by Raina Lynn
What pulled at him most, though, was the ancient brick building at the intersection of Main and Washbum—and all it represented. He’d always wanted to own a small-town newspaper, but Karen had demanded nothing less than the nonstop excitement of Los Angeles. Out of commitment to their marriage, he’d bowed to her wishes.
Contentment pervaded his soul as he buttoned his suit coat and cast a possessive look at the unassuming building. This, at least, was one dead dream that he’d resurrected and made reality. The seller had been so desperate to retire, he didn’t even care that Mason wouldn’t have the down payment until the house in L.A. sold. As long as Mason made regular payments, Ralph Everett would be satisfied. So was he.
Flooded with pride and hope, he opened the door—his door—and stepped inside. The familiar odors of machine grease, paper and ink scented the air in the simple reception room. A staggering wave of nervousness nearly overwhelmed him. In buying the daily, he had risked everything. If he failed, it would mean bankruptcy and starting over from scratch. Even if he succeeded, it would be years before he could afford to buy another home and return to his previous standard of living. He took another breath, catching once again the familiar smells of a newspaper office. His confidence returned. He might not do relationships well, but this was solid ground. This he knew.
“Good morning, Mr. Bradshaw.” His new secretary smiled warmly. Ralph had said Vicki Haynes had been with the paper for years, ran his life like a well-oiled machine and wrote “damn fine freelance” if the mood struck. Mason had liked her on sight. Her friendly openness seemed to typify everything he’d ever hoped a small town could be.
After they exchanged pleasantries, he said, “As soon as everyone arrives, I’d like to call a staff meeting, something informal to get acquainted.”
“Certainly, Mr. Bradshaw.”
He winced. That made him sound like his father, a man he had few occasions to see and less desire to emulate. “Call me Mason, would you?” At her affirmative reply, he headed down the hallway for another look around.
“By the way,” she called after him. “Jill Mathesin, the bookkeeper, is back from vacation. If you’d like to meet her now, she’s in her office—first door past yours—swearing at the mess the guys made of her desk. On second thought,” she added, a grimace in her voice, “you might want to wait until she calms down first. Otherwise, you might get hit by shrapnel meant for somebody else.”
He felt his face grow tight. Ralph had assured him Jill could “squeeze a dollar till the eagle screamed.” Mason had been around bookkeepers like her before. Their souls were made out of ledger paper, and everyone was assigned a line. Nothing existed for them except the totals at the end of the month.
“Oh, well,” he murmured under his breath, “everyone else here seems to be human.”
Steeling himself to meet the crone who’d pass judgment on his abilities to keep the Journal afloat, he stepped through her open doorway. A slender woman stood hunched over the desk, her back to him, muttering. She clutched a wad of receipts in one hand and pawed through a stack of invoices with the other.
Jill had a head full of short blond curls barely reaching her tanned neck. Her sleeveless white blouse was tucked into a western-cut denim skirt, the hem of which hung in feminine folds below her knees. And she was barefoot— barefoot!—her leather sandals haphazardly stuffed under her desk.
“Jerry is dead meat,” she growled, slamming down the stack of papers. “I’m taking him out to the parking lot. Then I’m going to run over him a few—”
Gratefully revising his opinion of a middle-aged battleax, Mason laughed. “Jerry Williams? Isn’t he in charge of advertising? Seems to me we need him around here.”
She whirled around and stared at him as if he were a ghost who’d materialized from nowhere. Mason had been prepared to fire off another snappy remark, but his brain suddenly shut down.
Jill Mathesin looked so much like Karen it made his skin crawl. Her eyes lacked the calculated sophistication of his estranged wife’s, but they were the same shape and same rich, chocolate brown. Doe eyes. The high cheekbones and sensuous mouth were identical, as were the pert nose and elegant jawline.
The woman’s surprise gave way to a frank perusal of her own, and her eyes lit in startled appreciation. He didn’t want to see it, but he wasn’t blind. Nor did he miss the darting glance to the band of pale skin on his finger where his wedding ring had rested.
