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Whatever Comes
Lass Small
It Was the Scoop of the Year… Everyone was talking about the way Amabel Clayton had finessed the interview with elusive rock start Sean Morant. The sexy, mysterious musician never did publicity, and tongues were wagging - exactly how did the reporter get her story? And the Affair of the Decade?Amabel was furious. How dare people suggest she would sleep with a subject to get a story? Besides, she would never get involved with the likes of Sean. She wasn't about to become another notch on his studded leather belt! The sensuous, talented, romantic man was definitely off-limits. Well… probably. Um… possibly?
Whatever Comes
Lass Small
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Cari and Rob, our daughter and son-in-law, who live in Indianapolis
Contents
Chapter One (#u4a4571c7-b0b5-5f4a-824f-76361238c2b7)
Chapter Two (#uab6a2398-5304-5ad2-a390-7c7052160e86)
Chapter Three (#u43b7810c-092f-5784-8034-4ac59dee5a0f)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
One
Amabel Clayton was distractively feminine looking. She was fragile, with a slender body that was marvelously curved. Her hair was thick and black. So were her eyelashes. Her eyes were blue. She ignored the whole image but, careless as she was, there was nothing she could do about the facade. As a reporter, she would have chosen to look less in need of male assistance, although there had been occasions when her look of fragile helplessness...had helped.
Most of her associates called her Clayton, but there were those who called her Mab. With a bird-dog relentlessness, she was one who immersed herself completely in her work, with no need for a social life. Since she forgot about men, she had been accused of not liking them. That wasn’t true. How could anyone like or dislike something to which she paid no attention?
Living in L.A., Amabel was a West Coast reporter for Adam’s Roots, the weekly newsmagazine crowding into the Time and Newsweek slot. It had been publisher Simon Quint’s imagination that selected the name. As the roots planted in the past—by Adam—had to be dealt with, so it was that the roots planted today must be dealt with in the future.
When told of Amabel’s new job, her father had frowned at her and asked, “You’re going to work for Simon? He’s as parsimonious as his name. Does he know you were hired?”
“Yes, to both questions. He was one who interviewed me in New York. He liked the piece I did on Rufus Baird.”
Her dad responded thoughtfully, “At least he recognizes good writing.”
Her mother inquired, “What will you do? What sort of magazine portion will you have? I don’t recall much of women in Adam’s Roots.”
“Simon Quint is surprisingly liberal. I’ll report roots?” Amabel shrugged and grinned.
So her dad teased, “I have some crabgrass roots and some dandelion roots you could blast.”
How many times would she hear something like that? But Amabel had already heard all the root jokes and her reply was serious. “I’m taking the advice you gave me long ago—be fair.
“My interviews aren’t going to hatchet anyone or make them appear ridiculous, but they’ll show the readers what the person interviewed is like, how they feel about things, what interests them.”
“You’ll be brilliant.” Her father was a prejudiced man.
However, her mother just suggested, “Interview Sean Morant.”
“An interview with him is impossible!” Amabel exclaimed. “The Rock Star of all time? And you think little old Amabel Clayton could snatch The Interview of the Decade? Pish and tosh.”
But among friends her own age, that was the overwhelming reaction of all the women to her new job. How many times had she heard variations of: You might interview Sean Morant!
Her replies were fairly uniform about her chances being very similar to a sin-doomed snowball’s. She got very tired of hearing about Sean Morant.
In the several years that followed Mab’s hiring, she did well. Her research was meticulous. She was businesslike and tactful. Of those she interviewed, she asked reasonable questions and searching ones. But she asked no hostile questions or embarrassing ones. It wasn’t her job to dissect a victim. She was completely fair with any age or any sex. She had very little trouble getting interviews. But she did not interview Sean Morant.
* * *
Sean’s PR man was naturally charming. He was probably somewhere in his forties, some years older than Amabel, and he cultivated a low profile. He looked rather pleasantly anonymous. He’d chosen to be called Jamie. Jamie Milrose.
He told Amabel, “Of all the reporters in this world, my love, if Sean gave out an interview, it would be to you—you know that. But if he allowed you that privilege, then he would have to give the same courtesy to all the other clamoring reporters in this world, avidly after an interview with Sean Morant.”
