скачать книгу бесплатно
That was the problem with a large family, Jillian thought. Nothing could ever remain a secret for long—sooner or later everything got out.
“He’s just a man I met,” she said offhandedly as she carried out the platter along with plates and napkins, Eric following.
“Not just a man,” Jenny observed. “You like him.”
“Okay, I like him. But it was just bridal-party stuff at the wedding. Who knows what’ll come of it?”
“Do you want something to?” Jenny reached for the coffee mug Eric had set down before her.
“I want—”
“Cake!” Cole demanded, running up.
“Compromise,” Eric said, handing him a mug of hot cocoa and a blueberry muffin.
“Hot chocolate!” Happily, Cole settled in with his muffin and drink.
“Gee, I didn’t get any chocolate,” Jenny said.
“Don’t be so sure.” Eric settled back with the paper.
Jenny took a sip. “Mocha!” she exclaimed. “Do you know how much I adore you?”
“Feel free to remind me,” Eric said as he flipped open the paper.
Jillian shook her head at the Gazette. “You know, I’m torn every time I see that rag,” she pronounced, breaking the little ball off the top of her brioche. “Half of me wants to burn it and the other half is desperately curious to pick it up to see if they’ve printed any new trash about Robbie.” As if driving him away hadn’t been enough.
“Don’t give yourself ulcers over it,” Eric said. “That first story was a little strong but they’ve been better since.”
“Sure. Now they want a comment from him. Now that he’s gone. Or maybe they’re just sniffing around for a new story.”
“They don’t really have to. The tabloids have kind of taken it over.”
And it drove Jillian nuts. One day Robbie had been there, the next he’d been gone without a word. One letter, no phone calls. Five weeks. She shook her head. “It’s driving Nancy to distraction, especially since he’s supposed to be checking in with his parole officer.”
“I don’t know how she’s managing. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if Eric just disappeared like that,” Jenny said. “I’d be worried out of my mind.”
“She is. I just keep hoping it’ll all die down, but fat chance.” Jillian leaned back in her chair, staring at the paper that hid Eric. “It’s just one story after another after anoth—” Suddenly, she froze, staring at the banner. The Portland Gazette, it read. And on the line below, in fancy script, A Blazon Media Company.
A Blazon Media company.
“What’s wrong?” Jenny asked, frowning. “You look like you’d seen a ghost.”
“Eric, can I have the front page for a minute?”
“Hmm?”
“The front page. Just for a minute. Here, you can have the sports section.” She took the opening section with shaking hands. “Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered.
“You mind telling me what’s going on?” Eric asked.
“Nothing.” It didn’t mean anything, she told herself as she turned back to the editorial page, the part that carried the masthead. Just because Blazon owned the paper didn’t mean Gil worked for the Gazette. He could do any one of a number of things. Maybe he was in corporate, maybe he was in radio. Maybe he handled their Internet properties.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was the managing editor for the metro section of the Gazette.
“I’m going to strangle him,” Jillian said.
Chapter Four
He was staring into space again, Gil realized with a start. Looking aimlessly out the window at the lights along the Willamette River. And seeing a pair of whiskey-colored eyes, for the umpteenth time since he’d watched Jillian Logan drive away on Saturday night.
It wasn’t like him to let a woman get into his head like this. Sure, he’d been attracted before. He’d even been wildly in lust a few times. Love? Not really his thing. He did better with like. He was one of those guys who liked women through and through, the way they looked, the way they smelled, the way they walked and talked and dressed and blushed. The way they were all different. He liked taking them out, he liked taking them to bed.
And he liked having his life to himself after it was over.
So why did he have Jillian Logan stuck in his head? He kept remembering that husky laugh of hers, that way she had of staying two steps ahead of him, of keeping him on his toes the way almost nobody did. And those soft little gasps she’d made when they were kissing, her hand curled into the front of his shirt as though she couldn’t get enough. Those soft little gasps that had kept him thinking quite a lot about what was underneath that pretty purple dress of hers. If it had just been him and her somewhere private, he might have started to find out.
But it wasn’t just him and her, that was the problem. She was Jillian Logan, the sister of Robbie Logan of the Children’s Connection scandal. And he was the city editor of the Gazette. Alan had warned him of that going into the wedding, Gil reminded himself. He’d known ahead of time to keep his distance.
