Читать книгу Diamond in the Rough - Marie Ferrarella - Страница 9

Chapter Three

“Do you know SOS personally?”

As he asked the question, Mike could feel his pulse accelerating. He tried to talk himself down. It was too much to hope for, stumbling across a private in with Shaw.

He caught himself hoping anyway. In all ways but one—maintaining lasting relationships—Mike thought of himself as an optimistic guy. And this whimsical meeting might just be the opportunity of his young career.

He glanced at the woman on the bar stool next to his and waited for an answer. He was more than a little convinced that she would affirm his hunch.

Miranda blew out a breath. No doubt about it, this was a mistake. She should have never agreed to this meeting, never mind that she had been the one to suggest it in the heat of the moment. It was a mistake, pure and simple.

Served her right for letting her emotions get the better of her. In that respect, she’d taken after her mother, not her father. Being stoic, like SOS, was simply not in her nature.

Although, God knew she tried. But any good intentions had died the second she’d read Marlowe’s column. Someone had to speak up for her father. And look where that had gotten her. Tap dancing madly around words in a sports bar, edging away from an overly eager, overly handsome sportswriter.

Time to retreat.

Miranda slid off the bar stool and slipped her purse strap onto her shoulder. “I have to go,” she told him with finality.

Mike read between the lines. Her evasive action told him what he wanted to know. God, but he was glad he’d answered her e-mail. “You do know him personally, don’t you?”

She hated lying, but she also understood the kind of floodgates that could be opened if she admitted knowing SOS, much less that the former pitcher was her father. She’d been through this more than once.

Still, the word No refused to form on her lips this time.

“And if I do?” Miranda hedged.

The excitement built within him. “Then I’d fall to my knees right here and start to beg.”

That wasn’t what she was expecting him to say. Amused, she asked, “That might be interesting, but why would you go to such lengths?”

He felt not unlike Aladdin holding the magic lamp in his hands, about to come in contact with the genie for the first time. “For you to use your influence with SOS so that I could land an interview with him.”

She knew without having to ask that no way in hell would her father go along with an interview. It had taken her a long time to get the man to communicate with her beyond a few precise words at a time. He wasn’t the kind of man to talk to strangers, much less bare his soul to a journalist. Her father was, at bottom, a very private, very shy man. He always had been. She couldn’t remember his ever having given an interview. Certainly not since Ariel’s death.

And with each devastating incident that occurred in his life—Ariel’s death, his divorce, her mother’s passing, the scandal and finally, the car accident—her father had just grown more reticent and distant. Even in the best of times, he wasn’t someone who liked listening to the sound of his own voice. He preferred doing to talking.

Looking at Mike, she shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck there—”

“On my own, yes,” he agreed, talking quickly, “but I’ve never met anyone who actually had access to the man before.”

Miranda had learned how to bob and weave with the best of them. “I didn’t say I did,” she reminded him.

“You didn’t say you didn’t.”

Fair enough, she thought. He had her there. But she could remedy that. It meant a small white lie about knowing her father. “Okay, I don’t know him.”

Mike smiled broadly. “Too late, Miranda. I don’t believe you.”

Her stomach tightened when he said her name, and she didn’t like it. She really needed to get going.

Miranda shook her head. “That has no bearing on the situation.”

As she began to leave, Mike stunned her by doing exactly as he’d proposed. He fell to his knees right in front of her, impeding her exit. He caught hold of her wrist—preventing her from just walking around him to the front door.

“Please.” The entreaty seemed to vibrate from every pore of his body.

She was acutely aware that people were watching them. Her father’s daughter when it came to drawing undue attention, she felt uncomfortable as the center attraction.

“Get up,” she blurted, trying unsuccessfully to disengage herself. “People are going to think you’re proposing.”

He’d rattled her, Mike thought. Good. Maybe he’d get her to see things his way after all. “If that’s what it takes to get an interview with SOS…” Mike’s voice trailed off.

Her eyes widened. Just her luck to champion her father’s cause with a man who was mentally deranged. “You’re crazy. You realize that, don’t you?”

Mike rose to his feet, still holding on to her wrist. “Look, I’ve tried to get an interview with SOS half a dozen times—if not more—and he won’t return any of my calls.”

She could well believe that. Not wanting confrontations or to get into a discussion as to why he wouldn’t do an interview, her father would simply just ignore the call altogether.

“He likes to keep to himself,” she told him.

“But he’s obviously opened up to you.” And where Shaw could do it once, Mike was positive the pitcher could do it again.

