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“I do. So don’t worry about it.”
“But—”
“Really. Why don’t you get going on the plans for the reception, okay? I’m anxious for Cindy’s debut. Three months sounds like a long time, but really it isn’t. Actually it’s a little less than three months now and there’s still a lot to do.”
Celia gave him one last doubtful look before she shrugged and left his office.
Simon glanced at the magazine she’d left on his desk and shook his head.
Of course this wouldn’t be a problem. No one put any stock in publications like Rag Magazine. Now, if the Financial Journal had run a headline like that, he might worry. But a classy publication like the Journal would never run such a hyped-up story.
Having settled that particular problem in his mind, he promptly forgot all about the headline and went back to work. He had a few kinks to iron out before Cindy’s debut.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Talk to Daddy.”
Simon lost himself in the computer system, forgetting about the article, forgetting everything except a world of digital commands.
Here everything made sense. A always led to B, X always led to Y.
Orderly.
Dependable.
There were no worries about the future of his company riding on this one program. Cindy. His baby. Cutting-edge technology made user and consumer friendly.
Simon forgot all about the article as he ran through a part of the program that still needed some ironing out.
He lost himself in the solitary world of computer commands.
Hours later, Celia walked into the room. “Simon, Rag Magazine called for an interview, some guy named Newman—”
He looked up from his computer screen, glanced at the clock and noted he’d totally lost track of time again. It happened a lot when he was working.
“Sorry, what?”
“Rag Magazine called for an interview. They said that since SimonSays is known as an innovator in the answer-system market, you might want to make a comment on the article. They want to run a follow-up.”
“I hope you told them no.”
He turned back to the computer, the crisis settled in his mind.
“Of course I told them no,” Celia said. “But you’ve got another call on line one. I think you might want to take this one.”
He looked up impatiently from his screen. He just wanted to get this section right. “Who is it?”
“The Financial Journal. They want to interview you for their upcoming article on everyday stress and the impact that it has on twenty-first-century health.”
“The Financial Journal?” he asked weakly.
“Yes.”
Damn.
This was trouble.
2
THIS WAS TROUBLE.
Minutes after walking into her parents’ house last night Ari had known visiting them had been a mistake…a big mistake.
Things had been tense there since her father’s heart attack had forced him into an early retirement, but last night she realized just how bad it had gotten.
Instead of feeling comforted by the visit, Ari felt torn. She sympathized with her father’s frustration. After years of running a company, he’d forgotten how not to control things.
She sympathized with her mother’s annoyance. Having her father underfoot all day, every day, would drive her nuts. Just a short visit left her feeling drained and more than a little anxious.
Her parents’ relationship had always seemed so solid. Suddenly it seemed shaky, precarious. Ari didn’t know what to do to help either of them.
She had headed home, anxious for some peace and quiet.
Instead she’d found more trouble.
Bigger trouble.
She didn’t doubt her parents would work things out. They loved each other too much not to adjust to their new circumstances.
But this?
Ari read the article over and over throughout the course of the long night, yet she still couldn’t believe the horrible headline and the article that followed.
Even worse, she couldn’t believe her name was there in black and white for the world to see. She felt sick to her stomach.
When she’d come home from her parents she’d found her answering machine jam-packed with messages. Rag Magazine, the Financial Journal, and some maniac named Simon Masterson were the three most persistent callers. Each had left multiple messages. There was a handful of other magazines and papers, all asking for interviews about her study.
Her thesis, “The Effects of Telephone Answering Systems on Psychological and Physical Well-Being” had not only been accepted and passed by the thesis committee in practically record time, it had been published in Psychology Forum. She’d been so proud, so thrilled to see it in print.
And now she wished she’d never made the phone call that led her to think of doing a study on answering systems.
She’d run out to the all-night grocery store after listening to her messages and bought a copy of the Rag. She’d been instantly mortified when she read the headline.
If The Wait Doesn’t Kill You…The Answering System Will.
It was a horrible headline, and the rest of the article had been just as bad, distorting the results of her study to the point of ridiculous.