He just hadn’t been able to help himself.
So now he had a fine mess on his hands. He was the editor of the paper that had outed Robbie Logan and touched off a media firestorm. Considering how protective Jillian had been over Lisa when Gil had missed the rehearsal, he had a pretty good idea that she was going to be seriously ticked when she found out.
Add to that the fact that he’d told her he was with Blazon Media instead of the paper, which only made it look as though he was trying to hide it. That was far from the case, but how would she know?
Letting out a long breath, Gil drummed his fingers on the arm of his couch. He had to be straight with her, that was all there was to it. If he wanted to see where things between them could go, he had to come clean. He’d take her out to dinner, somewhere with good wine and quiet music and lay it all out for her. She’d be angry at first, maybe—okay, definitely—but once she’d had some time to think about it, there was a good chance she’d get past it. After all, the paper was only doing its job, reporting the facts. The public had a right to know. Gil believed that through and through.
The question was, would Jillian?
She’d never been much good at meditating. Oh, sure, she had all the yoga poses down, but as she eased into the triangle, standing on her living-room carpet, Jillian’s thoughts coalesced like bits of mercury, flowing together in fits and starts.
Until she was thinking of Gil Reynolds once again.
He worked for the Gazette, the paper that had driven Robbie away. Maybe he hadn’t written the articles himself, but as editor he might as well have. And the worst part about it was that he’d lied to her. Lied to her. Blazon Media her ass. He’d only said it because he’d known who she was, and known she’d go off on him if he told her the truth.
Instead, she’d kissed him. She’d stood in the parking lot and glommed onto him like a limpet. And made it totally clear she’d liked it. Forget like, she’d loved it, and he’d known. She remembered the feel of his mouth curving against hers and she suddenly had a new appreciation for the phrase seeing red because she swore she could see the ruddy haze of anger like a fine mist over everything in her view.
A dozen flavors of fury, humiliation, betrayal layered over one another, and underneath, deep underneath lurked a dark, sneaky disappointment. It had felt so right. This was the one that she’d thought was actually going to work, the one that was going to happen the way it did for everyone else, meeting a guy, going out and, who knew, maybe getting involved, maybe even, God forbid, having sex for once in her life. It wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Was it?
Instead, she’d gotten Gil Reynolds playing his tricky game and probably laughing at her the entire time.
Relax, Jillian reminded herself, taking a deep breath as she changed sides and sank back into the pose. Exercise was supposed to soothe, not give her a chance to get more agitated.
The worst part was that she’d liked him, really liked him. He’d seemed genuinely interested, as though he’d been attracted to her, wanted her. What if he hadn’t been?
What if he’d only been trying to pump her for a story?
And at that thought, all possibility of relaxation flew out the window. Forget yoga, she needed to learn something more violent. Kickboxing, maybe, something where she could hit and kick and…
Release, she reminded herself. Let it go.
The phone burbled. Jillian struggled out of her pose and made it over to the handset. As a social worker, answering the phone was never optional for her.
“Hello?”
“Jillian? Gil Reynolds.”
Let it go? Not likely. “Why, Gil,” she said silkily, “what a coincidence. I was just thinking about you.”
“Great minds,” he said. “Having a good week?”
“All right. How about you?”
“Ah, keeping busy.”
“Oh, I just bet you are,” she said.
He stopped a moment. “Yeah. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you still wanted to get together. How about dinner tomorrow night? I was hoping we could talk.”
“We can talk now.”
“Face-to-face is a lot more fun,” he said. “Come on, let me buy you dinner.”
“How about lunch?” she countered. He was right, face-to-face was a lot more fun, and she couldn’t wait to see his when she dropped the bombshell. “Let’s go somewhere downtown,” she added.
“All right. How about noon at Conroy’s?”
“Great. I’ll meet you there.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said.
Not nearly as much as she was, Jillian thought grimly as she hung up the phone.
“Reynolds. My office, five minutes.” Russell Gleason, the Gazette’s publisher, barked the words through Gil’s open door.
“I’ve got—” Gil began but he was already gone. Gil bit back a curse. He was supposed to be leaving for lunch with Jillian, not sitting in a meeting all afternoon. And with Russ, you never knew. The discussion could last five minutes. It could just as easily last an hour and forty-five, depending on how many tangents he wandered off on.
