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“Miss McLeod, you can talk to me and my guys as much as you want, but you don’t give the orders.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means talk don’t mean nothing. Unless it comes from Ire.”
Ire… “That’s what they call Connel McDade,” she said, which was stupid because, of course, Daly knew that.
“Aye,” he said. “From the top to the bottom.”
“But he is the top,” she said. “Wasn’t his father murdered?”
“Coupla decades ago.”
“On the order of Ire’s uncle, right? Burl McDade?”
“Wanna know about the boss? Ask the boss,” he said and looked at the building next to them. “We going in?”
“I’m going in. You won’t get past security.”
A sinister light sprang to his eye. “Bet you lunch I will.”
And if she didn’t make sure of that, there could be a scene. This was her life now.
Security wasn’t exactly a high priority in the Collier Communications building. The Chronicler was just one of many CollCom divisions and subsidiaries housed in the Midwest HQ.
Far as she could tell, the guard by the front desk was more for show than anything else. Somewhere in the building was a security office; she’d seen their number in the directory. Despite the rent-a-cops, they got to the elevator and up to her floor without any issues. Great, this Daly guy was going to think she was full of it.
Even their usual guy, Paolo, wasn’t in his booth on their floor. Typical.
Thoughts of humiliation quickly disappeared when she saw the massive floral arrangement sticking up from behind the reception desk hutch.
Lucy leaped to her feet. “Sersha!”
“Morning,” she said, ignoring Daly loitering behind her. “What’s going on?”
The receptionist lifted the vase to the higher level of the desk. “For you!” She didn’t even take the card. “Your secret admirer… Again…! Aren’t you curious who it is?” She knew who it was, just didn’t reveal his identity to the masses. “It’s so exciting. He’s clearly mad about you.”
“He’s mad, I’ll give you that,” she said, stepping backward, right into Daly, so he got a sharp elbow in the ribs. “That’s for sure.”
“Do you want them on your desk?”
“Do I ever want them on my desk?”
Lucy’s light faded. “No… I don’t know why you’re not stoked about this. It’s so romantic.”
Not in her opinion. Sending flowers to her work was cliche. Bad movie material. Evander Manzani would never sweep her off her feet, that was for sure. But for any guy to have a chance, he’d need to do more than open an account with a florist. Talk about by rote. Flowers told her nothing about the man or sent any message that might entice her.
Romance wasn’t dead, it just looked different than it used to.
Most everyone was present when she got to Steeple’s office. The editor was easy-going; he trusted his people. She couldn’t remember the last time everyone under his purview made it to the Monday morning meeting. One or more of them was usually caught up in some story that diverted them from routine. Lucky their boss didn’t crack any whip given she was bringing criminals into their peace.
Trying to slip in without disturbing the flow of the meeting, Daly prevented her from closing the door by wedging himself in the space.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, fighting against the boot he had planted against the door. “You can’t come in here.”
“Ire tell me that?”
“Jesus,” she whispered, aware her colleagues would drink in every detail. “This is a room full of reporters. You can’t be in here. Discussions are confidential.”
