by Jena Petrie
"Are you saying you're not interested in this young woman? From these pictures I'd swear an attraction exists. Unless, of course, you were just practicing your flirting skills, mm?" Dougal had also leaned forward.
"Well, I did suggest she move in."
The CEO blinked as he sat back in his chair. "Would be best if she did, Connor. So go to Mosgiel as she's requested, give your talk to the Otago Country Rowing Club and persuade..." he scanned the document.
"Bailey."
"Right. Persuade Bailey to come back with you and move in. That way you'll kill any gossip that arises from this article and everything will settle down more quickly."
Like bloody hell. The repercussions would be bouncing off the walls for years to come.
"Now off you go. We'll contact this woman since she's the club secretary and advise her you're coming. And Connor," Dougal added, before his guest managed to slip out the door. "You'd better turn up the charm so those southerners believe everything you say. Convince them to trust you and not this manipulative reporter."
With an effort, Connor pulled himself upright. "Do my best, mate."
Outside, he sucked in a series of deep breaths but they did nothing to calm him. Damn Bailey Stoddart, the girl he thought of, day and night. The one he'd wanted in his bed.
She'd really screwed him over.
Back that day at the Red Tarns she'd realized the identity of this reporter; knew he'd been the writer of that threatening note and what he was capable of. If she'd told him then, something could have been done to counteract any bad publicity.
Reduce it, at least.
Now the whole organization had been forced into damage mode and everyone relied on him to put things right.
Connor's hands fisted and his stomach twisted and tightened till bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
In.
Out.
In, and hold. With his chest fully expanded, he lifted his chin, and exhaled slowly.
Better get cracking. Prepare for this trip and hope to God no-one believed the lies in the article that suggested he was a dirty, sneaky, conniving rascal.
If they did, it could ruin his reputation as a public speaker and even impact on his selection for a place in a national crew.
Thanks, Bailey. Thanks for nothing.
***
Big Bad John's office looked as much of a muddle as last time. Bailey stood soldier-straight. She'd swipe her hands down her pants if it didn't make her look like a teen facing her first job interview.
Anticipating her dismissal while the boss talked on the phone felt just as nerve-wracking and twice as scary as that experience. Now she slouched on one foot. Why would John want to sack her now? She still had two weeks to prove she could write gossip. Wasn’t even as if he'd known about Connor's reputation when he gave the order to dig into the celebrity's past.
Stuff John. She'd turn her dream into reality and write for magazines instead of this boring newspaper. It'd be fun. And none of it, John's business.
As long as he explained why the sudden ultimatum.
Finally, he replaced the phone. "Bailey."
"Yes, Boss."
"Know why you're here?"
"No. You'll have to tell me."
From his drawer he pulled out a magazine. A women's gossip magazine by the look of it, its cover crammed with photos of couples, women, families and slogans. Yeah, she knew the type. Saw them everywhere on the billboards, the supermarket stand and in waiting rooms. Was that the sort of article John expected her to write?
"Seen this?" He turned it around and held it up.
Looking at him, she shrugged. "Don’t read them so no, don't suppose I have."
"Today's edition." He shoved it across the only clear space of desk between them, and tapped his finger on one of the cover photos; of her with Connor, and the slogan: Top Sportsman's Secret Tryst.
Jeez.
"Read it. Now. Page thirteen. Corner's turned over."
Curiosity had her flipping pages faster than a kid opening a Christmas present. But when she reached the correct page she could only stare.
More photos of herself. Of Connor. Of the two of them together, at Mt Cook. Photos taken by someone else, without her permission.
"Sneaky bastard!" Her body ice-cold, her fingers stiff, as visions flitted through her brain. The note on her door that Friday night; had it been only the beginning?
A peek at John's impassive face told her nothing. "I had no idea we were being watched, let alone photographed."
"When did it happen?"
"Weekend before last."
"Mm. Didn't waste time getting the article published, did he?"
"Who...?" A mere glance was enough to confirm her worst fears: Lee Renton, as she'd suspected at the Red Tarns. "Is this why you called me in? Because—"
"Got a tip-off on Friday. So." John steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk. "You don't deny you were there. Better read the article and tell me if the rest of it's accurate as well."
So she sank into the chair behind her and read while prickles developed over her body at the presumptions, suggestions and straight-out lies. Particular words jumped out at her as she read, creating a bigger lump in her throat with each insinuation—Persuasion. Manipulation. Coercion. Intimidation. Unprofessional. Couple. Secluded. Sleeping with her interviewee. Then, at the end: Legal action.
God! Bailey dropped the mag on the desk. Definitely not John behind this. No newspaper editor would authorize such crap let alone write it himself. "Some of it's correct," she admitted to John, trying to tear her gaze away from the incriminating photos. "I'd agreed to act as Connor's girlfriend for the weekend, but there were conditions."
John leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. "You'd better tell me what, girl, because we need to develop a contingency plan to cope with the fall-out from this. And fall-out there will be; on you, and him," he flicked a hand at the magazine. "And possibly this newspaper as well. You can bet your last dollar on it."
