A spark of awareness rushes up my spine. Is she flirting with me? Or is the booze throwing off my radar? Before I can settle on an answer, she’s on her feet. “There’s my car.” Her fingers sweep lightly over my shoulder as she scoots past me, and I feel it down to my marrow. “This was nice. I’ll see you later, Mr. Blade.”
It takes a shit ton of effort to stop myself from turning to watch her go. Instead, I smile into my next sip of coffee. “Here’s hopin’, Ms. Marsh.”
Chapter Four
Emi
Sunlight glints off the windows of the steel-and-glass monolith that will soon be the Empress Hotel and Conference Center. Blinded for a moment, I don’t see the errant rock in my path, and I almost go down for the second time in twenty-four hours. Not the impression I want to make on the owner of Consolidated Investment Group. This could be the biggest interview of my career.
But Eugene Fowler is distracted, his phone to his ear, talking in hushed tones. From the set of his shoulders, the conversation isn’t going well. Poor Eugene. If he thinks he’s having a bad day now…
I scan the expansive construction site, looking for the best place to set up. My cameraman, Kyle, points to the southwest corner of the half-finished hotel tower. “The light there should be perfect, Emi.”
“Great. Get some wide shots of the conference center—all the glass windows on the west side, the guys pouring concrete, and the signage—while I prep Fowler. He’s gonna need some ground rules.”
With a chuckle, Kyle hefts the camera onto his shoulder as Eugene turns and adjusts his big, silver belt buckle like it’s tied directly to his dick. Years of experience keep me from saying a word, though the urge to roll my eyes is almost overwhelming.
Breathe, Emi. If he wants to play at being a big-time Texan—even though he’s only been here two years—let him. It’ll make for a better story.
Heaven help me. He pinches the ends of his handlebar mustache with a wink, then ambles over like he owns the whole damn world.
“Mr. Fowler, it’s a pleasure,” I say with a smile wide enough, my lips would crack if I were allowed to let them. On-air reporters have to maintain decorum, after all. And certain physical standards.
Fowler's gaze trails down my body, pausing—of course—on my breasts. The white silk shirt and push-up bra do a damn good job of making me look a fair bit younger than my forty years. He stops again at the hem of my skirt—and my legs, bare from just above the knee down to my black pumps.
“Well, ain’t you just the prettiest thing,” he says as he leans in to peck my cheek.
I take a step back before his lips touch my skin, but keep the smile plastered in place. “Why thank you, Mr. Fowler. But I can’t mess up my on-screen make-up.” Gesturing behind me, I continue. “My cameraman, Kyle, will need about fifteen minutes to get some B-roll, and then we’ll get started. While he’s working, let’s go over the questions I’ll ask you. That sound good? Oh, and Cheri here is going to make sure you look perfect.”
His beady eyes narrow. Did he think he was camera ready? Hardly. His cheeks are shinier than a newly minted penny.
After a beat, he gets himself under control. “Of course, little lady. You’re in charge.”
Yes. Yes, I am.
“When we’re on-air, I must insist you call me Emmylou or Ms. Marsh. Station rules, I’m afraid.” At his hardening expression, I quickly add, “You don’t mind, do you, sugar?”
He’s clearly not from Texas or he’d know “sugar” isn’t a term of endearment. Anyone born and raised here knows it means “idiot.” But it does the job. While I hate—hate—using the little tricks women in my position have been relying on for decades, I’m not above them. Not for a story like this. And Fowler doesn’t know what’s coming for him.
As if God himself agrees with me, Eugene chuckles. “Not at all. I’m putty in your pretty little hands.”
Ick.
Cheri, the perky redhead who does my makeup, approaches Fowler with a container of pressed powder and a brush. “Mind if I just tone down those cheeks a bit?” she asks.
“You can do whatever you want to me, darlin’.” His wink turns my stomach. From the look on Cheri’s face, she’s right there with me. But she’s been in this industry almost as long as I have. She knows how to hold her tongue.
At least in Los Angeles, the guys had the decency to be a little sly about their chauvinism. They’d talk behind my back, occasionally let a hint of derision slip into their voices, but if I called them on it, they’d apologize faster than a duck on a June bug.
I’d give anything to return to the city of angels, but I’m stuck here until I get a story juicy enough to catapult me back into the national spotlight.
Turns out, leaving Los Angeles for a job in Texas—even if I had no choice—is a career-ending move. Unless I get my ass in gear. One story big enough to make it all the way to the national news cycle and stay there for at least a month, and I’m back in the game. Otherwise, I’m a “has-been.” An old has-been, even at only forty. In television news, that’s ancient.
But this story? I’m crossing my fingers and toes. Hell, I’d find a way to cross my eyelashes if that weren’t against company policy. If I’m right—and I’ve done enough research to know I am—this is my ticket back to the big leagues.
With my smile in place, I return my focus to Fowler and flip open my notebook. The man’s big. At least six feet tall and carrying an extra hundred pounds on his bulky frame. Hazel eyes, a close shave outside of the mustache. And looking for all the world like he’s completely and totally in control. I wonder how long that will last?
“So, we’ll start out with a little history of Consolidated Investment Group. How long you’ve run the company, some of your past projects, and what inspired you to choose this spot for the Empress Hotel and Conference Center, okay?” I glance down at the little notebook, then back up at him. The neatly printed text on the page is mostly for show—and to give me something to look at before I flutter my eyelashes at the disgusting ass in front of me. That move should spur him into answering any question.
