by Hunt, Angela
She whooped. “Bingo!”
From two desks over, Mandi’s head lifted from her reading. “Find something?”
Peyton shot her a triumphant smile. “Timothy Manning—a reverend, no less. The son of passenger Winston Manning of St. Pete.” She dropped the page to her lap and reached for her computer keyboard. “Let’s see . . . if I fly out of here tomorrow, I can meet with the man on Wednesday and fly home Wednesday night or Thursday morning. I can write Friday’s column on the plane if I have to.”
“That’s a lot of ifs.” A doubtful look crossed Mandi’s face. “What if something goes wrong?”
“I have a backup piece, but I don’t want to use it.” Peyton stopped typing and looked at the desk where Mandi sat. Obituary printouts, Diet Coke cans, and pretzel wrappers covered the wooden surface. “Any luck on your end?”
“Not yet.”
Peyton lifted a brow. “Well?”
After casting a longing glance at the clock, Mandi took the hint and went back to her reading. Clattering at the keyboard, Peyton accessed her Web connection. She had just located a direct flight to St. Louis from TIA when Mandi shouted, “Got one!”
Peyton’s heart dropped. Two T names? She’d been half-hoping to hit a home run with her first attempt.
“Who?” she asked, rolling her chair away from the desk.
“Tanner Ford of Gainesville, Florida.” Mandi’s highlighter moved across the printout in bold strokes. “His father was first-class passenger Trenton Ford of Dallas, Texas.”
Crossing her arms, Peyton rocked back in her chair. Both Tampa and LaGuardia seemed odd airport choices for someone who wanted to visit Gainesville from Dallas, but perhaps Trenton Ford had been visiting friends or business associates. Who knew?
“Okay.” She scooted forward to pick up her steno pad. “Two T names—that’s not bad. How many obits left on your list?”
Mandi paused to count down the page. “Fifteen.”
Peyton drew a deep breath. She’d love it if no more prospects surfaced. She’d really love it if Reverend Timothy Manning could prove the note had been intended for him. Then she wouldn’t have to bother Tanner Ford, nor would she have to go to Gainesville . . .
“What about Wednesday’s column?” Mandi interrupted her thoughts, glancing up at the clock. “You gonna get started on that?”
“It won’t take long. I wrote an outline last night, so it just needs a couple of tweaks.” Peyton grabbed a pencil and scratched out a list of things to pack for St. Louis: her digital recorder, notebook, and her laptop. And her credit card, of course.
The Tampa Times wasn’t wild about reimbursing expenses for columnists on assignment, but this was an extraordinary situation. Curtis DiSalvo had recognized it, and so had King. Even the Dragon Lady knew a story like this came around only once in a blue moon.
“You still here?” The deep, masculine voice startled her. Peyton glanced over her shoulder to see King leaning against the desk behind her. Grinning, he crossed his arms and stretched out his long legs, then gave her chair a playful push with his sneaker.
Peyton felt her cheeks flush hotly in the cool air. What must Mandi be thinking?
“Imagine seeing you here.” She swiveled to face him. “Slumming, are you? Come to visit the droids in the desks?”
His dark eyes sparked with mischief. “I thought we had to settle a bet.”
Peyton closed her eyes as the memory washed over her. King had promised to buy her dinner whether her time with Mary Grace was useful or not. She’d been so busy reading obituaries she’d completely forgotten.
“Well?” His left brow lifted. “By the way, how’s Mary Grace doing these days?”
“Very well, if she’s always been eccentric.” Peyton hugged her steno pad to her chest. “She’s sharp, I’ll give her that, but you didn’t mention the doll museum or the fact that she doesn’t believe in air conditioning. I thought I was going to melt in her living room.”
“Did she give you good pointers?”
“She gave me analogies: ‘People are like newspapers. If you’re nice, they’ll open up and let you take a peek.’ She was okay, King, and thanks for the offer, but I really can’t do dinner tonight.” She gestured to the papers on her desk. “I’ve got to settle a few details tonight or my Wednesday column is shot.”