The topic was sales and circulation. Or, more to the point, what Gleason thought they ought to do to editorial to provide him with better sales and circ.
Like controversy.
“I’m just saying, we need stories that sell.”
“Stories that sell?” Gil stared at Gleason. “We’ve just lit a big enough fire under Nash and his cronies that the state’s threatening an audit. What more do you want?”
The publisher tapped his fingers on the black slab of his desk, dissatisfaction coming off him in waves. “That’s politics. That doesn’t sell papers in this day and age. We need something juicier.”
“Politics doesn’t sell papers? This is Portland we’re talking about. People here live and breathe politics. Take a look at your reader surveys.”
“All I know is when you broke the story about that football player’s kid, our newsstand numbers went through the roof.”
Gil bristled. “First of all, I didn’t break that story. I was on vacation when it hit. And if you remember, we had to print a retraction on parts of it. Sloppy researching, sloppy editing and it was just your pure damned good luck that Lisa Sanders didn’t take legal action.” And that he hadn’t lost one of his closest friends over it, Gil added silently.
“There wasn’t anything actionable,” Gleason scoffed, but his eyes flickered.
“Look, Russ, you take care of the business end and let me deal with editorial. Separation of church and state, right?”
“I’m just saying we’ve got stuff going on around here. What about that Logan thing?”
“I’ve got Mark Fetzer on it.”
“So why haven’t I seen any more stories?”
“They have to do something before we can write about it,” Gil reminded him wearily.
“Look at that Weekly Messenger. They run a Logan story on the front page just about every issue.”
“When they’re not writing about Elvis sightings. Russ, for Christ’s sake, the Messenger is a tabloid. They don’t need facts, they print tripe. We’re Portland’s primary newspaper. We’ve got a responsibility.”
“Yeah, to our advertisers and shareholders. I want Logans,” Gleason said obstinately. “That family sells newspapers. Besides, it’s a public service. With all the fiascos that clinic has had, it should be shut down.”
“Funny, the state and federal regulators don’t agree with you.”
“Yeah, well, our state senator does.”
“Showboating.” Gil dismissed it. “Look, it’s not our role. Our role is to support the news.”
“Our role is to support our shareholders,” Gleason countered.
“Circulation was just fine the last time I checked. And ad sales. In fact, I seem to remember cutting a story last week because the ad count ran over. You do what you do well, Russ, and leave me to what I do well. Look—” Gil checked his watch “—can we get back on this in the afternoon? I’ve got a lunch meeting.”
“Skip your lunch meeting. Go ask Nash what he thinks about a babynapper running a day care center. Better yet, go interview a Logan.”
Gil snorted and rose. “Yeah, sure, Russ. I’ll get right on that.”
She had to give it to him, he’d chosen well. It was a quiet little restaurant in the Pearl District. Once, the area had been home to light industry, auto-repair garages and the like. No, it had become fashionable, the welding shops and upholstery businesses supplanted by galleries and expensive boutiques, hair salons and intimate restaurants whose tabs rose in indirect proportion to the number of tables.
Gil hadn’t chosen one of the chichi ones, though, but a modest little pub that might well have been there the whole time. It was quiet and only half full. Privacy, Jillian thought as she glanced at her watch. They’d be able to have their conversation without having to shout to be heard. Which was fine with her. Scenes had never been her thing. She wanted answers. She wanted to know why the Gazette had gone after Robbie. She wanted to know why Gil had lied. And she’d find out.
Provided he ever bothered to show up.
Stifling impatience, she took a sip of water and set the glass precisely back in its damp ring. She’d arrived her habitual five minutes early. Now fifteen more had gone by and she itched to check voice mail, to drag out her PDA, do something productive with the time. But she didn’t. She had a personal rule about waving electronics around in restaurants. Then again, if Gil didn’t show up soon, she might just break that rule.
Or walk out entirely.
When she glanced over to the door again, though, he was there. And for a moment, her thoughts scattered. For a moment, she was back in the church at the head of the aisle and he was watching her every step. Except this time around, she was the one watching. The man had presence, she’d give him that. There was something absolutely riveting about him. She wasn’t the only one who thought so; she saw a waitress turn to stare in his wake.
Jillian just gazed, unmoving, until he was standing beside the table, looking down at her.