“I wouldn’t call it that.” And technically, she was telling the truth. Getting information out of her father— any kind of information—took a great deal of time, as well as patience.

Again, Mike saw it for what it was. He prided himself on being able to read people, a combination of body language and attitude. “Look, I get it. You’re trying to protect the man. That’s really commendable of you. But you also feel that Shaw’s gotten a raw deal—”

“He has,” she interjected. Then she looked down at her wrist, still caught in his grip. “Am I getting my hand back anytime soon?”

“That depends,” he answered.

“On what?”

“On whether you bolt and run the second I let go of it.”

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t appreciate these kinds of games, but it was her own fault she was here in the first place. Marlowe certainly hadn’t sought her out, she’d come gunning for him.

“I won’t ‘bolt and run,’” she promised.

Slowly, he spread his fingers out from around her wrist, his eyes remaining on hers. When she continued to remain where she was, he went on.

“Okay, let’s say I’m willing to reexamine my position in print. You have to admit that I’d need to talk to the man to do that—which means an interview.” He looked at her pointedly. “Can you get me one?”

“And if I did—not saying that I can,” she qualified quickly, “how do I know you won’t use that to do a hatchet job on him?”

Part of Mike took offense, but he knew where she was coming from. From time to time, Shaw’s past transgression drew articles and speculation out of the woodwork. So, he decided to keep his defense simple. “You’ve read my columns?”

She’d read him faithfully for the last few years, ever since he began to write the column. But to say so might make him feel he had the advantage. “Yes.”

“Anything there—before the article on SOS—to make you think that I’m biased or that I have some kind of an ax to grind? Or that I’m laboring under some preset agenda that I’ve set up for myself?”

She blew out a breath, then shook her head. His columns had always been fair. “No.”

Miranda didn’t sound a hundred percent convinced. “Ask around if you want to. Anyone in the business’ll tell you that I call it the way I see it and I’m nobody’s lackey.” He’d laid his cards on the table and he held his breath. “Now, do I get an interview with the man?”

Even if she wanted him to have it, she couldn’t make that kind of promise. “That’s not up to me, that’s up to him.”

“So you do have some influence.”

She’d walked right into that one, hadn’t she? Miranda upbraided herself. Another mistake. But, try as she might, she couldn’t work up any anger against the sportswriter. “I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

“What are you, his assistant?”

The time for denying that she knew her father was obviously over. Inclining her head, she gave him a non-answer. “I’m whatever he needs me to be.”

The simply stated affirmation stopped Mike in his tracks for a second. What she said could be interpreted in a number of ways, some of which he found himself not exactly happy about. If she was saying what he thought she was saying, that made her out of bounds. If she was romantically involved with the former major-league pitcher, he wasn’t about to act on any of the impulses he’s been entertaining for the last few minutes.

In his opinion, Miranda whatever-her-last-name-was was far too young for Shaw, but then, this day and age, anything was possible. Besides, it really wasn’t any of his business.

“I see.” Mike focused on what was important. “So, you’ll ask him?”

“Do you promise if you do get to talk to him, you’ll write a fair article?”

“I promise.” Like a boy taking an oath, Mike swiped his index finger across his heart, making an X. An amused smile played on his lips. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

In contrast, Miranda’s smile was sharp and devoid of humor. “You lie to me, and you will.”

This Shaw had to really be something else in private to arouse that kind of loyalty. He was going to get an interview, he thought, hardly able to believe his luck.

“So when can I meet him?”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” she pointed out. “I didn’t say I’d ask him—and even if I do ask him, there’s probably a very good chance that he’ll say no. He doesn’t like reporters,” she explained honestly. Reporters were like vultures, he’d once told her, except that they didn’t wait until the victim was dead before they started stripping off the flesh.

“I’m a journalist,” Mike corrected.

How was that different? “A rose by any other name…” Miranda let her voice trail off as she eyed him pointedly.

He needed leverage. Mike decided to share something with her.

“Would it further my case for you to know that when I was a kid, SOS was my hero? That I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing the day I heard about the betting scandal and that he’d been banned from baseball for life?” He paused for a second, debating, then added, “I cried myself to sleep that night. Not even my brothers know that.”

Yes, it helped, she thought. If what he said was true. If so, then he’d be more likely to want to find a way to get the public to come around. And wasn’t this what she’d wanted all along, someone to champion her father’s case in print? Who better than an established sportswriter who’d once been a devoted fan?

Slowly, she nodded in response to his question. “I’m sorry you lost your hero.”

