Fool Me Once

by Mona Ingram

  Fool Me Once

  by

  Mona Ingram

  © 2011 Mona Ingram

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places

  and incidents are either the

  product of the author’s

  imagination, or are

  used fictitiously, and

  any resemblance to actual

  persons, living or dead,

  business establishments,

  events or locations

  is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Olivia ran up the last few steps of the escalator and made her way through the throng of tourists outside the tube station. She strode briskly along the sidewalk, scarcely noticing the brilliant sunshine. Today she hoped to get the green light for her new project. It had been difficult to strike the right tone in her proposal, so in the end she’d kept it simple. It would be a compelling series of articles, but she was still nervous. Her editor rarely made her wait this long for a decision, but then she’d never asked to go into Iraq before. She smiled at her reflection in a shop window; the new hairstyle suited her. Straight coppery locks skimmed her shoulders, and she tossed her head, eager to begin the new assignment.

  She pushed through the heavy doors of WorldView’s London headquarters. The editorial offices hummed with a familiar mix of clattering keyboards and muted telephone conversations. She looked toward the editor’s office and was gripped by an unfamiliar spurt of apprehension. Now she was being ridiculous; acting like an overeager junior reporter instead of a seasoned journalist. She glanced around at the few correspondents who were at their desks. Did they ever get anxious? If so, they didn’t show it. It had taken a while for her colleagues to accept her but she’d expected that, having learned long ago that her father’s prestigious position set her apart. One of the most influential banking figures in The City, he was constantly being quoted in the dailies. But she’d paid her dues, and in the end she’d gained the respect of her fellow journalists.

  Her reverie was shattered by the telephone and she grabbed it anxiously. “In my office, MacMillan.” The phone went dead. ‘No-Jive’ Clive Jackson had earned his nickname. Originally from WorldView’s New York office, he was short-tempered, ruthless, and a brilliant editor.

  “Close the door.” Jackson waved vaguely in the direction of the door, then turned to the coffeemaker behind his desk. “Coffee?”

  “No thanks.” Olivia’s stomach was in far too much turmoil. “I’m fine.” If only. She glanced at his desk, wondering how he managed to find anything. Her proposal was nowhere in sight…not a good sign.

  “I’ll get right to the point.” Clive sipped his coffee, watching her closely over the rim of the cup. “It’s a no-go on the story.”

  Olivia jerked forward in her seat. She had all of her arguments ready, but the Editor held up a hand.

  “Zip it, Mac. I know what you’re going to say.”

  “How can you possibly…”

  He dismissed her protestations with the wave of a hand. “I’ve heard it all before.” His voice softened, if only by a few degrees. “How many times over the last twenty-odd years do you think I’ve sat here and listened while journalists pitched me story ideas? It’s a good concept and I know you’d do it justice, but I’m not authorizing you to go into Iraq right now. It’s too dangerous. Maybe in a couple of years, but don’t hold me to that. The bottom line is that I’m not about to lose one of my brightest journalists for this story, powerful as it might be.”

  The Editor’s words did little to dull the sharp edges of her disappointment. “I thought that since the Afghanistan story was so well received…” Her voice trailed off as she fought to control her emotions. She would not dissolve in tears, dammit!

  “Those pieces were brilliant. The reader response was outstanding.” He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, extracting it with two fingers and bringing it to his mouth in one smooth motion. “I still don’t know how you managed to get such in-depth interviews with those women.” He snapped open a battered Zippo lighter and lit the cigarette, inhaling audibly.

  Olivia’s most recent story featured three Afghani women, and had offered rare insight into their lives, their struggles, their triumphs and tragedies. The pieces, run over several weeks, had elicited a flood of letters urging the magazine to run more stories of a similar nature.

  Olivia drew in a deep, calming breath. She wasn’t about to give up on the Iraqi story without a fight. “Thank you,” she said, acknowledging the compliment with a fleeting smile. “You’ve given me some great stories to cover, and I appreciate that, but I’m ready for something with a little more tooth to it. I’d like to get closer to the action.”

