by Kris Jayne
“You’re right again.”
“That’s what it means to be the responsible one.” The mirth disappeared from her laughter this time. She had troubles. Maybe something that James didn’t understand—or know about.
Nisha Donovan wasn’t cold. She was circumspect and kept a tight circle. She made sure someone was worth her time because she had so much life to manage.
I had no problem with that. Maybe because I was cocky. Sweeping another eye over her taut shape, I grinned. Being worth a woman’s time was my right in my wheelhouse.
36
Nisha
Cocktails with Carter proved useful even though he essentially said nothing.
I ignored the grime coating my psyche and focused on the notes I jotted down after the barbecue. His new job had to be at J.P. Star Energy. Only a family obligation would make a man like that leave a position he’d fought for alongside his beloved mentor.
I called Libby and, after chatting for a few minutes, transitioned to a few questions to get confirmation.
“Hey, my friend wanted me to ask you: the guy who was at that family meeting, have you seen him again?”
Since she was at work, her tone shifted. “Umm, I’m setting up an office for our new exec.”
“I thought that meeting was about the family estate? Are you sure it wasn’t just an interview?” I was ninety percent sure of the answer, but I had to make sure.
“Definitely the former, not the latter,” she insisted.
“But he came out of it with a job?”
“Yes. It seems past leadership set that in motion.”
“J.P. Star? In his will?”
“Yes. That’s the speculation.”
The anxious words clipped over the phone line, echoing my own nerves. Why? How the family was reacting? What the mood was around the office?
More and more questions pulsed in my mind, but Libby wasn’t supposed to know I was the reporter. I also didn’t want to push her. She’d given me a gold mine already.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” I said. “I’ll tell Cindy I’m not going to pass information back and forth anymore. I know the money is nice, but I hope that’s okay with you.”
“Good.” A whoosh of relief flooded Libby’s voice. “I can’t repeat the exchange I had with your…er…resource. I’m getting things in order for my new boss.”
“You’re going to be his assistant.”
Her chipper attitude returned. “I’ve never run an exec’s desk before. Executive assistant is a big promotion. I’ll be working one on one, not just doing all the overflow admin work.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thanks.” She lowered her voice. “I need this job, and I’d like to keep it.”
“I get it.” I pulled a napkin from the takeout bag on my desk and wiped my hands, uneasy about tricking her and stressing her out.
“Let’s catch up over drinks sometime and talk about anything but work,” she suggested.
“Sounds good. I need to go anyway. I have a meeting.”
We said our goodbyes, and I walked down the hall to my boss’ office. Danny wanted a rundown of the stories I was working. Or story. Other than the few local community assignments that justified my having an office at the paper, the Stars were the only thing I had at the moment. At least the puzzle pieces were sliding together.
I knocked on the partially open door before entering. He waved me in and pointed to the chair opposite the desk. His boisterous laugh reverberated off the towers of bookshelves behind him. Then, he barked a goodbye and hung up, barely taking a breath before lobbing his first question.
“Are you still working angles on the Star family?” His eyes focused on me like green laser beams. Their protruding roundness emphasized by rapid blinking that stretched and refolded the saggy skin behind his glasses.
He had the look of every weathered beat reporter I knew. Too many nights drinking and smoking with colleagues and sources at watering holes downtown etched crags into their faces. Then, the local paper downsized half of its staff twenty years ago and sent its reporters scrambling for work, Danny included. That’s how he ended up at the tabloid.
He rustled piles of paper on his desk, awaiting my answer. I pulled out my iPad and opened my notes.
“Yes, I’m still working the Star story.”
“I saw an expense for a tip. What was it?” he asked.
“Someone I met last year works at the company. They had some info that I hoped would turn into a lead,” I explained, trying not to get more specific.
I definitely didn’t want Danny or, God forbid, Shayna knowing about Libby and exposing her, even accidentally. Our sources were our own, but that didn’t mean Danny wouldn’t press. As he loved to say: if one of us got hit by a bus, the paper needed to survive.
“Did you get the lead? Come on. Two grand is a lot of dough,” he grumbled.
“There was someone unexpected at a meeting about J.P. Star’s estate, but I haven’t found a connection,” I lied.
Besides talking to Libby, I spent the morning going through mid-century news clippings, tracing the dead man’s life and career back to the beginning. He bought his first stretch of land and mineral rights from the widow of his old boss. That same widow, Lucinda Canfield, later started an interior design business in Dallas.
Interestingly, those tidbits came from The Dallas Post’s own archives. The paper started as a society and leisure publication after the war. We did a profile on Lucinda and featured photos of her designs in fashionable homes around town. One of her hallmarks was high-quality linens with custom needlework.
