by Grayson Cole
Setting his jaw, Michael put both his bruised ego and curiosity aside. “When will they meet with me?”
“Today, nine-thirty.” She shuffled papers around on her desk. “You know where their Birmingham office is? Okay. You’re going to be meeting with Nya Seymour, vice president in charge of the Birmingham office.”
“Seymour?” Michael asked with curious apprehension.
“Yeah, Nyron Seymour’s daughter. After I got a call from the president himself, conferenced in with at least two attorneys, she called me and we talked for a long time. She seems reasonable, but you have no idea how upset she is. I assured her that we would make this right.”
“Nya Seymour?” Michael stroked his chin. He’d read all about her. Nyron’s youngest daughter and the most, if reports were to be believed, like the overbearing man.
“Looks like she’s going to be running things whenever the old man retires. If he ever retires.” Claudia rolled her eyes. “She’s already done one hell of a job in marketing, from what I hear.”
“She called you after her dad did?” he queried.
“Yeah. She didn’t know I’d talked to him already. She tried to cover, but I could tell. I could also tell she was a little annoyed by it. But she went on the offensive so I was obliged to explain that you weren’t some sleazy, incompetent reporter out for any story wild enough to get the public’s attention and increase the circulation of our itty-bitty paper.” Claudia flashed a brilliant smile the same as his at him.
“That angry, huh?”
Claudia didn’t answer him, just rolled her eyes and drummed her nails on the desk, a definite yes.
h
“Don’t tear him up, Nya.”
“I’m not going to tear him up, Lysette,” Nya retorted.
“He didn’t have all the facts, and he thought he was doing the right thing. Don’t just destroy him.”
“The only person who’s going to be destroyed is you if you keep on.”
“Don’t kick his ass!”
“Can’t you be quiet, ’Sette?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“Please be serious. You know how big a deal this is. Don’t you understand that this idiot has singlehandedly created the most disastrous public scandal that has ever affected us? Don’t you understand that he could ruin us all?”
“Oh, my God, Nya. I realize this is bad, but don’t you realize this is not the end of the world. The paper has retracted the article already and they are willing to tell our side of the story—”
“That doesn’t mat—”
“And the authorities have already corroborated our story. Don’t you think that you might just be being a little dramatic right now?”
Nya shot her a killing look.
One of Lysette’s eyebrows went up comically. “Maybe you should get your spirit right before he comes into the office.”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Come on, Nya. I know this isn’t about the reporter anymore. You’re mad at Nyron.”
“Go away, Lysette.”
“Why can’t I sit in on this meeting?”
“I don’t need the distraction. And you just want in on the carnage.”
“Oh, so you admit there will be carnage?”
“Get out!” Nya yelled at her friend. Lysette laughed out loud and left, closing the door behind her.
Nya had been nursing her foul mood all morning so she would be in the right frame of mind to get down to business with this Michael Harrison, and Lysette was insisting on getting her out of it. Nya shook her head and settled down again behind her computer.
h
Armed with his netbook, Michael stepped up to the receptionist’s desk in the plush office complex. A very petite yet startlingly attractive woman sat at a computer.
“Hello, may I help you?” she asked with a voice deeper than anyone would expect from a woman her size.
Michael leaned an elbow on her desk and flashed her a winning smile and a wink. “I believe so, Ms…” he looked at the reception name plate, “…Ms. Livingston—”
“Not me,” the woman interrupted. She raised her left hand, where a giant diamond engagement ring and platinum wedding band showed. “I’m Mrs. Lysette Hendricks.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Hendricks.” Michael felt warm under his collar. He hadn’t been trying to hit on her, just to ease his way in. It was a part of his job, and he’d been caught at it. “I’m Michael Harrison, and I have an appointment with Nya Seymour at nine-thirty.”
She looked up at him for a long time then slowly turned back to her computer. She made a contemptuous noise in the back of her throat. “Mmmmmmmmm.”
Michael was puzzled. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said and shook her head slowly, again giving him a long stare.
“What is it?” Michael was beginning to worry.
“Nothing,” came her reply. “You can have a seat. Just let me tell her you’re here.” She motioned to the chairs behind him and watched him until he sat down. She picked up the phone and he saw her whisper into it. Michael counted at least three phone calls before she called Ms. Seymour, all beginning with the hushed phrase, “He’s here.” She cleared her throat and announced, “Ms. Seymour will see you now. Just go through those doors, to the end of the hall, and take a right. Her office will be the last one you come to.” She watched as he moved through the doors.
Michael felt an overwhelming sense of doom overtake him as he started down the hall. He felt as if he were back in grade school, everybody staring and moaning a low “woooooo” when someone got called to the principal’s office. Employees at their desks or standing in office doorways watched closely as he passed by. Few spoke, and those that did seemed to do so more out of curiosity than politeness. He turned right and walked to the door marked “Nya Seymour, Vice President, Marketing.”
Looking down to check himself quickly, Michael knocked at the door.
The door opened and she stood back allowing him in. “Come on in.”
