by Debra Webb
His words, or maybe the fact that he stared at her so intently seemed to stoke his blazing anger. Claire eyed him cautiously, but kept her building trepidation at his tall, dark and furious presence carefully concealed.
“Mr. Walker, I presume?” Refusing to be intimidated any further, she delivered the innocent-sounding question with years of practiced neutrality.
“You know damn well who I am.”
A number of alarming possibilities suddenly flashed through her mind as she realized the only help available in WCMB’s building at this hour would be the security guard on the first floor—nine stories below her office. A security guard who was undoubtedly long past retirement age and lacking the physical ability to tackle a man as capable looking as the one standing before her at the moment. If this big guy got out of hand, she’d be on her own.
Oh, hell.
“Excuse me, Mr. Walker, but it is after hours. How exactly did you get past security?” Somewhere she’d seen this very scenario in a movie. Unsuspecting female all alone in office building with crazed maniac seeking vengeance. Panic crawled all the way up her spine, making her scalp tingle.
“I do still have a fan or two,” he said with a distinct edge of sarcasm.
Great. The security guard liked country music. Too late to do anything about that now. Maybe she could disarm the situation by remaining calm.
“I was just on my way out.” Claire indicated the door Walker currently blocked. “I’m not sure what you could possibly expect from me at this point. The show has aired and was, from all accounts, quite well received.”
“You know what I want.” Low and deceptively composed, his demanding tone reflected the fierce determination in his eyes.
He seemed closer somehow, though she felt certain he hadn’t moved. She wet her lips and forced herself to ignore the tension radiating from his rigid body. “Mr. Walker, I believe you’ve made your objections to my program quite clear. I see no need for further discussion. My producer has conveyed the station’s sincerest apologies for any inconvenience you may have experienced—”
“Do you really think I’m here because I’ve simply been inconvenienced?”
Pain flickered in his intense gaze, so quickly replaced by an explosion of anger that Claire thought she’d only imagined it. His handsome features seemed carved in stone, unyielding. Arrogance and self-righteousness seethed just beneath the anger. She could see it. She could feel it. He glared down at her as if a talk show host were a lower life form. Something he no doubt considered himself a cut or two above.
“No one likes to hear negative things said about themselves, Mr. Walker, but it’s all part of being famous. You should remember that from your glory days.” Clutching her purse, Claire crossed her arms over her chest. There was something about arrogant men that seriously grated on her nerves. And this man, handsome though he might be, was the most arrogant man she’d ever met. The outright fit his representative had pitched in her producer’s office was unconscionable. Well, she knew how to handle guys like him.
“Surely you realize that the buzz generated by your story will fade soon enough. In the meantime, I suggest that you not take it so personally.”
“You drag up the most painful event in my life, toss in even more painful innuendoes and you expect me not to take it personally?” he roared, low and calm no more. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he visibly struggled to contain his reaction.
Claire moistened her lips again and hugged her soft purse a little more tightly to her chest. The hard bulge of the metal cylinder containing pepper spray provided a little comfort. “Mr. Walker, I only recounted the facts—nothing more.”
“What you called facts, Miss Carson,” he braced his hands on his lean hips, “were inaccurate and misleading.”
“There are always two sides to every story,” Claire began, an idea gaining momentum as she spoke. “I’m sure our television audience would love to hear your version.”
Claire watched the rage turn to disbelief, then contempt. He shook his head slowly from side to side and then said, “You’d do anything for ratings, wouldn’t you? That’s all that’s important to you. You don’t care who you hurt. You don’t care about anything.”
Taken aback, she blinked. She’d never been accused of deliberately setting out to hurt anyone. His harsh accusation left a bitter taste in her mouth. She loved helping others, not hurting them. The fact of the matter was that she spent a great deal of her spare time on one cause or another. She cared and people responded. That’s why she succeeded beyond her wildest dreams—because of the fans.
Claire had never considered herself special, just lucky to have the gift of being able to connect with people. Her natural ability to bond so completely with her audience still amazed her. And she worked hard to make her show stand out from all the rest. She didn’t do sensational subjects—no cross-dressers or shocking revelations on Heart Beat. Just plain down-to-earth issues. Real-life stories of normal people. People her audience cared about. Like Trace Walker.
“Mr. Walker, you’re being completely unreasonable. You don’t even know me. How can you pass such a judgment?”
He laughed—a dry, humorless sound. “You’re a fine one to talk about passing judgment. You all but accused me of killing my own wife.” Rage mingled with the contempt in his blue eyes.
“I did not accuse you of killing your wife. And I wish there were something I could say to satisfy you, but obviously there isn’t.” Claire took one small step closer to the door—to him. “I have an appointment, and I’d like to get there on time. So, if you’ll excuse me...”
He crossed very tanned, very muscular forearms over his broad chest. “I have one final question before you go.”
“Yes?” Claire held her breath—no doubt it would be a doozy.
“Is it true that you’re planning a sequel of sorts to that story?”
Maybe it was the intensity in his eyes... or maybe his nearness. Whatever the cause, she faltered. “Yes,” she answered hesitantly as she retreated one small step.