Her eyes clouded with indecision for the briefest of moments before she stuck out her hand. “Jill Mathesin, Bookkeeper Extraordinaire. I take it you’re the new Head Honcho around here?”
Still not completely recovered from the innocent blow she’d delivered to his midsection, Mason numbly shook her hand. Her grip was confident and honest.
His brain seemed to have short-circuited, and the best he could do was mumble something about the staff meeting he wanted that morning. She just stood there smiling at him with open interest. Given the circumstances, he enjoyed it even less than usual.
“Umm, who’s in charge of making coffee?” he asked. Lame, he castigated himself. Very lame.
If she sensed how threatened she made him feel, it didn’t show in her cheerful voice. “Coffee’s like everything else at the Journal. Whoever sees something first is in charge of it. Job descriptions don’t really work around here.” She smiled impishly, and he recoiled. “While we’re at it, we only have one bathroom for everybody. It’s in the back of the pressroom. The door’s marked The Titanic. In case Ralph conveniently forgot to tell you, it floods frequently.
“We also have a standing rule. Any male who leaves the seat up is in serious danger of immediate bodily injury. That includes you, even though—technically—you own the throne.”
Mason’s mouth sagged open. If her looking so eerily like his estranged wife wasn’t bad enough, he felt like he’d just been hit by a cyclone. He stood staring at her, and she cocked her head expectantly. With her huge brown eyes, she looked like Disney’s Bambi. The whole thing was too much, and he beat a cowardly retreat to the break room, a cubbyhole with a hand-painted sign on the door designating it The Closet.
Vicki poked her head around the corner. “Well? Still think we’ve been overrun by a Los Angeles squirrel?”
“Don’t know yet. You’re right about one thing, though. He’s no Denzel Washington.” Jill forced a grin. Vicki would want to know if any chemistry had sparked, and the best course of action would be to feign interest and let her friend get it out of her system. The problem was, Jill had found herself all too attracted, and it scared the stuffing out of her. “Definitely Alec Baldwin. Best of all, he appears to own a newly naked ring finger.”
Vicki stepped in and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, her smile fading. “Honey, that man is USDA Choice, so I hate to throw up any caution signs—but I’ve seen that haunted look in a man’s eyes before. Unless I miss my guess, he’s been hurt bad, and not long ago.”
“I noticed,” Jill murmured, relieved. There wouldn’t be a sales pitch this time. She could figure out on her own why Mason Bradshaw had swept away ninety percent of her battle scars just by walking into her office. “I don’t know what his story is, but I’ll bet my last pair of panty hose he’s still in shell shock from whatever hit him.” She shook her head. “Too bad. Not only is he extremely easy on the eyes, but that baritone of his is sexy enough to melt concrete.”
Vicki chortled. “No argument there.” Then her pencil-thin eyebrows lowered. “But if he just made your ‘A’ list, and if we’re right, the timing couldn’t be worse. The last thing you need is a man on the rebound.”
“Yeah, I know, and I think I scared him somehow.”
“Came on a little strong, did we?” Vicki asked drily.
Jill rolled her eyes. “No, seriously. He gave me the strangest look. Like he expected one thing and discovered the Bride of Frankenstein.”
An hour later, the dozen or so men and women who worked at the Stafford Review-Journal crammed
into Mason’s tiny office and jockeyed for a place to see. Mason leaned back on his desk, his weight braced on his hands, one ankle crossed over the other. The pose looked casual enough, but the coiled tension in his eyes told Jill the truth. She didn’t like anyone feeling like he was on the hot seat—not even a new boss—so she gave him an encouraging grin.
He stared at her, then blinked as if he expected an apparition to vanish under the cold light of reality.
Forcing a polite smile in return, Mason turned his attention to the group. “I imagine learning that the former publisher sold the paper without warning gave all of you a few sleepless nights.”
Nervous chuckles rolled through the staff.
