Tempting The Mogul. Marcia King-Gamble
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she’d claimed she badly needed. Now she’d turned Kennedy’s orderly life into a nightmare. Why, oh why, hadn’t she listened to her gut?
Kennedy was so angry she jabbed the answering machine’s rewind button with more force than she intended. Surprisingly, the machine wasn’t full and the few calls recorded were from telemarketers. Toward the end there was one call that made her pause.
She rewound it, listening carefully. A woman identified herself as Diane, the assistant to the president of TSW Studios, wanted Kennedy to return her call ASAP.
What would a television station want with me? Yes, she’d heard of Tanner Washington, the studio’s owner, but she and he didn’t move in the same circles. He was notoriously low profile and never even allowed himself to be photographed. Kennedy had never seen him. Curiosity prompted Kennedy to scribble down the number. She’d call Diane tomorrow.
Jet lag was beginning to kick in when Kennedy made her phone call to the bank where she had her mortgage. She navigated the voice activation maze and finally got a living, breathing person.
“Ms. Fitzpatrick,” a stern-sounding service representative said, “you’re two months late on your mortgage. In another month you’ll be in foreclosure.”
Even though she’d been expecting something like this, the cold hand of fear grabbed her heart. She was so angry she could spit. Her precious triplex that she loved, and had worked her butt off to buy, was in danger of being sold to someone else.
Kennedy started to ramble and make excuses, then caught herself. The representative didn’t need to hear her problems, nor did she care.
“What will it take to get current?” she asked quickly.
The woman named a figure. Kennedy did some mental calculations. She should have enough in her savings to make that payment and bring her mortgage up to date. She also had a rather hefty check in her purse. She’d insisted that the Japanese pay her in U.S. dollars, and she’d planned on depositing that check tomorrow. She’d just need to find some way to get to the bank.
Her world was toppling down around her and it seemed as though there was nothing she could do to stop it. She’d tossed the tow truck driver’s card in her purse. His company would be the next place to call. She needed wheels to take care of business and get her life back in order.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the customer service representative asked, reminding Kennedy she was still on the line.
“Can you take my mortgage payment over the phone? Will that payment register today?”
“I’ll have to transfer you to our account services department,” the woman said, sounding smooth as silk. “As you know your account is delinquent.”
Forty minutes later, Kennedy finally hung up with the credit manager. It had taken some explaining, even pleading, but at least she was now paid to date. She’d coughed up the money for the hefty finance and late charges, but she was certain that her credit score had taken a beating. It would take years for her to rebuild good credit.
Several months of rent checks, money she’d counted on to take care of her bills, had disappeared along with Marna. The excess money she’d hoped to have in her bank account would now be used up to pay off delinquent bills. She’d thought she was doing a good deed helping Marna. What was the saying? No good deed went unpunished.
Kennedy’s head continued to pound as she punched in the number for Joe’s Towing. She was placed on an interminable hold only to have an automated voice tell her she was calling outside regular business hours.
“Dammit!” she muttered, hanging up.
As she was close to tossing the receiver across the room, the phone rang in her hand.
“Hello?” she tried not to growl.
“Yes, I need Kennedy Fitzgerald, please?” a female voice she didn’t recognize said.
“This is she,” Kennedy said. Please let it not be a creditor.
“Ms. Fitzgerald, I’m Diane, assistant to Tanner Washington, the president of TSW Studios. He’s been hoping to speak to you.”
Trying to make up for her less than friendly greeting, Kennedy said, “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“Mr. Washington would prefer to discuss the issue in person. He learned through a source that you’re back in town. Since the matter is of some urgency, he’s wondering if you could meet him at the studio tomorrow morning, say around eleven?”
Midmorning would give Kennedy enough time to go to the bank and contact the towing company again. Maybe she would even have a car.
“I’ll be there,” she answered, then hung up.
Bright and early the next morning, Kennedy tried calling the company that had towed her car. She kept being transferred from one area to another, and then decided it might be in her best interest to just show up in person. The challenge now was to rent a car. She called several automobile rental companies until she found one willing to pick her up at home. When she attempted to reserve the vehicle her credit card was turned down.
“How could that be?” she asked the rental agent.
“I don’t know, ma’am, it just says declined and I’ve run it through several times.”
Another call to the credit card’s customer service department revealed her bill hadn’t been paid in months. The account was canceled. Yet another strike against Marna.
Desperate, Kennedy used her bank debit card to reserve the vehicle. She was on her way and had a small measure of peace.
Her first stop was at Puget Sound Mutual, the bank that financed her car and where she did her personal banking. After she’d explained what had happened over and over, a sympathetic bank clerk took her to see one of the vice presidents. By then Kennedy was through talking and very close to crying.
She really was going to knock Marna out when she got her hands on her. She would have been better off trusting her tenants with her bank routing number and having them make their own deposits. She wouldn’t have this headache now if she’d paid her bills electronically. But no, she’s thought it best that someone closer to home pick up her rent checks and pay her bills. What a mistake that had been.
The bank’s records showed they’d made numerous attempts to contact Kennedy and work out arrangements. Hearing nothing back, they’d repossessed the car.
Kennedy explained her situation and the officer expressed sympathy and made several phone calls, but to no avail. The vehicle was most likely being auctioned as they spoke.
By then the headache had become a migraine. How on earth would she get from Bellevue to downtown Seattle in twenty minutes? If there was traffic on the bridge she was toast.
Driving like a speed demon, Kennedy managed to make it into the parking lot of TSW Studios with five minutes to spare. She used that time to comb her hair, shove her headband back in place and apply fresh lip gloss. She’d never been much for makeup and no one would ever describe her as trendy. Kennedy’s clothing was always more functional than stylish.
Once inside, she handed her ID to the guard at the desk in the lobby and waited for Diane to come and get her. Five minutes into her wait a thirty-something, athletically built man came sauntering in.
He was the kind of African-American male who, although casually dressed, turned heads. His hunter-green flannel shirt stretched across his broad chest, and was tucked into baggy jeans that slouched at the knees. His scuffed boots looked as though they’d seen better days. Although his overall appearance shouted mountain man, there was a sensuality and confidence to him that was very appealing.
He approached the guard’s circular desk and flicked a finger at him. “Morning, Andrew. How’s it going?”
The guard, who’d been hunched over his station with an eye on the newspaper, folded