“That’s all I wanted to know.” That tight muscle in his jaw flexed again as his gaze dropped to below zero on the Fahrenheit scale.
“Good evening, Miss Carson.” He turned and strode away.
Claire let out an unsteady breath. Well, at least that was over. Yet something about the look in his eyes and the determined tone of his voice warned her not to be so sure of herself. Claire had a feeling that her troubles with Trace Walker had only just begun.
~*~
“Action!”
Instantly, Claire smiled the best smile three years and several thousand dollars’ worth of orthodontic work could buy. She tugged on a baseball cap sporting the Opry Mills logo and assumed the rehearsed pose. “Music and shopping for the whole family. Opry Mills, USA!” she finished jubilantly, hoping this would be the last take. Somehow nothing she did today came out right the first time.
“Okay! That’s a wrap!” announced the director. Stagehands and grips swarmed in Claire’s direction to dismantle the set and shut down the lights.
Ron Davies, the WCMB head producer and personal friend of Claire’s, double-timed it down to where she stood in front of the huge Opry Mills backdrop. His faithful assistant followed close on his heels.
“Great job, Claire.” He gave her a friendly pat on the back. “If we can, I’d like to squeeze in that milk commercial this afternoon.”
“That’d be terrific.” Claire tried to remember the rest of her agenda for the week.
“Check with scheduling to make sure there isn’t a conflict, Trish,” Ron said to the young woman at his side. She nodded and made a note on the electronic tablet she carried.
“I hope not.” Claire needed every minute she could squeeze out of this week. “With that commercial out of the way, I wouldn’t have to come back into the studio before the next taping. And believe me, I need the time for research.”
There would be a lot of digging to do. The last few days had b
een a blur of activity, including a business lunch with an influential producer from NBC. Claire couldn’t prevent the tiny smile that tilted her lips each time she considered the possibility of being selected for a new, nationally syndicated talk show. An opportunity like that didn’t come along every day. Her heart fluttered with the idea.
“Follow-up on the Trace Walker story?”
She nodded. “I still have a lot of gaps to fill in.”
“That segment has caused a hell of a stir. Who would’ve thought?” Ron said with an incredulous shake of his head. “That a twenty-year-old overnight sensation could hold the world’s undivided attention for two solid years and then disappear just as suddenly as he’d appeared.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What’s more incredible is that after an absence of a decade, the public’s in a frenzy for any information about the man.”
“Think about it, Ron.” Claire stepped out of the way so the backdrop could be removed. “The man was every teenage girl’s idol. A superstar in every sense of the word. The video footage I showed on his short career was remarkable. The fans and the media loved him. She thought about the man she’d met in her office on Friday evening. Despite his aloofness, there had been something immensely appealing about him on a very elemental level. His story was undeniably tragic. Trace Walker had lost his whole family—including his young wife—in the space of one year.
“Dig up what you can,” Ron suggested. “If we have to, we could push the segment back a week.”
“Only if we have to. I’d like to stay on this story while it’s hot.” She shrugged. “Who knows, next week the viewers may not care what happened to Trace Walker.”
“True. Oh, almost forgot, Jim confirmed that you would be happy to co-host the country music awards.”
A second surge of excitement coursed through her. “Yes! I can’t believe I’m actually going to get to do it. I was so thrilled just to be asked, and now it’s really happening.” The opportunity was one she’d dreamed of since she was a kid. “This is really an honor, Ron.”
“You deserve it, kid. You’ve worked hard. Gotta run.” He chucked her under the chin and winked. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow then.”
Claire smiled as she watched him trot away. They didn’t make men any better than Ron Davies. She sighed wistfully. Too bad certain other people couldn’t take personality classes from Ron. Trace Walker came immediately to mind. She hated the idea of him being so upset. As much as it pained her to admit it, she did have to consider ratings in the decisions she made about her show. Of course, Ron and Jim had the final say, but Claire’s ideas and opinions carried a great deal of weight. She didn’t want to let the Trace Walker story die, even if he hated being the subject of public scrutiny.
He knew the deal. According to her research so far, his current occupation appeared to be high finance. TWI, Trace Walker Investments, to be precise. His spectacular success in an area rife with colliding egos and ruthless infighting hadn’t come easily, she knew. He made cut-throat trading decisions every day. The man had to understand that ratings equaled all-important advertising dollars in the world of television.
Claire headed to the break room for a cup of coffee. She might have to hang around for the next shoot, if scheduling could work in the milk commercial. She ensured her cell wasn’t silenced in case Ron or his assistant called.
She tossed her belongings onto a table in the vacant lounge. It was too late for lunch and too early for an afternoon break, and she’d have the place to herself. Maybe she’d jot down a few of the ideas that had been whirling around in her head. She’d had a heck of a time all weekend keeping her mind off the enigmatic Mr. Walker.