Her sweetly feminine voice seemed inviting. Harmless enough, he thought.
Then she extended a delicate hand. “Nya Seymour,” she said.
Then their eyes met. In a flash, a spark of recognition—and something more—leapt between them. They held each other’s gaze a moment too long. The air seemed to leave the room and he felt as if they were either standing too close or not close enough. Michael’s throat constricted and his heart seemed to stop beating. Involuntarily, his grip on his electronic notebook tightened until its edge bit into the skin of his palm. He wanted to say something, but was paralyzed. He recognized her now. The woman from the airport!
He recovered and took her smooth, soft hand in his. “Hello, Ms. Seymour. I’m Michael Harrison. I believe I might have helped you with your bags the other night at the airport.”
She paused for a moment. “Yes, I believe so. I apologize for walking off the way I did, but I had a very, very severe public relations issue to deal with.”
Michael chewed the inside of his cheek before taking a breath. “I understand. Still, I’m very pleased to meet you, though I wish it were under more favorable circumstances.” He didn’t let go of her hand or break eye contact. He couldn’t end this strange and intoxicating shared moment. “Please accept my deepest apologies for what was prematurely printed in our paper.”
She pulled her hand out of his and he realized that the smile affixed to her face was not real.
“Prematurely printed?” she repeated, only her words were a stinging question.
She walked back to her desk and lifted a newspaper. Michael followed.
“That’s a bit mild, don’t you think?”
She sat at her desk, unfolded the newspaper. She turned it sideways so they both could see it.
Michael just stood there, wondering what she was after.
“Sit down,” she said. His skin prickled. She’d just issued a command peppered with venom. His rebellious nature demanded that he remain
standing, but he overcame it. After all, he was in the wrong and this woman had had to suffer the consequences of his actions.
She went on. “I have heard that you are an excellent journalist. Though I haven’t read you, I have many friends and acquaintances that have, and they seem to think you are thorough and honorable. I find it difficult to take that as gospel.”
Michael took a deep breath and held it.
She pointed at the article. “I have to say this was a very unprofessional move on your part. It was, Mr. Harrison, yellow journalism at its worst. However, I am hoping we can remedy the situation, as I told your editor.”
Michael sat frozen, this time not with embarrassment but with anger and, amazingly—he didn’t even know it was possible—raging attraction. Nya Seymour continued to speak, but he could only stare at her mobile lips. Lips that he’d been obsessed with kissing all the way home from St. Thomas. He tried to take in every detail of her to make sure that this was really happening. She was in a charcoal grey suit—tailored, he was sure—with flat, opalescent buttons. Her twists were wrapped into a tight roll at the base of her neck. Attired very professionally, she looked nothing like he would’ve expected. He tried to reconcile the image of the sexy, gentle woman in the airport with this formidable, cold businesswoman sitting before him. There she sat, glowering at him as she recounted all the errors in his botched article. This was the first time he’d ever, in all his years as a journalist, been rendered speechless.
“Mr. Harrison, are you with us?” Sarcasm dripped from her lips.
He finally exhaled and spoke. “I’m sorry. You were saying about the article?”
“When do you intend to print your retraction? As Claudia and I discussed, I want it done yesterday. I know you’ve put it out on your website, but I happen to know your traffic there is less than--”
“It’s not a retraction, Ms. Seymour. If I had printed any fact in error, I would have to print a retraction. As it stands, we are following up with a clarification of Hatsheput’s role in the Art Sentries Foundation investigation. It’s going to print as we speak. ”
“Call it what you want, Mr. Harrison.” She looked down at her desk and picked up a folder. “I’ve compiled everything on Hatsheput I think you’ll need for your next article, the feature. This is a profile of the company and the entire investigation of the Art Sentries Foundation and of what happened with Marshall Ellis. You should be able to work from this when you do your feature. Of course if you want pictures, you can send a photographer around and we’ll make sure he gets everything he needs.” And then as if dismissing him she said, “So, if there isn’t anything further…”
She was treating him like some tabloid reporter who didn’t know his own job. Michael, now seething with anger, felt his face grow warm. “You’ve got it all figured out?”
“Yes, I believe I do. It’s all very simple, Mr. Harrison.”
“Well, I’m sorry. That’s not how I do my articles. I do my own research, conduct my own interviews, and I choose the angle.” Michael was astounded by his own outburst. His intent coming into this interview was to apologize and attempt to appease Hatsheput in whatever way necessary, but nothing was going as planned, and he was having great difficulty controlling his own tongue. And he knew the cause. His eyes traced her face. She was nothing like he imagined.
“In truth, I don’t care to know how you do your articles. If your sister didn’t make it clear to you, your angle, so to speak, is going to be a shining report on how Hatsheput is a black-owned company doing everything it can to give back to the community. Your article should be apologetic and epic in its description of us as heroes. You will also show that we do not,” she emphasized, tapping a fingertip on the article, “we do not ‘pilfer and usurp the hopes of the Caribbean youth!’ ”
Michael’s face ran hot with embarrassment. At the time he had thought it an extremely good line. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized sincerely.