“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting wonderful artisans all over the world,” she told the paper.
All over the world or from her childhood? Lucinda Canfield was born Lucinda Love in Gypsy, Oklahoma, which is a few miles from Bristow, Oklahoma—the birthplace of Etta Cross, née Williams. Superstar needlepointer.
Etta appeared in a photograph with Lucinda in the early ‘60s, identified only as “a seamstress at Canfield Designs.” You could only see half her shadowed face in the background of the grainy black-and-white image, but if you knew her profile as I now did, recognizing her was easy.
Lucinda closed her interior design studio when she remarried in the mid-1960s, but a new design business popped up in the same location, fronted by a Frenchman and Grandma Etta. An antique shop still operated there in a strip of buildings that, according to city records, belonged to Carter’s mother.
Love’s Crossing, the ranching property deeded from Lucinda’s father to her husband after her first marriage, now belonged to the J.P. Star estate. Etta probably worked there in the Canfields’ house, which wasn’t in west Texas. The New York-based sports reporter got that detail wrong. Love’s Crossing was in central Texas, near Llano.
At every turn, the story around J.P. Star and Etta Cross wound together. One piece of information I hadn’t found was evidence of Etta’s marriage to a Mr. Cross, and I was beginning to think he was a phantom.
I told Danny none of this, and I didn’t want to.
“You’re holding out on me.” His eyes narrowed.
I opened my mouth to object, but he cut me off.
“That’s a good thing,” he barked. “Otherwise, I’d be pissed at you for wasting money, but I need a story. A big one. If I don’t get one in the next two weeks, guess who’s reimbursing the paper?”
As if I could afford that right now.
“You’ll get your story this week,” I promised and swallowed hard. “I’m close to something explosive.”
Danny spun in his chair and whooped. “I knew it. Shayna’s chasing Anthony Star-Fucker or whatever his name is, but you’re getting the goods. I can tell.”
“Star-Hunter. His father is Ken Hunter. Married to Theresa Star hyphen Hunter,” I explained.
Did he do any footwork on stories anymore? At least Shayna had made contact with the family. We fed the filth to this fucking beast, and he sat on his narr
ow ass all day, throwing us pennies in return.
I clutched the arm of my chair and tried to calm down. This wasn’t Danny’s fault. I signed up for this mess, and now, I had to find my way out of it.
Trailing back through the years of news and public records, I found bits and pieces of the Cross family’s lives, and salacious as they were, they didn’t deserve to be reduced to gossip. The heady fun of unraveling the mystery pushed me forward, but I couldn’t publish most of it. I didn’t want to.
That grimy feeling came back again.
I hated this job. I hated myself in this job. And I was stuck because I needed to finish it. Carter made his choices because he cared about his family, and I had to do the same.
Two or three front-page pieces. I’d keep them as focused on the Stars as possible. That’s it. That would give me enough financial leeway to say goodbye.
James had offered me some work before, and maybe Carter really knew some people who could use a freelance writer. I’d text both of them as soon as I got back to the office.
“Whatever their names are, I need details. Soon. We can’t afford to let this story go cold. Sales—on the newsstand, online subscribers, web traffic and ads—are insane. J.P. Star’s death is our hottest story in years. We need to keep interest going with something fresh.” He buggy green eyes flashed with excitement.
I took a deep breath. “I’ll have something for you by the end of next week to run the following Monday.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to fire you,” he sneered.
I grimaced.
“Kidding. Have a sense of humor, Donovan.”
“Sure.” I scooped up my tablet and hurried out.
Epilogue
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Excerpt from Circle the Stars
Alexa
White. Everywhere. Startling white sunlight blasted my eyes open. More white surrounded me. I blinked, then ducked my head under the cloud of bedding.
This isn’t my bed.
Only hotels had bed sheets bleached this white. My heart jumped. Where was I? London? That was a month ago. A stopover in New York. A weekend in Vegas. Oklahoma for Christmas.
Dallas. Last night. The slamming New Year’s party.
What time is it?
The vodka-induced pounding of my head muddled my mind. I had no clue where my dress was—or my underwear. A heavy ache anchored my legs, and my stomach roiled.
I hadn’t allowed myself to get that drunk in years. The hangovers. The stupid decision making. The calories.
Seriously, Alexa. Pull it together.
Melissa, my New Year’s Eve accomplice, probably wondered where I was. We had a lunch appointment with good-luck black-eyed peas and collard greens. I could use some luck to pull my year out of the ditch. I was sputtering already, and it was only day one.
First, I had to leave the warm bed, find my clothes, and get the hell out of…wherever I was.
“Mornin’, sweetheart.”
A masculine, sleep-rasped voice snatched my breath. I snapped upright, then yanked the duvet up over my bare chest.
