The Fiance Thief (4 page)

He should have left already, but sheer stubbornness was holding him to his desk. He had plenty of work to do—reading over the copy Lissa and Hank had left for him, and drafting commentary for the editorial page, but he couldn’t focus on any of it. Annoyed, he took Miranda Craig’s book out of the drawer and picked up where he had left off.

Twenty pages later, he heard a half-whispered “Alec?”

The book fell from his hands as he jumped in his seat and looked up to see Claire standing in front of him. “Damn, Claire, don’t you knock?”

She pushed her hair behind her ear and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry I startled you,” she said. “I thought that since I work here, it would be okay to walk in without knocking.”

Since I work here.
His chest flooded with relief at the phrase. He would not have to appease Mick by groveling to get her back. He would not have to search for another reporter willing to take on the homey slice-of-life stories the paper’s audience demanded.

“Next time, clear your throat or something.”

He picked up the
Wall Street Journal,
which he had already read, and feigned an interest in a story about rising produce prices. Peeking over the edge of the paper, he watched as Claire went to her computer and tapped a few keys. Within a few seconds, paper was spewing out of the laser printer that sat between Hank and Lissa’s desks. She collected the sheets, took them back to her desk, slipped them into a file folder and walked back toward him with it. He buried his head in the paper again.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

He put the paper down. “Look, if it’s about what I said…” He was going to say he hadn’t really meant it, but Claire stopped him.

“No, it’s not about that, exactly, although you were wrong to use threats to get me to agree with your plan.”

If it was an apology she was after, she was out of luck. Let her think he was a tough guy. “I was only doing what I thought I had to do to get a story.”

Claire nodded. “I understand completely,” she said. “Even if you don’t think I do.” She looked around the room, then asked, “Can I drag a chair over here?”

“Sure.”

She scooted a chair in front of his desk, her hair falling around her face as she moved. Once seated, she pushed her hair back over her shoulders and said, “But I was wrong, too, in not realizing how I could use this invitation.”

“To take me,” he said.

She shook her head. “N-o-o-o,” she told him, the syllable a model of verbal hesitation. She drew her hair up with her hands and lifted it off her neck before letting it fall to her shoulders again. Playing with her hair was one of Claire’s more pronounced nervous habits. He had never noticed how much it annoyed him.

“Then what?” he asked, exasperated.

“You remember the movie
Willie Wonka?”
she asked him.

He could not afford to lose his temper before he found out what Claire meant to do with that invitation. “Did you review it recently?” he asked helpfully.

“No. From when we were kids,” she said. She bent down and retrieved the Miranda Craig biography he had dropped. Placing it on his desk, she said, “You are about my age, aren’t you?”

“A year older,” he conceded. “I think I remember it. Gene Hackman?”

“Gene
Wilder.
The point is, everyone wants to go to this chocolate factory, but Charlie is one of the few people who has a magic ticket.”

“And?”

“I have what basically amounts to a magic ticket. You don’t. Now Charlie just wants the experience of going to the factory, even though he does wind up running it, eventually, because he’s pure of heart.”

Claire had taken their fight much harder than he expected. She had fallen off the deep end. “You know,” he told her kindly, “I don’t remember the movie very well, but I wouldn’t draw too close a comparison between you and Charlie.”

“What I’m trying to tell you,” she said, leaning across his desk, only inches away from him, “is that just like Charlie got what he wanted from his ticket, I’m going to get what I want from mine.”

She was so close to him that he could smell her hair. A peculiarly seductive scent that resulted when the odor of a neighborhood greasy spoon mingled with the honeysuckle of shampoo. “What do you want?” Alec asked. He held his breath as he waited for the answer.

She relinquished the folder she’d been clutching, and placed it on top of his desk. “I want my story about South Ridgeville in the paper….”

“Claire…”

“Plus a couple of more real news stories.”

He gestured to the folder. “This is something about South Ridgeville?”

“It’s a draft of my notes and some interview transcripts just to give you a feel for what I’m doing. Yes, you’ll find quotes from Harlan Edwards, a professional crank who hits the whiskey a little too hard sometimes, but you’ll also find other people. People who want the whole community to know that Carbine Industries is treating one of their
city’s neighborhoods as a wastebin for hazardous material.”