Jamie was patient. He explained, “You must know how many publications there are which would want that chance at Sean Morant! From Adam’s Roots through all the variety of news to Fort Wayne’s South Side High School. I went there to school, and I was on the staff of the South Side Times! So I know what it’s like to be a reporter.” With his expansive manner, Jamie gave her a lofty look, which invited her to laugh. She didn’t laugh.
Jamie continued, “However, if that happened, if we should grant interviews so recklessly, think of it just in Sean’s time spent! It fairly boggles the mind, doesn’t it? And the wear on his poor vocal cords! Ah, my love, have pity. Give it up.”
Enunciating with some careful exaggeration, Mab told Jamie, “I’m not your love.”
“It’s an expression,” he soothed. “It’s like a greeting kiss. It means nothing.” He smiled slightly with his head cocked just a bit. “Are you really a man hater?” He was silent as he watched her.
With the same kind of patience Jamie gave to interview requests, Amabel replied, “I love every one of God’s creatures. It’s just that I love some more than others.”
“Are you a lesbian?” He asked that deliberately.
“No.” She gave him an enduring stare.
“Then if you aren’t of that persuasion, how about dinner?” He opened out his arms in an expansive gesture. “I could change your whole outlook on life.” He used his most practiced male grin.
“The incredible conceit of men is something to contemplate.” She gathered up her things, put her pad and pencil into her purse and tried to close the zipper, but it stuck.
“We could discuss the interview,” he invited temptingly. “You could see how much I know about the way to access Sean.”
She paused in her struggle with the zipper. “I thought you said there was absolutely no chance.”
“There isn’t.” He smiled. “But you could...try...with me.”
“Jamie, you’re one of the reasons I have no use for men. You never give it up.”
“Now, now.” He settled in to enjoy their word exchange. “What have I ever done to you?”
“Since I am careful, you’ve done nothing.” She looked as if she was being very tolerant, but it was a trial.
He grinned. “You are a challenge.”
“Forget it.” She went back to the zipper.
“Why don’t you interview me about Sean?” He took the purse from her, opened the zipper, stuffed a head scarf deeper and zipped it closed.
She hesitated. “How well do you actually know him?”
“You could find out.” He handed her the purse as if it was a rose and his smile was wicked. “I have a nice little place up at Big Sur, just below Monterey. We could go there and lock...heads for a couple of days and see how things go.” He gave her his honest look.
“There’s a limit to the things I’ll do for my job. I would welcome the opportunity to quiz you, but a weekend is out of the question.”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling. “There was always the chance you’d be an eager young reporter prepared to give her all for the cause. Frankly, my dear, I hardly know the man.”
Mab was taken with the thought that it sounded very like Clark Gable’s classic reply to Scarlett’s plea.
* * *
Mab had never done the “other people” format for an interview. It wasn’t uncommon to seek out the opinions of acquaintances of well-known people. Or she could raid the files stored in the newspaper morgue for involvements and speculations about anyone in the news. It seemed the lazy cop-out to only interview the friends or relatives or co-workers of a personality...such as Sean Morant.
But Jamie had planted a seed, a root. And it grew and would have to be dealt with, for it would change Amabel Clayton’s life.
* * *
From her meeting with Jamie Milrose, Mab did glean one little item that set off a furor. Among the personality briefs, in Adam’s Roots, she reported there was some question about Sean Morant’s vocal cords being in jeopardy. Would he lose his voice? If he did, what would happen to his group? What would become of Sean Morant?
With her succinct words, panic erupted among the Rock devotees. The item was picked up and spread. It was mentioned in turn on MTV, Music Television, who hoped the rumor wasn’t true.
After a week had passed, Jamie called Mab. “You darling! His records are being snatched up—everyone thinks his vocal cords are doomed. Beautiful! I owe you.”
So, quite naturally, Mab leaped on that. She quickly asked, “How about an interview?”
His voice a purr, Jamie reminded her, “There’s always Big Sur.”
