Ann Evans - After That Night

Lauren, whose exposure to these kinds of places was much broader than Jenna’s, didn’t seem a bit impressed by their surroundings. Instead, her appreciative gaze roamed over Jenna again. “When did you find the time to do all this?”

This was the transformation Jenna had attempted to make in her appearance before their plane had taken off that day at noon. She’d decided that if she couldn’t actually lay claim to being a serious journalist, she ought to at least look like one. Confident. Sophisticated. Savvy. Judging from Lauren’s reaction, her efforts had been worthwhile.

“It’s amazing what you can accomplish once you decide to eliminate sleep from your life,” Jenna told her friend. “I raided the cosmetic counter at my all-night drugstore. I did my nails and gave myself a facial. Then I called Max early this morning and promised him a month’s salary as a tip if he’d do something with my hair.”

“The change is incredible,” Lauren said.

Self-consciously, Jenna touched the wispy ends of her new haircut. “You don’t think the blond highlights are too radical?”

Lauren shook her head as though she still couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “I think they look fantastic.”

“It’s not helping that you’re this shocked. How bad did I look before?”

“Sorry. You just look so…”

“Professional?”

“I was going to say sexy.”

Jenna frowned. “Oh, dear. That’s not the image I was going for.”

“Maybe not. But it can’t hurt.” She gave Jenna another long, sweeping glance. “And red is really your color.”

Jenna looked down at the suit she wore with its short jacket and stand-up collar. She hadn’t had time to shop for clothes, and this had been the closest thing in her wardrobe to a “power suit.” She’d faced down an IRS auditor in this suit during her brother Trent’s tax investigation the year before.

She noted that Lauren, on the other hand, looked casual and breezy in a khaki shirt and pants with about a dozen deep pockets. Her hair was swinging freely in a ponytail, and the camera bag that went with her everywhere was slung over one shoulder.

“I just hope I don’t make a fool of myself,” Jenna muttered.

The elevator doors opened, and they started down a short hallway where the carpet underfoot was as thick as a blanket of snow. They stopped in front of the penthouse door. As Lauren rapped on it, Jenna said softly, “Just promise me one thing. If you hear my knees knocking, you’ll start talking to cover the noise.”

Vic had provided her with a list of questions, along with a copy of Mark Bishop’s original interview. Jenna hugged it close to her chest. Some of the questions were harmless, just for fun. Some informational. Others, maybe half a dozen, made Jenna blush just to read them. She couldn’t imagine asking them. Or Mark Bishop being willing to respond.

What would Vic do if she came back without a single sizzling nugget about the man? Probably pronounce her a complete failure and never send her on this kind of assignment again. Which, come to think of it, wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

For the hundredth time she ran through the interviewing tips her friend had coached her with over the phone. Listen, listen, listen. Don’t interrupt him in the middle of an answer. Look interested in what he says, never as if you disapprove. Make eye contact, lots of it. Don’t let him see that you’re nervous….

Oh, Lord, what had she been thinking? She couldn’t do this! Why did she think this suit would help? She wasn’t a journalist. She was an accountant, and power red or not, he was going to see through her in two seconds flat. She should bow out now, while she still had the chance. She should—

And then suddenly the door to the suite opened, and there was their old friend Debra Lee. She looked a little older, much more sophisticated than Jenna remembered, but her smile was the same. Warm and welcoming. She greeted them with hugs and ushered them inside.

Jenna barely had time to register that the suite was probably big enough to hold most of her father’s house before Debra Lee led them through sliding glass doors and onto a wide terrace that ran the length of the suite.

The summer air was surprisingly cool and refreshing. From the balcony, the tops of the tallest trees from the nearest park were barely visible, waving like ruffled fans in the slight breeze. Beyond them lay Manhattan, its impressive skyline caught in the late-afternoon sunlight.

Lauren, always looking for that next wonderful shot, immediately crossed to the railing. She pulled her camera up, made a few adjustments and began clicking away happily. Never fond of heights, Jenna was content to hang back closer to the sliding glass doors.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Debra Lee said, indicating a pitcher of iced tea and glasses on a patio table. “Mark and Miss Winston had an appointment this afternoon, and I’m afraid they’re not back yet.”

One of Jenna’s pet peeves was being kept waiting, especially since she knew FTW’s office had reconfirmed their appointment just this morning. She’d read once that people who were chronically late were subconsciously flexing their muscles, trying to show who had the upper hand in the meeting. She could just imagine someone like Mark Bishop wanting to send that kind of message. You’re not important enough for me to care about being on time.

But on the plus side, a delayed interview would certainly allow her an easy out. “We can reschedule if necessary,” Jenna said, knowing Vic would be the one to show up next time.

Lauren stopped taking pictures and turned toward them. “No, we can’t,” she said to Debra Lee with a pointed look in Jenna’s direction. “We’ll wait.”

“Good,” Debra Lee replied. Then she suddenly looked sheepish. “I suppose I should have told Vic, but Mark never actually agreed—”

There was a sound behind them, the door to the suite opening and closing with a bang, then a strong male voice calling out, “Deb! Where are you? Get in here!”

Debra Lee gave them a quick smile. “Wait here, please,” she said, then spun around and stepped back into the living room.

Still absorbed in taking pictures, Lauren had wandered farther along the terrace. She was almost completely hidden now by an enormous ficus in an oriental tub. Jenna was standing so close to the exterior wall beside the sliding glass doors that she couldn’t be easily seen, either.

It occurred to her that she should probably move out into the center of the terrace, make sure her presence was noted by whomever had just entered the suite. Instead, she instinctively moved closer to the wall.

The man spoke again, harshly, and though she couldn’t see him any better than he could see her, Jenna felt sure it must be Mark Bishop. “I just spent two excruciating hours listening to that idiot Benchley. He claims there was a major change in top management at Castleman Press last week. Find Scott. Tell him I want to know why it wasn’t in his report. A shakeup like that should have been a red flag that a blind man couldn’t have missed.”

His voice was exactly what Jenna expected—deep, commanding and leaving little room for argument. Nervous tension danced up her spine.

“Right away,” she heard Debra Lee say. And then, “Miss Winston isn’t with you?”

“I didn’t have the heart to make her stay and listen to Benchley, so she went on to Ken’s office to sign some papers. She’ll be here soon. God, I’m whipped. And I need a drink. Benchley’s voice is still making my ears vibrate.”

There was silence for a long minute amid a few small sounds of settling. The rustle of cloth against cloth. The clink of ice being dropped into a glass.

“Your five-o’clock appointment is here,” Debra Lee said at last.