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“Promise?” she said again. “I’ll call him myself and will let him know if you don’t.”
I shook my head and waved my hand. “I promise.”
She stood up and looked me over from head to toe. “You look back to normal, Kate, but your hormones aren’t. You have to let Drake know for your own good.”
“I will,” I said and forced a smile. If Lara didn’t believe me, she left anyway.
"And tell him to call me and talk to me about the Herald article. We need some kind of PR response, depending on what it says."
"I'll tell him as soon as he gets in."
I thanked her once more for coming over and closed the door, glad for her to be gone so I could prepare for Drake’s return. I didn’t want him to arrive home to find Lara there with me. I had to pull myself together so I could ask him about the emails to Lisa, listen to what he had to say, and then decide what to think. When he was ready, I’d tell him about my sadness, but there was so much other crap going on in our lives now, I didn’t want to burden him with my own lack of happiness.
I put Sophia down in her swing and went to the kitchen, determined to call Quance and order some food for us. Drake would be hungry when he returned and I didn’t want him to come home to no supper on the table. Besides, cleaning would help me push thoughts about Drake's email to Lisa out of my mind for at least a little while…
Chapter 3 : Drake
I checked in with the front desk clerk who doubled as a security guard. He had me sign a roster and then gave me a temporary ID card. I took the elevator up to the fifth floor and emerged out of the elevator into a posh room with a modular reception desk and a pretty youn
g blond sitting behind it.
“You're working late," I said when I went to the desk.
"The press never sleeps," she said with a smile. "Are you Dr. Morgan?"
I nodded. "Yes. I’m here to see Ms. Peterson.”
She looked me over and smiled brightly. “Please go into the waiting room. She’s down at the news room for an editorial meeting but I’ll let her know you’re here.”
I nodded and went to the small waiting room, taking a seat by a table upon which lay a dozen glossy magazines. I checked my cell to see what time it was and then scanned the headlines on my news app.
Within about five minutes, the elevator doors opened and off walked Janice Peterson herself – late thirties, long blond hair to her shoulders, dressed in a crisp white dress and jacket. The skirt of her dress was rumpled and she looked tired, but she smiled when she saw me.
“Dr. Morgan,” she said, all professional. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
She offered her hand and we shook, her grip firm. Then, she led me into a corner office, which had floor to ceiling windows on each side of the room, overlooking Manhattan. It was quite impressive. I didn’t realize how high up in the food chain she must be.
She pointed to a chair across from her desk and I waited until she sat and then I followed suit.
“Well, you must be curious about why I called you here,” she said, sitting back in her chair, eyeing me carefully.
“I admit I was. I assume you’ve dug up something about my past and want my reaction.”
“Precisely. One of my reporters came to me with a story about you and well,” she said and laughed a bit sardonically. “I felt a need to check it out myself and then I realized I needed to give you the chance to respond before we went to press.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, crossing my legs and sitting back, trying to relax while preparing myself for what I’d find in the article.
“Like I said in my email, I usually do this over the phone, but in your case, I wanted to talk to you in private. Here’s the article,” she said and searched through a pile of print documents on her desk. “You can look at it but I have to get that back.”
She leaned over and handed me the four-paragraph article with a few red marks on it. I read it over. It described me as the husband of Katherine McDermott, daughter of the well-respected former Supreme Court of New York justice, Ethan McDermott. It said she was involved in a hit and run attempted murder near Central Park in June. The article covered the incident and that Kate had emergency surgery to deliver Sophia. It also mentioned that Kate had to have a hysterectomy and would never have another baby. I frowned when I read that, not wanting the whole world to know that. It was none of their goddamned business as far as I was concerned.
I kept reading and then came to the section that I was sure she called me down to discuss.
It described me as a Dominant in Manhattan’s BDSM community, and said I had been involved for the past six years. According to sources, I was into bondage and dominance, often did demonstrations of rope technique, and had several mistresses over the years. The suggested headline was ‘Manhattan’s Real Mr. Grey’.
“I’m not him,” I said and threw down the article. “If you and your reporter knew anything about BDSM, you’d never even consider that for a headline. I’m so far from him that anyone in the lifestyle would laugh you out of the room.”
“I know that,” she said. “My reporter asked around and people have said that you’re a kitten compared to him. But,” she said and looked at me pointedly. “We also spoke to someone who thinks you have a mean streak in you. She showed us some photographs of her bruises and welts.”
