by Grey, Helen
Maybe she was cursing me at the moment. I didn’t really care. I knew what she ultimately wanted to know, what they all wanted to know. I also knew that I wouldn’t give her the answers she was looking for. I hadn’t discussed my past with any interviewers to date, and I wasn’t about to start now. I would be fine answering questions regarding my business, its formation, and my goals, but if she thought for one second that she would get to dig into my past, into what happened…
I scrubbed my face with my hands. Did it always have to come down to that? Why such curiosity? I knew why, but never understood it. Ever since I started my business in San Francisco, I’d felt like a bug under a microscope. The questions swirling around about my past seemed to be over-emphasized, at least as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t the only rich person in the world to have a tragedy in my past. Why the morbid curiosity?
I’d been nothing more than a person of interest. There was a big difference between a person of interest and a suspect. Call me stubborn, which many of my board members did, and frequently, but I knew the truth and didn’t give a damn about what other people thought. Let them gossip. Let them wonder. If that one aspect of my life was going to make or break my business, then I would just have to let the chips fall where they may.
As far as I was concerned, my past didn’t have any influence on where I was today. I worked my ass off to get where I was, and ninety-five percent of the time, I was perfectly content. It was that other five percent, such as having to endure this supposedly in-depth exposé or interview, or whatever the hell Misty or any of her cronies at the magazine wanted to call it, that made me want to disappear again.
CHAPTER 5
Misty
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
There was a short pause before a confused sounding Melanie asked, “What are you talking about?”
I stood beside the upstairs window, peering out into a vast forest. It was the only place in the room where I could get a halfway decent signal, but even so, I wouldn’t be surprised if the call dropped at any second.
“Angela. She said nothing about having to spend the night—”
“You’re spending the night with Blake Masters?”
I barely held back a groan of frustration. “No… yes… I mean, he just told me that we had to stay the night here—”
“And where exactly is here?” Melanie asked.
“Some ranch in southern Oregon—”
“You’re in Oregon?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “And quit repeating everything I say! Angela didn’t say anything about being gone overnight. Melanie, I have no clothes, no toiletries, no—”
“Nothing to sleep in?”
“Don’t even go there,” I ground out. I wasn’t in the mood for this. I was so annoyed. “No one said anything to me about anything. I feel like a jerk. I’m unprepared, and that makes me feel less than the professional when I’m trying to portray—”
“Wait a minute, Misty,” Melanie interrupted. “You didn’t leave San Francisco for your appointment with him that long ago. How the hell did you get up to Oregon so quickly? Does he have a private jet or something?”
“Worse,” I replied. “A helicopter.”
“Oh, Lordy Lordy,” Melanie squealed. “So what are you going to do?”
“What can I do? I can’t even call for a taxi! This ranch is out in the middle of nowhere!”
“Well, I guess there’s nothing you can do… except enjoy yourself. I’m jealous. At least you’re not stuck in the office. Angela’s on a rampage — again. Be glad that you’re not here.”
“But that’s just the thing,” I replied. “Why wouldn’t she have told me to pack an overnight bag? To be prepared to spend the night away from the office? Do you think she’s setting me up for failure?” Melanie didn’t answer right away, which gave me pause. “Melanie?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Melanie admitted. “You know she can be quite the bitch.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“You don’t have to. You know how she can get. Sometimes she just likes to see people squirm.”
I watched a squirrel jump from one branch to the next. “And that’s supposed to give me a vote of confidence? I don’t know if I want to work for someone like that—”
“Misty, regardless, you have a unique opportunity to talk to one of the most popular, rich, handsome, and might I mention, eligible men in the entire Northwest.” I paused. “Has he made a pass at you?”
“No! Why would he?”
She lowered her voice. “Do you want him to?”
I shot back an immediate negative, but I had to admit that back, way back in the far recesses of my mind, I wondered what it would be like to make love to someone like Blake Masters. His hard body, his good looks, his muscles… I shook my head.
“Look, Misty, I have to get off the phone. She’s coming, and she doesn’t look happy. Call me when you get a chance—”
Silence. I pulled my iPhone away from my ear and glanced at the screen. Call ended. I wasn’t sure if the call had dropped or if Melanie just hung up. I supposed it didn’t matter. I would just have to make the best of the situation. I placed my phone down on top of my satchel, then turned away from the window and moved toward the closet. I opened the door, surprised to find it near to brimming with a variety of clothes.
A few jackets and two parkas on one side, then a number of sweatshirts, flannel shirts, and t-shirts, right down to tank tops hanging from hangers. A two-tier bookshelf took up the bottom half of the closet, filled with an assortment of jeans, khakis, cargo pants, leggings, all arranged according to seasonal wear. To my surprise, I even found several pairs of hiking shoes in a variety of sizes.
I eyed the clothing in the closet with wariness. Would there be anything in there that fit my figure? I wore a size fourteen, sometimes twelve, but it all depended on the cut, the manufacturer, and the style. Four-wheeling. What did one wear to go four-wheeling? I began to look through the jeans. Most of the pairs were already broken in. Maybe a couple were new. I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned, broken in was better.