There he was—smiling, naked, and awake in more ways than one.
His eyes were half open, sleepy, and wanton under a fringe of golden brown lashes. My eyes slid down the lean stretch of muscle and tanned skin next to me on top of the covers.
“Why can’t you disappear in a puff of smoke?”
My heart thundered as if I’d finished an hour of wind sprints. Somehow, the words that sprang up in my head had come out of my mouth.
Graham
I woke up steeped in the satisfaction of my New Year's Eve success. The details blurred, but I could practically feel the firm ass in my hand, soft lips on mine, and the tight squeeze on my cock. An easy, pleased-with-myself grin spread across my face.
She stirred, rustling in the cocoon of bedding.
“Mornin’, sweetheart.”
She shot up. I caught a luscious view of dark-tipped breasts before she clutched the comforter up to her chin. Ginger ale eyes widened at me. She pressed her lips tight, beguiling dimples appearing in her cheeks.
I wanted to banish Miss Prim and bring back the woman who’d bucked and clawed astride my lap a few hours before. She threw her face into her palms.
"Why can't you disappear in a puff of smoke?"
What? Women didn’t wish for Graham Ryan to disappear. Ever. I shoved aside my indignation and grinned.
“That’s not the magic act I do, but drop the sheet, and I’ll show you another trick.”
“Then I’ll disappear.”
She swung away from me, fighting the bed sheets to get her feet on the floor.
“Don’t go. Come on.”
I touched her back, and she arched away and jumped out of bed. I got a fantastic view—long, naked curves of creamy café au lait skin.
“No. I’m not…no.”
She scrambled to snatch her dress, handbag, and lace underthings off the floor, then raced into the bathroom. The door snapped shut.
I leaned out of bed to grab my cell phone out of my pants pocket and reorient myself with the world while she attended to herself for several minutes.
The muffled rush of water filled the room—first from the sink and then the shower. A clang of objects against the hard countertop surprised me. How much could she have in that tiny purse?
And what would she look like in the shower? Rivulets of water streaming down the curves of her naked body. Her back would arch, pushing her breasts forward and up.
My hand roved down to my twitching groin, but then I slapped my thigh and thought about football. The Dallas Cowboys. Quarterback play. Defensive line woes.
I couldn’t have her walk out and see me tugging on myself like a horny teenager who’d just seen my first boob. Plus, I still hoped to convince her to stay. I’d need that hard-on.
Then, the door flung open as purposefully as it had been slammed shut. Somehow, she looked polished and bright—even in last night's spangly mini-dress.
"I have to go.”
"Why?"
"I have plans. I'm probably already late. What time is it?"
Her dispassionate tone sliced off each word flung in my direction. I sat up and turned the clock on the nightstand toward her.
"10:22.”
“Shit.” She flipped her gaze around the room, dark curly hair bouncing, then found her shoes tumbled over in the corner. Balancing like a dancer on one leg at a time, she strapped the spiked heels to her feet. "I have to get back to my hotel."
"Give me two minutes. I’ll drive you."
“No. I’ll manage.” She strode toward the door. Another second, and she’d be gone.
"Where do you have to be in such a hurry on New Year's Day? I figured we could relax. Go have breakfast. Or order room service."
She turned to face me. With the morning light dancing off the silver sequins of her dress, she looked like an angelic go-go dancer. My body stiffened again, which I made no attempt to hide from my guest.
Her eyes darted to my erection and then locked back on mine.
"I told you. I have plans. And I need to go back to my hotel and change."
"Let me drive you. It's the least I can do."
Her hand flew to her hip in a fist. "Since I did you the favor of having sex with you?”
Shit, she was a beast. My interest wavered even as she threw her sparkling hip to the side in an unwittingly sexy way. "I'm attempting to be nice."
She huffed. "Fine. Are you going to shower or something?"<
br />
"Yeah. Two minutes."
Game on. So what if she was a little bitchy? Her body was killer, and I’d love another turn.
I bounded to my feet and into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. I threw on the shower and stepped inside. As soon as I closed the shower curtain, I heard the heavy thud of the hotel room door.
Damn. I didn't even remember her name.
About Kris Jayne
Kris Jayne is a devoted writer, reader, and traveler. She spends her days blissfully sweating out the writing process in the Dallas area with her dog, Otis the Shih Tzu, Rocco the Terrier, and Red the Foxy Mutt.
Her passion for writing is only matched by her passion for the adventures of travel. In 2008, she let a friend talk her into sleeping outside for the first time in her life when she climbed Mount Kilimanjaro.
P.S. If you're buying her a gift, she has a penchant for single-malt Scotch and scarves.
Contact Kris at:
krisjayne.com
[email protected]
