Читать книгу A Billionaire and a Baby - Marie Ferrarella - Страница 8

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

The question was finally directed at Sherry Campbell after ten minutes of covert and not-so-covert staring on the part of the new office assistant as she copied a file. The assistant, standing at the Bedford World News’s centrally located copy machine, wasn’t even aware that the state-of-the-art machine had ceased to spit out pages and was now content to sit on its laurels, waiting for her next move.

The assistant’s next move, apparently, was to continue staring. Her brow furrowed as she attempted to concentrate and remember just where and when she had seen her before.

Sherry stifled a sigh of annoyance.

It wasn’t that she was unaccustomed to that look of vague recognition on a person’s face. Sometimes Sherry was successfully “placed,” but as time went on, not so often. There was a time, at the height of her previous career, where that was a regular occurrence. She couldn’t say that she really minded. Then.

These days, however, people were just as apt to rudely stare at her swollen belly as they were at her face, that being the reason why her former career was a thing of the past. It was her unscheduled pregnancy that had gotten her dismissed from her anchor job and brought her to this junction in her life. Not in so many words, of course. Television studios and the people who ran them had an almost pathological fear of being sued because of some PC transgression on their parts. So when she had begun to show and told Ryan Matthews of her pregnancy, the executive producer of the nightly news had conveniently found a way to slip her into something less visible than the five o’clock news anchor position.

Within a day of her notifying Matthews that her waistline was going to be expanding, he had given her place to newcomer Lisa Willows and transformed her into senior copy editor, whimsically calling the move a lateral one. When she’d confronted him with his transparent motives, he’d lamely told her that demographics, even in this day and age, wouldn’t have supported her “flaunting her free lifestyle.” People, he’d said, still found unmarried pregnant women offensive and weren’t about to welcome them into their living rooms night after night.

Matthews’s words, even after five months, still rang in her ears. The fact that Sherry delivered the news behind a desk that was more than equal to hiding her increasing bulk from the general public, and that she’d never had a so-called free lifestyle—the pregnancy having arisen from her one and only liaison, a man who took no responsibility other than giving her the name of an abortion clinic—carried no weight with Matthews. With his spine the consistency of overcooked spaghetti, Matthews bent in the general direction of the greatest pressure. In this case it was the studio heads.

“If they can shoot around pregnant actresses on sitcoms to hide their conditions, why not me?” Sherry had insisted, but even then she knew it was no use. Matthews’s mind had been made up for him. She was politely and firmly offered her new position or the door.

She took the door.

Her first inclination to “sue the pants off the bastard” faded, even as her friends and family rallied around her, echoing the sentiment. The last thing Sherry wanted was to draw negative attention to the baby she was carrying. She’d come to the conclusion that the less attention, the better.

In mulling over her options, she’d decided to take her circumstance as a sign that she should return to her first love: the written word. This meant following in her father’s footsteps. Connor Campbell had been a well-respected, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist before his retirement. It was because of him that she had gone into the news business in the first place.

Determination had always been her hallmark. So, after allowing herself an afternoon to grieve over her late, lamented career, Sherry moved full steam ahead, firing all torpedoes. She went to Owen Carmichael, her father’s best friend and her godfather and asked for a job. Having started out with her father in the days before electric typewriters, Owen Carmichael was now the editor in chief of the Bedford World News.

Owen had been glad to hire her. Of course, she’d thought that he’d start her out with something a little more meaty than lighter-than-air fluff.

That was where her mind was right now, on the latest puff piece she was facing, not the assistant who stared at her with intense blue eyes and a puzzled frown on her face.

Sherry didn’t feel like going into her previous life, or the reasons for the change. She felt too irritable for anything beyond a polite dismissal. Also the woman had the look about her that said she lived to gossip.

“I get that a lot,” she told the other woman cavalierly. “I’ve got one of those faces people think they’ve seen before.”

The assistant looked unconvinced. “But—” And then the woman paused, thinking. Suddenly, her whole face lit up as if a ray of inspiration had descended on her. “Say ‘Hello, from the L.A. Basin.”’

That was her catchphrase, certainly nothing profound, but different enough to be remembered upon daily repetition. And she had been nightly anchor for four years before Matthews has ushered her out the door.

Sherry shook her head, her light-auburn hair swaying like a velvety wave about her oval face. “Sorry, I have to get upstairs to see Owen. Posthaste.” She made it sound as if Owen was sending for her rather than the other way around. She was preparing to beard the lion in his den. Glancing at the dormant copy machine, Sherry pointed at it. “I think it needs feeding.”

With that she hurried off, aware that the woman was still staring after her.

Hurrying these days was no small accomplishment for Sherry. She felt as if she was carrying around a lead weight strapped to her midsection. A lead weight that felt as if it was in constant flux.

