Читать книгу The Ryders: Jared, Royce and Stephanie - Barbara Dunlop - Страница 8

Journalist Brandon Langard’s blunder was the talk of the bullpen at Windy City Bizz. The odds-on favorite for a promotion to feature writer, he’d struck out in his attempt to get an interview with Jared Ryder.

Melissa Warner and the rest of the sixth-floor magazine staff watched the fallout with morbid fascination. The managing editor’s door was closed tight, but through the interior window, it was obvious Seth Strickland was shouting. His eyes snapped fire, and his face had turned a mottled purple. Brandon’s head was bent and still, his shoulders hunched.

“They’ve already designed the cover,” photographer Susan Alaric stage-whispered over the low barrier between her and Melissa’s desks.

“That’s because Brandon swore it was a done deal,” said Melissa, remembering his swagger last week when he’d announced the plum assignment.

“Nothing wrong with that man’s confidence,” Susan returned with an eye roll. Brandon’s habit of bragging, flirting and ogling the female staff had long since alienated them.

“I was sure he’d pull it off,” Melissa had to admit. Brandon might be obnoxious, but he was also driven and hardworking. And like all the journalists at the Bizz, he knew an in-depth article on Chicago’s most elusive entrepreneur and bachelor would clinch the promotion to feature writer.

That Jared Ryder had made a fortune in the Chicago real estate market fit Windy City Bizz’s mandate for business news. That he was the heartthrob of half the city’s female population suited the magazine’s new focus on circulation numbers.

Seth became even more animated, gesticulating with both arms as he rounded his cluttered desk to confront Brandon face-to-face. The occasional word filtered through the closed door. “ … incompetent … unreliable … reckless …”

“Ouch.” Susan cringed.

Melissa experienced a fleeting twinge of pity for Brandon. But then she remembered how he’d eavesdropped on her conversation with the Women in Business organization last month and presented the story idea as his own. She still owed him for that one. Or rather, he still owed her.

She paused on that thought.

It was true. He did owe her one. And maybe it was time to collect.

It would serve him right if she swooped in on this particular story. And why not? Seth clearly needed the Jared Ryder interview. And Melissa would kill for a chance at that promotion.

Through the window, Seth stopped talking. His breathing went deep, his nostrils flared, as he set his jaw in a grim line. Brandon bolted for the office door, and Melissa saw her chance. She quickly came to her feet.

Susan glanced up quizzically, assessing the determined expression on Melissa’s face. She obviously came to the right conclusion.

“Do it,” she begged with a grin. “Oh, please do it.”

Melissa’s heart upped its rhythm. She swallowed hard, trying not to think about the career-limiting consequences of failure. If she promised the interview and didn’t deliver, she’d be in more trouble than Brandon.

Still, as Brandon yanked Seth’s door open, she tamped down her fear and made her move.

Her colleagues’ gazes hit her from all sides as she made a beeline for the editor’s office. Some probably guessed her plan. Others would be simply shocked to see her approaching Seth before he had a chance to calm down. His tirades were legendary. They normally sent the staff scurrying for cover.

Brandon peeled off to the right, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Melissa rapped on the still-open door. “Seth?”

“What?” he barked, without looking up, rustling through a pile of papers on his cluttered desk.

She took a couple of steps into the office, clicking the door shut behind her.

His round face was flushed all the way to his receding hairline. There was a sheen of sweat above his bushy brows. His white shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up. And his tie was loose and dangling in two sections over his protruding belly.

“I can get you the interview,” she stated outright, standing tall, her three-inch pumps giving her a slight height advantage.

“What interview?”

“The Jared Ryder interview.”

“No. You can’t.”

“I can,” she insisted, voice firm with the confidence she’d learned facing down five older brothers. “I will. What’s the deadline?”

“Ryder left Chicago this morning.”

“No problem. Where’d he go?”

Seth glared at her without answering.

“I can do it, Seth.”

“He turned Langard down flat.”

“I’m not Langard.”

“You’re not,” Seth agreed in a tone that told her she’d never be as good as Brandon Langard. Then he picked up his phone and punched in a number.

“Give me a chance,” Melissa insisted, closing the space between the door and his desk. “What can it hurt?”

“We’re out of time.”

“A week,” said Melissa. “Give me a week.”

“Is Everett available?” Seth asked into the phone.

