Читать книгу Hung Up on You - Holly Jacobs - Страница 11

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.

Ari knew that there was nothing she could do for him…nothing for them to talk about. And yet, he had the look of someone who could make a pest of himself. Maybe it was better to just get it over with.

“I don’t know what we have to talk about.”

“Please?” he asked.

It was the please that did it.

Since Ari had spent the night worrying rather than sleeping, she was still wearing yesterday’s jeans and blouse. She knew she looked decidedly wrinkled, but at least she was presentable enough to let him in.

Remembering caution, she asked, “Do you have a card with you?”

She didn’t doubt his story, but felt it was wise to be sure. Plus, as he dug through his pocket, she had a few moments to collect herself.

Rather than thinking of something to say, she noticed his hair. Dark-brown hair…so dark it bordered on black. It had a slight curl to it so that, even though she suspected he’d recently dressed and brushed it, it had a disheveled sort of look to it. It lent a boyish sort of charm to his looks.

This Simon Masterson was the sort of man that women fantasized about.

Not that she fantasized about other men. She had Collin for her fantasies.

The thought didn’t exactly cheer her.

“Here,” he said, handing a card through the gap in the door.

“And here’s my license.” He opened up his wallet and flashed her a license.

It was indeed him, with the name Simon Masterson on it. And it was a good picture.

Who on earth did he bribe to get the DMV to take a good picture for his license?

She always ended up looking like she was recovering from a weekend binge, or surgery—which was to say, she looked horrible on every license she’d ever been photographed for.

Shaking her head at the injustice of it all, she looked at the card.

SimonSays.

Unfortunately, he seemed to be legit, which meant she probably should let him in to talk about the stupid article. Not that there was really much she could say.

She closed the door in his face, unlatched the chain and opened it again. “Come in, Mr. Masterson.”

“Simon,” he corrected as he strode into the apartment, which suddenly seemed smaller with him in it. It was as if he filled up all the empty space, displacing it and the oxygen that normally filled it.

That had to be why she suddenly found herself short of breath. He was hogging all the air.

“Miss Kelly?” he said.

She realized she’d been standing there, just looking at him. She gave herself a mental shake and said, “You can call me Ari. I just made a pot of coffee. Would you like some?”

“Fine.”

She led him to the tiny kitchen and nodded at one of the stools next to the island. “Now, what did you think we had to talk about?”

She turned her back to him and busied herself at the counter, needing a moment to collect her rather frayed wits. She was obviously sleep deprived, or else this man wouldn’t be affecting her like this.

She wasn’t the type to be turned on by a man’s looks, or even his voice. This strange reaction to Simon Masterson had to be the product of her current state of stress.

Yes. Stress-induced lust.

That’s what it was.

“I came here to insist you print a retraction. But if you really didn’t know about the article, and if they really got your findings wrong, then I want you to insist they print a retraction,” he said.

She turned around.

Big mistake. He looked even more gorgeous up close.

Her breath deserted her with a whoosh, and she barely managed to squeak out, “Mr. Masterson—” when he interrupted her.

“Simon.”

“Simon,” she repeated.

She took a deep breath and started again. “Simon, like I said, I had nothing to do with the distortion and out-and-out fabrication in the article. I learned about it last night when I came home to a full answering machine. It’s not even close to accurate. They distorted my study until the only thing that’s really mine is my name, and I can’t tell you how much I wish they’d made that up as well.”

“That’s why you can demand a retraction.”

She took two mugs out of the cupboard, then turned around and shook her head. “I don’t think that will help. It will just give them more fuel for their flames. It’s what papers like that love.”

“I think you’re wrong. I think they’d be forced to print a retraction.”

“Simon, Rag Magazine doesn’t worry about who it offends, or how it bends the truth.” She poured coffee into the two mugs, handed one to him and took the stool opposite him as she continued, “It just worries about numbers, about how big a market share it can grab. Our best bet is to ignore it. After all, it’s not that big of a story. No space aliens, or two-headed women. It will go away.”

She shot Simon what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

“The Financial Journal is picking the story up, too, as part of some article on stress,” he said.

Her smile faded. So much for reassuring either Simon or herself. “I heard. The Journal said they wanted to run an article in their August issue. They left me messages and I plan on calling them back. I’d be happy to answer their questions. I’m pretty sure they’ll be much more factual with the article they run, which will be good for both of us.”

“But the Rag?” he pressed.

“Simon, tabloids aren’t interested in the truth. All they want is shock value. Anything I say will probably just be twisted to suit their purposes, just like my study was.”

She took a sip of the strong black brew, and realized Simon hadn’t. “Did you need cream or sugar?”

“No,” he said, and took a sip as if to prove it was fine. “So you won’t come with me to their office and demand a retraction?”