On her way to the elevators, she tried not to wince as she felt another kick land against her ribs. At this rate she was going to need internal reconstructive surgery once her little squatter moved out.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” she muttered to her stomach. She’d dragged herself into the office this morning because she’d been up half the night. Little whosit-whatsit was apparently learning the rumba. Either that or the baby had found a way to smuggle a motorcycle in there and had entertained itself through the wee hours of the night by constantly revving it up.

She’d been in no mood for what she found on her desk when she’d arrived. This week’s assignment was even worse than last week’s and she’d been convinced that that was the pits.

Breezing past Rhonda, her godfather’s secretary, a woman whose curves detracted from the fact that she had a razor-sharp mind and practically ran the department in Owen’s absence, Sherry walked straight into the managing editor’s office.

“Owen,” Sherry announced with more drama than she’d intended, “we have to talk. Please,” she tagged on. As a further afterthought, she closed the door behind her.

Owen Carmichael barely glanced up from his computer. Mind-numbing statistics and figures were spread across the screen, bearing testimony to various polls conducted by the paper’s PR department. He was scanning the figures while on his feet, his hands planted on the desk, his body leaning forward at an uncomfortable angle. It was an idiosyncrasy of his. He claimed he thought better in this position.

Of average height and far-less-than-average weight, he wore a shirt that was almost the same light color as his pants. With his semibald head, Owen gave the impression of an oversize Q-tip that someone had been nervously plucking at.

He glanced in his goddaughter’s direction with almost no recognition. His mind was clearly somewhere other than in the room.

“Not now, Sherry.”

She’d known the man as long as she’d known her own parents and was just as at ease with him as with them. Others might cower when he took on that low tone, but Sherry wasn’t among them.

“Yes, now.” She plunked the assignment on his desk, feeling that it spoke for itself. “It’s not that I’m not grateful for the job, Owen,” she began.

He raised his eyes to her face before lowering them back to the screen. “Then do it.”

All right, maybe the assignment wasn’t speaking, maybe it was whispering. She moved the sheet closer to him on the desk until the edge of the page touched one of his spread-out fingers. “Just what the hell is this?”

He spared it a glance. The title jumped out at him. “An assignment.”

“No,” Sherry corrected slowly, her voice deceptively low. “It’s a fluff piece.” By now she’d thought she would have graduated out of that classification, moved on to something with teeth, or muscle or an iota of substance. Her voice rose an octave as frustration invaded it. “It’s less than fluff. If I wasn’t holding it down, it would float away in the breeze, it’s that lightweight.”

Owen sighed, looking up from the computer in earnest now. “There’re no breezes in the office—other than the ones generated by overenergetic junior journalists flapping their lips. Aren’t women in your condition supposed to be tired all the time, Sherry? Why aren’t you tired?”

He didn’t know the half of it, but she felt this need to prove herself, to lay the groundwork for a stellar career. Her parents had raised her not to do anything by half measures.

Loving Drew fell under that category. Had she not leaped in with both feet, she would have realized that he wasn’t the type to stick around once the going got the slightest bit difficult.

“I am tired,” she told Owen, doing her best not to sound it. “Tired of standing on the sidelines, tired of doing pieces people line their birdcages with.”

One painfully thin shoulder rose and fell with careless regard. “Then write them snappier and they’ll read them before lining the birdcage.”

She wasn’t in the mood for his humor. “Owen, I’m a serious journalist.”

“And I’m a serious managing editor.” He temporarily abandoned his search and looked at her. “Right now there’s no place I can put you but in this department. The first opening that comes up for an investigative reporter, I promise you’ll have first crack at it. But right now, Sherry, I need you to be a good scout and—”

She didn’t want to hear it. Sherry splayed her hands on his desk, carefully avoiding the almost stereotypically grungy coffee mug filled with cold black liquid. “Owen, please. Something to sink my teeth into, that’s all I ask. Something more challenging than searching for a new angle on the latest local school’s annual jog-a-thon and/or bake sale.” Sherry leaned over the desk, her blue eyes pleading with his. “Please.”

“So, you think you’re up to a challenge?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” she cried with enthusiasm. “An exposé, something undercover. I’m perfect for it.” Straightening, she waved both hands over her far-from-hidden bulk. “Who’d suspect a pregnant woman?”

“All right, you want a challenge, you got a challenge.”

Opening up the side desk drawer that the people who worked with him laughingly referred to as no-man’s-land, Owen took out a canary-yellow file folder and handed it to her.

Sherry took the folder from him, noting that it felt as if it hardly weighed anything. Opening it, she discovered that there was a reason for that. It was empty.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” She raised a brow, waiting.

“Fill it,” he told her mildly.

