“He’ll be in jail for a long, long time.”
“With no chance for parole.” Susan sent a glance at Mark from beneath her lashes, relieved to see the storm cloud had disappeared. “This highlights the fact that people in Glory appreciate their news. Especially when there’s excitement or controversy of any kind.”
Mark nodded. “But you can’t count on that.”
“No, usually we go out there and find something but sometimes, if we’re lucky, the news finds us.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and he realized she’d also gotten a manicure. Her fingers were pink tipped.
How he’d love to see those fingers trailing along his—
“Which brings us to part two of my proposal.”
“Excuse me?” She was talking, but he couldn’t quite hear her through the loud panting of his libido.
He caught a flash of irritation on her face before she repeated in a slower voice, “Part two of my proposal.”
I have got to control this. Mark put one of his heels on the big toe of his other foot and pressed hard. The pain that shot through him cleared his mind in a jiffy. “Right. The second part.”
“We move Ray Dobbins here, to the news-paper office, to answer the phone and to sell ads.”
A new chart appeared and Mark tried to wrap his mind around the information. “This says that if he sells only four percent more ads than we’re selling now, he’ll pay his own salary.”
She leaned forward, earnest and flushed, overwhelming Mark with a wave of fresh lust. “And he’ll sell much more if we give him a cut of anything above that. He’s well known in town and everyone likes him. He’s a natural salesman.”
She put down the remote and turned to him. “Well? What do you think?”
He thought he might burst into flames if he didn’t touch her soon, drag her onto the conference table, slide her skirt even farther up her slender thighs, and—
“Mark?”
He forced air into his lungs. “I agree.”
She blinked, a slow, disbelieving blink. “With all of it?” She looked shocked.
He’d better have her leave her thumb drive with him. When she was gone, and he was able to think about something other than how incredible her legs looked in that skirt and how it followed the curve of her ass so well, he might be able to focus long enough to understand what she’d just said.
Her gaze narrowed in suspicion. “You agree with every single thing I just said?”
“Much of it.” He hoped.
“Even,” she continued, “that you should increase the quality of the content until the value of the paper is driven up? And that at that point you increase ad prices—not by much, but enough to add a double page to the center—which gives you additional ad space and thus revenue?”
He didn’t remember a word about adding a double page, but it didn’t matter. If her ideas worked the way she thought they would—the way the numbers indicated that they might—he’d be a fool not to give it a shot. She looked so hopeful, so earnest—and suddenly he had to listen to what she had to say. Not because of her presentation and damnably sexy clothing, but because she wanted him to understand. Because he could see how very, very important this was to her.
He thought through the parts of the presentation he’d managed to absorb through a red haze of lust. “I am beginning to accept that perhaps I don’t know as much about things as I thought I did.” Like the effects of a severely tailored jacket on the male psyche.
“It’s a slower process, but studies have shown how—” She dropped the remote and bent to pick it up, continuing to talk as she did so.
Holding his breath, Mark leaned forward, his gaze glued to her ass as she reached way under the table and—
“Finished my taco.” Pat came in and grabbed a chair, smelling slightly of onions and hot sauce. “What did I miss?”
Susan straightened up, the remote in her hand, looking flushed and radiant and far too much like a woman who’d just been thoroughly loved.
She grinned at Pat. “Mark’s agreed to increase the paper content!”
Pat blinked. “No way!”
Susan nodded, smiling. “Didn’t you, Mark?”
Had he? He didn’t really know. But right now the last thing he wanted was to remove that smile from her face. “Yes. We’ll try it your way for a month and see what happens.”
Her smile dimmed slightly. “A month won’t be long enough. We’ll need at least two months.”
If she’d asked him for the moon right now, he’d have started building a rocket. “Two months then, but no more.”
“Perfect. And he’s agreed that we should ramp up our efforts to be more controversial in our reporting, to stir public interest.”
Good God, had he agreed to that?