So she explained the arrangement she had with Connor for their weekend at Mt Cook, including the clause stipulating separate rooms. As for the note on her door, she put extra emphasis on its existence and the repercussions that followed.
"So, Freeman hadn't got you there for sex. Couldn’t blame him if he had, mind."
She glared at her boss. "Men! I finally meet one who respects a woman's wishes and you go and spoil my confidence with one brief comment."
"Only voicing what numerous other guys think when they see you, Bailey. You should take it as a compliment."
"Well, I don't."
He indicated the magazine. "Do you remember the reporter? The photographer?"
"Not the photographer, no, since I never saw him. The reporter, though; Lee Renton? He was the one at the council meeting awhile ago who made a difficult situation even worse for Roberta Johnson, and later published so many insinuations and mere half truths about her business dealings, that the majority of the voting public withdrew their support. Remember that was the reason I wrote an article later, pointing out that the businesses weren't hers at all but her ex husband's."
"Right. So you do know the type of journalist he is and the sort of damage he can do. So, got any good ideas as to how we can cope with this?"
"We?" Her brain must have switched to go-slow, making it hard to keep up.
"There's no doubt this newspaper will cop some of the flack on account of you being one of our reporters. So before we can prepare a strategy, I need to know everything there is between you and Connor Freeman. Everything personal that's come up since that weekend and everything planned for the future." He waved the magazine at her. "And you'd better not leave anything out."
So Bailey filled him in, finishing with the information that Connor wanted her to move.
"Will you?" As if looking into her thoughts, John's gaze bored into her eyes.
"I..." She stopped, shrugged, an
d looked away. "It's such a gamble. Giving up my job here but having no guarantee I'd get another, and no guarantee it'd work out between us."
"You like him, though."
"Oh, yeah," she chuckled. "I like him a lot."
"Might help solve this problem if you moved." Although John lifted the magazine, he kept it in his hand. "You don't want to suffer the sort of ruinous damage Lee Renton can cause. This is probably just the beginning."
God. What about Connor? The damage to him could be massively more far-reaching.
And all. Her. Fault.
In her lap her hands twisted and turned so she sat on them to stop the distraction.
"This article you're doing on Freeman—what stage is it at?"
"I've written the basics and selected the photos. Still have to fill it out, then edit. Once that's done it should be ready to send to publishers."
"Magazines?" he asked, leaning forward.
"That's my intention, yes."
"You've enquired already, I presume?" He shifted a pile of papers closer on his desk, as if impatient to conclude the interview.
"Well, no. Guess I should have, but I wanted to wait till I'd finished the article, to gauge what magazine it would suit." She bit her lip. "Should have done it the other way around of course, but it's too late—"
"Yes it is but never mind; a magazine's no longer suitable. Publication takes too long and besides, it doesn't reach enough of the general public. You need it in newspapers; every major one in the country."
"Newspapers?"
"For more publicity, Bailey. To counteract this one." He waved the mag at her before tossing it like a piece of trash into a drawer, although it should have been the bin. "So aim your article for the general public. You know the drill—simpler language, not as much history and only a couple of photos max."
So much for her dream of using it as the introduction to magazine writing. "Yeah. I know."
"Emphasize the hard work Freeman has to go through to win an Olympic gold medal, the pressure he's under to achieve and his methods of relaxation after the Olympics. Emphasize his unique ability and willingness to go round the country giving talks, besides anything else you can come up with that'll endear him to the public. When you're done, let me see the piece. In the meantime I'll contact the editors-in-chief and make sure they're okay with publishing the article."
"All the editors —?"
"Don't you worry, we'll get even with Renton, but it might mean you're best to hand in your resignation here and move north with Freeman. Prove this scoop had no backbone, mm?"
Resign? Bailey slumped forward. Where was the kudos in being obliged to leave? Pushed out of her job and virtually forced to move away? Yet anyone reading Renton's sleazy article would believe she'd led Connor into a weekend of sexual romps and debauchery in order to get the scoop on his story.
No respectable newspaper would employ her now.
So much for the aim of impressing her parents with the quality of her work. After this, they'd never consider reading anything she wrote.
Slowly, she straightened. John was right. The only way to avoid Renton and get him off her back was to leave the district.
If only she could have made the decision herself, and for the right reasons.
Hang on. "What's he done to you?" she demanded.
"Just that; the way he treated Councillor Roberta Johnson. I'm backing you here, so consider it double payback. Use her experience for motivation. Now go and write your resignation, effective as from Friday. If you do that I'll give you a reference but for the rest of the week you'll stay in the office and work on the Christmas supplement. After it's done, you can use any remaining time to work on your article." He waved his hand at the door. "Now, get outta here."
And what? Prove to the world Renton's story had no substance by moving in with Connor?
Fat chance. Once he heard this latest development he'd slam the door in her face.
Goodbye to her dreams of having him as speaker. Of gaining valuable kudos within the club. Of hearing accolades with her name attached.
Goodbye journalism.
Hello, Big Bad World.
