Читать книгу "Who Needs Decaf?" - Tanya Michaels - Страница 10

STEERING HER COMPACT CAR onto the exit ramp off Seattle’s Interstate 90, Sheryl Dayton frowned, and not just because of the possibility of ice on the road. Had her car made a noise when she turned? A kind of thwacka thwacka thwacka?

Not now, please. This really isn’t a good time. Funds were always tighter coming into December, but holiday season aside, Sheryl was trying to save up to buy her own place. Not to mention that with the escalating situation at work, she had no time in her busy schedule to visit a mechanic.

Deciding tough love was her best immediate course of action, she inhaled sharply and threatened the car. “Don’t even think about breaking down until after the first of the year. If you do, I’ll yank your spark plugs out with my bare hands and hang them on my Christmas tree!” She was only marginally sure she’d know what a spark plug was if she saw one—public relations was her specialty, not the inner workings of American automobiles—but she did know how to solve the disturbing thwacka-thwacka-thwacka problem.

Sheryl turned up the radio.

An elaborate musical introduction swelled through the speakers, followed by the voice of an enthusiastic singer confiding that her true love had gifted her with a partridge and a pear tree. Sheryl didn’t have a true love, herself, but she did have an ex-boyfriend. Brad Hammond, owner of Hammond Gaming Software, the company Sheryl worked for.

On the first day of Christmas, my ex-boyfriend gave to me, a good job and a migraine.

When she’d broken things off with Brad six months ago, Sheryl had worried it would be too awkward to continue running the miniscule public relations department at Hammond, but Brad had implored her to stay, insisting he needed her. Which had proven to be prophetic.

Until now, Sheryl had devoted her time and energy to gaining favorable public attention for the up-and-coming software company, but their spot in the limelight had backfired on them when a Web site owner filed a lawsuit claiming theft of intellectual property. With revived public interest in Tolkien, along with some recent, popular fantasy novels and movies, HGS’s newly released fantasy-action game, Xandria Quest, had promised to be their first major success. But writer Kendra Mathers was claiming that the premise, characters and levels for the game had been stolen from her online epic fantasy story. Sheryl’s publicity skills were suddenly needed for damage control.

“Particularly,” she muttered, “since Nathan Hall seems intent on causing damage.”

The columnist for the Seattle Sojourner had written a couple of pieces on the pending suit, and his writing made Sheryl nervous. He managed to blend cynicism and passion in his annoyingly factual columns—she’d scanned carefully for glaring, malicious, libelous errors. Nathan Hall resonated with readers, and Sheryl worried about his insinuations that big bad Brad Hammond, “overnight success,” was now sticking it to the little guys he’d so recently been one of.

Sheryl snorted indelicately as she approached the parking garage of the modestly sized, yet state-of-the-art building HGS leased. Big bad Brad Hammond, indeed. When she and Brad had watched the Titanic DVD together, he’d wept like a baby, and she’d spent the better part of an hour trying to console him.

That one evening, she realized now, had encapsulated their relationship. Though a good-looking programming phenom, well on his way to becoming a rich man, Brad was a little too needy in other ways, almost painfully earnest for a man who owned a company in a fiercely competitive field. But Sheryl doubted it would be a good PR spin to release an announcement that her boss was too naive to steal from anyone.

Maybe as a last resort.

In her opinion, she and HGS’s attorney, Mark Campbell, had sent out some brilliant press releases, but she noted that the Sojourner hadn’t bothered to print any of them. Brad praised her work, but refused to worry much about the problem since, as he saw it, Xandria Quest was his baby and he hadn’t stolen it from anyone.

Rolling down her window, Sheryl smiled at the parking garage attendant who sat in the small booth, his gloved hands cradling a steaming thermos of coffee. The rich aroma made her glance longingly at her own to-go container. She hadn’t allowed herself to lift it from the safety of its snug cup holder as she drove on the freeway, for fear of spilling burning liquid down the front of her ivory knit tunic and skirt.

“Morning, Henry.”

The man’s weathered face wrinkled into an answering smile as he tipped his uniform cap. “Ms. Dayton,” he returned, despite all the times she’d asked him to call her Sheryl. “Say, is your car acting up? Thought I heard sort of a thumba thumba thumba as you came round the corner.”