  He tilted back in his chair and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “No.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.” His gaze strayed to a stack of paper on his desk. She was losing his attention.

  “So what’s my next assignment?”

  “Nothing.”

  She frowned. “Excuse me, could you repeat that?”

  “You heard me. I want you to take some time off. A week, maybe two.” He stubbed out his cigarette with slow, deliberate movements. “You spent five solid weeks in Afghanistan and I know you worked every day. You need a rest. Didn’t you say something about a friend’s wedding?” He waved a hand in front of his face, a gesture of dismissal. “Go enjoy yourself.”

  Olivia rose to the bait. “It’s not a wedding. Not for another three weeks, anyway. It’s a reception.” Why was she allowing herself to be drawn into a discussion of Justine’s wedding? Her hair had fallen forward and she impatiently tucked it behind her ear. “Clive,” she said, getting back on topic, “sad as it may be, these days every good story seems to originate in the Mideast. But then you already know that.” She was begging, but she didn’t care. “I worked hard to put this together.”

  “Be that as it may, I want you to take some time off.” Leaning forward, he looked pointedly at her black leather trousers and suede boots. “Buy yourself a new dress. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet an exciting new man.”

  Now he was being truly annoying. Olivia stood up. “Okay, I get it. Your mind is made up, and I respect that. But I still want to do a hard-hitting story.” She cocked her head to the side. “If I come up with something on my own, you’ll look at it?”

  He pulled his glasses down his nose with a nicotine-stained forefinger and looked at her over murky lenses. “As long as it doesn’t involve you going to Iraq. When you come back we’ll get together and review the type of stories you’d like to work on.” He picked up a stack of papers and shoved the glasses back up. Olivia knew when she was being dismissed.

  Moments later, she found herself out on the street, bag slung over her shoulder. She had no hope of coming up with a story on her own in two weeks and No Jive knew that. Maybe he was right about the holiday. She tried to remember the last real holiday she’d taken, but nothing memorable came to mind. There were those two weeks in Greece with Eliska after school in Switzerland, but that had been almost ten years ago. Her step faltered as scenes from the past ten years scrolled by like a silent movie.

  “Sorry” she said, almost bowling over an older woman exiting from a wine merchant. “My mind was somewhere else.”

  “That’s all right dearie. No harm done.” The women gave her a curious look. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” She forced a smile and the woman trotted off clutching her packages. How could she explain the odd sensation that had suddenly come over her? For the first time she could remember she didn’t want to go home for the weekend. Her family’s home in the Cotswolds had always been a sanc
tuary, a soothing oasis where she recharged her batteries. In that safe, familiar environment, she enjoyed relaxing visits with her mother, and riding around the estate. But there had always been the lure of the next assignment right around the corner. She enjoyed the research, the planning, and unlike many of her colleagues, she enjoyed unexpected challenges.

  As she swung onto a bus she realized that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been at loose ends. Lost in thought, she almost missed her stop near Harrod’s. Perhaps shopping for an engagement gift for Alex and Justine would restore her usual buoyant spirits. She glanced at her watch and did some quick calculations. If she hurried, she could buy an engagement gift, dash home to pack and catch an early train.

  * * *

  The train picked up speed. Olivia settled into a window seat and watched the outskirts of London give way to rolling green fields cross-hatched with hedgerows.

  “Is this seat taken?” A frail looking older gentleman indicated the seat where she’d placed the engagement gift.

  “No, it isn’t.” She removed the Harrod’s bag and placed it on the floor at her feet. A delicate piece of glass, she’d been keeping it close by her side.

