“The infamously private Eamon Connelly rarely makes public appearances and his ongoing feud with the press is well known. Some speculated that the gathering of numerous reporters outside Connelly corporate offices had caused the company’s president to bail on the meeting. But given the family’s scandalous history—” Scandalous? “—Greta Mathis-Connelly’s concern for her missing son is understandable.”
Holy cow!
Biting her lip, Gemma opened a new window. Eamon Connelly>scandal. Up popped a photograph of an angry, teenage Noah—at least that looked like him—the slight cleft in his chin, those hazel eyes of his—palm out against an onslaught of reporters following him down a driveway to an impressive estate. The caption read, “Shipping magnate’s son, Eamon Connelly, seventeen, person of interest in the disappearance of his young sister, Reena Connelly, blasts reporters.”
She slapped the lid on her laptop closed. Noah? Her Noah? Impossible. That didn’t fit at all with the man she’d met last night.
A knock on the door practically made her jump out of her skin!
“Gemma? You up?”
It was Noah.
Eamon.
Whoever he was. Her pulse raced as she jumped indecisively off the bed. “Uh…just a minute!” she called, scanning the room for anything that made sense right now.
“I’m heading down to the Main Street Diner for breakfast,” he called through the door. “Want to join me?”
She was not going to breakfast with any person of interest!
Dragging the damp towel off the end of her bed, she twisted it around her head, then threw the hotel bathrobe over her clothes. She tugged the bathrobe tight around her neck before opening the door a crack. And there he was, handsome as ever, clutching a manila envelope to his chest. He was wearing expensive-looking sunglasses that made her think of movie stars and Hollywood.
A scandalous Hollywood person of interest.
“Um, hi,” she said through the five-inch opening. “As you can see I’m not quite together yet this morning.”
“But you look great in a towel and a bathrobe.” His amused gaze flicked suggestively downward.
A charming, ridiculously sexy person of interest. “You should go without me. Maybe…maybe we’ll see each other later? Or not. I’m sure you have better things to do than wait for me.”
Disappointment creased his brow. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“No really, you should go.”
“Oh,” he said. “Okay. No worries.”
“Okay, then.” She gripped the door handle tightly.
“Oh. Here.” He proffered the manila envelope through the five-inch crack.
What in the world? “What’s this?”
“I thought you might want it.”
But the envelope was tightly sealed and she couldn’t see inside without letting go of her robe. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll open this in a minute. I’ll just—I’d better—” She gestured that she’d better go.
“Right. Okay. See ya.” Looking disconcerted, he turned and walked back toward the elevator bank.
“Bye.” And she closed the door and turned the lock. God, what an idiot she was. Why did she always fall for the wrong men? And why did she feel awful about the disappointment in his eyes? CIA… He was a possible criminal with a 48 Hours kind of history. Or Dateline. He might have lured her to her death last night and she would’ve willingly gone!
She retreated to the bed again, tearing the towel off her head before reopening her laptop.
She typed in Reena Connelly>disappearance.
A few dozen articles appeared about her sudden disappearance at nine years old from school and the aftermath of media frenzy over it. Gemma scrolled down them until she came to one that said: FOUND ALIVE! Two years after her disappearance, daughter of shipping magnate Patrick Connelly, Reena Connelly, eleven11, was found safe at a mini market outside of Silver Springs and taken to the local police. She has since been reunited with her family. Her alleged abductor, Kelley Keys, fifty-two, of Silver Springs, Maryland, is in the custody of the FBI. Her arraignment will be held on June 5, 2006.
Gemma clapped a hand over her mouth and slammed her eyes shut. Idiot. He’s no murderer. Not even a real person of interest. Just another victim of an awful crime, like the rest of his family. And she had jumped to conclusions just as the rest of the world had about him all those years ago.
Dropping her head in her hands, she scraped her fingers against her skull. And she’d practically booted him out of her doorway as if he were…as if…
Her gaze fell to the manila envelope he’d given her. Taking a deep breath, she ripped the top open and peered inside. Reaching in, she pulled out her damp, cloudy cell phone, which he had apparently retrieved from the river this morning. What? And another phone, still in its box, this one brand new and expensive.
She teared up, guilt climbing her throat.
Sometimes, Gemma Wade…sometimes you are just an awful, terrible, horrible person.
The FaceTime app on her Mac began to ring. That couldn’t be him. He didn’t know her number. She saw the avatar and answered quickly.
“Frannie.”
“Girl, I’ve been calling you since last night, but your voice mail picked right up. Your phone’s full by the way.”
“No. My cell spent the night swimming with the fishes at the bottom of a river.”
“Ohhh. That sucks. I was going to ask how Marietta was, but I guess that says it all.”
“Not exactly,” Gemma replied cryptically.
“Ohhh?”
She studied her damp, river-soaked phone. “You’re not gonna believe this. I met a guy.”
Frannie gasped. “Shut the front door!”
“And just as quickly, I screwed everything up.”
“Stop it.”
“Turns out, he just might be a much bigger story than ‘finding romance in Marietta, Montana’ could ever be.”
“Okay. Now you’ve lost me.”
