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“If he isn’t, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. It will be a huge story and I’m thinking you’ll probably need a partner to write it with you.”
“I don’t need a partner—” she started, but he held up a hand.
“Look, I know you’re good. I know you’re ready to show me what you’ve got. But you’re still a rookie reporter and it doesn’t matter how good you are, kid. There’s no way I’m trusting a story this big to a snot-nosed society reporter.”
“You’re going to use me for the grunt work and then cut me out.” She kept her voice calm when all she really wanted to do was curse. This could be her big break, and he was already talking about taking it away from her.
“I didn’t say that. What I said was that I’m going to let you investigate and if you get something, I’m going to let you help write the biggest story of your career to date. If you want to write this story, if you want to see your byline front page above the fold, you need to give me something to work with. Show me what you got.”
“Of course.” She nodded calmly while inside she was dancing. What he said made sense—and it was fair. She would investigate the hell out of this story, find out everything she could and even find out the angle she wanted to take. Maybe she’d even write the article and present it to him as a fait accompli. Then he would see what she could do and make an informed decision about how to proceed. And if she did this right—if she triple-checked her sources and dotted every i and crossed everything that even looked like a t—then he wouldn’t have a choice. He’d have to move her out of the society pages and into news. Or at least into features.
This was what she’d been waiting for. Her big break. The story she’d been dying to tell.
“Got it?” Malcolm asked again.
Oh, she had it. God, did she ever. “Got it,” she agreed.
“Good. Then go do your job. And don’t forget, this is an extra assignment. You’ve still got your society-page duties—including that party tomorrow night. I’ll cut down on you some, so you’ve got time to work on this on the clock, but you can’t let the rest of your stories suffer for it.”
“I won’t.”
He nodded, looking satisfied. Then, out of nowhere, he gestured wildly toward the door. “So go! Does it look like I’ve got time to stand around here chatting all damn day?”
“Right. I’m going.” She quickly picked up her stuff, headed toward the door. But she stopped right before she crossed the threshold, turning back to look at him. “Thanks for giving me a shot. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t, kid. I knew the second I saw that picture that you would be perfect for the job.”
“Picture?” she asked. “What picture?”
“The one of you and Nic Durand at the Children’s Hospital Gala in San Diego a few weeks ago. It was in the files under Bijoux when I went to look. Pretty dress, by the way.”
She felt all the blood drain from her face as his words sunk in. “Me and Nic Durand?”
“Yeah. You look surprised. Didn’t you get his name before you danced with him?”
Oh, God. Oh, God. Ohgod! Panic hit her like a freight train as she figured out that Nic—her Nic—was actually Nic Durand. But that was impossible. He’d said he was a PR guy. She remembered every second of the time she spent with him and she remembered, very clearly, him saying he worked in public relations. Then again, maybe he hadn’t.
Something like that.
Those were his exact words when she’d asked him what he did. She’d leaped to the conclusion that he was a PR guy and he’d let her make the leap. More, he’d encouraged her to do it.
Typical, she told herself as she tried to tamp down the fury and the fear rocketing through her. He hadn’t wanted her to know who he really was, hadn’t wanted her to know how much money he was worth, just in case she decided to try to sink her claws into him. As if she’d ever do something like that. As if she would ever even consider sinking her claws into any man.
But figuring all this out now didn’t make her current situation any less precarious. What was she supposed to do? Obviously, this was a very clear conflict of interest. She’d slept with Nic Durand, for God’s sake. And then blown him off. And now she was supposed to investigate him? Fairly and impartially and with a very definite eye on the prize of becoming a reporter who did real stories as opposed to one who covered whose designer dress was actually an imitation?
How could she do it? How could she not do it, when she was standing in the middle of Malcolm’s office and he was looking at her so expectantly? Maybe even paternally. She didn’t want to disappoint him, but she also didn’t know if she could do this. Didn’t know if she could investigate Nic and his brother for something so despicable when—up until two minutes ago—there’d been a part of her that had longed to see him again for very nonbusiness reasons.
She must have been standing there trying to figure things out for longer than she’d thought, because Malcolm suddenly put a bracing hand on her shoulders. “Everything okay there, Desi?” he asked gruffly.
“Yes, of course,” she lied. “Sorry, I was just thinking about what angle to take with my investigation.”
“Well, I’d start by using the gala angle.”
She looked at him blankly. “The gala angle?”
“Sure. You’ve already met him at least once, right?”
“Yes.”