“‘Thumba,’ huh? Nope, no ‘thumba’ here.” Her response didn’t stem completely from denial. No way was the sound more of a thumba than a thwacka.

“Oh, okay. Well, I’m glad,” Henry said. “I’d hate to see a nice lady like you get stranded on the side of a cold road at night, after the late evenings you put in here.”

Well, when you looked at it that way…Note to self—call mechanic on lunch break, do not end up freeway Popsicle.

He held up a folded edition of Wednesday’s paper. “You seen the Sojourner? Your boss made headlines again.”

Surely, with approximately two and a half million people in the metro Seattle area, reporters could find something to write about besides her boss! What new angle could Hall possibly have used for his latest piece when the case was still in the early deposition stages? Sheryl decided that along with the Christmas check she’d planned to give Henry as his annual tip, she’d also throw in a subscription to the Post-Intelligencer or Seattle Times.

Forcing a pleasant tone, she said, “Have a nice day, Henry.”

“You, too, Ms. Dayton.”

Too late for that, but she nodded anyway as she pulled her car up the entrance ramp.

In the elevator from the garage to the main lobby, Sheryl sipped her white-chocolate cappuccino and dreaded the day. Or more accurately, the fallout from Tuesday evening, which was when Brad saw his therapist each week. Brad had read somewhere that top-level executives needed balance more than anyone since so many people depended on them, and he’d gone right out and hired a shrink. Unfortunately, the quack dictated Brad and Sheryl must have a long conversation to determine exactly where they’d gone wrong, so Brad could learn and grow as a “giving, loving being” and be more successful in all future relationships.

Well, he would have to learn and grow on his own time, not Sheryl’s. Their relationship was strictly professional now.

The elevator dinged and the doors parted, allowing Sheryl to step into the reception area she knew so well. When they’d moved into this building from the tiny space HGS had occupied before, Sheryl and her roommate, Meka, an interior decorator, had helped Brad pick out the furnishings. Right down to the blue leather upholstered chair the plump receptionist, Denise Avery, was currently standing on.

“Morning,” Denise said from around the thumb-tacks clenched between her lips.

In her hands the receptionist held a shiny red-and-green garland that she was pinning onto the wall in one remaining bare corner of the room. Clearly in the spirit of the season, Denise looked adorably younger than her almost-forty years in a red jumper and green sweater, a piece of plastic ivy tucked into her bouncy blond ponytail. Her festive mood was also evident in the pot of poinsettias sitting on the small rectangular coffee table and the fake snow that adorned the window of the executive conference room.

“Brad asked for you to report to his office immediately,” the receptionist continued before Sheryl could voice a greeting. “Unless, of course, you haven’t had coffee yet, in which case see him immediately after your stop to the breakroom.”

Sheryl grinned and held up the fortifying cappuccino. Her favorite thing about this city, a caffeine-addict’s nirvana, was that no street corner was without either a Starbucks or Seattle’s Best Coffee. She’d had two cups of coffee at home, naturally, but that was to get her through personal grooming and the drive to the office. Each day, she needed at least one cup post-drive, and then she was good to go until afternoon fatigue set in. Woe to anyone who encountered her on a morning she didn’t get that crucial third cup.

Her grin faded as she considered Denise’s announcement. Brad wanted to see her immediately? What an uncommonly executive order…unless he wanted to once again try to convince her to rehash each second of their brief, passionless relationship. “Did he say why he wanted me?”

“Nathan Hall,” Denise replied, an edge to her chirpy voice.

Exasperated, Sheryl ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair. “Right.” She’d temporarily pushed aside Henry’s comment about a new story. “I’m just going to make a quick stop in the breakroom and see if there’s a copy of this morning’s Sojourner.” She personally didn’t want to buy a copy and give the paper her money, but she should read the latest piece so that she knew what she was up against.

As she headed down the carpeted corridor, Sheryl thought to herself that there was at least one Hall she might like to deck.

WEDNESDAY EVENING, Sheryl unknotted the belt at her waist, then threw her overcoat onto the buttery soft sectional sofa with a vengeance that was probably unfair to both jacket and couch. “Argh!”