But perhaps it was for the best. If they tried it and it failed, he’d have the staff’s unequivocal cooperation. “If circulation doesn’t improve in that time, then we go back to my way. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Susan said immediately. She looked at Pat, who was gazing intently at the chart. “Agreed?”
“What?” Pat blinked. “Oh. Yes. I was just thinking … the newspaper does sell well when there’s a commotion, doesn’t it.”
“Much better.”
“Hmm. Wish we had one right now.” Pat pushed her chair from the table. “Guess I’d better get on the stick and see what controversy I can find.”
“Good idea,” Susan agreed. “There’s more, though. Mark is going to move Ray Dobbins into the reception area so we can spend more time focusing on doing in-depth investigative reporting.”
“I like that, but who’ll do security?” Pat looked at Mark as if she expected him to jump in and disagree.
He shrugged. “Susan did her homework, and I’m sold—” Susan grinned and he added, “—for now. Time will tell.”
“Yes, it will,” she said in a firm tone.
He hid a grin. “No one could disagree that the man is underutilized; even he says so. By moving him into this office and putting him in charge of ad sales—”
“And classifieds,” Susan chimed in.
“And classifieds,” Mark obliged. “He gets the chance to earn his own wages, and maybe even a bonus.”
Pat didn’t look convinced. “I felt safer knowing he was in the lobby.”
Susan pointed out, “Now he’ll be even closer. In a way, he’s gone from being security for the whole building to being security for our office. And Pat, the alternative was to let him go.”
Pat glowered. “That’s unfair!”
“Cold, hard facts usually are,” Mark said. “He wasn’t producing anything, sitting in the lobby. Susan’s plan solves that problem.”
Pat let out her breath in a loud puff. Finally she said in a grumpy tone, “I guess it’s OK, then.”
“Glad that’s settled,” Susan said. “We’d all better get to work. Pat, see if there’s anything potentially unsettling on the mayor’s agenda. Mark, do you want to talk to Ray?”
“Sure. I have an idea he’s going to like the idea very much.”
“Good. Meanwhile, I’ll head over to the First Baptist Church for more information on the Bake-Off. I think I’ll make Sunday’s commentary about the rumors surrounding the event this year.”
“That’ll get ’em reading!” Pat said, and left.
Mark looked at Susan. “When you start investigating this in earnest, I’d like to come along.”
Susan looked incredulous. “Why?”
“Because, as you’ve pointed out, it’s important that I understand how a reporter goes about the job.”
“That’s very big of you,” Susan said.
“It’s fair and that’s what I do. So—”
Her lashes lowered halfway and she gave him a sultry smile. “Yes?”
His entire body tightened. Easy, Treymayne. You don’t want to go there. “This editorial. How controversial do you think it will be?”
“We’ll get some phone calls.”
“W
hat does that mean?” he asked, suspicious of her casual tone.
“Just that it’s a hot topic.”
He simply couldn’t imagine that many people would care. He shrugged. “I think I can handle the heat. How are you going to approach it?”
Susan grinned. “I just want to tantalize them, to let them know what’s coming from us as we investigate.”
“Do you really think something will come from that?”
“Maybe, maybe not. It’s a fishing technique, but it could shake something loose.”
Mark gathered his notes, then reached for her thumb drive. “Do you mind? I’d like to review the details.”
“Not at all. Please take it.”
He pocketed the thumb drive. “Thanks. Susan, you did a good job with this.” His gaze flickered over her. “A damn fine job.”
Her cheeks heated, and she fought the desire to grin like a loon.
When he turned and left, Susan flopped down in a chair. Who would’ve thought charts and a very short skirt could cause such magic?
Remembering Mark’s expression, she grinned. Poor guy. He didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter 7
Next Monday, Mark picked up his cell phone from the cup holder in his Mustang and threw it into the backseat. Though it disappeared from sight, it continued to ring. And ring. And ring.
It was only seven in the morning, and that damn phone had been ringing ever since the paper hit the stands yesterday. “Who would care if there’s an editorial about the Bake-Off?” he mimicked himself. “‘Who would read that?’”
