Читать книгу Who Needs Decaf? - Tanya Michaels, Tanya Michaels - Страница 12

REMINDING HIMSELF that he’d dealt with dignitaries, celebrities and the mob, for heaven’s sake, Nathan reached over his cluttered desktop and hit the intercom button on his phone. “Thanks for the heads-up,” he told the receptionist, who’d buzzed him to say Sheryl was coming his way.

He was not nervous about this meeting. In all actuality, his slightly energized feeling was probably anticipation and not nerves at all. Then again, being this excited about seeing her again didn’t seem like a good idea, either.

Nathan leaned back in his cheap, creaky chair—he must have unknowingly maligned the office supply manager to be assigned furniture so uniquely unsuited to sitting—recalling too late that the balance was slightly off and that the chair tilted back too far. He was scrambling to an upright position when Sheryl appeared in the open doorway. “Knock knock,” she said in a wry tone.

Terrific. Not exactly the all-knowing, indomitable image he’d wanted to start off with, but he figured they were even now for her last visit to the office. He’d certainly thrown her for a loop when he’d caught her off guard with his identity.

He cleared his throat and moved to straighten his tie before recalling he didn’t bother with ties at work. He had when he’d first started out, but soon realized his editors didn’t care about his dress code as much as documented sources and word count.

“Good morning, Ms. Dayton. Please, have a seat.”

Eyebrows raised over green eyes glinting with mirth, she considered the chair opposite him, a replica of the piece of unbalanced furniture he occupied. “Are we sure that’s a good idea?” She glanced around the cubby-sized office, filled to capacity by a desk, two chairs and a wastebasket with a miniature basketball hoop suspended over the top. “Although, I suppose there isn’t much standing room in here, is there?”

“The accommodations not up to your standards?” He tried to imagine her surroundings at HGS.

She surprised him with a bright laugh. “Are you kidding? This is palatial compared to the last building we were in. My office space was pretty much me working out of a box and sitting hunched over with a laptop literally in my lap. I guess that’s how those things got their names. But Brad promised us we’d be moving on to greener pastures, and he kept his word.”

At what cost? the insatiable reporter in Nathan wondered.

From what he’d read, Brad Hammond was driven to succeed. But driven enough to convince himself that “borrowing” a few ideas from an obscure writer in Colorado couldn’t hurt anything?

Sheryl’s eyes narrowed as though she knew exactly what he was thinking, but he wasn’t going to apologize for doing his job. Then is it fair to hold Sheryl’s job against her? a nagging little voice asked.

That was different, he assured himself as she settled into the proffered chair. He understood Sheryl’s professional position required her to try to make HGS look good, but if she earned her salary by knowingly defending a thief…

“What was it that you wanted to talk to me about, exactly?” His tone was more abrupt than he’d intended, but she unsettled him in a way he hated. He preferred things as black-and-white as the newsprint of his column. These unpredictable, mixed reactions to Sheryl fell into a dangerously gray area.

She smoothed a theoretical wrinkle out of her charcoal-colored slacks, clearly using the gesture to stall for time. Nathan studied her while she silently selected the perfect public-relations words instead of shooting from the hip as she had at the theater when he’d last seen her. He found himself absurdly relieved that she wore a pantsuit now and not tantalizingly soft green velvet.

“I came to extend an invitation from Mr. Hammond,” she said finally. “So far, you’ve only printed one side of the story and have chosen not to run any of our press releases—”

“The Sojourner is not in the habit of serving as a mouthpiece for any company, yours included. We write the news. But for what it’s worth, I personally don’t have anything to do with that decision. We have editors who make those calls.”

Her cheeks darkened with color, and he watched with equal parts admiration and amusement as she fought back the irritation brightening her eyes. “You’re right, of course. I didn’t mean to imply that you personally were responsible. What I did want to do was let you know that Hammond Gaming Software’s annual Christmas party is Friday night, and Br—Mr. Hammond wanted me to invite you.”

“Really?”

Last time she’d been here, he’d had the impression she wanted to give him a tongue-lashing over his columns, not extend a Yuletide invitation. But he wasn’t completely surprised by the friendly overture since he’d seen similar tactics in the past. Win the reporter over, try to get him in your pocket and generate press that was little more than unpaid advertising.

“You don’t think that having me around would dampen the festive atmosphere?” Nathan asked.

“What I think about this doesn’t matter,” she retorted before biting her lip and cursing softly under her breath.

Nathan grinned. Obviously, she’d been against this invitation, and her candor was something he couldn’t help appreciating. In the years since landing his first newspaper assignment, he’d run across too many disingenuous people who were appallingly comfortable with half truths and out-and-out lies.

“Are you always so blunt, Ms. Dayton? One would think it might hinder your ability to do your job.”

She shook her head emphatically, sending her smooth dark ponytail swinging. “On the contrary, being a forthright person and working for a company I strongly believe in make it easy to do my job. Because I mean every word I say and stand by Hammond Gaming Software. I’m passionate about my work.”

Firmly reining in his thoughts before they wandered to any other situations she might be passionate in, he said, “Loyalty’s a nice quality.” But he couldn’t help wondering if hers was misplaced.

When she was sticking to her professional script, delivering sentences she’d obviously constructed before walking in the door, she called her boss Mr. Hammond. But a couple of times she’d slipped and referred to him as Brad. Not that this was unheard of, but there had been something in her expression…She hadn’t exactly gone all gooey-eyed over the man or anything, but Nathan thought perhaps there was more than professional devotion at stake. Did she have a personal relationship with her employer?

Ignoring the irrational pang that arrowed through him at that possibility, he reasoned that the relationship couldn’t amount to much if she’d been on a date with some other guy Saturday night. Oddly, the reminder of seeing her with another man did little to ease that inexplicable pang.

He steepled his fingers under his chin, admonishing himself to focus on something besides Sheryl Dayton’s love life. “Can I ask you something, then, one forthright person to another? What does Brad Hammond hope to accomplish by inviting me to his shindig this weekend?”

This time, instead of brushing at nonexistent wrinkles, she toyed with the strap of her black leather handbag. Another obvious stall, but why? Because she didn’t know how to answer, because she was censoring her answer? Was she trying to hide facts from him and finding it difficult with her frank nature?

“Mr. Hammond understands that your job is to report a story, and he wants to make sure that all the facts are available to you.”

Cynicism left an acrid taste in Nathan’s mouth. “Oh, so this is strictly for my benefit. He’s trying to do me a favor, is that it? Kind man.”

“Yes he is,” she snapped, her eyes flashing. Once again, he had the sense that Sheryl wasn’t speaking about a mere boss. She seemed at the very least protective of the man, and with a fierceness most people didn’t show their employers. “But of course, this isn’t a favor to you. He’s hoping that once you get your facts straight—namely, that Hammond has been wrongly accused—you’ll have enough journalistic integrity to share those facts with the rest of Seattle.”