Pregnancy had all but eradicated her normally ample supply of patience. It was difficult to keep emotion out of her voice. “With what?”

“With a story on St. John Adair.”

Second verse, same as the first, she thought. This wasn’t what she’d been talking about. “But—”

Knowing what was coming, Owen cut her off. “Not just a story, a biography.” For emphasis, he spread his bony hands out in the air, as if touching the pages of a phantom newspaper. “I want everything you can find on this man. More.”

And here, just for a moment, she’d thought he was being serious. Instead, he was asking for one of those simpering write-ups in the People section. Frustration threatened to cut off her air supply. She tossed the folder on his desk in disgust. “Owen, this is just a dressed-up fluff piece on steroids.”

“Oh, really?” He picked up the folder. “St. John Adair, raider par excellence of the corporate world, the mere mention of whose name sends CEOs dashing off the sunny golf course and to their medicine cabinets in search of the latest high-tech antacids. The man who’s fondly referred to as Darth Vader by even his closer associates. The man who has no biography, is said to have arrived on the scene full-grown, springing out of some shaking multi-mega business corporation’s worst nightmare.”

She was aware of the man’s name, but not his awesome power. The focus of her interests lay elsewhere. “Business corporations don’t have nightmares.”

Owen’s thin lips curved. “They have Adair,” he contradicted. “And we have nothing on him. No one does.” He held out the folder to her. “You want a challenge, there’s your challenge. Find out everything you can on Adair—find out more than everything you can on him,” he amended. “I want to know what elementary school he went to, what his parents’ names are, does he even have parents or was he suckled by wolves in the Los Angeles National Forest like Pecos Bill—”

Sherry struggled to keep back a smile. This was way over the top, but she had to admit, Owen had her curious. “Pecos Bill didn’t grow up in the Los Angeles National Forest—”

“Good, that’s a start.” He tendered the folder to her again. “Give me more.”

Eyeing him, she took the folder from Owen. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious. Nobody else has managed to get anything on him or out of him other than ‘Veni, vidi, vici.’ I came, I saw, I conquered.”

“I don’t need the translation, Owen. Julius Caesar, talking about his triumphs,” she added in case he was going to clarify that for her, as well.

Owen had launched into his coaxing mode, one of the attributes that made him good at his job. “You can be the first on your block to find something out on him.” He pretended to peer at her. “Unless, of course, you think it’s too hard—” He reached for the folder.

It was a game. She knew what he was up to and because of the friendship that existed between them, played along. She backed away to keep him from reaching the folder. “No, it’s not too hard.”

The grin transformed what could charitably be called a homely face into an amazingly pleasant one. “That’s my girl.”

She looked at the folder, already planning strategy. “When’s the deadline?”

“The sooner the better. You tell me.”

Now that she thought of it, she remembered her father saying something about Adair. Something along the lines of his coming out of nowhere and creating quite a sensation. Her first impulse was to call her father and ask if he had any connections that could lead her to the man, but she quickly squelched that. She wasn’t about to walk a mile in borrowed shoes unless there was no other way. She didn’t want to be her father’s daughter, she wanted to be Sherry Campbell, use her own devices, her own sources.

She turned the folder around in her hand. “And you really think of this as an investigative piece?”

Owen gave her his most innocent expression. “Is this the face of a man who’d lie to you?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “As I recall, you’re the one who told me about the Tooth Fairy.”

To that, he could only plead self-defense. “Your tooth had fallen out. You were crying your eyes out.” He spread his hands out. “You were five years old. What was I supposed to do?”

“Exactly what you did.” Wheels began to spin. Mentally she was already out of the office. Sherry slapped her hand across the folder, her eyes sparkling. “Okay, you’re on.”

“Great.” He was already back looking at the computer screen. “Don’t forget to shut the door on your way out.” The assignment she’d brought in was still on his desk. He held it up. “And give this other piece to Daly.”

She darted back to retrieve the paper. “I’ll do it in my spare time.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Good.” The familiar sound he was waiting for didn’t register. Owen glanced up from his screen. “The door?”

Sherry nodded as she crossed the threshold and eased the door closed behind her.

A smile sprouted and took root as she deposited the assignment into the yellow folder and tucked it under her arm. It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d been after, but if it was a challenge, then she was more than up to it. God knew she needed something meaty to work on before she completely lost her mind.

The woman’s voice, crisp, clear, with “no nonsense” written over every syllable, echoed in Sherry’s ear, “No, I am afraid that Mr. Adair is much too busy to see you. Try again next month. At the moment he’s booked solid.”

The woman sounded as if she was about to hang up. “The man has to eat sometime,” Sherry interjected quickly, hoping for a break. “Maybe I could meet with him then.”

