
She’d bought the dress for the occasion and she didn’t try to fool herself: she picked it with Sullivan in mind. She wanted to draw his attention. To make him notice her. To appear sophisticated and alluring.
“My stars.” Betty clasped her plump hands together and stared at Kay. “You are breathtaking; how can he possibly go on resisting you?” She took Kay’s coat.
“Who?” Kay asked innocently.
Betty hugged her velvet-clad slender arm and drew Kay toward the big, cheerful den. “Don’t be coy. Sullivan Ward. That’s who!”
Kay sighed wearily. “Betty, does the entire world go around speculating on the relationship of Sullivan and me?”
“Why, no, dear, only those of us who love you both. I know I shouldn’t tell tales out of school, but…well, Kay, when you left here before, Sullivan was like a wounded animal. I mean he was—”
“Please, Betty,” Kay entreated. “That was a long time ago. I assure you that Sullivan Ward is completely whole again.”
“Is he now?” Betty put her hands to her hips and tilted her head to one side.
“Is who what?” Sam Shults came into the room pulling on his suit jacket.
Betty furiously gave Kay eye signals indicating that to reveal what she’d just said would put her in hot water with her husband. Kay, more than relieved to let the subject be dropped and forgotten, said diplomatically, “I was just telling Betty that Sullivan is almost sure we’re going to be getting the best rating book ever.”
“No question about it.” Sam Shults shook his head decisively. “And I lay the success all at your pretty little feet, Kay.”
Soon the doorbell chimes were ringing out the first eleven notes of “Jingle Bells” as guests began arriving. With each chiming of the bell, Kay, a glass of eggnog in her hand, looked anxiously toward the doorway, awaiting Sullivan’s entrance.
Jeff Kerns and his attractive wife came in with the Kitrells. Sherry Jones, her auburn hair dressed dramatically atop her head, was proudly clinging to the muscular arm of Ace Black, and it was evident by the pleased look in her big green eyes that she was more than thrilled that the shy, boyishly handsome disc jockey had finally fallen under the spell she’d been vigorously weaving around him.
Laughter and loud talk soon filled the room as guests arrived in an unending stream. The chief engineer, the salespeople with their spouses and dates, the news team. Almost everyone from the station was there. Yet for Kay, no one was there because Sullivan Ward had not yet arrived.
Switching from eggnog to pink champagne, Kay laughed and talked and kept a nervous watch on the door. Finally she heard the warm, deep voice like no other on earth and she drew a sharp breath, took a big swallow of champagne and casually turned around.
He stood across the room, towering above the crowd. His thick black hair was carefully groomed, his dark jaws freshly shaven and shiny clean. He was smiling easily, his teeth starkly white in his swarthy, handsome face. He wore a well-tailored jacket of black velvet, his snowy white shirt set off with a black silk tie. He was breathtakingly handsome. He was ruggedly male. He was cocksure without being arrogant. He was all a woman could want.
On his arm was Janelle Davis.
Sullivan, his arm bent for Janelle’s hand to rest inside, unbuttoned his black jacket, pushed it back and slid his other hand into the pocket of his gray wool slacks. He looked across the room. Then he saw her.
His dark gaze came to rest on Kay. She, and she alone, saw his eyes widen minutely. Kay, clinging to the crystal champagne glass for dear life, inhaled, unconsciously swelling her breasts to strain against the snug black velvet.
Sullivan’s hand clenched inside his pants pocket. She was across the room looking directly at him and never in all the years he’d known her had she looked more desirable than she did on this cold December night. She leaned casually against the cocktail bar, which stretched the length of the den’s far wall. Her dress was of velvet as black as the jacket he wore. Long tight sleeves covered her slim arms, reaching almost to her delicate knuckles. Fleetingly, Sullivan thought the sleeves were the only modest part of the gorgeous dress. Supple velvet barely covered creamy white shoulders. A daring neckline plunged well below the valley of her full, lush breasts and it was there his heated gaze was drawn. Rounded mounds of alabaster curved seductively. Should she move too suddenly, Sullivan was certain she’d cause a scandal.
Tearing his eyes away from the promise of what lay just inside that tight bodice, he leisurely assessed what remained. The skirt, long and tight, was slit up past her knees on both sides. He got a glimpse of a long, stockinged leg, bent at the knee, a small foot in a black satin pump. He jerked his eyes back to her face. She was not smiling, but she was still looking directly at him.
She’d worn her hair swept up off her neck. It was arranged in a too-professional-looking array of curls interlaced with little black velvet bows. The dancing blue eyes were on him, the delicious lips were slightly parted.
Sullivan wanted to choke her.
