Читать книгу Intimate Betrayal - Donna Hill - Страница 8

New York

Methodically, he paced the spacious confines of his posh mid-town Manhattan office, as stealthily as a caged black panther. His movements were smooth, controlled, precise—as was every aspect of his life.

One large hand was hidden in the pocket of his imported navy blue slacks, the other absently caressing the silken hairs of his ebony mustache.

On the surface, it appeared that Maxwell Knight was simply contemplating another brilliant computer innovation. That was on the surface. Beneath the inscrutable facade, turmoil and a sense of his life spinning out of control built steadily within him, growing in intensity.

His usually smooth, bronze-toned brow was furrowed in a maze of concentration. The last half hour of verbal volleyball with his Board of Directors had his sharply honed six-foot-three-inch frame coiled with tension—ready to spring at the slightest provocation.

He turned toward the floor-to-ceiling window, the expanse of the New York skyline spread out before him. From the ninety-fifth floor, Maxwell usually felt on top of the world, able to conquer anything or anyone. This unprecedented sense of futility over his own destiny filled him with an emotion he could not grasp.

At thirty-three, he had accomplished what many only dreamed of—read about—wished for. The existence of M.K. Enterprises—his self-named corporation—and his wizardry with computer programming had catapulted him into the limelight, the one place he had no desire to be. He guarded his privacy with a voracious tenacity. If anyone wanted to know about the M.K. behind M.K. Enterprises, they could read about it in the company’s annual report, he felt. There was no reason to interview him. No reason to delve into his life—open doors that were best kept closed. But his development of the computer chip that was touted to revolutionize the speed of computer processing had set off a series of events that were no longer stoppable.

The Board had voted unanimously to take the company public, and he had agreed. But in order to make M.K.’s entry into the stock market an unquestionable success, they had also voted—against his wishes—to give the public what they’d craved for more than five years, an in-depth interview with Maxwell Knight, boy wonder.

His firm, smooth jaw clenched as he drew a deep contemplative breath. Something other than notoriety prompted the actions of the Board. They’d never given a damn in the past whether or not the company made headlines. These months prior to their launch into the market were crucial and best kept secret. Now was not the time to have some reporter following him around. If word leaked out, there would be hell to pay. Turning away from the window, his dark, almond-shaped eyes that curved slightly upward at the tips—the single trait that hinted at his mixed heritage—gazed upon the magazine he’d tossed on his desk.

Looking at it now, his misgivings, no matter how irrational, ignited anew. Phillip Hart, the publisher of Visions Magazine, had hounded him for months to give them the exclusive rights to an interview. Until today, Maxwell had been able to deny him.

The face of Barack Obama stared back at him from the cover. Yes, it was true that Visions had a stellar reputation in the industry. It was also true that it staked that reputation on getting beyond the surface of its subjects. Some of the biggest names in the journalism industry had written for Visions. That wasn’t the issue for Maxwell. The issue was, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what they might uncover.

Chicago

Reese Delaware was the type of woman who could charm a zebra right out of its stripes. Her powers of persuasion bordered on being lethal in a totally seductive way. She knew it and used her charm, wit and feminine wiles as easily as she breathed. Today was no exception. She was determined to convince the bull-headed editor of Visions Magazine that she could handle the interview of a lifetime even if it turned into another two hours of tug-of-war.

Many before her had tried and failed to get an exclusive with Maxwell Knight. Reese had no delusions of being among that group.

“Mr. Hart,” Reese crooned in her distinctly throaty voice, tipped with southern charm. “If I say I can do something—I can.” She gave him a long, slow look from startling amber eyes. Inwardly, she smiled as she watched the flush of crimson rise from his neck and mottle his face. She recrossed her long milk-chocolate legs.

Phillip Hart cleared his throat. He’d bumped heads with hundreds of hungry journalists over the years. He had yet to meet one who could compare with Reese Delaware. There was something that drove her, almost possessed her, to squeeze out every imaginable detail in a story. He’d already made up his mind to give her this assignment, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to see her use her “skills” to convince him.

“How soon can you be ready to leave for New York?” he asked in monotone, struggling to quell his rising libido.

“As soon as I can pack,” she replied with a calm shrug that belied the rush of adrenaline that pumped through her veins.

Phillip leaned back in his overstuffed leather chair and peered at her from beneath puffy eyelids. He pursed his thin pink lips. “You may just be the person to get this job done right, Ms. Delaware.” He threaded his fingers together. “You have sixty days to get this interview completed and on my desk, with pictures and quotes from the man himself and any and everybody who knows him,” he added, pointing a stubby, cigarette-stained finger at her.

Reese felt like leaping out of her seat and throwing her arms around Phillip Hart’s fat neck. However, she remained outwardly nonplussed, as if the whole discussion couldn’t have gone any differently.

“You’ll have your story, Mr. Hart,” she said, that slow smile easing across her mouth. “And it’ll be the best piece of work you’ve ever read.”