She could almost hear the woman sniff before saying, “Mr. Adair has only working lunches and dinners. As I’ve already said—”

Undaunted, Sherry jumped back in the game. “Breakfast, then. Please, just a few minutes.” That was all she needed for openers, she thought, but there was no reason to tell the guardian at the gate that.

Unmoved, the woman replied, “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

“But—”

The next moment Sherry found herself talking to a dial tone.

With a sigh she hung up. She was getting lazy, she thought. The way to get somewhere was in person, not over the telephone. She knew that. If the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed damn well was going to come to the mountain. With climbing gear.

Although these days, she thought, pushing herself up out of her chair, she wasn’t sure just which part she would be cast in, Mohammed or the mountain.

The meeting had run over. It was within his power to call an end to it at any time, but Sin-Jin Adair liked to choose his moments. Authority wasn’t something he believed in throwing around like a Frisbee; it was a weapon, to be used wisely, effectively. So he had sat and listened to the employees that he’d culled over the past few years, as he’d taken over one corporation after another. Keep the best, discard the rest. It was a motto he lived by.

A bastardization of his father’s edict. Except that his father had applied it to women. Sin-Jin never did.

“Leaving early, I see.”

He nodded at his secretary. Like everyone else around her, Edna Farley was the soul of efficiency. He and Edna had a history together, and her loyalty was utterly unshakable. It was another quality he demanded, but one he could be patient about. He valued the kind that evolved naturally, not one that was bought and paid for. If you could buy loyalty easily, then it could just as easily be sold to a higher bidder, thereby rendering it useless. That he paid his people top dollar ensured that they would not be tempted to look elsewhere in search of worldly goods.

“Not as early as I’d like. Go home, Mrs. Farley.”

“Yes, sir.” The woman peered out into the hall as he strode out. “Don’t forget the Cavannaugh meeting tomorrow. And Mr. Renfro said he would be calling you at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Good night, Mrs. Farley.”

Walking away, he smiled to himself as the less-than-dulcet tones of Mrs. Farley echoed behind him, reminding him of appointments he didn’t need to be reminded of. Everything he needed to know about his schedule was not tucked away in some fancy PalmPilot, but in his mind. He had a photographic memory that had never failed him.

Reaching the elevator, he pressed for a car. Just as he stepped inside, he was aware that someone had slipped in behind him. The floor had appeared deserted a moment earlier.

“Sorry,” a woman’s voice apologized a second after he felt someone bump into him from behind.

Turning around, he was about to say something when he saw that it had been the woman’s stomach that had made contact with him.

Rounded with child. The phrase came floating to him out of nowhere.

So did the smile that curved his lips ever so slightly. “That’s all right.”

Sherry looked down innocently at the bulk that preceded her everywhere these days. She placed her hands on either side of the girth.

“Can’t wait for this little darling to be born so I can move it around in a stroller instead of feeling as if I’m lifting weights every time I get up.”

Because pregnancy, children and loved ones existed on an unknown plane, Sin-Jin could only vaguely nod at her words. A rejoining comment failed to materialize. The only thing he noted was, pregnant or not, the woman was extremely attractive.

His father had said there was no such thing as an attractive pregnant woman, but then, his father had demanded perfection in everything around him, if not in himself. The man was interested in ornamental women, not pregnant ones. Like a spoiled child in a toy store, his father had gone from one woman to another, marrying some along the way. He was vaguely aware that the man’s tally stood at something like seven.

Or was it six? He’d lost count. The slight smile widened on Sin-Jin’s lips, curving somewhat ironically.

Not bad, Sherry thought. The man was almost human looking when he smiled. She already knew that he was handsome. That much she’d gleaned while surfing the Internet for more than two hours, trying to piece together anything she could find on the man. She’d discovered that Owen was right. There wasn’t anything on St. John Adair that didn’t have to do with business. It was as if he disappeared into a black hole every night when he left the impressive edifice that bore his name.

It made her feel like Vicki Vale, on the trail of Batman.

Well, Batman was smiling, she thought. Perhaps not directly at her, but close enough.

Maybe Adair had a weak spot for pregnant women. It would be nice to be given an ace in the hole because of her condition for a change.

She took a deep breath, bracing herself. No time like the present.

Leaning around Adair, Sherry pressed the emergency stop on the elevator. The elevator hiccuped and came to an abrupt, jarring halt between the eighteenth and seventeenth floors.

The smile on his lips vanished instantly as a score of different scenarios crowded into his mind. Was he being threatened, kidnapped? There’d been two botched attempts at that in the past four years. He began to doubt the woman was pregnant. It made for a good disguise, put a man off his guard.

He was on his guard now. “What the hell are you doing?”

Sherry’s smile was sweetness personified as she looked up at him. “I was wondering if you could give me a moment of your time, Mr. Adair.”