Inside the kitchen adjacent to the living room, Tameka Williams glanced up from the island countertop where she was chopping carrots. Her thin, elegant eyebrows arched over teasing hazel eyes. “Bad day at the office, dear?”

Despite her mood, Sheryl laughed. Her best friend often had that effect. Sheryl couldn’t think of anyone in the state of Washington who’d make a better roommate than Meka, but after growing up in a big family and having roommates since her freshman year of college, Sheryl was ready to be alone. Especially now that Meka and Tyler McAfee were practically engaged, often unintentionally making Sheryl a third wheel in her own apartment.

Abandoning her demiboots, Sheryl padded in stocking feet to the kitchen. “I don’t know which of them is driving me crazier—the Columnist who Stole Christmas, or the Boyfriend of Christmas Past who’s haunting me.”

“Okay, the boyfriend is a certain blond software genius who gets weepy after Leonardo DiCaprio films, right? And the reporter would be…what’s his name? Nate?”

“Nathan. Hall. My nemesis. I get paid to make the company look good, and this jerk seems determined to paint us as evil.”

“Evil sells papers,” Meka said with a shrug of her graceful shoulders. Everything about Meka was graceful, and she looked absurdly elegant in a red-velour two-piece lounging set.

Opening the refrigerator, Sheryl hunted for a bottle of wine. After the day she’d had, she could use a glass. Unfortunately the closest thing they had was the cooking sherry Meka had pulled out to use for dinner. Still, Sheryl stared hard at the fridge’s interior for a moment, as though she could summon a nice Chardonnay through sheer willpower.

“I saw that piece he wrote today,” Meka continued. “He made some good points, about why does society reward wrongdoing? You guys have been accused of basically stealing Xandria Quest, yet sales are actually up for the game right now, making—”

Abandoning the attempted Chardonnay telepathy, Sheryl whirled around. “Reward wrongdoing? We didn’t do anything wrong!”

And sales might be up in the short run, but Sheryl was worried about the long-term results. If this case actually went to court and they lost…People in the industry had predicted Hammond Gaming Software would be the Next Big Thing, but the company wasn’t big yet and couldn’t afford any substantial financial setbacks. Or a damaged reputation.

Dropping her knife, Meka held up both hands in an I-surrender pose. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I am on your side. He’s just very persuasive.”

“I know.” Sheryl narrowed her eyes. “That’s what bothers me about him—his talent. He doesn’t sensationalize, he’s careful to use the right words like alleged, but it’s not those words that stick with you, it’s the overall impression. The impression that he’s a man of integrity on the side of justice.”

“You sound almost admiring.”

“Hardly!” Sheryl poured herself some apple juice, deciding to pretend it was hard cider. “It’s just that it would be easier to get the public to hear our side if Hall didn’t seem so damned credible. We’re the victims here!”

“Not to change the subject from the nemesis you’re all fired-up about while we’re in a room full of sharp utensils or anything, but what’s Brad doing that’s making you crazy?”

“Two things. One, he asked me to go on a date.”

“Oh, no!” An expression of amused horror settled across Meka’s pretty mocha-colored features. “Don’t tell me that incompetent shrink of his convinced Brad he can win you back.”

Laughing, Sheryl clarified, “You don’t understand, he wants me to go along on his date with another woman.”

“Didn’t think our man Brad had it in him to be kinky.”

Another laugh, this time with the unpleasant side effect of choking on apple juice. “He wants me to try to spot possible trouble areas in the relationship. He says it’s the least I can do since I won’t commit a few hours of rehashing our relationship. I told him this prospective new relationship wouldn’t go anywhere if he brought along an ex to chaperone.”

“For a boy who’s such a genius in some areas…”

“Tell me about it.”

“So what’s the second thing?”

Sheryl’s fingers tightened, and she was glad the glass in her hand was actually made from shatterproof plastic. “He wants us to extend an olive branch to Nathan Hall.”

Reaching for a bag of russet potatoes, Meka froze, blinking. “You’re the relations expert, but isn’t that just begging for mercy and making yourselves look weak?”

“Trust me, I’m not happy about it.”