The editorial had clearly caused a furor. He’d answered the first few calls, only to realize that the callers didn’t want to hear any explanation or defense. They just wanted blood. “Susan, you owe me for this,” he grumbled.
It had seemed such a good idea at the time, to stir up a “little controversy.” But there was no “little” whenever Susan Collins was involved. There was only big and bigger.
Mark parked in his usual space and began to walk inside, when he caught sight of a tiny woman climbing out of a huge Chevy Caprice. Less than five feet tall, with a bleached-blond bouffant hairstyle half covered by a tiny hat, and dressed in a sober and sensible manner, she looked like a Martha Stewart yard gnome.
Her gaze locked on him and an expression of pure rage tightened her face.
There was no way in hell he was going to stand still and wait for that to catch up to him. He turned on his heel, strode to the front door, and made his way to the elevator. Once there, he punched the up button hard enough to make the dratted thing make the trip twice.
Just as the doors slid closed, the tiny woman shoved open the lobby door. The elevator creaked up to the second floor, and he entered the reception area as Ray was ending a call. Ray had begun his new job last week, and judging by the number of lines ringing, he was getting a baptism by fire.
Seeing Mark, Ray picked up a sheaf of papers and waved them even as he said into the phone, “Yes, Mrs. Blumenthal, I’ll pass that on to—” Ray winced as the voice on the other end grew shrill. “Yes, Mrs. Blumenthal, I—” The caller burst into speech again. “I understand that, Mrs. Blumenthal, and I’m sure that— Yes. I know. Right, right. A retraction or an apology. I’ll be sure your message is delivered and— Of course. Thank you for calling. Good-bye.” He hung up the phone and grinned, his face flushed with excitement. “Whew! You sure got the town riled!”
“It wasn’t me. It was Miss Collins, who seems to have a knack for that sort of thing.”
“Whatever she’s doing, it’s got the town hopping.”
“Hopping mad. I don’t think that’s a good thing,” Mark said sourly. “Are all of those messages about the article?”
“Yup!” Ray patted the stack of neatly written slips. “Twenty-two complaints. I wonder if that’s a record.”
The phone rang again. Looking as happy as a hen with a worm, Ray lifted the receiver and said in a sunny voice, “Good morning, The Glory Ex—” A woman’s crackling voice was heard on the other end of the line and remained in high gear for the rest of the conversation, punctuated by Ray saying in a soothing voice, “Yes, Mrs. Rawlings. I know, Mrs. Rawlings. I’ll be sure and pass it on, Mrs. Rawlings.”
Behind Mark, the elevator began to creak, which was a sure sign that the yard gnome was on her way up.
Ray hung up the phone and handed a new message to Mark. “That makes twenty-three.”
“Sorry you’re having to deal with this.”
“Are you kidding?” Ray’s wrinkled face exploded in a grin. “This is the most fun I’ve had in twenty years!”
Mark chuckled. “Well, don’t get too comfortable. There’s a very tiny lady on her way up and she looked ticked.”
“Tiny? With bleached-blond hair?”
Behind him, the elevator was shuddering to a halt.
“Yeah, she drove a huge Chevy. It’s a wonder she managed to park it without hitting a tree; she couldn’t see over the steering wheel to save her soul.”
Ray winced. “That’ll be a bad one. That’s Miss Carpenter, the church secretary.”
The elevator doors hummed as they prepared to open.
“I’m going to the conference room. If anyone asks, tell them I’m in meetings until four.”
“Yes, sir!”
The elevator doors slowly creaked open just as Mark closed the door to the conference room.
He threw his stack of folders on the table, piled up the phone messages, and pulled Sunday’s paper from his pocket. He hadn’t bothered to read Susan’s editorial, because who’d care about a little old Bake-Off?
But she’d been right. The Examiner had certainly garnered a lot of attention because of that one editorial. The question was whether or not it was good attention—something he should have asked before.