His gaze shifted, and for a moment she thought he might actually be disappointed, but then he grinned and snapped his fingers in Mandi’s direction. “Don’t let her work you too hard, young lady,” he said, moving away through the newsroom maze. “And tell her she missed a great night out with the guys.”
Peyton watched him go, then shook her head. Some dinner proposition—he would probably have taken her to his favorite sports bar and sat at the counter, downing a greasy burger and fries while he yelled at whatever game played on the TV screens overhead.
Sure she’d dodged a bullet, she went back to work.
By the time eight o’clock arrived, Julie St. Claire had lit scented candles, set Secret Garden to spinning on the CD player, and donned her most provocative little black dress. The scent of vanilla hung heavy in the air, her hair gleamed in the candlelight, and her reflection in the foyer mirror revealed eyes bright with the thrill of the chase. The dress had cost twelve hundred dollars, about six hundred dollars a yard, but she considered the expense an investment in her career. The silky fabric accented her curving figure, and the color brought out the milky paleness of her skin.
She glanced at her watch. Adam was late, as important men usually were, so she reminded herself to be patient. This little drama had a purpose, and she couldn’t let herself be distracted. She was going to give Adam Howard a night to remember, and in return he’d do whatever it took to get her the note. A simple exchange of favors.
At eight-fifteen, the key turned in the lock. She stood motionless at the edge of the foyer, beneath a single overhead light, and waited. Adam let himself in, then stood beside the door, his eyes shining as she tipped her head back and slowly slid her hands from her throat to the not-so-distant hem of the little black dress.
“Hello, Adam.” She issued the greeting in a throaty whisper. In a heartbeat he stood at her side, dropping his briefcase to the marble floor before he lifted her into his arms.
By 10:00 P.M., the black dress had found its way to the floor. Because someone had once told her there was nothing sexier than a woman in a man’s dress shirt, Julie now wore one of Adam’s, a blue oxford she’d pulled from the closet, then buttoned. With one button.
The CEO of Howard Media & Entertainment lay facedown on the rumpled king-size bed, his eyes closed.
Knowing the time had come to act, she crawled over the bed toward him, then planted a kiss on his cheek. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she whispered, using the shirttail to wipe a lipstick smudge from his throat, “it’s time for you to make yourself presentable.”
His eyes flew open, then closed again, but sleep, apparently, was the last thing on his mind. His powerful hands reached out and grabbed her, circling her waist in a grip at once possessive and powerful.
“Adam,” she warned, covering his hands with her own, “you’ve got to go soon.”
His head lifted, his eyes open and fixed on her as he sighed heavily. “You’re right,” he said, releasing her. He rolled onto his side and propped his head on one elbow, then reached out and caught her chin. “But you’re hard to leave when you’re this adorable.”
After pulling her toward him for one last kiss, Adam sat up and began to dress.
Julie quietly launched her attack. “Adam”—she kept her voice low and controlled—“this morning I found a story on the Web about PanWorld Flight 848. Apparently someone recovered a note from the crash; can you believe it? A columnist for the Tampa Times has instigated some sort of private crusade to try and discover the author. She’ll be making reports over the next few days, documenting her progress.”
Adam grunted as he buckled his belt. “Interesting.”
“Truth
is, I think it’s a great idea. I’d like to follow that story as well.”
Adam plucked an invisible bit of lint from his shirt, then gave her a knowing look. “I’m sure you would, but if the columnist has already gone public, every reporter in the country will be following that trail.”
Tilting her head, Julie turned up the wattage of her smile. “But not every reporter has an inside connection. The Tampa Times is one of your papers.” She lowered her gaze and idly traced one of the shirt’s buttonholes with a manicured fingernail. “So we have an edge CNN doesn’t.”
Adam picked up his suit coat, then paused. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Julie dropped the coy routine and gave him a straight answer. “There are missing pieces: the note itself, and clues it contains as to the identity of the writer. The reporter won’t divulge details.”