Everett was publisher of the Bizz, the head honcho, the guy who approved the lead headlines and the cover copy.

“Can we at least talk about it?” she pressed.

“Nothing to talk about. Ryder ran off to Montana.”

That information took Melissa by surprise. “What’s Jared Ryder doing in Montana?” Surely he wasn’t building a skyscraper in Butte.

“He’s holed up at his ranch.”

Melissa hadn’t known he had a ranch. Sure, there were rumors he was once a cowboy. But there were also rumors he was once a spy.

Seth gauged her confused look and raised his bushy brows. “You didn’t know he had a ranch.”

She couldn’t argue that one.

“It’s the foundation of the entire Ryder conglomerate. How’re you going to save my ass when you didn’t even know he had a ranch?”

“Because I will,” said Melissa with determination. Just because she didn’t happen to know Jared was a cowboy didn’t mean she couldn’t get an interview. “I’ll fly to Montana.”

“He hates the press. He really hates the Bizz. He’ll probably run you off his land with—” Seth’s attention went to the telephone. “Everett?”

“I can do it,” Melissa said, feeling her big chance slip away.

“I have a situation,” Seth said to Everett.

“I’ll get on the ranch,” she pressed in an undertone, her mind scrambling. “I’ll go undercover. I will get you the story.”

Seth’s attention never left the telephone. “It’s the Jared Ryder interview.” He paused, face flushing deeper, while Everett obviously voiced his displeasure.

“Have I ever let you down?” Melissa went on. She hadn’t. But then, she’d never tackled anything this big, either.

“Yes. I know I did,” Seth said to Everett.

“Please,” said Melissa, leaning forward. “I’ll buy my own plane ticket.”

Seth shoulders tensed. “Langard was the best I—”

While Everett obviously weighed in again, Melissa searched her mind for fresh arguments.

“I grew up with horses,” she blurted out. Well, one horse, really. It had lived in a field, on the edge of suburbia, across the street from her new house. She’d nicknamed it Midnight. “I’ll—”

Seth’s glare warned her to shut up.

“—get a job on the ranch.”

Seth smacked his palm over the mouthpiece. “Do you know who this is?”

She gave a small nod.

“Get out.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Melissa pursed her lips.

Seth’s gaze glittered dark with warning as he went back to Everett. “The Cooper story can take the cover.”

Melissa debated a split second longer. But bravery was one thing, stupidity quite another. She’d pushed Seth as far as she dared.

She retreated, and Seth’s voice followed her back to the bullpen. “I’ll get a photographer on it right away.”

Like Brandon had done only minutes before, she avoided eye contact as she made her way to her desk.

“Susan,” Seth bellowed from behind her.

With a darting look of pity at Melissa, Susan rolled back her chair, came to her feet and headed for the editor’s office.

Melissa dropped into her own chair and stared at the randomly bouncing colored balls of her screen saver. She could have gotten that interview. She knew she could have gotten that interview.

“It’s Lorne Cooper on the cover,” said Susan as she slipped back into her seat.

Melissa nodded with resignation. “The sports-gear king.” There was a new megastore opening on Murdoch Street, and “Cruisin’ Cooper” was sponsoring a bicycle race to celebrate.

“The article’s written. All it needs is an update and some new art.”

Melissa pulled herself closer to her computer screen and hit the space bar. “It was written by R. J. Holmes,” she pointed out, voice laced with self-pity. R.J. was one of the newest journalists on staff, and he was beating her out for a cover.

“I guess Seth wasn’t feeling charitable toward Brandon.”

“Or toward me.” Melissa’s screen powered up on a search engine.

“What’ve you got ready?”

“Myers Corp. or the Briggs’ merger.”

Susan didn’t answer.

“I know,” Melissa conceded, randomly poking the H key. “They’re even lamer than Cooper.” Not that any old cover story would clinch the promotion. There was only one story that would catapult her into the feature writer’s job.

She backspaced to erase the H and typed Jared Ryder into the search engine.

In a split second, it returned a list of options that included the home page of Ryder International, Jared’s speech last month to the Chamber of Commerce, contact information for his new office tower and a link to the Ryder Ranch.

Curious, she clicked the ranch link.

A brilliant green panorama of trees, meadows and rolling hills appeared in front of her. The sky was crackling turquoise, while a ribbon of pale blue meandered through the meadow, nearly kissing a two-story, red-roofed house surrounded by pens and outbuildings.

