Helen Myers - It's News to Her

“I don’t buy it.” The elevator doors parted and Cord followed Hunter inside. Once they turned to face front again and the doors slid shut, he continued, “All I’m saying is that if we were in love, you wouldn’t be able to hide it, and I know I sure as hell couldn’t.”

Hunter wasn’t prone to blushing, but hearing the undertones of passion in his voice, she felt an unwelcome heat flood her body. She gripped the strap of her leather shoulder bag to keep from yielding to unwanted fidgeting that would give away her physical awareness of him. “Mr. Rivers—”

“Cord.”

She would choke if she tried to call him by his first name. She was already feeling queasy because the elevator was doing its best to beat a record to the first floor. Pressing her free hand to her tummy, she blurted out, “I can’t take this trip with you. If you’ll drop me off at the airport, I’ll see about that alternate flight.”

“Do I frighten you that much?”

“Try annoy.”

“Honesty at last. Thank you. We have a launch point to work from.”

“Better yet, start from the fact that your personal comment just now was inappropriate.”

Unbuttoning his suit jacket to slide his hands into his pants’ pockets, Cord shrugged. “Maybe I’m less formal than my grandfather, but then I’m not eighty nor have I ever been the cookie-cutter, politically correct type. The point is that you have issues with me, and that simply can’t be left unaddressed.”

“As long as I get your station good ratings, what do you care what I think about you?”

“Because I have been thinking about you since the day I talked my grandfather into moving Denny to L.A.—longer, if you must know—and it’s time I do something about that.”

Cord accepted that he might live to regret his honest admission; nevertheless, he was determined to enjoy the moment. The look on Hunter’s lovely face was truly priceless; her deep brown, often cognac-warm eyes went wide, becoming a mirror to a fine mind racing at Mach speed. It wasn’t often that anything or anyone got under Hunter Harding’s skin. When she wasn’t being the consummate professional, she was a prankster often getting the best of the guys in the control room after they’d teased her or played a fast one. This he knew from anecdotes his grandfather had passed on through the years or from staffers themselves. She was always quick with a quip and never lorded her position over the reporters and researchers, or anyone else at the station, which made her well liked. In personality, as well as looks, she could pass for Sandra Bullock’s kid sister.

But he’d been studying her for a long time and knew that beneath that physically delightful shell that won her both male and female fans and earned her a beloved label was a gentle, wounded soul who protected her heart with a samurai’s determination. It troubled him that someone as shallow and self-absorbed as Denny Brewster could have inflicted such hurt on her. Well , no more , he thought. Not if he had anything to do about it. He definitely liked that his compliment was taken exactly the way he’d intended it to be.

As the bell sounded their arrival at the ground floor and the doors parted, he watched as Hunter squared her shoulders, exited and launched into a determined march through the lobby. Quite a feat in that figure-enhancing skirt and killer heels, even with those long legs. While she stood about five-ten in her sexy shoes, he was still inches taller. If he wasn’t so concerned about her slipping on the highly polished, Italian marble floor, he would be grinning with pleasure for the enticing show she was putting on.

“Miss Hunter, Mr. Rivers.” Joey, the security guard, came bustling around the reception desk, all seriousness and authority. “Your car is waiting, sir. Miss Hunter, do you need me to walk you to your vehicle?”

“No need,” Cord replied for her. “She’s coming with me. Our flight probably won’t return until after midnight. Be sure to tell those on the next shift to keep an eye on her vehicle, would you?”

With his low brow furrowed and his lips pursed, Joey nodded. “Absolutely, sir. Have a safe trip.” He held open the first door, then quickly lunged to get the outer door.

As Hunter warmly thanked him, Cord’s attention shifted to the black Cadillac at the curb. The rear door was already open, and his chauffeur stood in attendance.

“Hunter,” Cord said as they drew nearer. “This is Phil Porter, my driver going on four years now. Phil, this is Ms. Harding. That homely guy behind him,” he added, nodding to the handsome blond also dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, “is my executive assistant, Lane Nugent.”

Greetings were exchanged with proper circumspection, and all three of the men waited for Hunter to get settled before climbing in themselves.

As Lane buckled up in the front passenger seat, Cord said to Hunter, “I can’t offer you any refreshments until we get on the jet.”

“I don’t care for anything, anyway, thank you.”

For the first time, Cord wished for the limousine, where he could push the button and close the divide between the front and back seats and even pull drapes. There were things he wanted to say to her, more he wanted to ask, and none of that was possible in this environment. But his grandfather used the limo, as was only right because it provided more security in every way. Cord relied on Phil’s excellent driving for a good part of his safety, and Lane’s expert marksmanship and martial arts skills for the rest. With today’s increased atmosphere for extortion and terrorism, no successful businessman or high-ranking politician could take his or her safety for granted.

“So, tell me about how you got invited to speak up in Jersey,” he said when it was clear that Hunter would remain silent if he let her.

Keeping her eyes forward, she replied politely, “It would have been my alma mater if my father hadn’t died, and we hadn’t moved down to Texas.”

As the Cadillac left the parking lot and merged into service-road traffic, Lane initiated low-key small talk with Phil. Cord knew him well enough to understand he was trying to provide him with what privacy he could.

Cord leaned ever so slightly toward Hunter in order to keep his own voice soft. “What has me curious is how you came to the administration’s attention. You’re barely old enough to have had your ten-year reunion.”

Hunter slid him a brief flattery-will-get-you-nowhere look. “That was two years ago and, since I didn’t graduate there, I didn’t feel I should attend. From what I was told, a former classmate saw some story I did that played on our New York sister network, and she’s active in one way or another in school extracurricular programs. Apparently, she put a bug in someone’s ear, and I was invited.”

“You’re good at promoting everything and everyone but yourself,” Cord said.

Shrugging, Hunter said, “Blame it on my German genes. My Grandmother Bayer used to tell my mother, ‘Selb loben stinkt,’ whenever Mother came from her violin lessons proud of learning a difficult piece.”

“I take it that the translation isn’t complimentary.”

“Self-love stinks.”

“Ha! That explains a good deal.”

“Speaking of compliments, this car is surprisingly low-key.”

“More German genes in play?” Too amused to take offense, Cord replied, “Knowing my grandfather as you do, you must remember he doesn’t approve of us drawing unwanted attention to ourselves. But these are different times, and his safety must come first, so with Lenore’s help, I did get him into the limo. Otherwise, I use this leased vehicle when here. There’s another on each coast, so when we travel, our chauffeurs fly with us. When we travel elsewhere, we rent. It’s proven both more economical and practical working with personnel who know our routines and schedules as well as we do ourselves.”