  She returned her gaze to the familiar scenery and her thoughts began to drift again to the strange malaise that had gripped her earlier. It was more than disappointment at being turned down by her editor, but she couldn’t seem to put her finger on it. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the window, highlighting the frothy silver bow on the engagement gift. The bow vibrated softly with the train’s movement and Olivia stared at it, mesmerized. Was it Alex and Justine’s engagement party that had unsettled her? She and Justine had been friends ever since the first day they met at Stanford. They’d only been roommates for one year, but their friendship had survived despite Justine’s hectic career as a model, and Olivia’s drive to become a world-class journalist.

  The Melrose estate bordered Olivia’s parents’ estate; she’d known Alex Melrose her entire life. Several years older, he’d always been a distant, glamorous figure. Somehow it hadn’t surprised her that Alex and Justine ended up together. She’d been delighted when they became engaged and she smiled softly, recalling her friend’s words. “I wouldn’t have met him if it hadn’t been for you, Livvy.” She cared for them both, and for that reason she’d attend the party wearing her brightest smile.

  * * *

  “Olivia, you look gorgeous!” Justine hugged her friend, eyes bright with excitement. “Let me look at you.” Olivia obliged, showing off a pencil-thin dress in a soft lime-green fabric. Held up with two thin straps, it skimmed over her breasts, then fell in a straight line to the floor. The side slit ended just above her knee, revealing glimpses of long, tanned legs. “In that dress, every man here will be prostrating himself at your feet before the evening is over.”

  Olivia squeezed her friend’s hand. “Thanks, but this is your night to shine.” She glanced over her friend’s shoulder. “Where’s Alex?”

  Justine scanned the clusters of guests. “I’m not sure, but he’s around somewhere.” They walked through open French doors onto a flagstone patio and Olivia was charmed once more by Haversham Hall. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the gently rolling landscape. Beyond the flower gardens, at the foot of the immense lawn the surface of the small lake caught the sun’s reflection and gleamed like beaten copper. “Oh, there he is now.” Justine’s eyes softened with love and Olivia found herself wondering what it would be like to feel that way about a man.

  From the direction of the stables two men strolled side by side, chatting amiably. He’s American, Olivia thought instantly as the pair continued walking toward the terrace. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched them approach. He was a stranger, but it was as if she knew him… she definitely would have remembered a man who exuded such raw masculinity. Taller than Alex, he moved with a fluid self-assurance and as she watched, he threw back his head and laughed, teeth flashing in the afternoon sun. She wished that she could see the color of his eyes.

  Trying to ignore the sudden quickening in her pulse, she turned back to her friend. “Who’s that with Alex?” she asked, adopting an air of casual nonchalance. “He doesn’t look familiar.” She nodded toward the two men.

  “Oh, that’s a friend of Alex’s from the States. Apparently they’ve known each other for years.” Justine looked at her friend. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

  Olivia stepped back, where she could study the approaching men without appearing obvious. “Oh no. No thanks.”

  “Livvy, whyever not? He’s really very nice.”

  “I’m sure he is.” She took another look at the American. No-Jive’s words were oddly prophetic. ‘Who knows, maybe you’ll meet an exciting new man.’ This one certainly qualified. He was new. And exciting. But she resented her editor’s suggestion and was suddenly overcome by the need to escape. “Listen, Justine. I hope you don’t mind, but I think I’ll go home early. Let’s get together sometime this weekend and have a proper visit. Maybe an early morning ride?”

  “Perfect. How about tomorrow?” Justine touched her arm lightly. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Olivia nodded. “Of course.” Her composure was slipping and she gave her friend a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you in the morning.”

  * * *

  Olivia walked quickly through the house, exiting by the kitchen entrance. The large Georgian mansion was almost as familiar to her as her own home. From this side of the house, the only sign that a party was underway was the collection of automobiles parked around the cul-de-sac at the front of the house.