So that was what Montana looked like.

A row of thumbnail pictures lined the bottom of the screen. “Natural beauty,” advertised one caption. “Surrounded by wilderness,” read another. “South of Glacier National Park.”

Susan shut down her own computer, rising to sling three cameras over her shoulder. “Gotta get to work.”

“Have fun,” Melissa offered, clicking on a thumbnail of summer wildflowers. Red, purple, yellow, white. They really were quite gorgeous.

Susan grinned as she pushed a drawer shut with her hip. “I will. Headshots today. Then there’s a gala Friday night, and I’m going to hitch a ride on the channel-ten chopper for the bike race Sunday.”

“Shut up,” Melissa griped as Susan rounded the end of the desk.

Melissa would be sitting right here all week long, in the stuffy, hot office, combing through the minutes of various City Hall committees, looking for permits or variances or financial-policy news, anything that might lead to an interesting business story.

“What’s that?” asked Susan, nodding to the computer screen.

Melissa refocused on the verdant green and bright flowers. “Montana,” she answered. “Where I’d be if Seth had half a heart.” Or half a brain.

She clicked on an area map. There was an airport in Missoula and everything.

“Not my cup of tea,” said Susan, popping a jaunty plaid hat on her curly brown locks.

“Not mine, either,” Melissa admitted, gathering her own straight, blond hair into a knot at the nape of her neck in an effort to let the building’s weak air-conditioning waft over her hot skin. “But I’d fly there in a heartbeat to meet Jared Ryder.”

“So do it,” said Susan.

“Yeah, right.”

“Why not?”

Melissa swiveled to face her coworker. “Because Seth turned me down flat.”

Susan shrugged. “Tell him you’re doing City Hall research from home. Then get on a plane.”

Oh, now that seemed brilliant. “Lie to my boss and ignore his orders?”

“He’ll forgive you if you get the story.” Susan’s lips curved in a conspiratorial grin. “Trust me.”

Melissa let the hair slip out of her hand. The idea was preposterous.

Susan leaned in and lowered her voice. “If you don’t get the story, somebody else will.”

“At least it won’t be Brandon.”

“Result will be the same.”

“Flying to Montana could get me fired,” Melissa pointed out.

“It could also get you promoted.” Susan straightened.

“Easy for you to say.”

Susan shrugged the cameras into a more comfortable position, then adjusted her cap. “Up to you. But no risk, no reward. My biggest payday was when those vandals let the lions loose at Lincoln Park.”

“That was insane,” Melissa reminded her. Susan had been clinging to the branches of an oak tree with a hungry male lion pacing below when the animal-control officer had darted the thing.

Another shrug.

“Are you suggesting that if I don’t put myself in mortal danger, I’m not trying hard enough?”

Susan patted Melissa’s shoulder. “I’m suggesting if you don’t torpedo Brandon and go after that promotion, you’re not trying hard enough.”

Point made, Susan winked and sauntered away, while Melissa drummed her fingertips on the desktop.

She glanced at the pictures of the Montana ranch. Then her gaze shifted to the spacious window cubicle reserved for the new feature writer.

She pictured Seth’s expression when she presented the article. She pictured Brandon’s face when he learned of her coup. She pictured her byline on the cover of the Bizz. Then just for good measure, she pictured herself at the podium, accepting a Prentice award next January. She could wear her black-and-gold-layered gown, with the teardrop medallion she’d found last week in that funky little art gallery on Second.

Take that, Brandon Langard.

Her life would be perfect. All she had to do was talk her way onto the Ryder Ranch.

Body loose in the saddle, Jared Ryder held his horse Tango to a slow walk across the wooden bridge that led to his sister Stephanie’s place. Her jumping-horse outfit was built on Ryder land up on the Bonaparte Plateau, about ten miles into the hills from the main spread at Spirit Lake. Tango’s ears twitched and his body tensed as he took in the nearly hundred head of horses grazing in the fields and milling about in the pens clustered around the main riding arena.

Jared was feeling just as twitchy as his horse. Far from the haven he’d always known, the familiar sights and sounds of Montana brought a crush of memories. And a fresh surge of anger roiled in his belly.

His instinct had been to stay far away from the ranch this week. But his sister, Stephanie, needed him. Besides, Chicago had its own problems at the moment.

