The Reluctant Heiress. Christine Flynn
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had been thinking the same thing about her, and wondering if she had any idea how dangerous such naïveté could be. She didn’t seem to have a clue what some people would do for a buck, or that infamous fifteen minutes of fame. His ex-wife had gone for both.
“Let’s just say I have a hard time giving people the benefit of the doubt.”
“You have a gift for understatement.”
“Thank you.”
The muscle in his jaw tensed once more. He had forcibly blocked the mental images of her driving some guy wild in bed. He worked now to do the same with the defenses that had slammed into place at the sympathy still in her eyes. That sympathy was misplaced. The wounds meant nothing to him now. The scars had hardened, and so had he.
“So,” he continued, preferring her baggage to his own, “can you think of anyone else who might know anything incriminating about you?” Despite his skepticism, he felt somewhat appeased by what he’d just heard. It didn’t sound as if her ex-fiancé had a specific reason to rush forward with an exposé of her past, their relationship or whatever it was he might care to share in an interview. That didn’t mean there wasn’t someone else out there with some detrimental little detail he should be aware of. “Another lover? The disgruntled parent of a student?”
Disbelief flashed in her eyes. “There’s nothing incriminating for anyone to know! What kind of person do you think I am? Do you think I have some torrid past that will come to light and embarrass your client? Are you afraid the…”
“Jillian, I’m just—”
“…world is going to hold him responsible…”
“It’s not like that.”
“…for something I’ve done that might not reflect well on him?”
“Will you listen?”
“I have been! And so far I haven’t heard—”
“I didn’t mean to insult you!”
The room suddenly went quiet. In that deafening stillness, Ben pushed his fingers through his hair, then jammed his hands on his hips. His negotiating skills were usually far superior to this.
“I didn’t,” he repeated quietly. “And I’m sorry that I obviously have. I’m only asking these questions because it’ll be easier to help you if there are no surprises.” He was growing more certain by the moment that what a person saw with her was exactly what he got. The realization caught him a little off guard. He hadn’t thought that such unprotected openness existed in any human past the age of twelve. “I really am sorry. Okay?”
If the wary way she watched him was any indication, she wasn’t overly anxious to accept his regret. She really wasn’t, however, like any of the women he knew. Rather than make him stand there and squirm, repeat himself or otherwise grovel, she gave a small, cautious nod.
“Okay,” she conceded, sounding as guarded as he felt. “I’ll accept your apology…but only if you stop worrying about what some reporter might dig up, and tell me how I’m going to get to school tomorrow without being followed.”
“That’s not going to happen. You will be followed. But we’ll get to that in a minute.” Having almost blown his welcome, what he needed to focus on was her resolve to not budge from her house. That refusal was keeping him from taking her to meet with William. It was also threatening to cut into the time he’d promised his grandfather he’d spend with him.
“You said you hadn’t listened to any of your messages.” Wanting her to appreciate how much worse things would be before they got better, he motioned to the blinking answering machine by the oddly silent phone. He would have bet his box seats at the symphony that the thing would have been ringing right off its base. Or so he was thinking before he noticed that the phone was unplugged. “I think we should listen to them now.”
Chapter Three
Checking the messages on her answering machine just then seemed pointless to Jillian. She knew from what she’d seen on her caller ID and from what she’d heard before she’d turned down the speaker volume so she couldn’t hear what was being recorded, that at least some of the calls had been from the local newspaper. Since Ben seemed to think listening to them was important, though, and since he was arguably more experienced than she with the logistics of such situations, she punched the play-messages bar on the phone base and crossed her arms over the knot in her stomach.
An electronic voice told her she had fourteen messages. As she moved from the phone, Ben pulled a small notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket, sat down in one of the barrel chairs and propped one ankle on his opposite knee.
The first three calls were hang-ups. The next began with a female voice efficient in tone and broad on vowels.
“Ms. Hadley, this is Karen Mabry, Nina Tyler’s assistant with Good Morning, USA.” The woman named the major television network in New York that produced the nationwide newscast-cum-talk show. “We’d like to interview you tomorrow on our program and will make whatever accommodations you need to get here. If tomorrow is a problem for you, we’ll work with you to get a more compatible date. Please call me at 1-800-555-6000 when you receive this message. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Jillian looked toward Ben. She listened to GM, USA, as it was known to its viewers, nearly every morning while she got ready for the day. Nina Tyler and her cohost were as familiar to most of the general public as sports figures and rock stars. Yet Ben didn’t appear at all impressed or disturbed by the show’s interest in her. His features revealed nothing as he wrote down the woman’s name and number and listened to the beep that preceded the next message.
The next call was from the assistant of a nationally known afternoon-talk-show host who wanted the same thing: an on-air interview.
The call after that was from a major television journalist wanting her for a special.
A publisher wanted to talk to her about a possible book deal before she talked to anyone else.
Vanity Fair wanted an exclusive.
In between there were more hang-ups and the calls from the newspapers she heard when she’d first come in. Nina Tyler’s assistant from GM, USA left another message.
Jillian had sunk to the sofa between messages from the journalist and the publisher.
She now blinked at the primary colors spelling out Fun With Math on the textbook atop the stack on her coffee table. Her life, it seemed, had just officially turned surreal.
Afraid to wonder how much more bizarre things could get, she watched Ben go back through his notes and add a mark by Nina’s name. He still didn’t look especially concerned about what he’d heard. If anything, she had the feeling that the messages were pretty much what he’d expected them to be.
Looking as if he’d written nothing more interesting than a grocery list, he tucked his gold pen back inside his jacket.
Beyond the walls of the duplex more vehicles arrived. She could hear the muffled sounds of their engines, of their doors being slammed. Voices raised and lowered outside her door. Unnerved by the continuing onslaught of press, she watched Ben turn his dark head toward her.
She was again looking to him for help.
Ben realized that the moment his eyes met the subdued panic in hers. He would have regarded that as a point in his favor, too, had the vulnerability he could also see not totally knocked the wind from the thought.
He was accustomed to dealing with people far more experienced with the cutthroat aspects of life in the corporate, political or media world. In her sphere, she was undoubtedly perfectly capable of holding her own. More than capable, he imagined, considering what she did for a living. Dealing with a brood of other people’s children while trying to funnel knowledge and discipline into their active little minds wasn’t a job for the weak or fainthearted.