“And you want her to share her secrets with you?” He laughed, his chuckle a dry and cynical sound. “Sweetie, I hate to tell you, but freedom of the press has been twisted a million ways to Sunday. It covers everything these days. If that columnist doesn’t want to share her cookies, I doubt even I can force her hand.”
“There are certain inducements you could offer,” Julie said, reclining on the satin sheets. “You have power, Adam. And you’ve never been afraid to use it.”
“You don’t know newspaper people like I do.”
His voice had gone flat and dry, which meant she had to act quickly or be dismissed.
“If she won’t give us details, we can at least convince her to let us work alongside her.” Rolling onto her side, Julie propped her head on her hand and met his gaze. “That will still keep us ahead of CNN and the other networks. They’ll be at least a day behind because they’ll be depending on news dribbling out of her column. If she’ll let us know what she knows, when she knows it, we’ll win. We could do a special—prime time, of course—and blow the competition away. It’ll be bigger than anything, but we need to work fast, before the public’s had a chance to forget about Flight 848.” She needed to be in front of the cameras with a major story before the public forgot her, too, but she bit her lip, suppressing that thought.
Adam did not speak for a moment. He adjusted his coat, straightened his tie, then stepped into the bathroom. Leaning sideways to peer through the open door, Julie could see him in the bathroom mirror, swiping his hands through his silver hair, giving himself that end-of-a-long-day look.
When he came back into the bedroom, he wore an almost gloating expression. He bent to kiss her, then pulled slightly back and held her face in his hands. “Beautiful and smart, aren’t you? I knew there had to be a reason I can’t stay away.”
A thrill shivered through Julie’s senses. “Then you’ll contact her paper?”
“Why not? It’s mine.”
She pulled him closer, thanking him amid an eager flood of kisses. He laughed with the mirth of a master who enjoys bringing occasional joy to the hired help, then stood and gave her cheek a playful—though painful—pinch.
“We’ll need to contact the Tampa Times tomorrow.” Julie spoke quickly, before he could walk away and forget the entire matter. “The columnist, Peyton somebody-or-other, blew me off today.”
A warning cloud settled on Adam’s features. “Not a team player, eh? Well—I’ll make a call in the morning. We’ll do what we must to make this thing work.”
“Adam.” Julie clasped her hands together, then rose on her knees to adjust his tie. “Have I told you today how much I adore you?” She gripped the lapels of his coat, tugging on the fabric until he bent toward her, then she tipped her head back to meet his kiss.
EIGHT
TUESDAY, JUNE 26
Sitting in a Delta lounge at Tampa International Airport, Peyton balanced her laptop on her knees and typed a few more details into the column about her first prospect.
This column, which King would probably describe as much ado about note-ing, would set the stage for her first presentation of the note. She didn’t want to divulge the prospect’s name or details about his background prior to the interview, so she had been forced to wax philosophical and sentimental to fill her column space. Both approaches lay decidedly outside her comfort zone, but Emma Duncan’s readers would probably adore the final result.
Peyton pressed her fingertip to her lip and scanned the words on the screen, her foot jiggling in a hyperactive rhythm. This approach, this story, was different from anything she’d ever written before, and necessity was forcing her to open mental closets she would far rather leave closed. She’d never been one for overt sentimentality, but she supposed she could pluck the right strings with her readers. After all, she knew what loving parents were supposed to do—enthusiastically attend their children’s football games, piano recitals, and chorus concerts. Just because Peyton had never experienced that kind of attention didn’t mean other adult children wouldn’t identify with the picture she was attempting to paint.
Children spell love T-I-M-E, she wrote.
Sure they did. After all, she’d read that sentiment a trillion times in feature writer Nancy Kilgore’s parenting articles. Peyton’s mother might have spelled love that way if she’d lived long enough. And who knew? If her mother hadn’t died, her father might not have gone to medical school, might not have sent her off to Grandma’s and then to boarding school. They might have been quite a cozy threesome, nesting in a tiny house in Jacksonville, living on love and baked beans . . .