  The familiar trail that connected Haversham Hall with her parents’ home skirted the greenhouse. Olivia paused in the open door, breathing in the heavy, humid air. The atmosphere wrapped around her like a comforting shawl and she drew in a deep breath. Here in the greenhouse, life could not be rushed. Seeds germinated and plants bloomed in their own time; a comforting concept in today’s frantic world. She leaned back against the potting bench and pressed slender fingers into her temples. Watching Justine’s transparent joy when Alex came into view, a surge of envy had washed over her and she’d been ashamed of her thoughts. Today, for the first time, her total involvement in her career hadn’t been enough and she’d found herself adrift and achingly alone. Which explained why she’d experienced such a visceral reaction to the American. Thank goodness she’d had the presence of mind to get out of there. The last thing she wanted was to tangle with a man who’d made her think wicked thoughts from just one glimpse. With any luck, he’d be gone by tomorrow.

  Calmer now, she pushed away from the bench and wandered farther down the aisle toward her favorite section. Suspended at the end of graceful stems, orchids hung like lush tropical jewels. In her teenage years, when Olivia first started observing Alex’s mother in the greenhouse, she’d been too impatient to appreciate the orchids that Daphne painstakingly cultivated. She’d preferred the quick-flowering annuals–their showy splashes of color appealing to her own vibrant nature. She paused to admire a white orchid, bending closer to examine the delicate freckling at its throat.

  * * *

  Josh Morgan stood silently in the doorway of the greenhouse. Alex had pointed it out earlier, indicating that he was welcome to visit it at any time. It was a large building, built in the early 1900s of thick glass and supported by a sturdy metal frame.

  What drew his attention now wasn’t the riot of plants, although he glanced around with interest at the permanent display. No, what interested him was the tall woman in the pale green dress, her coppery hair glowing in a shaft of sunlight that pierced the tangle of leaves overhead. Her back was turned, and he studied her slowly, his gaze lingering on a long, tanned leg, and then sliding up over her buttocks. She bent to examine an orchid, the fabric clinging to her slender body, revealing subtle curves that were deliciously feminine. Her breasts, while not large, were high and firm. His fingers tensed, his throat went dry and for the fir
st time since he’d arrived on English soil he began to doubt himself.

  ‘There’ll be none of that,’ he told himself brusquely. The success of his mission depended on Olivia MacMillan. He felt a twinge of guilt at what he was about to do. But it was necessary. He hadn’t come halfway across the world to get involved. It wasn’t in his nature to be deceitful, but this was different. This was payback.

  Shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind he forced himself to smile. He needed to convince her to accompany him to the Mediterranean.

  * * *

  “Phaelanopsis.” Olivia stilled. His voice was exactly as she knew it would be–deep and resonant, with an underlying suggestion of heated sexuality. She straightened slowly, turning to face him.

  “Are you an orchid expert?” She tilted her chin, a deliberate challenge in her tone.

  A slow grin raised the corner of his mouth and he took a step closer. “Busted. That’s the only one I know.” His eyes took inventory of the plants on either side of the aisle and came back to rest on her face. “But it is lovely.” His gaze lingered on her lips and she turned back to the flower, wondering if he could see the pulse pounding at the base of her neck. This was ridiculous! She didn’t even know the man.

  “I apologize for intruding like this.” He closed the distance between them, filling the space between the benches. With a sudden flash of insight, Olivia knew that he was a man who could be comfortable in any situation. Surrounded by an aura of quiet confidence, he epitomized the alpha male, with the emphasis on male.

  She clutched at the edge of the bench, wondering briefly what had happened to her normal composure. “You’re not intruding,” she countered with a sideways glance. “But I think we should introduce ourselves.” She extended her hand. “I’m Olivia MacMillan. Justine and I are old friends.”

  Her hand disappeared in his. His grip was firm. “Josh Morgan. A friend of Alex’s.” His hand was like the rest of him. Large and competent.

  She looked into his eyes. They were a dark chocolate brown, shot through with warm glints of amber. “Josh Morgan. That sounds like a name in an American western.”