“Even though the sale went through in very little time, I investigated the Journal thoroughly. You people do good work, and no one is being downsized or otherwise replaced.”
He’d hit where the rubber met the road, and Jill sensed the pent-up apprehension flow from the room like a soft breeze. Something seemed to take hold that moment, too. The beginnings of loyalty. If this man intended to play fair, they’d all work their little tushies off for him. A Los Angeles squirrel might not be so bad, after all.
The man in question seemed to notice her again. This time when he blinked, he looked as though he were trying to keep from shaking his head to clear it. Weird.
“I realize profit isn’t a word normally associated with the Review-Journal—”
Everyone laughed.
“—but I think we can do a little better if we concentrate on what we do best and not try to compete with the bigger papers out of Seattle and Vancouver.”
We. Jill liked the sound of that. Her opinion of him went up a notch. He outlined his plans and asked for feedback, but she only half listened. Every time their eyes met, he looked at her so strangely. Why?
As the meeting broke up, he made small talk with the reporters and scheduled a production meeting, but his scrutiny never left Jill until she walked from the room.
Once out in the hall, she cornered Vicki. “Are my clothes on inside out?”
“What?” Her head snapped around, making the beads in her hair rattle softly.
“Bradshaw is acting like I’m some sort of hallucination.”
“You’re imagining things.” Vicki waved a hand dismissively.
“No, I’m not. If I’m not his answer to Demi Moore, fine. But I don’t think anything about my appearance is particularly shocking, do you?”
Vicki put an arm around her and steered her into the break room. “You know what your problem is?”
Jill poured coffee into her favorite mug, the large one with two handles. “Well, according to you it’s lack of—”
“Don’t be crude.”
Jill snorted. “Okay, Dr. Ruth, what’s my beef with the world?”
“While you were gone, your desk was defiled by heathens who don’t understand the concept of an ‘in’ basket. After two weeks of pampering, the reality of this place fried your brain.”
“Must be it.” She took a tentative sip. The coffee at work often tasted so horrible that she tried to give her stomach fair warning. Not bad today. Ben, the press supervisor must have made it. “If I get organized this morning, how about we celebrate and go to lunch?”
They firmed up plans, and Jill headed back to her desk. As she passed Mason’s open door, he looked up. There was no mistaking it. He looked bewildered. It hurt.
“Three-piece suit types aren’t my thing anyway,” she muttered, taking a swallow and closing herself in her office.
On Friday, she had a question about payroll. She didn’t have a clue what the man wanted to draw as a salary—not that he could have much. Just as she reached his door, she heard his voice raised.
“If you have anything further to say, Karen, it had better be to your lawyer about signing the property settlement.” There was a short pause. “I told you, I’m not interested. Goodbye.” The last was punctuated by the slam of a telephone receiver hitting its cradle.
Helen Armstrong, who’d been a Journal reporter since the Civil War, came out of the newsroom and gave Jill a puzzled look. Jill realized she’d been holding on to the doorknob, eavesdropping. Blushing, she barged in.
Mason’s skin was pale. He looked a little like he’d just been run over by a garbage truck.
“Everything okay in here?” she asked. Immediately, she could have kicked herself. Nothing like prying into a man’s personal life to make a good impression. Then again, she cared about people. Couldn’t help it. If there was something she could do, she would.
“Perfectly, why?” His body tensed defensively.
She knew she could lie and say her question had been nothing more than a smart remark. But that wasn’t the truth, so she crossed her arms and leaned on the doorjamb. “I accidentally overheard the tail end of your conversation. It sounds as if you’re going through a divorce.” Which, in Jill’s mind, explained his shell-shocked appearance on most days. “If you need someone to talk to.... You know—one combat veteran to another? Whatever you tell me won’t go any further.”
His marvelously kissable mouth gaped open. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine, but my offer stands. Half the staff have been in that spot, too. All I’m saying is that you have friends here if you want them.”
Mason pursed his lips and squared his shoulders in a vaguely insulted posture. The body language did not invite open communication. “Thank you, again. I’ll remember that.”