Sullivan wanted to make love to her.
“She does look lovely, doesn’t she?” Janelle’s voice held a sad note of resignation.
Sullivan tore his eyes from the vision in black velvet to look down at the attractive face turned up to his. “Who?” he said, color suffusing his face beneath the darkness of his smooth skin.
Janelle squeezed his arm. “Get me a drink will you, Sullivan?” Lowering her voice to a mere whisper, she added, “and you needn’t rush to get back with it.”
Sullivan patted the small hand resting in the crook of his arm. “I’ll be back in five minutes flat. Champagne? Eggnog?”
“Make it Scotch.” Janelle smiled sweetly, released his arm and turned to talk with Jeff Kerns’s wife.
Sullivan made his way leisurely to the bar, greeting friends as he went. Kay watched him approach, took another healthy sip of champagne and pretended a calm she didn’t feel. Then he was standing beside her. To Sam Shults, tending bar, he said, “Sammy, a Scotch mist for Janelle and I’ll have—” his head turned and he was looking down at Kay “—a coronary from that dress.” He smiled lazily and Kay never noticed his hands clutching the polished wood of the bar.
“Does that mean you approve or disapprove?” Kay could feel heat rising to her throat as his eyes brazenly went to her breasts and stayed.
“Here’s the Scotch for Janelle.” Sam Shults set the glass on the bar. “Now, Sullivan, what was it you said you want?”
Sullivan’s eyes reluctantly came back to Sam. “I don’t think what I want would be good for me, so I’ll pass for now.” He cut his eyes at Kay and her heart plummeted. His message had been clear. She lifted her small chin, leaned close to his ear and said, “It would be very good for you, so don’t pass forever.”
Before he could respond, she turned and walked regally away, and she could feel his eyes follow her as she went.
Kay wanted to choke him.
Kay wanted to make love to him.
Two days prior to Christmas, Kay flew to Phoenix, Arizona, to meet her parents at her uncle’s home in Scottsdale. Before she left, she knocked lightly on Sullivan’s closed door and went inside. In her hand she carried a slim box wrapped in silver paper.
Sullivan looked up, rose and said, “So you’re off to the airport?”
“My plane leaves in an hour,” she confirmed. “I just wanted to give you your present before I go.”
“Kay,” he said, grimacing, “you shouldn’t have. I didn’t want you to—”
She thrust the package at him. “I wanted to. It’s not much, please open it.”
Sullivan took the box and patiently worked the ribbon and paper away. “Just what I needed.” He smiled warmly at her, looking at the gold pen inside. He lifted it out and turned it in his thumb and forefinger.
“No, Sullivan,” Kay said softly, “there’s no inscription.” He looked at her, knowing she was referring to the inscribed gold lighter she’d given him that other Christmas. “I must run, I’ll—”
“Wait, Kay.” He laid the pen aside, pulled out the middle drawer of his desk and lifted out a small box. Shyly he handed it to her.
Kay looked at him, dumbfounded. She clutched the box and stared at him. “Thank you,” she finally managed and started backing away.
“It’s nothing, Kay, but why don’t you open it.”
“Sure,” she said, and tore eagerly into the package. Inside, she found a soft red-leather case, and inside the case was a tiny camera no larger than a cigarette lighter. It was of shiny yellow gold.
“It actually works,” Sullivan announced, watching her study the delicate little camera. “And you’ll be needing it.”
Kay’s eyes lifted to his. “Thank you.”
“You’re supposed to ask me why you’ll need it.” Sullivan was circling his desk toward her.
Gently rubbing the camera’s shiny surface, Kay lifted her wide blue eyes. “Why?”
Sullivan grinned. “Because you and I are escorting a planeload of people to Paradise Island in the Bahamas in mid-January.” He loved the surprised expression on her face.
“Sullivan, you mean it?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when you get back.” He took her arm and guided her toward the door. “Have a merry Christmas, Kay.”
“You, too, Sullivan,” she said, and felt his warm lips brush her cheek. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, you, too!”
It was warm and lovely in Phoenix. Kay was happy to see her parents, who’d flown up from Florida. Uncle Will had decorated his palatial hillside home with every kind of ornament and Aunt Sybil had obviously been cooking for weeks.
Kay received loads of lovely gifts from her well-heeled family. So all were puzzled when, the very day after Christmas, Kay rose early, ate a large breakfast and announced she was going to spend the day shopping.
Ignoring the questioning eyes turned on her, Kay gave her mother and dad a quick kiss. She borrowed one of her uncle’s cars and headed for the exclusive Scottsdale shops with a mysterious smile on her face.