Something to Prove. Cathryn Parry
reporter doesn’t find out what we have to hide, not unless you want your reputation to go down in flames. Because sometimes I wonder.”
Brody’s knuckles went white as he gripped the water bottle. He suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“Yeah, something you care about,” Harrison said. “That’s good. You remember that, Brody.”
And then Harrison was gone. But his threat hung in the air—poisoning the rest of Brody’s cool-down.
AMANDA STOOD AT THE SINK in her hotel bathroom and sucked in deep, cleansing breaths. It wasn’t like her to be nervous. Then again, maybe it was finally sinking in that she could be facing her career Waterloo, and before her career had ever gotten off the ground. Because, knowingly or not, Chelsea had given her the one assignment that hit too close to home.
He’s a skier, she thought. And he’s just like Dad.
Therein lay her problem.
According to Jeannie, Brody Jones had a reputation for walking out on reporters without saying a word. He was aloof and disrespectful of anyone with a pen and microphone.
From long experience, Amanda knew what a losing proposition it was to deal with arrogant competitors like that. Her father—case in point. The last time she’d met with him, in his office in Colorado Springs near the Olympic training center, had been a disaster. She’d completely failed. She’d received nothing she’d needed from him, and their mom had been the one to suffer for it.
Grabbing Jeannie’s hairbrush from their mixed jumble of toiletries on the countertop, Amanda vigorously brushed her hair until it crackled with static electricity.
Slow down. Breathe.
I’ve learned since then.
She held on to the edges of the countertop and stared at herself in the mirror, struggling to find calm. This would be different. She’d done her homework and had thought through all the angles for her interview approach. She’d even dressed in full body armor for the event. Today she wore one of Jeannie’s feminine silk-and-Spandex shells over her thinnest lace bra. That was a new tool in her repertoire and one that wasn’t entirely comfortable, but she’d seen how the celebrity reporters in her office dressed, and she would do what she must.
By rote, she ticked through her habitual, pre-interview routine. She dabbed on her lip balm. Pulled her hair back from her face. Tested the batteries in her never-fail, top-of-the-line digital voice recorder.
The tiny gadget was inconspicuous and quiet; she would place it on the table beside her oversize purse and hope that Brody Jones would forget it was there and would open his mouth, just once. One good quote, that was all she needed from him, and then she could return to her sister and the safe, non-skiing man her sister had lined up for her to meet.
She glanced at her phone. Three more minutes. And she’d better set it to silent mode, because the fewer distractions to spook Brody, the better. That was why she’d memorized what she needed to ask him, because she’d figured it was best not to face him with a notepad. Or a pencil. Or anything that screamed Interview with a capital I.
No, with any luck, Brody would forget she was a reporter and would instead consider the twenty minutes as coffee with a friendly person he could chat with.
Taking a short, careful swig from her ever-present water bottle, she considered the major flaw in her plan. Her father, per usual. Under no circumstances could she let Brody discover she was MacArthur Jensen’s daughter. Jeannie had implied that would send Brody fleeing faster than the roadrunner on skis. Amanda had no problem with that aspect of his personality. Anyone who distrusted her father was wise in her book.
She shook off the last of her nerves and strode down the corridor, the air cool against her bare legs because she was wearing one of Jeannie’s pre-injury outfits—a short, trendy skirt and a pair of her formerly favorite heels. Despite Jeannie’s admonition “to be herself,” whatever that was, Amanda was a celebrity profiler today, so she’d better act like one. Which gave her two choices for an approach strategy, as far as she could see.
Plan A was to keep the celebrity-reporter persona she’d prepared for. Disarm the recalcitrant skier with a nonthreatening approach. Plan B was her regular, hard-hitting interviewing style. Grill ’em and stick ’em and then serve up the painful truths.
Depending on how Brody reacted, she would adopt one tactic or the other. There was more than one way to open up a closemouthed celebrity.
Please, just give me one decent quote…
She stood outside the conference room and wished there was a window she could see through, but since there wasn’t, she pasted what she hoped was a vacant smile on her face and swung open the door like someone who meant business. Plan A and plan B, in combination. Once she met Brody, she would choose her final course.
Immediately, she needed to shield her eyes from the blinding afternoon sun slanting through the window. For a moment, she couldn’t see.
“Um, are you Amanda? From Paradigm magazine?”
She blinked to see a short man in a rumpled suit standing behind a conference table, his hand extended. He must be Harrison Rice, the agent. And next to him…
Amanda swallowed. Like a warrior prepared for battle, she thought.
Jeannie had showed her a photo of Brody Jones, downloaded from her phone’s internet connection. In it, he was dressed in a black helmet and tight racer’s uniform, his body bent so he was impossibly close to the slope, his powerful thighs straining while his biceps bulged, gripping a ski pole as he surged past a giant slalom gate.
Amanda hadn’t been able to see his face, but she’d seen his power and his sex appeal. She’d understood his charisma.
And now here he was in the flesh. Six feet one, two hundred pounds—she could recite his stats in her head. He was built. Hard. Powerful. And recklessly daring.
But he wasn’t behaving recklessly now. Like her, he wore body armor—in his case, a hat with a brim so low she couldn’t see his eyes clearly. Several days of stubble obscured his facial expression. He wore a tight black T-shirt that showed off his powerful neck, and over that, a team sweat jacket that read Italia—great. Did he know about her connection with her sister?
Stop that. You’re psyching yourself out before you’ve even started.
She gripped the agent’s fleshy paw, giving him both a friendly wink and a hardnosed MacArthur Jensen squeeze. “Hello there, I’m Amanda Jensen. I’m pleased to meet you, Harrison.”
She still hadn’t decided yet which plan to choose, A or B, and so was fluctuating wildly between them. While Harrison winced, clutching his hand, she switched her gaze to Brody. What should she say to him? How would he react?
Before she could decide, his chair slid leisurely back. As he moved, preparing to rise, his head slowly came up. The visor of the sponsor’s ball cap came off. And the most amazing pair of baby-blue eyes stared at her, sizing her up.
Amanda felt the shock zing up and down her anatomy. This guy had It. The physical key to setting her hormones on fire.
Because, oh, God, there was something about his eyes. They were probing eyes. Intelligent eyes.
Eyes that sucked her in.
He braced his hands on the table and fixed that quiet stare on her. He didn’t feel like a skier to her, not like any skier she’d ever known, anyway. Nothing Jeannie had told her could have prepared her for this. Without a trace of a smile on lips that were tense, yet still so full she could easily picture herself leaning over the table and kissing him, he said to her, “Amanda Jensen. Are you related to MacArthur Jensen?”
Oh, she was definitely going for plan A. Hard wouldn’t work with him. Best to play soft and dumb with this powerful, guarded man.
“Who’s MacArthur Jensen?” she asked.