She couldn’t tell if he was genuinely annoyed or just trying to project that impression. Either way, it didn’t matter. She’d made her pitch. What he did with it was up to him.
“Then we need to talk about something only mildly less personal.” She pulled up a chair. “Payroll. Specifically, your niche in it.”
To her surprise, the tension visibly drained from him, and they got to work.
A month later at the employees’ annual July blowout at Memorial Park, Jill paused in serving up a glob of potato salad and glanced at the edge of the picnic area. From a distance, Mason stood surveying the scene, hands stuffed in his pockets.
Since he’d taken over the paper, Jill had discovered a whole new dimension to the term “reserved.” What she saw in him mirrored too closely the basket case she’d been after Donald left her. Mason’s eyes held that same haunted look, and she’d repeatedly caught him staring off into space, apparently lost in dark thought. The idea of anyone trying to survive all that pain alone overcame her sense of self-preservation. The initial spark of attraction had grown into full-fledged awareness, and until she could sort through her emotions, she’d have preferred to avoid him. But he needed a friend, and she intended to be there. How could she live with herself, otherwise?
“Nobody but Mason Bradshaw would come to a park wearing a suit and tie,” she sighed to Vicki, who was busy getting hot dogs down her toddlers, ages two and four.
Vicki followed her gaze. “Well, at least he showed up. How did you manage that?”
“Two weeks of badgering and harassment followed by a healthy dose of guilt and shame.”
“Oh?” Vicki chuckled.
“I told him Ralph never missed one, and that everyone would be really hurt if he snubbed his lowly peons.”
“You’re bad.”
“Yeah, but he looks like a little boy who wants to play but doesn’t know how to join the fun.”
Resolve roared in like a flood tide, and Mason didn’t stand a chance. Jill finished filling her plate, crossed to where he stood and shoved the plate into his hands. “Welcome to the party, Bradshaw.” She pointed exaggeratedly to the fried chicken and all the trimmings. “This is called fun food. Proper eating attire is church jeans and a T-shirt, not your best suit.”
He blinked at her. “Church jeans?”
“Yeah,” she answered as if speaking to a particularly dense child. “You know, holey ones?”
He groaned, a grin twitching the corne
rs of his sensuous lips. “The more holes, the better, I suppose?”
“Absolutely.”
Their eyes met and locked, warming her. Here was a kindred spirit—strong, but wounded and in need of a little support to get him through. She swallowed hard and turned her back. “Hurry up and eat. Then go home and change. You’re needed on the volleyball court in forty-five minutes.” She marched halfway back to the food-laden tables before pointedly glancing over her shoulder to see if he’d followed.
He hadn’t, but he watched her intently. Within the clouded depths of his hazel eyes, she saw puzzlement, speculation and a hint of turmoil she could only guess at. Her heart drummed slowly in her chest, and she fought back the urge to dive into her Volkswagen and leave. Fortunately for her sanity, he dropped his gaze to his plate and experimentally poked at the homemade chili beans. Something told her he was debating more than whether or not to eat lunch. A moment later, his breath eased out, and he took a bite. Chewing, he walked over to her.
“Very good, Bradshaw,” she said, mentally sighing in relief. “I suspect that letting your hair down is an alien concept. So I’m giving you a choice. You can fire me now or get used to being hounded until you learn how to relax.”
He gave her a baffled look. “Are you always like this?” “Only with people I care about,” she answered softly. Impulsively, she took his hand to drag him to the picnic area. A jolt of sexual awareness shot up her arm straight to her soul, and she bit back a gasp. She wished she could tell if the sudden tension in his body was the result of the heat ripping through him, too, or whether she’d thoroughly offended the man.
Oh well, kiddo, you’ve got both feet planted in it now. Might as well see it through. With a gentle tug, she got him moving, relieved when his attention was diverted by the warm greetings from the rest of his employees.
Mentally, she groaned as she discreetly watched him walk the rest of the way to the tables. Mason moved with an innate grace she could watch all day.