Underneath It All. Nancy Warren
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and I don’t belong in advertising. I’m quitting. As of now.”
Their voices were rising, but Darren didn’t care. He’d inherited his temper from his father, if nothing else.
Just as angry, his father shouted, “You walk out that door, young man, and you can’t change your mind.”
“I won’t.” Darren strode across the room but hesitated at the doorway of his dad’s plush office, feeling not so much fear for his own future, but worry that his father couldn’t cope without him. He was about to speak when he heard some sort of commotion down the hall in the direction of his own office.
He turned and swallowed an expletive. There was a camera crew in front of his office, and damned if they weren’t filming some woman, some complete and utter stranger, leaving a dozen red roses outside his door. She was talking all the time, her face toward the camera so the flowers almost got knocked to the floor.
Oh, no. This had gone far enough. His dad had turned his life and his job into a joke. He’d become, not an ad exec, but a product to be marketed. The hell with it. Kaiser Image Makers would survive without Darren.
And Darren was going to be fine without Kaiser.
But before he left, he was going to give that woman and the cameraman a piece of his mind. Angrily, he made his way toward them. Instead of looking guilty and hurrying away, the woman with the roses, beamed a thousand-watt smile his way, then shouted into the camera, “There he is!”
She picked up the roses, yelled, “These are for you, Darren Kaiser. I love you,” and headed his way, hampered by her red stilettos and body-hugging red dress. She was followed by a skinny guy in a Knicks shirt balancing a TV camera on his shoulder.
In a moment of horror, Darren realized that unless he disappeared fast, whatever happened next would be filmed. He abandoned his plans to dress down the camera guy and the misguided woman. He abandoned any thoughts of standing his ground.
He turned on his heel and ran.
KIM employees stood in the hallway, mesmerized, until Darren yelled, “Out of my way,” and set a world sprinting record racing for the stairwell.
He was out of here.
Running on instinct, he tore down several flights of stairs, spurred by the sounds of pursuit far above. Then he abruptly stopped and, as quietly as possible, opened the door to the twelfth floor and the law offices of Stoat, Remington, Bryce, where his buddy Bart worked. Since the receptionist knew him, she motioned him to go on through.
“You never saw me,” he panted, and, ignoring her startled expression, kept going, racing through the hallowed halls of the law offices to seek temporary shelter with his old friend.
Stumbling into Bart’s office without knocking, he shut the door, put his sunglasses on and borrowed the Yankees baseball cap Bart kept hanging on his wall along with a signed pennant. Then he slouched low in the leather club chair Bart kept for office visitors.
“Drop in anytime,” Bart said as he watched Darren.
“I’m in trouble.”
“Hey,” Bart complained, as Darren tugged on the cap. “You can’t wear that! You’re a Giants fan.”
“I’m in serious trouble, Bart.” Darren panted, expecting any second to hear the sounds of that crazy female after him like a baying hound after a juicy fox.
“You have to help me.”
As well as being a good friend, Bart was a dedicated lawyer. He immediately assumed an air of concern. “You did the right thing coming here. What’s up?”
“I quit my job just now and I have to get out of town. Go far away where no one has ever heard of Matchmaker.”
Bart’s expression of concern was replaced with one of hastily suppressed amusement. “Is that what your trouble is?”
“Yes! It’s that magazine.”
“I don’t want to make your day any worse, old buddy, but you’re everywhere. It’s not just the magazine. It’s the Internet, chat groups, newspapers and on the TV. You, my friend, are news.”
“I need to stop being news. Damn it, I never agreed to be Match of the Year. I want to sue Matchmaker Enterprises or whatever they call themselves, Bart.”
“What for?”
“You’re my lawyer. Aren’t you supposed to advise me? How about defamation of character? Harassment? Libel?”
“Buddy, they aren’t defaming you when they call you God’s gift to women. It’s supposed to be a compliment.”
“I can’t even live in peace in my own home. I’m being mobbed, stalked. Women I don’t know give me their bras. Mary Jane Lancer proposed.” He’d known Mary Jane for years. Their fathers belonged to the same club. She was part of his social circle, but there never had been a hint of attraction between them until the bachelor thing.
A rich chuckle answered him. “Harassment. Hmm. There are men all over America who would kill to be in your shoes. You’d only make a fool of yourself.”
There was a long pause. Darren waited while Bart drummed his fingers on his blotter, obviously deep in thought.
“But libel, now you’ve got something. Let’s see, I just happen to have a copy of the magazine.” He twirled his chair and found the hated magazine in a stack of papers and flipped it open. “Ah, here it is. They called you rich, good-looking and intelligent. Man, we can sue for millions.”
Darren’s heart sank. “Okay, very funny. So what do I do?”
“My best advice is to go with the flow. Have fun with it. Make your father’s company a few more millions. Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame and kiss a bunch of gorgeous women. Seriously, have you seen the babes who go for stuff like this? Be the rich boy all the girls want to marry. It’ll be over in a year and long before that somebody else will be news.”
“You don’t get it. It’s not just me being a minor celebrity and that’s it. A week ago I was a happy single man living a wonderful single life. I was a New York bachelor. One of millions. Now I’m some freakin’ great catch and no one but no one thinks I should remain a happy bachelor.”
He paused to take a breath and a quick check outside Bart’s office. So far he seemed safe.
“In the past week, I have been proposed to by girls with braces, women old enough to be my mother, loonies, the lonely, the desperate, and even women I thought were my friends, Like Mary Jane Lancer.” That, he thought, had been the worst. “It’s like they’re trying to snap me up before any other woman gets a chance.”
Bart started to chuckle. “Let me get this straight. Are you telling me you don’t want women all over the country throwing themselves at you? Is that what I’m hearing?”
“Yes! I told Serena Ashcroft I won’t cooperate. They should admit they made a mistake and find someone else. She told me to think about it. No hurry. I told her I won’t change my mind and she laughed.”
“I’m sure they would stop writing about you if you won’t cooperate. They have the right to choose you as the most eligible bachelor, though. You can’t stop them loving you.”
“I don’t know. She’s a devious woman. Who knows what she’s planning? I can’t stand it anymore.”
Bart shrugged. “Do what movie stars do when they want some privacy. Hide. Lay low somewhere until this blows over.”
“Hide?”
“Sure. If you insist on trying to avoid publicity, why don’t you pretend you’re in the Witness Protection Program? Find a new locale, a new identity. Maybe a disguise.”
Bart had enjoyed a brief spell of fame in college as an actor. Particularly memorable had been his Falstaff. Truly a method actor,