“I’m telling you, it won’t do any good.”

“Will you at least give me a written statement saying that their article was fraudulent?”

Ari sighed. “If that’s what you want, sure. But truly, I don’t think it will help.”

“It will. I’ll make it work.”

Ari doubted it, but didn’t say so.

Simon Masterson might be gorgeous, but he was stubborn, tenacious and confident to the point of foolishness.

Annoying qualities in a man.

Enough to almost make her forget that she’d had a lust attack when she first saw him.

Almost, but not quite.

She’d give him his statement, and with any luck that would be the last she would hear of Simon Masterson.

They went into the living room and he sipped his coffee as she downloaded her thesis from her laptop onto a disc.

She glanced at Simon and tried to concentrate on how annoying he was, but her heart did this weird little beat. Annoying but good-looking. Not that she cared. Maybe he wasn’t even all that hot.

Stress.

Stress just made him look better than he really looked.

Wouldn’t that be an interesting study?

How Stress Impacts a Woman’s Libido.

“Hey, are you going to write a letter or not?” he asked.

She sighed and opened a blank document, then wrote a quick letter to the Rag expressing her outrage over their article and demanding they print a retraction. She signed it with a flourish.

“Here,” she said, handing him the paper and the disc. “All my data—the real data, not the stuff they made up—is there, along with my conclusions. Maybe that will help.”

He was off the stool and headed toward the door without even a thank you.

That was rude.

Rude men weren’t attractive men.

He probably didn’t look nearly as hot now, she thought.

Ah, but she was now walking behind him, following him to the apartment door and the view was mighty fine.

And hot.

Darn it all.

She needed to sleep. Maybe she’d do some yoga. Anything to reduce her stress, and thus reduce her state of lust. Because, boy, did she have it bad right now.

“I still think you’re making a mistake,” she said, frowning.

He opened the door and turned to face her. “I don’t think—” he said, just as a bright light flashed.

They both whirled toward the hall and saw a small, dark-haired man with an oily smile and a camera.

“Alphie Newman,” he said, smiling even broader, which bared his uneven teeth. “I’m from Rag Magazine. I know you. You’re Simon Masterson from SimonSays. I got your messages on my machine this morning. I tried to call you, but didn’t get an answer. Imagine finding you here with Miss Kelly. Maybe I could get a statement from you before I interview Miss Kelly?”

“No interviews,” Ari said even as Simon said, “I was just going to head to your office to talk about the retraction you’re going to print. You’ve saved me a trip.”

Leaving the two men in the hall, Ari closed the door. She had a bad feeling about Simon’s plan.

A very bad feeling.

THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Ari’s persistent bad feeling had mushroomed into a horrendous feeling.

It seemed that anything that could go wrong in her life, was going wrong.

But this? This was out of the blue.

She hung up the phone feeling a bit more than shell-shocked.

The Warnheimer Institute’s director had called, saying there was a problem with the funding for her position. Her new job—her dream job—was temporarily on hold.

The director had been apologetic as she assured Ari that she’d try to clear it up as soon as possible.

Then the woman had added that while she was trying to clear up the funding problems, she hoped Ari would clear up her little media disaster.

Ari hung up the phone and cursed the tabloid.

She’d hoped her ten minutes of fame—or rather infamy—were over.

Now this.

Her dream job was on hold, possibly gone for good.

What was she going to do for money?

Maybe the hospital would hire her back? It was an option that didn’t thrill her. She didn’t want to go back to nursing. She wanted her research job at the institute. She’d worked hard to get her advanced degree. Two long years of working full-time and going to school.

And now what did she have to show for it?

Nothing.

As she pondered how she was going to pay next month’s rent, her doorbell rang. It was one polite little ring, so she knew it wasn’t that Simon Masterson coming back, which was good. She hoped she’d seen the last of him.

She opened the door and found Collin standing there, looking decidedly annoyed.

“Collin, what a surprise,” she said, letting him into the apartment as a wave of gratitude swept through her.

She so needed him to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right, that the institute would realize how valuable she was despite the tabloid coverage and tell her that her job was waiting for her whenever she was ready to start.

He strode in and as soon as she’d shut the door, he thrust a paper at her.

Uh-oh.

Feeling more than slightly sick to her stomach, and knowing that things might be worse than she thought, she looked at the headline on this week’s Rag Magazine.

Attack of the Deadly Phone Maze, just under it was a picture with the caption, “Simon Says…Study Stupid.”

It was the picture the reporter had taken of Ari and Simon when they’d opened the door last week. It was apparent that there was more than just a little tension between them.

“I told him it wouldn’t work,” she muttered.

“Told who?” Collin asked.