I finally managed to find a pair of jeans, not marked by size, but by waist circumference that looked like they might fit. I climbed out of my slacks, folded them neatly and laid them on the foot of the bed, placing my flats on the floor as I shook out the jeans and pulled them on. I buttoned the fly, then did a few squats, satisfied that I had wiggle room. I sat down on the bed, found that they were comfortable enough, though a bit on the long side. With a sigh, I turned up the cuffs twice and then eyed the hiking boots. I found a size that would suffice.
A top. I needed a top. Maybe a t-shirt and a flannel shirt, or a t-shirt and a hoodie. We were in the mountains after all. If Blake drove a four-wheeler the same way he drove his Jeep, I would need some protection from the breeze. I decided on the latter combination.
I had just settled the shirt over my shoulders and was reaching for the sweatshirt when I noticed the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. I pulled on the sweatshirt, then assessed my appearance. I nodded with approval. I had always been more comfortable in casual clothes anyway, and we were out in the wilderness. If Blake was going to be critical, then so be it. I didn’t really care what he thought of me.
But I did. I forced myself to admit it while I pulled my hair out of my ponytail, combed my fingers through it, and decided to let it hang loose. I rolled the cloth rubber band onto my wrist, gave myself a body check, and decided that this was as good as it was going to get. I couldn’t allow myself to care what Blake Masters thought of my appearance. I couldn’t allow myself to wonder what he thought when he looked at me. It didn’t matter in the long run. I was here to do a job and once that job was over, I would never see him again.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but feel slightly self-conscious as I emerged from the room and made my way back along the balcony toward the stairs. I glanced down from the loft area into the
main room. Blake sat on the sofa facing the balcony, staring into the cold, empty fireplace. I wondered what he was thinking; if he was as frustrated with the situation as me. It was obvious that he didn’t want to be interviewed, and to be honest, I was wondering what I had gotten myself into. Nevertheless, we both had to make the best of it.
I took the stairs, very aware that Blake had turned to watch my every move. Despite my aura of bravado up in the bedroom, I suddenly felt self-conscious. What was he thinking? When I got to the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the living area, I was surprised when he nodded in approval.
“Glad you could find something in there,” he said.
What was he saying? Was he surprised that I’d found clothing for someone my size? Is that what he was implying? I wasn’t that heavy. I scolded myself. Stop it. He didn’t mean anything by that comment. Nevertheless, I was more than aware that I was probably a far cry from the women he usually dated. I scolded myself again. Why was I mentally comparing myself to anyone? I didn’t care if or even who he dated. I sat down on the couch opposite him, thinking that if we were going to spend the day and the night together — or a week, I reminded myself — I might as well try to make the best of the situation.
“Look, Mr., uh, Blake,” I began. “I have to admit to being taken by surprise by your plans, but I suppose I’ll just have to make the best of it, as will you.” He said nothing but watched me closely. There was something about him that drew my attention despite his mien of nonchalance, perhaps even a touch of arrogance. He continued to stare at me, his expression blank. I had no idea what he was thinking. I couldn’t help but feel judged. All I wanted now was to ask him questions, get this assignment over with, and get back to San Francisco.
“I think we need to lay out some ground rules.”
Ground rules?
“What kind of ground rules?” I asked warily. To my surprise, he grinned and leaned forward. He had removed his jacket he’d donned for the flight and the t-shirt he wore emphasized every muscle. I tore my gaze away from the size of his biceps and looked back into his face.
“We might as well make this a little interesting,” he murmured. “You have questions for me, but I’ll make you a deal.”
A deal?
“You agreed to this interview, Blake,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, I did, but only under protest.”
He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and then stretched one arm over the back of the sofa. Trying to appear non-threatening? It wasn’t working. He oozed sexuality. Even my skin pricked with intimidation. While I was no slouch when it came to dating, I had to admit that I had never gone out with anyone as intriguing as Blake Masters. Not that I was going out with him now, but I knew Melanie was right. According to my friend, women would pay to spend this kind of one-on-one with one of the richest, most eligible bachelors in the northwest.
“What kind of the deal are you talking about?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Nevertheless, curiosity always got the best of me. If there was one thing Misty Rankin was, it was curious. A necessary prerequisite, considering my chosen profession.
“For every question you ask me, I get to ask one of you.”
I stared. That was it? “Why?”
“Why what?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he being deliberately obtuse? “Why do you want to ask me any questions?”
“Don’t you think that’s fair?”
“I do wish you’d quit answering my questions with another question,” I muttered. “Fair has nothing to do with it. Why would you have the faintest interest in me?”
“Why indeed?”
Once again, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. What kind of game was he playing? What did he think he was going to do? Distract me from my job? Avoid my questions by asking me questions that had nothing to do with anything?
I shook my head. “I don’t see how my life could be of any interest to you,” I said honestly. “I was assigned this job. I didn’t even know who you were until I got your packet, sparse as it is.”