Yes, she’d found that people’s stress levels rose when they were forced to work their way through answering systems that resembled phone mazes. Systems where it took more than five minutes to reach a human being.
The subjects’ blood pressure climbed, their heart rate and respiration increased, but none to the extent it threatened their lives.
She’d never claimed phone answering systems were deadly, just that they could induce stress and that was cause for concern. The twenty-first-century world was stress-filled. Look at what it did to Collin’s libido.
Ari thought if she could prompt change in some of the smaller stressors, such as phone mazes, it would leave people more capable of dealing with the bigger ones.
She’d hoped the study would prompt companies to look at their systems and find ways to improve them, making them more user friendly.
She’d never expected anything like the story Rag Magazine had run.
She had no idea how to handle something like this. They didn’t teach Public Relations Disaster Management in her psychology classes.
She’d sat up all night worrying, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and a raging headache.
She glanced at the clock. It was almost eight now. Her father would be up soon. She’d call him and see if he had any suggestions on what she should do for damage control.
After all, he’d run Kelly’s Plastics for years. He must have some experience with media. Nothing like this, of course, but he had to know more than she did. She wondered if her calling would upset him. He’d retired to avoid stress and—
The doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts.
Not just one polite ring.
No, a continuous string of rings.
Who could be at her door at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning?
She didn’t need any more surprises. Last night was all she could handle. What she really needed was some peace and quiet to get things in order.
The ringing continued.
Not an exactly peaceful sound, and certainly not quiet.
Sighing, she went to the door. She left the chain in place, and opened it to find a large man standing on her stoop.
A large, rather annoyed-looking man.
“Yes?”
“Are you Adrienne Kelly?” he asked.
His voice was low and gravelly. The sort of voice that probably had women swooning at his feet his entire life.
Maybe she should do some research on auditory aphrodisiacs.
No, forget that. She shuddered to think what the tabloids could do with a subject matter like that.
She took a closer look at Mr. Sounds-Yummy.
He looked good, too.
Real good.
Okay, so maybe the frown lines on his rather annoyed-looking face took a bit away from his tall, dark looks, but it didn’t take away enough to dim his hot looks.
“Miss Kelly?” he said, even more annoyance tingeing his tone.
She sighed.
Yesterday, Collin didn’t ravish her on the park bench, and now this good-sounding and good-looking man was scowling at her.
She couldn’t seem to catch a break lately with men.
Thinking about her parents’ strained relationship and the tabloid’s perversion of her research, she realized it wasn’t just men she couldn’t catch a break with but rather life in general.
“Yes?” she said with a sigh.
“You’re the Adrienne Kelly from this article?” He held out a well-crinkled copy of the Rag.
Drat.
A reporter.
Yes, this was just what she needed to start her day off right.
“I’m sorry, I’m not doing any interviews.”
It was almost a sin that a man who sounded that good was a reporter—a man who made his living listening more than talking.
Wait, maybe he worked for a television station, although she didn’t see a camera.
“I’m not a reporter,” he said. “It’s not about an interview. I want to see copies of your findings. I want to see the figures you collected. You’ve single-handedly set out to ruin my company with this article and I want you to back it up.”
He waved the paper at her, as if he wanted to be sure she knew what he was talking about.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Annoyance faded and for a second he looked slightly chagrined. “Sorry. I’m Simon. Simon Masterson. I called you last night. I own SimonSays. We produce computerized telephone answering systems for businesses. We work hard to see to it that our products are the best there are. And you are trying to ruin us.”
“Oh.”
Okay, Ari realized it wasn’t the most brilliant reply, but at the moment she was feeling less than brilliant. As a matter of fact, she was feeling quite rumpled, anxious and sleep deprived.
This Simon Masterson owned a business that manufactured answering systems. No wonder he was annoyed.
“Mr. Masterson, I had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with that article. I’m as upset as you are. Rag Magazine used my name, but totally bastardized my study.”
He shot her a look of disbelief.
“I didn’t even know about the article until last night. I had to go out and buy a copy. My findings were published in a reputable psychology magazine. Maybe that’s how the Rag stumbled on them.”
“Could we talk?” he asked, calmer now.