“Simon Masterson. He came here demanding I do something, write a letter to Rag Magazine refuting their article. I told him it wouldn’t work.”

“And yet you wrote it anyway, they quoted you.”

She skimmed the article, and the sinking feeling in her stomach sank even further. “Misquoted is more like it. They took everything I said totally out of context.”

“Ari, this is ridiculous.” Collin paced the length of her small living room, then turned back toward her and said, “The first article was bad enough, but now this?”

He started pacing again.

“Collin, it’s not as if I asked for this kind of publicity. This isn’t what I wanted.”

She’d tried to avoid this very thing, but would Simon Masterson listen?

No.

Just like a man.

“You didn’t ask for it the first time,” he said, mid-pace, “but you certainly provoked this second article.”

“I didn’t provoke anything. Simon Masterson provoked it because he wouldn’t listen to me.”

And it was obvious that Collin wasn’t listening, either, as he paced back and forth.

“I didn’t provoke anything,” she said again. “It’s not as if I thought a letter to that Rag would work. It’s all Simon’s fault.”

“Either way, this is unacceptable.”

“I—”

Collin stopped right in front of her. He looked pastier than normal. And for a fleeting moment, Ari wondered what she’d ever seen in him. He was a very hard man to love.

She quickly squelched that disloyal thought.

Collin was perfect. He’d never find himself in such an absurd, embarrassing situation.

“Collin, I agree. The situation is unacceptable. I wish I’d never written that thesis. To make matters worse, the institute called, and—”

He interrupted her and said, “I think we need a break.”

“A break?” she repeated.

She wanted to break down and be comforted. She wanted a hug and a pat on the back.

She wanted Collin to reassure her, to tell her that everything was going to be all right. That’s what fiancés were supposed to do…comfort you when you were down.

Jeez, you’d think someone as perfect as Collin—someone who prided himself in always doing the right thing—would know that.

But instead of comfort, he wanted a break?

“Yes,” he said. “There’s no way that we can be married under these circumstances. You need time to clear this mess up, and I’m afraid that’s going to take all your time and attention.”

“What you mean is that by calling off the wedding you’ll be able to distance yourself from me. From this fiasco. What’s the problem, Collin? A fiancée who’s in the tabloids might be detrimental to your career?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

He said it so coolly.

So calmly.

So matter-of-factly.

There was no trace of chagrin. No embarrassment that he was so shallow. Just the statement that her misfortune reflected poorly on him, and could affect his career.

Ari hadn’t expected him to admit it. She stood, totally dumbfounded.

“Mother and Father are just as distressed as I am. We discussed your situation and decided taking a break, putting the wedding on hold, was best for all of us.”

For all of them.

He didn’t care what was best for her, his fiancée, the woman he was supposed to love.

When he’d first walked into her apartment she’d wanted nothing more than to pour out her woes to him, to have him hold her and tell her it would all be all right.

And now, she just wanted to kick him.

Summoning her pride, she said, “I believe you’re right. It’s over.”

She tugged her engagement ring from her finger.

The gaudy diamond surrounded by little diamond clusters that had been in Collin’s family for two generations. Ari had never liked it. It had always been rather formal and ornate for her tastes.

“Here.” She handed it to him.

“Ari, I didn’t say we had to call it off permanently. We’ll just put the wedding off until this incident is cleared up.”

“No. It’s over. Here’s your ring.” She opened his hand and dropped the ring in it. “You can go now.”

He looked a bit taken aback, as if he’d expected her to argue or even plead. Well, there was no way that was ever going to happen.

She walked to the door and held it open. “Goodbye, Collin.”

“This is only until you get your life in order,” he said as he planted a gentle kiss on her forehead before walking out the door.

“No, it’s not. This is goodbye. Permanent. Whatever we had is over.”

Ari shut the door in his face and simply stood there staring at it.

What had she done?

She’d dated Collin since right after college. She’d met him as a student nurse, her first day at the hospital. They’d been together ever since.

What was she supposed to do now?

No job.

No fiancé.

No reputation to speak of.

What was she going to do?

She didn’t get to wonder long before her thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell.

For a second she thought it might be Collin coming back to say he was wrong, that he couldn’t live without her, that she was more important than his career. But the bell didn’t just ring one polite little ring. No, it was that long, continuous sound that didn’t leave a doubt in her mind who was on the other side of the door. And it wasn’t Collin.

Simon.

Simon Masterson.

He’d probably read the article and was back to blame her. She swung open the door, ready to take him on and give him a piece of her mind…because it was obvious he didn’t have one of his own.

She’d told him his plan wouldn’t work.

“I told you—” she started, then realized it wasn’t Simon. “Bubbi?”

“Shh,” her grandmother said. “Hurry up and let me in before they catch me.”