“Regardless,” he shrugged. “What do you say?”
I continued to stare at him, wishing that I could see into his brain, to determine what he was up to. Was he hoping to fluster me? To make me feel uncomfortable to the point where I couldn’t think straight? Fat chance. I wasn’t, and never had been, impressed by money. His persona? That was something else. While I admired his business acumen and thought his ideas of providing adventures to people seeking to escape the humdrum of their daily nine-to-fives different and compelling, he was just a human being. He peed and pooped like any other man. He put his pants on one leg at a time. Nothing special, nothing unique.
I learned that lesson a long time ago. As a young teenager, I’d plastered my walls with posters of movie stars, boy bands, you name it, just like every other one of my friends. One time, my grandma had come over and spent the night. I had given the older woman my bed to sleep in.
The next morning, my grandmother remarked about how uncomfortable she felt getting undressed with all those eyes staring at her. Grandma shook her head and said, “No matter how famous or popular the people on those posters, whether they were regarded as heartthrobs or not, they were just as human as us.” Nothing more, nothing less.
My grandmother was right. Blake Masters was no different from any other man, other than the size of his bank account. I wasn’t impressed. Envious, of course, who wouldn’t be? But there was more to a man’s character than how much money he made. How he made it was important, and what he did with it, but when it came right down to it, it didn’t make a bit of difference to me.
“You’re not impressed with me, are you?”
I realized I had been staring at him for the past several minutes. I didn’t know what to say. Could he read me so easily? I felt the heat of a blush warm my cheeks.
“That’s good,” he continued.
“Why do you say that?”
“For the record?”
I made a face. “Are you going to ask me that every time I ask you a question?”
“Should I?”
“No,” I snapped. “Why do you say it’s good that I’m not impressed with you?” My heart was thumping. I wasn’t normally so challenging, but I didn’t want him to think that he intimidated me.
“To be frank, Misty, I’ve grown rather tired of people only judging me by the number of zeroes in my bank account.”
Now that surprised me. The comment made me reassess some of the questions I wanted to ask him. It was already an established fact that he was rich. No sense in asking how because I already knew that too. I shrugged. “I tend to judge men by their characters, not by the kind of car they drive, the house they live in, or the number of zeroes in their bank account.”
“Good for you.”
He said it gently, so once again I had to wonder. Was I going to second-guess everything he said? Did everything he say have an underlying meaning? Why bother even thinking this way? Why couldn’t I just take what he said at face value? And then I realized the truth of the matter. I was intimidated. I did want him to think well of me. I didn’t want him to judge me based on appearances alone.
“All right, when I ask you a question, you can ask one of me, but certain topics are off-limits, you got that?”
He laughed. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said, rising from the sofa. He gestured grandly toward the front door and offered a half bow. “Shall we?”
I tried to put my brave face on, but I had to admit to myself that Blake was constantly surprising me. First the crazy Jeep ride through San Francisco, then the chopper, now a four-wheeler? What next? Kayaking down rapids? Rock climbing? Heaven forbid. That’s where I drew the line.
As I walked out of the house, I grew increasing annoyed with my boss, wondering why, or what, I had done wrong to get punished in such a manner. I had maintained a low profile at the magazine to date, hadn’t crossed swords with the editor, wasn’t a troublemaker, and was
a hard worker to boot. Was this merely a test of my tenacity, or something more?
I walked behind Blake as he headed toward the barn a short distance from the cabin. Everything was well groomed and landscaped, but still rustic. I wondered how much it would cost to stay at a place like this, then rolled my eyes and shook my head. Even one night was probably way past my pay grade. I watched as Blake stepped toward the barn doors, barred with a thick two-by-four, one end of the plank end padlocked to the receiving hatch on the side of the opening.
“When do you expect to open this property for customers?” I asked.
He glanced over his shoulder as he placed the two-by-four on the ground at the base of the barn. “In the next couple of weeks. Hunting season is on the way, but the place will also appeal to non-hunters.”
“Aren’t you worried about hunters roaming too close to hikers, horseback riders, or your other trails?”
He shook his head and pointed up toward the mountains. “The hunters will be up there. We’ll offer pack trains to go up for a week or more, which a lot of hunters prefer. Or they can go alone. We make sure that their hunting permits are in order and monitor their kills. They’re also required, at least on my properties, to stay within a defined perimeter during hunting season.”
At least he had safety on his mind, I thought. I followed him into the dark recesses of the barn. It smelled of hay, horses, oil, and gasoline. As we got closer to a row of ATVs, I smelled new tires. My eyes widened in surprise when I counted eight of them lined up along the wall in one corner.
“As soon as we open, the ATVs will be stored under a shelter behind the main cabin, not here in the stables, which will be used for only the horses.”
“How many?”
“How many what?” he asked, again glancing over his shoulder as he jiggled the keychain in his hand.
I wasn’t sure if he was doing that on purpose, but I decided then and there that any question I asked from this moment forward would have to be framed carefully and succinctly. “How many horses?”