“Jamie, you just said you owe me. What about an interview with Sean?”
“Would you like an autographed copy of his Timeless album?” Jamie inquired in a generous manner. Then he added smoothly, “There’s a woman in ‘She Rocked Me’ that could well be you.”
But Mab ignored the chatter and stuck to reality. “Jamie, you said you owed me. Try for the interview.”
“‘Tis hopeless, my love.” Jamie was regretful, but that finished the conversation.
* * *
Several days later, Amabel got the autographed Timeless album, and played “She Rocked Me.” She had never listened all the way through any of Sean’s recordings. His roughened voice was what a woman wanted...she’d heard. The woman Jamie said could well be Mab used the man like a vampire, sucking him dry of innocence and love before she discarded him. It made Mab mad.
So the album was still on Mab’s desk when her boss, Wallace Michaels, walked into her cubbyhole. He picked up the album and asked, with some startled interest, “You get autographed albums from Sean Morant?”
Automatically correcting his leap to an erroneous conclusion, she replied, “From his publicity agent, Jamie Milrose.” Mab went on typing. She was allergic to computers.
Wallace asked her, “You got an in with Jamie?”
“Wally,” she explained to an innocent, “Jamie probably signs the albums himself. He’s that tricky.”
He asked quickly, “Could you get an interview?”
Wallace Michaels was VP over all the people news of Adam’s Roots. Since his job dealt only in personalities, he felt like a third-class citizen and was sensitive about it. He wanted to be in the mainstream of news and happenings and actually he was only involved in...gossip. He adjusted to the only way to handle gossip. He took it seriously.
“Wally, you know I have been trying to get an interview with Sean Morant for you for three years. I speak with Jamie Milrose several times a year in that effort. I have tried to waylay Sean Morant, and so far I’ve been unsuccessful. So has every other reporter. We get only the publicity handouts. You are aware of all that.”
Wally pushed up his lower lip thoughtfully and declared, “We need an interview.”
“Good luck.”
“Now, Mab— It was your little squib about his gold-plated vocal cords that caused all this hoorah. Now’s your time. And nothing is going on right now! So, unless some other country blows up another, we could get a cover story out of it! Do it.”
Mab was disgusted and told Wally seriously, “It would have to be with interviews of others who know him or who’ve worked with him.”
Wally was firm. “Do it.”
“It’ll kill my reporter’s soul.” Closing up her desk, Mab lifted the pull-out typewriter shelf to release the holding, spring catch in order to swing it down into the desk. It stuck. She tried again.
As if an oracle, Wally observed, “You don’t like Sean Morant.”
She temporarily abandoned her desk’s problem in order to stand up and look at Wally. She was kind. “I haven’t met a whole lot of men I do like.” She became gentle. “I find men are overrated.” She gestured. “The ones I’ve met tend to be petty, self-serving, egotistically immature and quite ruthless.” She scowled. “They’ve fouled up the world. Both politically and chemically.” She became logical. “And with Sean Morant, we have the ultimate in uselessness.”
“You are the perfect foil to find out if there’s a man under all that hype. Do it.”
She sighed impatiently and went back to fiddle with her stubborn desk mechanism as she said, “You are one of the few men I can tolerate. This isn’t really an assignment for me. I’m not into MTV, or Rock concerts, or that type of music and I believe it’s a...” She was distracted by her examination of the desk mechanism and she jounced it.
“He is involved with the Feed the World’s hunger programs.”
“Who isn’t?” She bit her lower lip and strong-armed the stubborn, probably male, desk’s unmovable typewriter tray.
“You know, Mab.” Wally had turned soothsayer. “You’re a genuine man hater. I’m glad I’m safely married. If I wasn’t, I might try for you and you’d shrivel me up.” He reached over and effortlessly swung the typewriter and its shelf down into the desk.
She considered him thoughtfully. “I could live next door to you.”
“Ah, a magnificent concession.”
“But spare me Sean Morant.”
But Wally directed, “Do the interview any way you can make it.” With that comment out of the way, he added, “Chris would like you to come to dinner on Saturday. She is having her cousin over, and she’d like to expose him to you.”