“Yeah, me, too. Who knows, maybe I’ll find him again.” If SOS told him why he’d placed the bets when he knew it went against the rules, maybe it would finally make sense to him. Mike tried to contain his eagerness—after all, nothing had been cast in stone yet. For all he knew, the woman might be pulling his leg. “So you’ll talk to him about giving me an interview?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great. Terrific.”

Damn, but he almost felt like a kid again, experiencing that exhilarating rush when he got to go to a ball game on picture day and was able to collect autographs of his favorite players. Kate always made sure he was in the front row when the players came out, maneuvering her way through the crowd and bringing him with her.

He felt like celebrating. “Sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

She shook her head. “I’m sure.” She’d suggested the sports bar because it was close, not because she liked beer. Her preference ran toward drinks that came with tiny colorful parasols—but she was driving and she didn’t have the time to spare, waiting for the drink to dissipate into her bloodstream. “I’ve got to be going,” she reminded him.

“Right. Oh, wait.” He’d gotten so excited, he’d almost forgotten the most important part. “How do I get in contact with you?”

He obviously wasn’t thinking because otherwise, Miranda decided, he would have remembered the e-mail. But because she didn’t want to embarrass him, she didn’t bother pointing that out.

“I’ll get in contact with you,” she replied. She liked it better that way. It put the ball in her court and gave her control. Control was important to her. So very little of life came under that heading. “Do you have a business card?”

“Yeah, sure.” Mike immediately felt for his wallet.

Once retrieved from his left rear pocket, he flipped it open. Aside from several torn bits of paper containing miscellaneous information, two credit cards, several twenties, his driver’s license, a press card and a photograph of his family taken at the last fourth of July celebration, there was nothing. He’d forgotten to replenish his supply of business cards.

“Just not with me,” he muttered, then looked up. “Sorry, I gave away my last one a few days ago,” he apologized. Pulling a napkin over from the bar, he took out a pen and began to write down every phone number he could think of where she could reach him. “This is my cell number, my office number and my landline at home.” He pointed to each. “Call me anytime, night or day.”

She took the napkin from him and folded it into her purse. Her attention was drawn to the photograph he’d shuffled through in his search for the business card.

“Is that your family?” They appeared to be a happy bunch of people, she thought, wondering what it felt like to have a large family. Now there was only her father and her.

“What?” His mind already on the interview he wanted to conduct, it took Mike a second to process her question. “Oh, yes, that’s my family. My brothers, my sister, my dad and my stepmother.”

Taking the photograph from him, she got a closer look. “My God, your brothers are absolutely identical,” she said in awe. Initially, when she’d glanced at the photograph, she’d thought her eyes were playing tricks on her.

“Not once you get to know them,” Mike assured her. Growing up, Mike had gotten so used to his brothers he hadn’t thought of them as triplets in years. He put the photograph back into his wallet, which he tucked into his pocket. “How about you?”

Miranda looked at him, slightly confused. “How about me what?”

“Do you have a business card?”

She did. It had her name, her position and Promise Pharmaceuticals’ very ornate logo stamped across it. But she didn’t really want Mike Marlowe having that much information on her, especially not her last name. She wanted to be the one who called the shots and could quietly disappear in case her father couldn’t be convinced to do this interview.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that Marlowe could redeem her father. The only way people were going to change their minds about him was if someone methodically—and passionately—laid out all the arguments to let the past go and reevaluate the man only in terms of his accomplishments.

She shook her head, spreading her hands wide. “I’m afraid I don’t have a card with me.”

Mike leaned over the bar and confiscated another napkin. Pulling it over, he held it out to her along with his pen. “That’s okay.” He grinned. “We can exchange napkins.”

She placed her hand over his and lightly pushed it back down to the bar. “I’d really rather just keep it this way if you don’t mind.”

He raised one eyebrow. “In other words, don’t call us, we’ll call you?” he asked.

“Not exactly. Something a little less daunting than that,” she promised, squaring her shoulders. There was something very sexy about a woman who knew her own mind. Damn, but that Shaw was a lucky man, he thought. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Mike called after her.

Miranda didn’t turn around, but she did lift her hand above her head, giving him a half wave of acknowledgment.

Mike squelched the urge to sprint in order to walk out the door with the woman. He had a feeling she might equate that to come kind of a power play and he didn’t want anything jeopardizing the interview. So instead, he leaned back against his stool and watched her exit…and the way her hips subtly moved to some beat only she heard. The number of patrons at the bar had increased considerably since he’d arrived, Mike couldn’t help thinking.

Just as she disappeared through the door, whatever else might have comprised Shaw’s shortcomings, the man certainly knew how to pick his women.