Gritting her teeth, Sheryl recalled her meeting that morning with Brad. He’d asked her to personally deliver the latest press release in case the Sojourner wanted to use it—though history had proven that unlikely—and, as HGS’s official publicity representative, let Hall know that Brad was readily available for comment and welcomed Nathan’s questions. She’d tried to get Brad to reconsider or at least get their attorney’s opinion, but Brad had insisted the attorney worked for him, not the other way around.

She’d suggested Brad actually send their attorney on this errand, but her boss had felt a six-five man who spoke in stern legalese didn’t promote the friendly, accessible image he wanted to convey. Also, Brad had seemed to think that sending a lawyer to see the man who’d been writing carefully derogatory articles about him was an implied threat of some sort.

Sheryl could usually cajole Brad into seeing her point, but he was being strangely stubborn about this. Was it just because he hated the thought of being disliked by someone? Especially someone with a loyal readership.

With a sigh, she told Meka, “I’m afraid Brad half believes it’s as simple as convincing Mr. Hall what swell folks we are, then he’ll stop writing those mean articles and the whole mess will go away.”

“First, swell folks make boring headlines.” Meka enumerated her observations on her fingers. “Second, even if the columns stop, Brad still has the lawsuit to deal with. Third, Nathan may view your ‘olive branch’ as sucking up to get him to stop and become even more self-righteous.”

Sheryl settled herself on one of the two soft-covered stools that sat at the raspberry-colored breakfast counter. Decorated in raspberry and cream with soft lighting and an almost-view of the Space Needle, the kitchen was so inviting that she and Meka had most of their conversations here even though the living room furniture was expensive and comfy, while the kitchen bar stools eventually put one’s butt to sleep.

“All good points,” Sheryl agreed with her roommate. “Points I tried to make earlier today. Three hundred and sixty-four days a year, he’s Mister Mellow, letting his savvy staff advise him on what to do—which is what he pays us for—but then there’s that one other day, out there lurking…”

“And today was that day?” When Sheryl didn’t answer, Meka added, “Too bad Nathan Hall isn’t one of those columnists with a picture next to his byline. Then we’d have something to blow up and throw darts at.”

Sheryl had never thought about what the journalist looked like, but it wasn’t hard to imagine him as green and hairy, à la a certain, bitter Seuss character bent on sucking the joy out of the holiday season for others. Draining her glass, she decided that pretend hard cider wasn’t cutting it. What she really needed was a vacation, but since that was out of the question…

“Meka, what are your plans for the weekend? It’s been a while since we had a really good girls’ night out.”

Her roommate stared down, seeming oddly intent on making eye contact with the potatoes. “You’re right, it has been too long, but this isn’t a good weekend. I’m sorry, but Tyler and I—”

“You don’t have to sound contrite.” Sheryl forced a smile for her friend’s benefit despite a small pang of disappointment. “He is your boyfriend.”

“I know, but you’re just as important and I feel like we’ve barely spent any time together the last few months. I’d cancel, but Ty’s parents are coming into town this weekend and he’s asked me to meet them Saturday.”

Sheryl let out a low whistle. She couldn’t remember the last relationship she’d been in where she’d reached the meet-the-parents stage. Of course, not everyone’s parents lived as close to their children as hers. “Meeting the parents.”

“Yeah. In a word, yikes. I’m terrified already, and it’s still days away. You and I could go out Friday night, but I wouldn’t be any fun.”

“Besides, it would probably be better not to show up hungover on Saturday,” Sheryl teased, even though neither of them were hardcore party drinkers.

“Well, I promise you that we’ll do a girls’ night soon,” Meka said, her smile grateful. “In the meantime, I can at least offer dinner. Some comfort food to take the edge off your day?”

Though Sheryl quickly accepted the offer of her roommate’s gourmet cooking, she chose to look at it not as comfort food, but as the traditional feast soldiers of old enjoyed the night before battle. Tomorrow, she faced Nathan Hall.

SHERYL STOOD in a lobby full of modern art sculptures, waiting for one of four elevators to open and take her to the floor that housed the Sojourner’s staff offices. She hadn’t scheduled an appointment, merely called to ask what time Nathan was expected in today. Sheryl wanted to have the element of surprise, not give the journalist an opportunity to devise questions so pointed, she couldn’t possibly answer them safely. And, of course, not answering a question only made a person look guilty.