At that point he wanted nothing more than for the unpleasantness to be over and for them to call a truce, but she said, “I’m sure you are. I’m sure you’re very sorry having sold as many papers as you did over the whole thing.”
That did it. “Listen, no one has ever questioned my professional integrity. I graduated top of my class at Stanford. I have a master’s in journalism. I’ve won more than enough awards from the industry to let me know what others think about my journalistic talents. And believe me, I think I can sell a paper or two without the sensationalism you’re implying. I was doing it long before Hatsheput ever entered the picture.”
“That’s all very impressive, Mr. Harrison,” she said, sounding utterly unimpressed. “I, personally, would assume that someone with all those credentials wouldn’t have made such a colossal error in judgment.”
Fuming, Michael didn’t respond. He couldn’t say a thing because he knew she was right, which only made his ire grow.
She waved her hand in the air and said, “No matter. Do your article any way you want—as long as it meets all the conditions I mapped out with Claudia.”
“I’ll also need to speak with the lead investigator. Do you happen to have his name?”
“Though you obviously aren’t bound by a federal gag order, I am. We won’t be discussing the investigation at all.” The woman actually smirked.
Michael’s jaw clenched in fury. She turned to the computer beside her desk and began working, as if to dismiss him. Never would he have imagined her to be a cold, power-tripping, egotistical shrew. Never would he have thought she would be so condescending and irritating and bothersome and…so beautiful up close.
“I’ll need to interview you, also.” Where did that come from? He didn’t want to interview this woman. She was a walking, talking razor blade.
She turned around, and her gaze ventured along his face until she found his eyes. “I suppose you would…you can make an appointment with Lysette. She’s the woman helping up front today due to our receptionist going out early on maternity leave.”
h
Michael marched quickly down the hall, not caring about the curious onlookers that brushed past. He burst through the double doors, heading for the receptionist’s desk. Lysette Hendricks was sitting there, the phone attached to her ear. “Gotta go, bye!” she whispered and hung up. “Yes?” she asked, trying to suppress the smile forcing her lips upward.
“I need to make an appointment with Ms. Seymour. I’m also hoping to have someone give me a tour of your art gallery here in Birmingham. I understand there’s a lot of work by the scholarship recipients on exhibit there. It would be good to see the works when I can put some faces with the pieces.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. Michael stood straight bearing her scrutiny. Lysette questioned, “She didn’t give you the folder?”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, she gave me the folder.”
“Oh, excuse me,” she said with a smile as she thumbed through the black leather appointment book lying open on her desk.
“She’s booked up ’til Thursday. There’s a one o’clock slot open then. There are public tours given every Tuesday and Thursday at one and three at Hatsheput Galleries. If you come over here around one, you guys can go over together and she can give you the tour as well. No one knows that facility better than she does.”
“Fine,” he declared and walked out of the lobby.
h
“So what happened? Did you tell him off? Did he get mad? He got mad, didn’t he? He looked a little mad when he came out. What happened?” It hadn’t taken five minutes after Michael Harrison left Nya’s office for Lysette to come bursting in.
“Nothing happened. We discussed the situation.”
“Something had to have happened. I know there were sparks as furious as you were when I walked out of here. Don’t forget how well I know you. When you’re furious, like your mama and your daddy and your sister, all anyone can do is get out of your way.”
Nya couldn’t argue that she was driven. She also couldn
’t argue that if there was an issue to be resolved, she could not rest until it was under control. Usually her determination allowed her to come away from hostile encounters feeling triumphant. She had tried to stay calm, but this interaction with Harrison had shaken her. And when she was shaken, sometimes she could be… well… a little mean. It was something she was trying to work on… but sometimes it happened anyway. It was why she preferred to be alone when she was upset.
“What’s wrong with you? What happened?”
“Calm down, Lysette,” Nya said, lifting her head. “I’ll tell you everything. But let me ask you: did you make him an appointment with me?”
“I sure did. I’m beginning to get the hang of this ‘working’ thing.”
Nya rolled her eyes. “It won’t last.”
“Probably not.” Lysette gave her a lopsided grin. “I put him down for Thursday at one. He wants to meet here so you can go over to the gallery together, which I figured would be fine for you.”
“Why would that be fine for me? Why can’t I just meet him there?”
“Nya, you have to work with the man, he’s not going to bit you.”
Nya ignored the comment. “I guess I’ll live. Although I can tell he won’t wait ’til then to start. I’ll let everyone know what he’s here for—as if they don’t already—and make sure he gets full cooperation.”
“Okay, but I want to know what’s going on. The folder had everything you wanted in the piece in there. I worked very hard preparing it, if I do say so myself.”
Nya smiled, remembering how Harrison became indignant at the idea of not doing his own research. Maybe he wasn’t as unprofessional as she thought. “Yeah, that was the plan, but it seems he has a different agenda. And can you believe he gave me this big sermon about his credentials and awards. I mean a full résumé.”