One

      Amabel Clayton was distractively feminine looking. She was fragile, with a slender body that was marvelously curved. Her hair was thick and black. So were her eyelashes. Her eyes were blue. She ignored the whole image but, careless as she was, there was nothing she could do about the facade. As a reporter, she would have chosen to look less in need of male assistance, although there had been occasions when her look of fragile helplessness...had helped.

      Most of her associates called her Clayton, but there were those who called her Mab. With a bird-dog relentlessness, she was one who immersed herself completely in her work, with no need for a social life. Since she forgot about men, she had been accused of not liking them. That wasn’t true. How could anyone like or dislike something to which she paid no attention?

      Living in L.A., Amabel was a West Coast reporter for Adam’s Roots, the weekly newsmagazine crowding into the Time and Newsweek slot. It had been publisher Simon Quint’s imagination that selected the name. As the roots planted in the past—by Adam—had to be dealt with, so it was that the roots planted today must be dealt with in the future.

      When told of Amabel’s new job, her father had frowned at her and asked, “You’re going to work for Simon? He’s as parsimonious as his name. Does he know you were hired?”

      “Yes, to both questions. He was one who interviewed me in New York. He liked the piece I did on Rufus Baird.”

      Her dad responded thoughtfully, “At least he recognizes good writing.”

      Her mother inquired, “What will you do? What sort of magazine portion will you have? I don’t recall much of women in Adam’s Roots.”

      “Simon Quint is surprisingly liberal. I’ll report roots?” Amabel shrugged and grinned.

      So her dad teased, “I have some crabgrass roots and some dandelion roots you could blast.”

      How many times would she hear something like that? But Amabel had already heard all the root jokes and her reply was serious. “I’m taking the advice you gave me long ago—be fair.

      “My interviews aren’t going to hatchet anyone or make them appear ridiculous, but they’ll show the readers what the person interviewed is like, how they feel about things, what interests them.”

      “You’ll be brilliant.” Her father was a prejudiced man.

      However, her mother just suggested, “Interview Sean Morant.”

      “An interview with him is impossible!” Amabel exclaimed. “The Rock Star of all time? And you think little old Amabel Clayton could snatch The Interview of the Decade? Pish and tosh.”

      But among friends her own age, that was the overwhelming reaction of all the women to her new job. How many times had she heard variations of: You might interview Sean Morant!

      Her replies were fairly uniform about her chances being very similar to a sin-doomed snowball’s. She got very tired of hearing about Sean Morant.

      In the several years that followed Mab’s hiring, she did well. Her research was meticulous. She was businesslike and tactful. Of those she interviewed, she asked reasonable questions and searching ones. But she asked no hostile questions or embarrassing ones. It wasn’t her job to dissect a victim. She was completely fair with any age or any sex. She had very little trouble getting interviews. But she did not interview Sean Morant.

      * * *

      Sean’s PR man was naturally charming. He was probably somewhere in his forties, some years older than Amabel, and he cultivated a low profile. He looked rather pleasantly anonymous. He’d chosen to be called Jamie. Jamie Milrose.

      He told Amabel, “Of all the reporters in this world, my love, if Sean gave out an interview, it would be to you—you know that. But if he allowed you that privilege, then he would have to give the same courtesy to all the other clamoring reporters in this world, avidly after an interview with Sean Morant.”

      Jamie was patient. He explained, “You must know how many publications there are which would want that chance at Sean Morant! From Adam’s Roots through all the variety of news to Fort Wayne’s South Side High School. I went there to school, and I was on the staff of the South Side Times! So I know what it’s like to be a reporter.” With his expansive manner, Jamie gave her a lofty look, which invited her to laugh. She didn’t laugh.

      Jamie continued, “However, if that happened, if we should grant interviews so recklessly, think of it just in Sean’s time spent! It fairly boggles the mind, doesn’t it? And the wear on his poor vocal cords! Ah, my love, have pity. Give it up.”

      Enunciating with some careful exaggeration, Mab told Jamie, “I’m not your love.”

      “It’s an expression,” he soothed. “It’s like a greeting kiss. It means nothing.” He smiled slightly with his head cocked just a bit. “Are you really a man hater?” He was silent as he watched her.

      With the same kind of patience Jamie gave to interview requests, Amabel replied, “I love every one of God’s creatures. It’s just that I love some more than others.”

      “Are you a lesbian?” He asked that deliberately.

      “No.” She gave him an enduring stare.

      “Then if you aren’t of that persuasion, how about dinner?” He opened out his arms in an expansive gesture. “I could change your whole outlook on life.” He used his most practiced male grin.

      “The incredible conceit of men is something to contemplate.” She gathered up her things, put her pad and pencil into her purse and tried to close the zipper, but it stuck.

      “We could discuss the interview,” he invited temptingly. “You could see how much I know about the way to access Sean.”

      She paused in her struggle with the zipper. “I thought you said there was absolutely no chance.”

      “There isn’t.” He smiled. “But you could...try...with me.”

      “Jamie, you’re one of the reasons I have no use for men. You never give it up.”

      “Now, now.” He settled