“Pellmer Shipping. Have you heard of that company?”
“Pellmer? Of course. They’re huge. Based here, San Francisco and New York City. And very au courant. The local unions have been staging protests here since yesterday. A lot of people are about to lose their jobs. It’s big news in Seattle. According to what I’ve heard, the company is on the brink of a takeover. And according to the latest, there was some chaos going on back in New York ’cause the guy who’s buying Pellmer is—”
“Eamon Connelly.”
“Right. Apparently, he’s gone missing and that has everyone back there in a panic.” After waiting for a response, Gemma heard Frannie get up to close her office door. “What do you know about this? And how is this connected to…?” She paused. “Wait. Are you…are you saying…this is the guy? The guy you met?”
“I’m afraid so.” She explained the whole story as she understood it. Even the part about his mysterious past. She didn’t tell Frannie the name he was using. Some things, she needed to keep to herself.
“Holy missing shipping magnate, Gemma! This is gold. You break this kind of story, you make your career. Forget about Somerhalder and this stupid little paper. You’d probably end up guesting on cable news!”
“No,” Gemma said. “No, I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can,” she insisted.
“No. I cannot. What kind of a person would that make me?”
“A journalist.”
Fair point. But a journalist who was fantasizing about kissing her subject just a few short hours ago? “Even so.”
“Everyone and his detective brother is looking for this guy right now. Just imagine Ashton’s face when you get this byline. He’d seriously have a stroke.”
Gemma half smiled at the thought. “He would, wouldn’t he?”
“Damn straight. And he’d deserve it, too, the bast—”
“I know how you feel about him.”
“The same way you do.”
Aiming for “high,” she said, “I’ve
moved on.”
“Yeah? Well he hasn’t. Apparently. Or should I say, he won’t until you’re gone.”
Gemma sat straight up. “What?”
“It’s why I’ve been calling you. I have it on good authority that he’s screwed you with Somerhalder.”
Relief settled over her. “That’s old news. I already know he manipulated the whole Montana thing. He said he was running interference for me.”
“And…Gemma. You actually believed him?”
Her heart sank a little. “Spit it out, Frannie.”
“I’ve got an update for you. Getting Somerhalder to agree to send you to Montana was only Ash’s first chess move.”
Cold shot through her. Of course. How naïve could she be to believe he was trying to help her? “Who told you this?”
A long pause told her Frannie was not going to out her source. “It’s better if you don’t know,” she said, which meant she did not want this coming back to bite her.
“Fine,” Gemma allowed. “What else did you hear?”
She lowered her voice even more. “That he sees you as a threat to him here. As long as you still work here, people will take sides. Against him, because of Rebecca, of course. And against Rebecca, too.” Thankfully, she and Rebecca, who worked in marketing, rarely crossed paths. “He already thinks that’s how you beat him out of the ALTMARK story,” Frannie went on. “And you can only imagine his joy when your article blew up in your face. And I don’t have any corroboration on this, but I heard he may have had something to do with your source backtracking.”
Something twisted at her insides. “What? Why would he do that to me?”
“He’s a shit and he wants to win. And he’s not going to let you take him down.”
“But I have no intention of—”
“Oh, yeah you do, girl. You’re either gonna be the bug or the windshield in this scenario. He’s not going to show you any more mercy than he did on the day of your wedding.”
She slumped back against the pillows. “I can’t believe I ever loved him. Why did I love him, Frannie?”
“When you know better, you do better. Isn’t that what Oprah says?”
“From her ten-million-dollar mansion,” Gemma muttered.
“It’s not about money. It’s about reclaiming your power. Knowing your worth. And with you out of the picture, Ash believes he can regroup and reclaim his.”
So he was voting her off the freaking island? “And he thinks he can just manipulate Somerhalder and push me out?”
“Don’t you?”
Lest anyone forget that Ashton Townsend was the purported heir to the associate editor position his own father had held for twenty-some years.
Frannie went on. “So, whatever moral qualms you’re having about outing Eamon Connelly, or whatever name he’s using, forget it. You’re there for a few days at most. You won’t even see him when this comes out. This is your career. The thing you’ve spent the last ten years starving and clawing and sweating for. You can’t let Ashton win.”
She was right. As a journalist, she couldn’t afford to let personal feelings get in the way of a story like this one. As a woman, she wasn’t so sure about the journalist at the helm. She turned over the ruined phone in her hand and thought of him wading into the chilly water for her.
Then she thought about what her career might look like if she didn’t write this story. “I won’t out Eamon Connelly while he’s here,” she warned Frannie. “But…you’re right. He’s a scoop I’d be an idiot to walk away from.”
“Think carefully. Play your cards right and you just might kill two birds with one stone—Ashton and that awful press conference you barely survived.”
“Right,” she muttered, remembering her humiliation on the 4K HD screen. “Don’t say a word about this to anyone. For now, I don’t want anything leaking back to Ash.”
“Good play. I gotta go now. Talk later, okay?”
Gemma hung up and glanced in the mirror hanging on the wall. Slowly, she stripped off the bathrobe she’d donned to cover up her clothes for Noah’s sake.