As he read, his brow grew lower. It was a good piece; it said enough but not too much. It didn’t answer questions their limited research couldn’t answer, so it mainly posed other, bigger questions. He’d never before appreciated how thorough and creative Susan was, but every word of the editorial had meaning and either suggested an outcome or clearly spelled it out.
When he finished, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face.
A knock sounded on the door. “Come in!”
Pat Meese shuffled in. Dressed in her usual high-waisted blue jeans and plaid shirt, her unmade-up face shiny from a morning scrub, her iron gray hair falling straight to each side, she’d have looked at home on a granola bar wrapper.
She grinned when she saw Mark with the paper. “Good edition, wasn’t it? Phone is ringing off the hook. Just like back in the old days, when journalists weren’t pansies.” She took a seat just as Susan came in carrying a bakery box and three coffees in a carrier.
She looked relaxed and—(damn it!)—
excited, her jeans snug on her hips, her blue T-shirt emblazoned with HILTON HEAD across the breasts.
Not that he was looking at her breasts, though he had noticed that her nipples were visible through the thin material.
“Hi, guys. Having our meeting?”
“We are now,” Mark said.
She held up a bakery box and wagged it temptingly. “I got one for everyone.” Susan dispersed the coffees and creamers, then opened the box and positioned it in the center of the desk.
Pat slurped her coffee. “Ah! That’s good.” She then pulled the pastry box forward and began to dig through it. “I sure hope there’s a bear claw in here somewhere.”
Mark didn’t touch his coffee. “Susan, your editorial certainly stirred things up.”
Susan grinned. “Pretty cool, huh? Sometimes you have to kick the hornets’ nest in order to count the hornets.”
“You can get stung to death doing that, too.”
Pat pulled out a caramel-crusted brown-sugar bagel. Around a mouthful, she said, “Good reporting, Collins. Proud of you.”
“Hold on.” Mark pointed to the huge stack of pink message slips that sa
t in the middle of the table. “You’ve riled the entire church. I know because all of them have called, and their own secretary is in the lobby right this moment, ready to tear one of us apart.”
“That article is the truth, every single word. Besides, fishing is a time-old ploy. Someone is going to want to clear this up and they’ll start talking.”
Pat swallowed a bite of bagel. “Even if they don’t, it’s good for the paper to get some notice.”
Mark picked up the stack of notes. “Here’s the problem, ladies. Most of these notes are from people wanting to cancel their subscriptions. Our customers are angry. We need those customers.”
“Some of our customers are angry. Not all of them.”
“We can’t afford to tick off even one.” He rubbed his forehead, trying to wrap his mind around the issue. “Maybe we can print a follow-up piece, just to soften up the tone a little and—”
“No.” Her chin went up, her eyes blazing. “I stand by that piece, Mark. Every word is factual and I didn’t exaggerate a single thing.”
“I know you didn’t, but—”
“No buts. Something is wrong with the way the Bake-Off is being run, and I’ve got a lot more than mere rumor. There have been a number of unusual circumstances, about the way it’s being run, and the fact that not a single member of the committee would give me a quote—” She spread her hands wide. “What would you think?”
“How many people are on the committee?”
“Eight. When you consider the committee usually begs for publicity and that the success of the Bake-Off is tied to the event’s attendance, you’d think they’d welcome some publicity—yet they’ve all avoided me. And when I caught sight of Pastor MacMillan in the Piggly Wiggly last night, he tried to hide behind the onion bin.”
“He wouldn’t talk to you?”
“Except to say that any statement regarding the Bake-Off would be made in the form of a press release. It’s as if he thinks everything he says is up for legal scrutiny.”
Hmm. That was odd. “Still, why get everyone upset? Shouldn’t you just wait until you have something definitive before you write an entire opinion piece on it?”
“Not when the purpose of the opinion piece is to shake up some people in the hopes they’ll start talking.”
Lois Lane Tells All Page 9