Whatever Comes. Lass Small
pleasure?” And his eyes twinkled.
“Did you clear that article and cover layout in Adam’s Roots?”
“No, of course not.” Jamie’s voice was conciliatory. He knew with Tris’s words that the man was irritated.
The soft, husky voice suggested, “Tell me about Amabel Clayton.”
“An interesting experience for any man, she—”
“What do you mean by that?”
Jamie shook his head once. “Not your first impression. She looks like a man’s summer idyll, but she’s a staunch women’s righter. She’s also a damned good reporter. No one calls her Amabel...she’s called Clayton or Mab. On occasion it’s Mad Mab. She has asked for interviews, along with every other conceivable publication that can possibly call itself legit, and of course, as per instructions, I’ve turned her down—every time—although I did give her the publicity handouts.”
The roughened voice was grim. “She’s taken revenge? Just because I wouldn’t give her an interview?”
“I doubt the article was her idea. Wallace Michaels is her boss and he does push for what’s current. And not being able to see you, she was free to handle it any way she wanted.” Jamie added coaxingly, “We could tell her about those women.”
“I don’t owe anyone any explanation.” The mild tone was deceiving. Tris meant just that. The glint of yellow fire was in his brown eyes even with his back to the light. “I don’t like being labeled a womanizer.”
“The article will offend a few people—your mother, you, some of your good friends—but the great majority won’t be affected.” Jamie was practical about it. “This is ‘typical’ Rock Star stuff. It won’t harm you. It might cause irritation, with an increase in panting groupies, but that can be handled. No problem. This is a one-day sensation. In a week, it’ll fade away. I promise.”
“I would like a close look at her. I would like to talk with the kind of woman who could be so judgmental.”
“An...interview?” Jamie was startled.
“No. Anonymously.”
“Ah? Let’s see.” Jamie went to his desk and flipped through his appointments. “In two days there’s a reception for reporters and publicity personnel at the Beverly Hilton on Wilshire. As a sop to all the frustrated reporters, we give them—us!” Jamie grinned with real humor.
“Would anyone recognize me?”
“I don’t even recognize you.” Then Jamie cocked his head in disbelief. “You mean you’d go there?”
“Can you get me a badge?”
“You’d boldly go where no Rock Star has gone before? It would be madness, man!”
“I could be visiting from Indiana to see how the big boys handle things.”
It was the beginning of their friendship. “Where abouts in Indiana you from, boy? I don’t remember Indiana being in your bio.”
“I’ve an aunt up near Fort Wayne.”
“We’re practically kin!” Jamie laughed. “I’m from the actual city of Fort Wayne!”
Tris finally smiled. “I know enough about the city to pass casual inquisition.”
“I’ve a friend on the Journal Gazette who’ll cover for you. You can be their West Coast representative for the day. No problem.” Jamie hesitated thoughtfully. “Are you sure? It’s a rash thing to do.”
Tris’s instructions were firm. “You would ignore me completely.”
“If anyone asked me, I would say, ‘Sean? Here? You’re crazy! Why would he come to the lion’s den?’” Jamie appreciated the idea. “It would be illogical enough—no one would expect you to be there.”
“I’ll go. What do reporter types wear? Something somber? Something flashy?”
“A suit. Tie.” Jamie frowned rather absently. “Be professional. You’ll see all sorts of dress, but since you’re from Indiana, allegedly, you would dress. Let me put my mind to this—there must be an easier way for you to see Amabel Clayton.”
“It intrigues me to do it this way. And the sooner the better.”
“There’s enough madness in the idea to please me.” Jamie grinned in anticipated malice. “May I mention—later—that you were there?”
“No.”
“It tempts me.” Jamie coaxed for permission.
Tris’s refusal was said flatly: “Don’t even consider it.”
“It would be such a joy to see some faces as I told it. I could do it confidentially. I would limit it to two. Mab being one.”
“I’d fire you.”
Jamie gave a gusty sigh. “No humor. None at all...at all.”
* * *
So two days later, when the reporter/publicist meeting was scheduled, Tris drove a rented car to the hotel. The pressure in his life too seldom allowed him to be alone—there was simply never enough time—so he took advantage of any opportunity that came his way to be free for a while.
He kept a house in the canyon country, north and west of downtown Los Angeles. With the badge for the meeting delivered to him, there had been a picture of Amabel Clayton. She was “an interesting experience for any man.” Those were Jamie’s words. How could anyone who looked as she did be the shrew she must be?
He arrived at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, which is located on Wilshire Boulevard, west of Los Angeles, in Beverly Hills, seven miles from the Pacific. Tris handed the car keys to an attendant to park it in one of the garages. Then Tris went into the lobby, as he pinned on his badge and followed the discreet signs to the International Ballroom where the meeting was held.
There were close to a couple of hundred people in the crowd. There were more men than women. There was the subdued roar of conversation and laughter for they were almost all acquainted. It was their business to know each other.
Even in that crowd, she wasn’t hard to find. She looked like any man’s summer idyll, as Jamie had promised. It was a while before Tris could quit staring. It was odd the number of men who stood out of her reach but who looked at her with a kind of vulnerability. Look but don’t touch seemed a tested rule for her. So although some women spoke to Amabel, all of the men did at least greet her. She was natural and courteous in her responses. Why did Tris find that so strange?
With the cover story firmly in his mind as a shield against her, Tris worked his way through the throng to her as he considered approaches. It had been a good many years since he’d had to approach any woman. All he’d had to do was say okay.
He tried one of the classics deliberately. He wanted to hear her screech. Pretending to be joggled, and with perfect timing, he spilled his drink right into the open collar of her blue shirtwaist dress. He apologized, “I am sorry,” as he handed her a clean handkerchief.
“Don’t worry.” She busied herself with the mop-up. “I buy my clothes with this sort of thing in mind. But being only February, it is a little early in the season for an unexpected dousing.”
Her reaction puzzled him. She was lovely, courteous and kind. That wasn’t his mental image of Amabel Clayton. He said, “Back home in Indiana,” and he had to prevent himself from singing the line, “we don’t drink cocktails this early in the day.”
She held her dress out from her very nice chest and inquired, “What do you drink in the early afternoon?” And she raised those black fringed, blue eyes up to his and smiled just a little. Then she sobered and her eyes went out of focus as the most amazing shiver touched her core.
Without