Ryder International had just signed a long-term lease to rent space to the City of Chicago in the Ryder office tower that was under construction on Washington Street. For some reason, the mayor had insisted on parading Jared from charity ball to art gallery opening. Jared had been out in public so often that the tabloids started to believe there was a reason to take his picture and stuff a microphone in his face.

It was beyond frustrating. He was a businessman, not a politician or a celebrity. And his personal life was none of their damn business. The reporter from Windy City Bizz camping out at the end of his driveway Monday night was the last straw. When he got back to the city, he was looking into restraining orders and disguises.

But for the moment he had no choice but to come to terms with the home front. He cleared the main equestrian barn, and a cluster of people on horseback at the riding arena came into view. His appearance caught their attention. One horse and rider immediately broke free from the group, trotting down the dirt road to meet him. Both Jared and Tango tracked the pair’s progress past the pens, dotted outbuildings and sparse trees.

“The prodigal returns,” sang his twenty-two-year-old sister, Stephanie, pulling her mare to a halt, raising a cloud of dust in the July sunshine. Her smiling, freckle-flecked face peeked out from her riding helmet. Her long legs were clad in tight jodhpurs and high, glossy brown boots, while a loose, tan blouse ballooned around her small frame. Her unruly auburn hair was tied back in a ponytail.

“I think you’re confusing me with Royce,” said Jared, watching her closely. She might not know what he knew, but they’d all been shaken by their grandfather’s death three months ago.

He halted Tango, who eyed the mare with suspicion.

“At least Royce makes it to my competitions,” Stephanie pointed out, shifting in her stirrups. “He was there to watch me win last week at Spruce Meadows.”

“That’s because he lives on his jet plane,” Jared defended. His brother, Royce, routinely flew from New York to London, Rome and points east, checking out companies to add to the Ryder International empire. Royce was mobile.

“I live in a boardroom,” Jared finished.

“Poor baby,” Stephanie teased. She smiled, but Jared caught the veiled sadness in her silver-blue eyes. Stephanie had been only two when their parents died, and Gramps was the closest thing to a parent she’d known.

“Congratulations,” he told her softly, reflexively tamping down his own anger to focus on her needs. He’d been fifteen when they lost their parents, and he liked to think he’d had a hand in raising her, too. He was immensely proud of her accomplishments as both a rider and a trainer.

“Thanks.” She leaned forward to pat Rosie-Jo, her champion gray Hanoverian, briskly on the neck, but not before Jared caught the telltale sheen in her eyes. “Want to see our trophy?”

“Of course,” he answered. There would be plenty of time later to talk about their grandfather.

“We’ve got a few hours before the meeting.” She drew a brave breath and squared her shoulders, shaking off the sadness as she turned the horse to draw alongside Jared.

Together they headed toward her two-story blue-gabled ranch house.

The annual meeting of the Genevieve Memorial Fund, a charitable trust named in memory of their mother, would take place today. Each year, it was scheduled to coincide with the anniversary of their parents’ deaths. Picturing his parents, Jared felt his anger percolating once more. But he had to suck it up, be a man about it. There was absolutely no point in disillusioning his younger brother and sister.

“I saw you in the Chicago paper last week,” Stephanie chimed in as they left the river behind them.

“That was a picture of the mayor,” Jared corrected. He’d done his best to duck behind the burly man.

“They named you in the caption.”

“Slow news day,” he told her, remembering the flashbulbs outside the gallery and how the reporters had shouted inane questions as he’d helped Nadine into the limo.

Stephanie’s expression turned calculating, her tone curious. “So who was she?”

“Who was who?” he asked, pretending he didn’t know exactly where his baby sister was headed. Raised in a male-dominated household, she’d been lobbying for somebody to please marry a nice woman since she was seven years old.

“The bombshell in the picture with you.”

“She was my date,” he offered, letting the statement dangle without elaboration.

Stephanie pasted him with a look of impatience. “And?”

He forced her to wait a beat longer. “And her name is Nadine Romsey. Sorry to disappoint you, but she’s not a bombshell. She’s a lawyer with Comcoe Newsome.”

Stephanie’s interest grew. “Looks and brains. This must be something serious.”

“It was a business arrangement. The mayor invited me to the party, and there were people attending that Nadine wanted to meet.”

Stephanie pouted. “But she’s so pretty.”

“And you’re so hopelessly romantic.”

“Will you take her out again?”

“Only if she needs to get into another party.” He admired Nadine, but he didn’t have any romantic interest in her.