She sighed. “Face it. You are actually that kind of person,” she told her reflection and there was no one there to deny it.
Chapter Four
Noah looked up to see Gemma walking into the diner, holding the manila envelope he’d given her at her door. Surprise and a gut-punch of awareness skidded through him. He’d gotten the distinct feeling that something had changed in the time between leaving her at the door last night and when he’d seen her this morning. She’d seemed almost…flustered to see him. Or worse, searching for an excuse to backtrack on whatever had happened between them last night.
All he knew was that he’d gotten damned little sleep thinking about her, and the sight of her now made him feel like he’d missed a step somewhere.
She’d pulled herself together relatively quickly, from that beach-waved, dark hair of hers, to the athletic outfit she wore that had him mentally calculating exactly how long her legs were. Her face lit up when she made eye contact and a pulse-stuttering smile curved her mouth. If anyone had told him he’d be ambushed this week by a girl who made his heart race with a simple smile, he’d have said “fat chance.” But if anyone had wagered odds that same girl would show up at the diner just now, he’d have definitely lost that bet, too.
He touched the corner of his mouth with his napkin and set it aside on the table as she reached him.
“Hi,” she said a little sheepishly.
“Hi,” he answered with a little frown of confusion, starting to get up.
She put her hand out to stop him. “Please. Don’t get up. I was afraid I’d miss you here.”
“I got the impression you weren’t interested in breakfast.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I really am. You caught me off guard earlier. Nobody likes getting caught in a bathrobe. Can we do that invite over?”
He signaled to the waitress then gestured to the chair opposite him. “Please.”
She sat, placing the envelope on the table. “Secondly,” she said, pushing the thing toward him, “thank you for braving the river for my drowned phone. That was incredibly sweet of you. And as much as I appreciate the brand-new one, I…I can’t accept it.”
“Why not?” But he already knew the answer.
Her eyes widened. “Way too expensive and besides, we hardly know each other. I mean, as a strict rule, I don’t accept gifts from men—especially when those gifts outmatch my monthly student loan bill.”
He brightened at that. “Then, free shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Free?”
“They had a buy one, get one free deal going and I needed a new one anyway. And who else am I going to give the other one to?” He pushed the phone back in her direction. “So keep it. It’s on me. Your student loan’s safe.”
“I—I don’t… Is that true?” She looked up at him through her dark lashes.
“Check it out yourself. The store is just down the street.”
“No, if you say it’s true, then I believe you. It’s just…I’m not used to people doing nice things for me. That’s all.”
He leaned forward just as the waitress arrived. “Coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Gemma answered. “I think this morning calls for some. You can leave the whole pot if you want. Just kidding. Maybe some rye toast?” She had an effortless way about her that made people smile. The middle-aged waitress, whose nametag read Flo filled her cup and laughed.
“You got it. And, darlin’, you just let me know when you want me to fill ’er up again.”
“Thank you, Flo,” she replied with a twinkly smile that belied her lack of caffeine.
The older woman turned back to Noah and winked her approval.
He frowned again, thinking this small town had about as much in common with Manhattan as the moon. Not that he had a comfort zone exactly, but this place put him far out of whatever zone he usually inhabited. Gemma, on the other hand, seemed to fit in w
herever she went. Last night, at the party with his friends…here, among strangers. She settled in like a favorite cushion, putting everyone around her at ease. A mystery to him, how she did it. A talent that bore study.
She ran a hand over the envelope between them and took a sip of coffee. “So, you were saying?”
“Was I?” He lifted his mug and joined her in a sip.
“Yes. I think we were talking about Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Her innocent look flicked up at him.
“Were we?” The non sequitur amused him. She was cute in the morning.
“Yes,” she said. “And in this scenario, I’m George Peppard—the poverty-stricken hanger-on who doesn’t know anyone, and you’re Audrey Hepburn—”
“Wait a minute—”
“—’cause you look so devastatingly pretty in those sunglasses.” She glanced at the folded pair next to his plate.
“Pretty, huh?”
“Devastatingly pretty, I believe I said.” She took a sip of coffee, her pinkie deliberately in the air.
“And who, in this peccadillo, is the cat?” he asked.
She smiled, seemingly pleased he really did know the movie. “The cat…” she repeated. “My phone? Rescued from a damp, lonely existence at the bottom of the river. Poor Cat.”
“Poor Cat,” he agreed, remembering the straggly orange thing Holly Golightly had rescued from the pouring rain. After she’d kicked the poor thing ruthlessly out of the cab. “I’ve always wanted one of those,” he mused aloud.
“A cat?”
“You know. Some ugly, scrawny thing from the pound that no one else wants. Never quite got around to it.” There were no pets allowed growing up, and after his stint in the military, his life had been too full of chaos to think about it. Now, he wondered what exactly he was waiting for.
“I find that men are either dog people or cat people,” Gemma said. “Women, on the other hand, don’t discriminate. They like both.”
“I like dogs,” he said defensively.
“’Cause you’re Audrey. And devastatingly pretty.”
That little smirk of hers looked damned kissable right about now. “If I was less secure, I might be worried about you callin’ me that.”
Unexpected Hero Page 6
