The Dare. Cara Summers
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Long ago, she’d decided that the “sexy” part of the Gibbs legacy had also gone to her sisters.
Was Irene right? Could the simple act of wearing red underwear change her image of herself?
“LEA, IT’S BEEN A PLEASURE.” Elizabeth Cavenaugh, wife of Supreme Court Justice Henry Cavenaugh, extended her hand. “I know you went out of your way to fly into Manhattan, but I just detest summers in D.C. Thank you.”
Lea took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. During the hour-long interview, the charm of Mrs. Cavenaugh’s southern accent had begun to wear thin. And the glowing report she would have to write up on the woman’s latest philanthropic project was the kind of article that Lea detested writing. But she managed a smile. “You’ll remember to e-mail me the recipe for those scones?”
“I’ll have Delia write one up for me this afternoon. But she got it from her mother. Don’t be surprised if it reads a pinch of this and two dashes of that.”
Lea brightened her smile. “I’ll give it to my cook. That kind of recipe is right up her alley. And thank you again for the interview. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed one more.”
As the door closed behind her, Lea pulled out her cell phone and barely kept herself from running to the elevator. One glance told her that Rory hadn’t called yet.
Damn. She glanced at her watch. Noon. Not time to panic yet, she told herself. After punching the button for the lobby, she leaned against the wall and tapped her foot. The interview had been a dead bore. The piece on Elizabeth Cavenaugh’s work in battling adult illiteracy would be typical of the kind of reporting she’d been doing for Celebs magazine for the past five years. She could write it in her sleep. It was the kind of article that made her want to scream.
No matter, she told herself. Her ticket to what she’d always dreamed of having was within reach. By this evening, Rory Gibbs was going to bring her the means to a story that would free her from ever having to write another boring article on politicians or their spouses.
Lea stepped out of the elevator and strode across the marble-floored lobby. When the doorman pushed open the glass door, a blast of moist heat struck her with enough force to have her almost wishing for the coolness of Elizabeth Cavenaugh’s penthouse apartment. Almost, but not quite. Instead, she hurried to the curb and raised her arm to hail a taxi.
Two passed her by before a third pulled up.
“Kennedy Airport,” she said as she climbed in. “And could you turn the air-conditioning up to high?”
With a nod, the cabdriver pulled into the busy traffic. Leaning her head back against the seat, she closed her eyes. But she couldn’t relax, not until she heard from Rory Gibbs.
The air in the taxi had gone from hot to tepid when her cell phone rang.
“Rory?” she asked.
“No. It’s me.”
Lea’s hands tightened on her phone as she recognized the voice of her anonymous informant. This was only the second call she’d received, but she still couldn’t pin down whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. The two things she was sure of were that she’d never heard it before and it was cold. Bone-chilling cold. “Yes?”
“Do you have the pictures?”
“Not yet. It’s only noon.”
“He’s checked in to his suite.”
Lea’s heart stilled. If that was true, she should have heard something from Rory. “The photographer I sent hasn’t reported back yet.”
“I trusted you to get those pictures. I won’t be happy if you failed.”
Lea couldn’t repress a shudder even though her temper flared. “Look. I told you I had another commitment. Besides, he might have recognized me. So I sent someone who’s as hungry to get those pictures as we are. I can guarantee I’ll have them for you by the end of the day.”
“You’d better.”
“Look, I don’t like to be…” She knew that her caller had clicked off, but she said the word anyway. “Threatened. I don’t like to be threatened.” But even in the still-hot taxicab, she shivered. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that whoever was feeding her information on Jared Slade was dangerous.
Pushing the feeling away, she reminded herself there might be one hell of a story here. Besides, she’d dealt with all kinds of anonymous tipsters before. It was ridiculous to let this one frighten her.
And if Jared Slade turned out to be Hunter Marks as the anonymous caller had promised, she’d break the story of the year. Lea managed a smile. Who better to write it than the reporter who’d broken the original story that had caused Hunter Marks to disappear off the face of the earth?
3
HUNTER STEPPED THROUGH THE DOOR of Silken Fantasies. A little bell jangled over his head, and the woman behind the counter glanced up with a smile.
“Welcome to Silken Fantasies.”
“Irene Malinowitz?” he asked, taking out a card as he moved toward the counter. The shop was small, but elegant. He noted with approval the plush carpeting, the accents of glass and chrome, and the merchandise displayed gracefully on mannequins and arranged artfully on tables. He’d seen photos, but this was his first trip to the store itself. There was a scent in the air and the muted tones of Chopin floated out of the speakers. He also knew that Irene Malinowitz had built her clientele mostly by word of mouth, and that since she’d launched her catalog, her net profits had risen to just over five million dollars a year.
“Yes?”
Hunter handed her the card. “I’m Mark Hunter, one of Jared Slade’s executive assistants.” Mark Hunter was the name he used when he traveled and when he dealt personally with clients.
Irene glanced at the card and then met his eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No.” Hunter seldom spoke with clients directly. Voice prints were as individual as fingerprints. The more successful Slade Enterprises had become, the more effort he’d put into protecting his anonymity.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Hunter?”
“Mr. Slade has just checked in to Les Printemps, and he would like to have you sign the contracts now in his suite, if that’s convenient. He’ll want to review them personally and there’s something else that demands his attention this afternoon.”
A flicker of a frown passed over Irene’s face. “I’m sorry, but I have a customer in the dressing room right now, and my assistant is at lunch. Perhaps in a half hour or so?”
Hunter smiled at her. “That’s why Mr. Slade sent me in person. I’ll be happy to cover for you.”
A phone rang on the counter behind Irene.
“That will be Mr. Banks now. He’ll verify who I am.”
Irene picked up the phone. “Hello?”
Hunter counted five beats until the smile appeared on her face.
“Yes, Mr. Banks.”
His executive assistant, Michael Banks, had handled all of the negotiations with Silken Fantasies, so Irene would be familiar with his voice. Michael was bright, and he was good with clients, especially the female ones. Being a man’s man, Alex Santos was better with males, and he was a whiz at crunching figures.
Irene was still smiling when she hung up the phone. “My customer is in the dressing room. I should—”
“She’ll be fine,” Hunter said. “I’ll take good care of her.”
THE FIRST THOUGHT THAT CROSSED Rory’s mind as she studied herself in the three-way mirror was that she had to get to the gym more often and do some of those