It would never work. “Claire, you’re a good writer—”

“Thank you,” she interrupted.

“But,” he said, letting the conjunction hang in the air. “That’s not the same thing as being a good reporter.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it again. He continued. “When you first start out, every story looks like a Pulitzer winner. In a big city, sometimes your hunch is true. But in a medium market like Ridgeville, you start realizing you aren’t going to get many big stories. Then you begin to notice that the same people, people like Harlan Edwards, are always trying to get you riled about something. It just becomes noise after a while.”

“So you’d rather sit at your desk and rewrite the press releases the local bigwigs send you.”

“Look.” His tone was sharp. “Even if I thought this was a good idea, Mick would think otherwise. You know he’s got final veto. I couldn’t get this past him.”

“You have to,” she said simply. “If you want to go to the Craigs’ with me, then you have to convince Mick that this is a timely and important piece, and that you can’t wait for me to start work on it. Then you’ll have to repeat that process with several more stories of my choosing.”

He thought for a second. “Two more,” he said. “That’s several.”

“Four,” she said, “is closer to the true meaning of the word.”

He opened his mouth to say he couldn’t be blackmailed in this way, but before he could speak, he was overcome, imagining Miranda down by the lake with him. She was confiding her most intimate thoughts and fears to him—for attribution.

What did he have to lose in exchange? He could give Claire the go-ahead on her articles, but what was to stop him from scheming with the production manager to bury
them all on the back page? And once Claire realized that all there was to her toxic dumping story was Harlan Edwards-making his usual big deal about nothing, she’d realize she didn’t have what it took to run with the big boys. She’d come crawling with her apologies to him.

“It’s a deal,” he said. Then it hit him that there might be another problem. “Does she know that you’re a reporter?” he asked Claire, with concern in his voice. “I mean, that’s not going to make her take back her offer, is it?”

“Oh, no,” Claire said. “Before I got the job here, when I was doing some free-lance work, she offered to give me an interview that I could sell to the paper or magazine of my choice. Penance, you know, for what she did.”

“You turned her offer down?”

The smile she gave him was an inscrutable one. “I already know what Miranda Craig’s favorite color is. I wouldn’t need her permission to sell my memories of her.”

She stood, then walked over to her desk and turned her computer off. As he opened his mouth to ask her another question, she said, “Purple.”

“Purple,” he repeated. He said, mostly to himself, “I imagine purple flowers would look good against her blond hair.”

Claire gave him an amused stare. “Alec, don’t forget your brilliant scheme. You’re going there as my fiancé, remember?”

His reply, cutting as it was, tumbled out before he could stop it. “Yeah? Well, maybe she’ll see fit to steal me, too.”

He wished immediately that he could take back what he’d said, but Claire only smiled. “Sticks and stones, Alec.”

Their agreement hadn’t even been in effect for a half hour, and he already wanted to strangle her. “I know. You’re the one holding the ticket to the chocolate factory.” He jumped up and grabbed his briefcase, holding
the door open for Claire as the two of them left the office. “I’ll walk you to your car. I don’t want anything to happen to you before next weekend.” Nothing, but nothing, was going to keep this starving man from his trip to the candy store.

“H
AVE FUN EATING
prime rib in the country moonlight while I’m sweating over a barbecue pit or aching in my high heels,” Lissa told Alec, trying to put into her tone just the right mix of hurt and righteous indignation. Alec never looked up.

“I will. Thanks.” He frowned at his computer, then typed something in with two fingers.

Lissa put her hand on her hip, annoyed. That voice had never failed to work for her before. Alec might play tough, but she knew he could only hear a few sentences in that decibel range before he cracked.

“I said don’t even think about me when you’re exploiting Claire for your own selfish purposes. The poor girl is trembling at the thought of facing her painful past, but you don’t care, just as long as you get your story.”

Alec ignored her, but Hank spoke up, as if by proxy. “Yesterday, you thought this was a good idea.”