Stephanie compressed her lips in frustration. “You’ve written her off after one date? You know, you’re never going to meet a woman if you don’t get out there and—”

“I’m ‘out there’ 24/7, little sister.” He gestured around the spread. “That’s what pays for all of this.”

Stephanie pointed her nose in the air. “Ryder Equestrian Center brought in a million dollars last year.”

Jared snorted a laugh. “While you spent four million.”

“We also provided dozens of marketing opportunities for the firm, and we improved your corporate image. That is priceless.”

“You rehearsed that, didn’t you?”

“You should get married, Jared.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be angling for a mother figure?”

“I’m looking for a sister now. You should find someone young and fun. Who likes horses,” she added for good measure, kicking her mare into a faster walk.

Jared shook his head. Between the revelation his grandfather had spoken on his deathbed, the mayor and the media, and Ryder International’s accountant’s concerns that the company was expanding too fast, Jared didn’t have a scrap of emotional or intellectual energy left over for romance.

As he followed Stephanie past the open door of a stable, a sudden tingle spread up his spine. He turned sharply and locked gazes with a blond-haired, green-eyed beauty who stood just inside the main doorway. She was wearing blue jeans and a crisp white shirt, and she held a manure fork in both hands.

She quickly glanced away, but his radar pinged.

What was it?

He stared at her a little longer.

It was the makeup. Her makeup was subtle, but she was definitely wearing some. And he’d bet her blond highlights were from a salon, not the sunshine. Her collared shirt was pressed, and the hands that held the manure fork were soft, bare, no gloves.

“Who’s that?” he asked his sister.

Stephanie turned and followed the direction of his gaze.

“Why? You think she’s pretty?”

Anyone could see the woman was gorgeous. But that wasn’t the point.

“I think she’s a rank greenhorn,” he said.

“Her name’s Melissa … something. Webster, I think. You want me to introduce you? “ The calculating flare was back in Stephanie’s eyes.

“Stop,” Jared ordered.

His sister grinned unrepentantly.

“What I want you to do,” he continued with exaggerated patience, “is to hire experienced staff. We’re blowing enough money on this place as it is.”

“She needed a job,” said Stephanie. “She’s from Indiana.”

He wasn’t sure what the hell Indiana had to do with anything. While he watched, the woman awkwardly scooped a pile of horse manure from the wooden floor and dumped it into a wheelbarrow. “If she needed a million dollars, would you give it to her?”

“She didn’t ask for a million dollars. She’s on her way to Seattle. She needed money for bus fare.”

“You’re hiring transients now?”

“She’s mucking out our stalls, Jared, not signing the company checks.”

“I’m not worried about embezzlement. I’m worried about labor cost efficiency.”

He was also worried something wasn’t quite right. Why would a woman that polished take a menial job for bus fare?

She could be running away from something, he supposed. Or she could be running from someone. Which seemed more likely. An ex-boyfriend? Someone’s angry wife? It had better not be the FBI or the state troopers.

He considered her delicate profile, trying to decide if she was a criminal. She tackled the next pile of manure, her city-soft hands sliding up and down the wooden handle.

“She’s going to get blisters,” he voiced the thought out loud.

“You want to give her some gloves?” asked Stephanie.

“Somebody better,” he conceded. Aimless wanderer or criminal on the run, if they were going to employ her, the least they could do was make sure she avoided injury.

“Hey, Melissa,” Stephanie called.

The woman paused and glanced up.

“Grab some gloves out of the storeroom.”

Melissa gave her hands a puzzled look.

“She hasn’t a clue,” said Jared, hit with an unexpected flash of pity. Maybe she was running from an angry ex. He quickly reined in his thoughts. None of his business.

“You sure you don’t want me to introduce you?” Stephanie singsonged.

Jared turned Tango toward the house. “You going to show me your trophy or what?”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“Yes, I can.” But Jared glanced over his shoulder one last time as they moved away. Manure fork balanced in the crook of her elbow, the woman named Melissa was wriggling her fingers into the pair of stiff leather gloves. The fork slipped and banged to the wooden floor. The sound startled a horse. The horse startled the woman. She tripped on the fork and landed with a thud on her backside.

Their gazes met once more, his amused, hers annoyed.

He turned away, but the flash of emerald stayed with him as he followed Stephanie to the hitching rail in front of the house.