She typed in some more blather borrowed from Kilgore’s philosophy, then plugged in the final details. I’ll be in [ ] became I’ll be in St. Louis, Missouri, then she clicked on the icon for the spellchecker. There. She’d created a column that would cause young mothers across the county to clutch their children and weep over their breakfasts.
She powered down the laptop, then checked her watch. Eight-forty. Her plane would be airborne by nine, and once they’d passed ten thousand feet she’d send the story in by modem, beating her Tuesday morning deadline with time to spare.
Nora Chilton would love this piece . . . though she’d probably tell anyone within earshot that Peyton was wasting over three hundred bucks of the Times’ money on a wild-goose chase.
Coffee cup in hand, Julie St. Claire paced in her office and silently cursed Adam’s slowness. Ten A.M. already. If they were going to proceed with the story on the note of Flight 848, she’d have to get busy. She’d already sold her producers on the idea of a prime-time special, but she desperately needed facts, names, and footage. Lots of footage. She’d get nothing as long as she remained in this glass and steel cage. Who knew, that MacGruder woman could be on to something right now—
The phone rang, startling her into splashing coffee on the carpet. In two steps she had lifted the receiver to her ear. “Yes?”
“Ms. St. Claire, this is Edith Kremkau, Mr. Howard’s secretary.”
“Yes?” Julie struggled to keep the irritation out of her voice. She knew the name, so why bother with useless pleasantries?
“Mr. Howard’s been in touch with some people at the Tampa Times, apparently on your behalf. I have information for you from a Ms. Nora Chilton, lifestyles editor . . . or is that features? I’m not quite sure what the difference is—”
“Just give me the information.”
“All right.” The woman’s voice took on a chilly tone. “After quite some runaround, I reached this Ms. Chilton, who said Peyton MacGruder is out of the office this morning. You can leave a voice mail if you want to reach her.”
“No contact number? Nothing?”
“Nothing else,” the secretary said, each word a splinter of ice. “If you want to know more, I suggest you call the Times yourself.”
Julie lifted a brow, half-amused by the woman’s nerve. Pretty confident for an overpaid secretary.
“Thank you, Edith.” Julie smiled into the phone. “I will call the Times.”
She hung up, then sat on the edge of her desk and considered her options. Ms. MacGruder was on to so
mething, no doubt, but if the Times newsroom was anything like the television newsrooms she’d experienced, someone was bound to have a willing tongue . . .
She checked her notes, found the number for Peyton MacGruder, then dialed it. She’d probably get a voice mail recording, but if she did she’d dial again and go through the switchboard. Someone at that office had to know where Peyton MacGruder had gone.
The phone rang twice. Julie was just about to hang up when someone answered. A breathy voice said, “Hello?”
Julie felt her lip curl in a wry smile. Not very professional, this one. “Hello?” she asked, crossing her legs. “This is Julie St. Claire of WNN. I’m trying to locate Peyton MacGruder.”
“Julie St. Claire?” The voice rose an octave at the final syllable. “From TV?”
“The same.” Julie turned toward the window and regarded her reflection. “And who is this?”
“Mandi Sorenson.”
Good grief, the woman sounded like a ten-year-old. “Mandi, it’s quite important that I speak to Peyton. She and I are working together on the story of the note, and I need to ask her about her trip.”
“Oh, she’s left already.” A note of disappointment lined Mandi’s voice. “Her plane left at nine this morning.”
“Perhaps I can catch her at the other end. When does she land?”
“Um”—the sound of rustling papers crackled over the line—“her plane lands in St. Louis at ten-thirty, I think. Yeah, here it is, ten-thirty-two.”
“Great.” Julie scratched St. Louis, MO on a tablet. “And her appointment—was it scheduled for later today? I was supposed to meet her, but I seem to have misplaced the address.”
“Really?” Amazement echoed in the girl’s voice. “She didn’t say anything to me about you meeting her.”
Julie lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “We’re keeping it quiet. She didn’t want anyone else in the office to know.”
“Oh.”
“But I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I told you. Do you work with her?”