True, she thought. But yesterday, she had been star struck at the thought of an exclusive Hollywood soiree taking place in the hills of east Tennessee. Not until later had it occurred to her that she wasn’t going.

“It’s just that I didn’t dream that I would be stuck with so much extra work.” She gestured to her desk, covered almost exclusively by tabloids and fashion magazines, but covered, nonetheless. She sighed loudly and dramatically. “A profile of some goofy professor, two extra wedding write-ups and the best barbecue contest.”

“You don’t have to tell me your work load,” Alec said, twisting his tie a little. “Remember I assigned it to you?” His voice had no hint of friendliness. “So how about
stretching your mind past the few adjectives you know and giving me an honest day’s work, okay?”

“You don’t have to yell,” Lissa said.

“Don’t yell at her,” Claire said, walking in and putting her bag down on her desk.

“You’re late,” Alec snapped.

Lissa was about to speak up on her behalf when Claire gazed at Alec coolly and said, “I was in front of the building by nine, but the horrible timbre of your tone made the building shake. I thought it best to proceed with caution.”

Well, well, Lissa thought. Just maybe Claire was going to be okay after all.

Claire turned toward Lissa. “I heard what you said about the extra work, and I don’t think it’s fair. I’ll go ahead and do an extra movie review, plus the professor, before I leave. I’ve also got a lead on a guy who has a country music museum in the basement of his house, and I’ll give him a call.”

“Thank you, Claire. That’s sweet.”

Alec pulled the assignment sheet from a clipboard on his desk. “Okay, listen up everybody. Claire, for no good reason, has let Lissa off the hook, and Hank’s taking a couple of the stories I would normally do. We come back on Monday…” Mute agreement seemed to be all he required of the staff, and Lissa tuned him out until she heard him say, “And Mick’s going to cover that city council meeting.”

“What did you say?” Lissa and Claire spoke at once.

“Mick is covering a city council meeting,” he repeated.

Like Alec, Hank was always quick to rush to Mick’s defense. “It isn’t the end of civilization,” he interrupted.

“It’s got to be the end of the paper,” Lissa said.

“Alec, maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” Claire told him. “Maybe I should just go to Miranda’s and tell you about it.”

Alec was slowly turning a dull, dusky red. His jaw clenched, he said, “Mick…”

“Is he here?” Claire looked at his office with alarm.

“Are you kidding?” Lissa asked. “It isn’t noon yet.”

“As I was saying.” There was a dangerous edge to Alec’s voice. “About Mick. Mick was the kind of journalist who could decimate politicians with just a few choice sentences. Mick was the kind of journalist who could smell corruption and greed from miles away. So I have complete faith in his ability to sit in a room and write down what he hears around him. I want to write about Miranda Craig. I’m going to write about Miranda Craig. And I know that when I leave, I’m leaving the paper in Mick’s more than capable hands.” He pointed at Claire. “You called to confirm that you were coming, right?”

Lissa noticed that Claire didn’t lose as much color as she once did whenever Alec talked to her that way. “I’m sorry. I forgot.” She dug the letter out of her purse and dialed. Although Hank went on working, Lissa saw that Alec, like herself, wasn’t trying to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping.

Claire went through the basics of the trip with someone at Christine’s office. As it seemed she was about to hang up, Alec waved his hand and pointed to his chest.

Claire, looking puzzled, merely shrugged at him. Alec dove for a piece of paper on Lissa’s desk and scrawled “Taking me” across it. He held it up.

“I forgot to tell you. I plan to bring my fiancé. Do I need to clear that with you?”

Lissa watched with interest as Claire’s cheeks flushed and her lips tightened. “I appreciate your concern,” she said. “But this is a fiancé of a different sort.”

She hung up and turned to her desk, her back to the rest of them. Lissa put her finger on her lips, gesturing for Alec to be quiet, but he said, “So what’s the deal? Can I go or not?”

“I’ve got to call Miranda’s mom.” She pulled out a tattered maroon address book and began flipping through it.

Painful as it might be for her, it was time to help Claire face facts.

“You know, Claire,” Lissa said, studying her manicure as she spoke. “I just realized it might strike someone as odd that you’re introducing Alec to Miranda.”