Thinking back on her encounter with the man, Claire had to admit she’d been more than a little attracted to him—physically, at least. And who wouldn’t be? His unapologetic sexuality was hard to ignore. That polo shirt he’d worn had left nothing to the imagination when it came to his muscle-corded chest and arms. Every perfectly toned ripple had been undeniably obvious. And those jeans. What the man did for a pair of stonewashed jeans bordered on sinful. Truth was, she’d gotten a little hung up on him just watching all that video footage. His stage performances were... moving.
“Miss Carson?”
Claire spun around at the sound of the smooth baritone voice and came face to face with the devastatingly handsome subject of her reverie. Oh dear God.
“Mr. Walker?” What on earth did he want now? If he planned to complain further, he would have to see Jim Johnson, the station manager. Claire had made her position clear on the issue already, as had Ron. She had nothing else to add. Most assuredly not the apology he’d requested on Friday. Requested? Ha! He hadn’t requested one, he’d demanded it. She snatched at her composure. How was it just standing here looking at him she could go instantly from hot and bothered to frustrated and annoyed?
Walker pinned her with a look that made her shiver with something that wasn’t quite outrage. “I take it you have a few minutes free from your busy schedule?” Sarcasm dripped from his words like wax slipping down a lit candle.
His tone irked her, had her emotions flip-flopping again. “Actually, Mr. Walker, I am quite busy. If you’d like to have a meeting, you’ll have to make an appointment like anyone else—”
“Now is fine with me.”
The outrage rushed ahead of all the rest like a horse winning the race by a mere nose. “What is it you have to say, anyway?” She bracketed her hands on her hips. Let him get it over with and then maybe he’d leave.
“Have you changed your mind about doing a sequel on my story?” He slipped his hands into the pants pockets of his elegant suit. The expensive tailoring defined his muscular frame, broad shoulders, lean waist, long legs.
Stop inventorying his assets! “Why would I want to change my mind?” The man apparently thought his unannounced visit on Friday had done more than annoy her. Well, he could just take his highly advanced fashion sense and handsome mug elsewhere. Claire wasn’t impressed—or intimidated.
He reached into his jacket with his right hand and pulled out a folded document. Using both his big, square hands, he ripped it straight down the middle and presented the two equal parts to Claire.
“What’s this?” She stared at the torn document she instinctively accepted.
“That’s your old contract,” he said smugly, a glint of triumph in his eyes.
“What are you talking about?” The man had lost his mind. Dear Lord, her story had pushed him over the edge. A strange lump rose in Claire’s throat. She hadn’t meant for him to be hurt—not really hurt. But he had to have been close to the edge already for anything she could have done to send him hurtling over the precipice. But still, she’d never upset anyone to this degree before. Not in three years of hosting Heart Beat.
While she struggled with her conscience, Trace withdrew another document. “This is your new contract.” He extended the neatly folded document in her direction before she had the presence of mind to look at the one she held already.
At a loss as to what to say, she accepted the paper and carefully unfolded it. Clearly, the man was irrational. Delusional. As she recognized the official-looking document as actually being a contract very similar to the one she’d signed last year with WCMB, her breath left her. The figure near the bottom of the page caught her eye. The sum was nearly twice her current salary.
Thoroughly puzzled, she shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why am I getting a raise? And what does it have to do with you?”
“When additional duties are added to an employee’s job description, it’s appropriate to increase the salary proportionately. Don’t you agree?”
Somehow she nodded, although she had no idea to what she’d just agreed. None of this made sense.
“If the new contract is acceptable with your agent or legal representative, you’ll need to sign it as quickly as possible.”
“What additional duties?” she blurted. His words finally penetrated eno
ugh to make an impact. “I have no idea what you’re talking about or why we’re even having this discussion.”
“Secretarial duties.”
“Secretarial duties?” Been there, done that, flashed through her mind.
“Your resume indicated that you’d worked as a secretary in the past. Is your resume accurate, Miss Carson?”
“Of course it’s accurate! I worked as a secretary for the WCMB station manager right after I graduated from college.” She shook her head again, harder this time, to clear the confusion. “What does my work history have to do with anything? And what business—”
“Your personnel file also indicated your age is twenty-seven,” he broke in before she could finish her next question.
“That’s right.” When had he looked at her file?
He shrugged, “I would have guessed thirty at least, but I suppose you television personality types don’t like to admit your real age.”
Heat climbed up her neck and across her cheeks almost as fast as the rage flooded her body. “I am twenty-seven,” she stated hotly. “I have no idea why we’re engaging in this conversation, Mr. Walker, but I can tell you that my personnel file is confidential. I don’t know how—”
“About those secretarial duties,” he cut in smoothly, as if accustomed to having those around him yield to his authority on a regular basis, “I’ll go over everything with you at the office. And, of course if you decide to stay on, you will have Fridays free to do the show. We wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”
Claire held up both hands, palms out. He wasn’t insane. She was, for standing around listening to him. “I’m calling security, Mr. Walker. You’re obviously crazy.”
Walker smiled then. In spite of the confusion and the outrage, her heart thumped wildly. Never in her life had she been subjected to such a killer smile.
“Miss Carson, I may be a lot of things, but crazy isn’t one of them.” He cocked his head and studied her more closely. “I’m not fond of training new personnel, but the task is sometimes necessary.”