CHAPTER 11
There. Connor's tall head, in amongst the line of arriving passengers. Still as handsome as before even without his usual cheeky grin.
At least its absence stopped her from acting on autopilot and rushing to give him an eager hug. Instead, she merely gripped his arm. "Welcome to Dunedin."
"Been here before, remember?"
Grumpy, huh.
Bailey turned to watch the luggage slip and twist its way around the baggage carousel. Had Connor heard about the magazine article? And if so, did he blame her?
A case landed on the floor beside her. "Why bring a suitcase this time?"
"So my clothes don't get squashed, with the dinner only a few hours away."
Reminding her there was little time to spare before delivering him to his hosts. Little time to learn what troubled him.
Arriving at the car he threw his case into the boot. "Kermit going well?"
"Kermit? You call my car after a Muppet?" She tried to sound offended but couldn't hold back a laugh.
"Why not? It's small, green and bright. Obvious, I would have thought."
"Watch children's programs on TV in the afternoons, do you?" The cheerful tone she'd tried to use didn't eventuate. How could it when worry about the article bubbled just below the surface of her mind?
"Every day."
Still no grin.
Minutes later she slipped the car past the barriers and onto the road. "Won't take us long to reach your hosts. They're Jack and Angie Cowan, Masters rowers and very easy-going people."
"How about a coffee stop on the way?"
"Can't. They're expecting you." Tomorrow would be quite soon enough; after the dinner. "Got some notes this time?"
"Offering to help again?"
"No. Just wondering, considering the brilliant speech you gave last time without a single reference." She glared at him. "And in spite of asking for tips about coping with the younger age group."
His casual shrug hardly lifted his shoulders. "Your advice helped me make only a few modifications to the talk I'd planned for the high school."
Her foot jammed on the brake pedal. Woops. "So you did have something planned. That wasn't the impression you gave me."
"No? But I wanted to keep you talking, and fill in time till the principal came back."
"Oh." Not because he liked her, apparently. Sure didn't seem to like her now. So much for wanting her to move in with him. Must have seen the article and changed his mind. Sure was acting vastly different from the way he'd been to date. That guy was a show-off, a flirt, an all-round comedian. Not reserved and dejected like this.
"Cunning, weren't you?" Gazes locked as he glanced sideways at her. "How much did that reporter pay you for the scoop on us?"
"What?" Turning towards him, she accidently yanked the steering-wheel, almost driving off the road before she managed to brake hard enough to stop. Cripes. Another couple of seconds and she'd have been through the fence and into the neighbouring sheep paddock. "So you've seen the magazine, but what the blazes makes you think I'd benefit from such a seedy article? You don't know me at all if you think I'd sell information to such a low-life as that reporter."
"Then how do you explain his knowledge of such intimate details? It wasn't from me so it had to be you. Unless, of course, you broke our agreement and told others."
Fear drummed a beat on her heart that echoed in her eardrums. "My flatmates weaselled the information out of me that I'd gone to Mt Cook with you. Not this rubbish though." Fingers shaking, she opened the glove box, retrieved the offensive magazine and shook it in his face. "What makes you think I'd make up a story suggesting you'd absconded from training to meet your secret lover? Or that I'd slept with you to get the scoop? There's no more truth in either story than on the dot of an i, as you very well know."
"If the informa
tion didn't come from you, who else is there?"
"Your crewmates and their partners?"
"Don't talk crap; they wouldn’t say."
"Really?" Her hand slapped at the page but it should have been him; defending his mates with no proof of their innocence, and blaming her instead! "Look, these shots confirm some sneaky photographer watched us so you can stop being grumpy and putting me in the same category as this low-life journalist, and start trusting me for a change."
"Why should I? You didn't warn me about the article but you've had since Monday—"
"And so have you, yet you never mentioned it. In none"— she slapped the magazine against his chest—"of our phone calls, none"— another slap—"of our emails and none"— another slap—"of our texts about this weekend's plans. Why not, when it so obviously pisses you off?"
"I needed to see you in person. Needed to gauge your reaction, check if you've had any feedback on social media—"
"Plenty."
"And try to think up some ways to get the folks on my side at your club dinner."
"While I've been keeping tabs on every social media site there is, and changing my article to counter the barbs and untruths in this account." She pointed to the magazine she'd dropped in his lap. "See, I have been doing my bit but the leak, as you call it, did not come from me. It is not. My. Fault." With each word, she poked a finger at his chest.
"Then you'd better explain how a reporter—or photographer—managed to take those photos without either of us noticing."
"Easy, with a long lens."
"And Renton? He was the guy watching you at dinner on the Friday night, wasn't he? Why didn't you recognize him?"
"It can't have been him! Must have been the photographer." She turned away, failure burning a hole in her self-esteem. "Anyway, maybe I had my mind on other things, like the amazing situation I found myself in; having dinner with the most popular gold medal rower in the country." She looked back at the traffic, heaved a sigh, and reached for the car's start button.
"You knew his identity when we were at the Red Tarns yet you never said. If I'd known, I could have gone into damage mode like when I dragged you out of the restaurant."
