She glanced down at her phone. It was later than she realized.
“I have a meeting. I can take a cab from here.”
“Brynn Halliday of Sky News,” he replied. And then at her surprised expression, “A young woman by the name of Jewel at your office mentioned it.”
“Supposedly she has new information about the accident from one of her sources.”
“Whom she wouldn't name over the phone,” James finished the thought. “Did it occur that she's playing you?”
“We're playing each other. If she has information, then I want to know. I can handle Brynn Halliday.” She stepped to the curb and waved down a cab.
“Where are you meeting her?”
“A club called the Blue Oyster.”
He waved the driver off and caught the flash of anger in those blue eyes.
“We don't want to keep Ms. Halliday waiting.”
End of conversation.
The Blue Oyster was like other popular outdoor clubs, even in the middle of a London drizzle.
It was Friday evening, crowded, and music pumped out into the night, crowded tables under umbrellas, servers with trays of drinks weaving through the obstacle course of bodies under the overhead canopy, a blend of young professionals, singles, and those who pretended to be. It could have been any popular New York night scene. The players were all the same, just a different place, different day.
It was on the corner with cross streets on two sides that fed from the city center, the river flowing behind, with lights strung along the roofline. People wandered in from the street or tied their boats up along the dock at the river's edge. Tables were full, while others gathered on the dance floor under a canopy. Leave it to Londoners to carry on even in that weather. James pulled to the curb along the frontage street.
Brynn Halliday was seated at a curbside table across the patio, that trademark mane of blonde hair worn loose and tossedover one shoulder. Journalism-lite, Cate had said of her. Tabloid journalism in a world where opinion took precedent over actual reporting of facts.
“Put her in combat boots in the middle of Anbar province, no beauty salons or designer boutiques, but with unlimited tanning opportunities. Now, that would be a story!” Cate once said.
There had been a temporary fall from grace the year before. Sky News’ star reporter had exaggerated—call it invented—the details of a story about a pleasure cruise hostage situation in the Mediterranean.
She claimed to be in danger trying to reach the hostages with the rescue team. It turned out she missed the boat, literally, remaining safely ashore then joining the rescue team after they returned with all the hostages safe. She had scooped the story, but in the rush to be the first on-air, she had stretched the facts and her role in all of it.
An on-hour apology to the rescue team as well as the families involved was issued by the network when details were leaked to another network. If she hadn’t been the star at Sky News, she might have found herself out on the street, hustling Star magazines. Instead, she took an extended vacation, then returned to a new assignment covering human interest stories.
Kris had no illusions about the purpose of the meeting. A scoop about author Catherine Bennett Ross might go a long way toward re-establishing Brynn Halliday's credibility, and getting back a primetime slot with the network. She caught a glance, and Brynn waved like they were old friends.
“I'll wait here,” James told her.
That caught her by surprise, since he'd pushed his way into her meeting with Callish, not to mention insisting on driving her to the Blue Oyster.
“You don't want to meet Brynn Halliday?” she said with exaggerated surprise.
He leaned back against the car, and lit a cigarette. “I'm not into crowded places.”
There was something in the way he said it—a memory, something she'd heard before when her brother came back from one of his tours in the Middle East, changed into someone she hardly knew.
“You're a difficult person to reach,” Brynn Halliday said, looping an arm through Kris’s as she crossed the street and joined her.
“This is one of my favorite places,” she added conversationally. “Would you like a drink?”
“Whisky neat,” she told the waiter as she took a chair sat at the table. “You have information about the accident?” Kris reminded her.
Dark blonde brows arched.
“You are direct,” Brynn commented, then, “I like that.”