With an impatient glance, she assessed her distorted reflection in the mirrored elevator doors. Meka had suggested that her navy blue cashmere sweater over a well-tailored calf-length skirt would be feminine enough to keep her from seeming combative, while the dark colors said “take me seriously.” Not wanting to look girly, Sheryl had neither applied much makeup nor curled her hair. She’d stuck to the basics around her green eyes, applied some lipstick and just brushed her brown hair until the natural red highlights shone. Cosmo wouldn’t be calling to ask her to cover-model any time soon, but she looked good enough for this meeting.

A small beep sounded and a light glowed above the elevator to her right. She moved toward it, but a slight masculine chuckle behind her stopped her.

Turning, Sheryl located the owner of that low chuckle—a man much taller than she, probably even taller than Meka. He wore a brown leather jacket over a Sonics sweatshirt—both of which merely seemed like adornments for his broad shoulders—and jeans of indeterminable age. The dark denim didn’t look worn or faded, but the pants molded to the man’s lower body well enough to give the impression that they were comfortably broken-in.

Berating herself for staring at his rather promising lower body, Sheryl jerked her head up and fell into eyes the same rich brown color as his hair. His entire appearance made her think of things hot and delicious. Chocolate, coffee, dark caramels melting…

“That one’s broken,” he said, angling his chin toward the elevator she’d approached. “It lights up, but only goes down. No idea why maintenance still hasn’t fixed it, but the only place it will take you is underground parking.”

The elevator to her left lit and opened, and she instinctively stepped aside for the people exiting. Then she entered the empty conveyance, and the man with the espresso eyes joined her, his clean, soapy scent a relief in the overly perfumed air left by the elevator’s last passengers.

He reached for the number panel the same time she did, and their hands brushed. Both of them stilled, but neither moved away, so the contact and the strange humming it stirred in Sheryl’s blood continued.

Finally, she pulled her hand back, saying softly, “Five, please.”

The man stared for a moment as though he were going to ask, “Five what?”, but then he nodded with a self-conscious laugh. “Oh. Five, right.”

Sheryl bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. If it had taken him a moment to realize she was talking about which floor she wanted, then she hadn’t been the only one affected by their shared, electric touch. Had she ever had such an immediate reaction to a man?

He belatedly processed her request and hit Five, but when he didn’t select a button for himself, Sheryl lost her struggle with the suppressed smile. “Um, don’t you want to hit a button for your floor?” she reminded him gently. Wow, maybe she really had rattled him.

“I’m headed to five myself.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “So I don’t need another button.”

Right. Idiot. Why hadn’t she realized the obvious? Because her brain was still somewhat short-circuited from the brush of his fingers against hers? And here she’d thought he’d been flummoxed.

“But thanks for looking out for me,” he added, still with that sexy half grin.

“Hey, it’s what I do,” she said, thinking of times she’d helped her siblings and the too-frequent occasions she’d felt compelled to “mother” Brad, which had led to their breakup. A woman couldn’t feel passion for someone who aroused mostly her maternal instincts.

Her current companion didn’t look as if he needed mothering, though. Quite the contrary. He looked like the type cautious mothers warned their daughters about.

“This is what you do?” he asked. “Look out for people in elevators?”

She smiled at his gently teasing tone. “I’m underappreciated, but, yes, I’m Sheryl, patron saint of elevators and caffeine addicts. And since you gave me such good advice down in the lobby and kept me from getting stuck in a faulty elevator, I’ll put in a good word for you with The Guy Upstairs.”

He chuckled. “I should introduce myself formally, then, so you get the name right when you make the recommendation.” He stuck out his left hand. No wedding ring. “Nathan Zachary Hall, which I know sounds horribly like a dormitory.”

Sheryl’s smile froze. The elevator stopped and the doors parted, but it took great effort to force her feet forward, onto a busy fifth floor alongside…Nathan?

“You’re Nathan Hall?” Even the dimmest bulb would be able to deduce he was, since he’d just said so, but he bore no resemblance to any of her beady-eyed, furry green imaginings.

“That’s me.” His once teasing tone was now puzzled.

He—a guy with a sense of humor who could wear jeans like that—was her nemesis?

As Meka would say, yikes.