Lass Small - Whatever Comes

He interrupted in his lazy, husky voice. “You wrote the cover story on the Rocker. Uh, what’s his name.”

She supplied the name easily. “Sean Morant. If you don’t recall that name, you must not be into Rock.”

Adroitly he avoided a reply by saying, “The cover was impressive. Do you really think he managed so many women in that short a time?” He began laying his trap.

“Pictorial proof.”

“You don’t think it might have been just circumstances? That he’s an actual innocent?”

She grinned.

To cover his face, he scratched his nose, since she was looking at him with thoughtful eyes, but he went on, “The pictures were taken,” he conceded. “But he might not have even been very well acquainted with those women.” He pretended the comment was casual. He had to hear her reply.

“I believe it’s the exactness in the duplication of the pictures that got to me. He always looks the same, his clothes, his designer-tossed hair, his expression of boredom. Only the woman is different. It’s time for another picture. The time lapse seems almost measured. It’s as if Sean yawns and grumbles, ‘It’s time for me to be photographed with another bimbo.’”

He smoothed a hand over his hair to be sure it was all still neat and orderly, and he questioned with raised brows, “Bimbo?”

Amabel groaned. “I had to interview them. One does wonder why he chooses them.” Then she had the grace to blush rather vividly and sputter, “Well, I mean, I suppose...” And she just coughed and tried to change the subject.

But he wouldn’t allow it. “You think he just chooses a body for...physical reasons.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s not for conversation.” Her reply was so positive on that score that it sounded a little heated.

“Do you have an unrequited desire for Sean’s body?” His eyes were almost hidden by his lashes, but she could see the glints of golden laughter in them.

“I have the strangest feeling I know you.”

“Ever been to Fort Wayne?” he inquired with honest candor.

“No. I am going to Indianapolis in March for a Women’s Seminar—”

“I’ll be just north of there, in Fort Wayne. Where is the seminar?”

“At the Hyatt.”

“Ever been to Indiana? We’ve lots of wonders to see.” And he had eased her past talking about who he might look like—or indeed, who he might be.

They talked of hotels, Indiana, California, people, and she introduced him to several people as Tris. Two asked if they knew him. Was he a publicist? He looked familiar somehow. He replied, “Well, if you’ve ever been to Indiana there are a good many of us around, and we tend to have the family look. My mother was a Fell, and her family were Davie and Hughs. And there are some...” But oddly enough by then the questioner had lost interest.

At the buffet, he crossed glances with Jamie and gave him a bland, vague look of a stranger. Jamie coughed then choked quite hard, and he had to be slapped on the back.

Tris said to Amabel, “He’s probably drunk. Most reporters drink too much. Do you?”

“He isn’t a reporter—in fact he’s Sean Morant’s publicist. No woman drinks too much if she’s as opposed to men as I am.”

“Now why would you be opposed to men?” he inquired in great surprise.

“Basically... Well, that word says it all. Men are very basic.”

Tris snagged them each another drink from a passing tray—carried, of course, by a waiter—and he handed one to Amabel before he lifted his as he said, “Here’s to the good old days, when men were men and women were barefoot and pregnant.”

She refrained from sipping the drink and cautioned, “I can see we need to talk about women’s rights. I do believe you’ve been somewhat out of touch? And that’s especially bad for a news—”

But then a sly and droll woman’s voice interrupted, “You still here, Mab? I thought you had left.”

“Not yet.” And Tris was delighted to see Mab blush faintly. “I’m still here.”

And the woman eyed Tris as she replied in very slow, drawling tones, “So I see.”

Amabel ignored that and didn’t introduce Tris but asked him, “Has our sunshine staggered your physical balance and given you a cold? You’re a little hoarse.”

Tris replied quite easily, “All hog callers are hoarse.” And with some pleasure in his own ready tongue, he added, “Pigs are deaf.”

“You’ve said you were never a farmer, and since you’re new to the newspaper business, what did you do before? I have such a strange feeling I know you. Have I seen you somewhere?”

“Interesting you say that. It’s the oddest thing, but women often say that to me. Maybe it’s our past lives, my Viking ancestors raiding villages and carrying off women, and there’s now a basic, genetic fear of me.” He smiled. “Are you afraid of me?”

And that strange shiver shimmered inside her from her core to her nipples. She glanced aside and decided it wasn’t Tris; it was the damp cloth on her chest. She asked, “Have you been in porno flicks?”

“Do you watch them?”

“No, of course not.” He puzzled her and she was a tad impatient as she went on. “But you seem reluctant to tell me what you did before you began work on a newspaper.”

“The Journal Gazette, ” he supplied the name as if to her inquiry.

She accepted that. “Before you began to work for the Journal Gazette, what did you do?”

“Is this an interview?” His eyes glinted. He was enjoying himself.

“No, of course not.”

“I’m perfectly willing, you know. This is your great opportunity.” He gave her a wicked smile. “If there are any questions at all, I’ll answer them truthfully. Fire away.”

“What did you do before you began reporting for the Journal Gazette? ” She pretended to get out a pad and poised an invisible pencil as she looked up, elaborately attentive.

“I am only just associated with the Journal. I have yet to turn in my first article.” All true.

“And... what did you do before that?”

“A multitude of things, nothing with any future. I’ve been the background for Vogue fashion models a couple of times.” That was true. “I’ve helped do a Public Broadcast conservation tape.” That was true. “And I’m a poet.” He wrote lyrics.

“Make me a poem.”

“Uh, there once was a woman named Mab, who with men would flirt just a tad, but when it came to brass tack, she would just turn her back, and leave the men weeping and mad.”

She laughed. “Limericks are easy.”

“Poems take longer. Anything worthwhile takes longer. Like friendship.” He watched her. “Snap judgments are generally a disaster. I’m a good man.” That, too, was true.

She sobered. “Did I give the impression I thought you otherwise? I don’t know you well enough to make such a decision.”

“Very true.” His face was serious.

“And do you think I am really as heartless as your limerick?”

He smiled. “I’ll find out.”

“We were speaking of women’s rights,” she began. “After all this time, in our struggle, and with you being in the newspaper business, it seems incredible you can be so out of touch.” She was amused by his rash stance.

He didn’t bend. He replied, “You’ll be glad it’s over. It was nonsense. Thank God you all have come to your senses!”

“God is on our side,” she countered.

“If you tell that old, old joke about God being a woman, you’re going to make me cranky.”

They looked at each other, and although they smiled, amused by their chatter, their bodies moved almost as if they were squaring off for some kind of combat. He understood it, but she wasn’t really aware of more than the feeling. Both felt the strong attraction between them and each had a very good reason to be wary of the other.