by Mindy Klasky
In response to that last bellow, one boy turned and hurtled back like he’d been shot from a cannon. His speed, though, was better than his accuracy. He took out two of the littler kids as he slid past his red-faced mother. Drew shot out an arm to keep Jessica Barnes from toppling backward over her giant suitcase.
He saw the flash of cameras before he processed the reporters’ attention. Freezing, he was suddenly aware that he stood chest to chest with a strange woman, that his arm curved protectively around the small of her back as he tried to shield her from the trio of screaming kids. That strange woman—Jessica Barnes—had short hair and a wild look in her eye; she had a sudden vulnerability that made her look like she was about twelve years old.
No wonder the reporters collapsed into a feeding frenzy.
“Drew, tell us about your new girlfriend!”
“Who’s your newest fan, Drew?”
“Drew, look this way! Tell us about the new girl!”
~~~
Jessica’s heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear the reporters howl. She couldn’t believe the chaos in the hotel lobby—the kids screaming, the press braying, the shriek of the elevator protesting that its door had been held open too long.
She was a trained professional. She was supposed to handle disasters like this. All she needed to do was pull herself to her full height, shrug her jacket into place on her shoulders, take a deep breath and project to the back of the crowd, announce that she was—
What?
She couldn’t very well say that she was an image consultant, brought in to clear up Drew Marshall’s problems with the press. In a best-case scenario that news would get him ridiculed. In the worst, no one would ever believe him again; they’d discount every word he said as something that had been “handled.”
Before she could figure out a solution to the problem, another baseball player pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Jessica recognized him from the research she’d done in the past twenty-four hours; he was Adam Sartain, left-fielder for the Rockets, one of the most popular players on the team.
“Hey,” he said lightly, immediately snaring the reporters’ attention. “Give the guy a chance to catch his breath.”
The crowd eased back. Kids came to rest beside their parents, gaping like they were watching a movie. Those parents were equally transfixed by the Rockets’ leader; they corralled their hellions, brought about a little order.
Drew responded as well. She felt him relax as the reporters stopped screaming their questions. He slipped his hand from the small of her back, and he took a half-step away. Only then did she realize how close he’d been standing. He was still near enough that she could smell his soap or shampoo, something like salt and spice, clean and fresh.
Adam’s grin was easy as he reached out a loose fist to punch Drew on his upper arm. “Come on, buddy. Don’t hold out on us.”
Jessica caught the flash of uncertainty in Drew’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what Sartain was saying, where this conversation was going. But that confusion was quickly replaced with level-headed trust.
Adam Sartain was the face of the Rockets’ franchise. Jessica had read that on her trip down to Florida. He was the player with the greatest seniority; all the guys looked to him for leadership. Last year, when the team had barely missed the playoffs, it was Sartain who had taken the first stint in front of the ravenous press. He was the one who’d accepted responsibility, who promised more for this year.
So it wasn’t surprising that the reporters were ready to listen to whatever Adam Sartain had to say.
And it wasn’t shocking that Drew stepped back, relaxed and trusting that Adam would make everything all right.
But Jessica could not believe her ears as the handsome left fielder turned to everyone and said, “Come on, Drew. This is your big chance. Introduce us all to your fiancée! We’ve been dying to meet her!”
~~~
Drew looked at Sartain like he’d grown a third arm. The explosion of shouted questions gave him a chance to turn sideways, to angle his head enough to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Helping you out, man,” Sartain muttered. “You’re dying here.”
Drew swung around so his back was to the room, so he could look directly into Sartain’s face. The guy was smiling like he’d just offered up a toast at a wedding. “I don’t need your kind of help, asshole.”
Sartain’s grin only spread wider. He nodded like Drew had just paid him a compliment. “You don’t have much of a choice,” he said through his teeth. “If those guys print one more story about you chasing skirt down here, you’re done. And despite the way you stunk up the joint today, I think you’ve got a lot more on the ball than Ordonez. You’re the man I want at short for the season.”
Jessica Barnes interrupted before Drew could tell Sartain what he could do with his version of team management. “Um, guys? If you keep whispering like that, you’re going to blow your entire cover. Mr. Marshall? Step to the side, and put your arm around my shoulders. Introduce me to the press.”
He stared at her.
“It’s Barnes,” she said, as if he’d never learned to read. “With an ‘e.’ Jessica Barnes.”
What the hell else was he going to do? From her look past him, the reporters had closed in; they had to be just a foot or two away. Sartain was still grinning like he’d just hit a walk-off homer against Atlanta.
Drew shook his head. “Christ,” he said. “We’ll never pull this off.”
“Stand close,” Jessica Barnes with an e said. “And look like you’re happy to see me.”
So Drew did what any good ballplayer did. He followed the signs. He faked a smile that wasn’t half as broad as Sartain’s. He turned around to face the goddamn reporters. He slipped his arm around Jessica’s shoulders. And he said, “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce my fiancée. Ms. Jessica Barnes. Jessica? Meet the sorriest excuse for journalists you’ve ever seen in your life.”
He was nearly blinded by the cameras before he got the last word out.
CHAPTER 2
An hour later, Jessica slipped a finger between the hotel room curtains, craning her neck to see if she could make out the reporters from her vantage point. She was on the top floor of the hotel, the fourth, and there wasn’t another building as tall in all of Coral Crest. She could just make out a couple of press guys, leaning against cars in the parking lot. She stepped back from the window and shifted her cell phone to hear better, even though she had no desire to listen to more of the berating coming from New York.
“Chip,” she finally interrupted. “I’m telling you. I’ve got this under control.”
“Under control does not mean that you’re a trending topic on Twitter.”
“Chip—”
“Under control does not mean that I’ve already received a phone call from an irate client, asking what the hell I was doing, sending you down to Florida.”
“Chip—”
“Under control does not mean that I’ve got three messages from reporters, looking for confirmation that you work here.”
“Chip, I’m sorry.” She finally succeeded in overriding his tirade. “None of us expected Adam Sartain to make that announcement. But I hardly have to tell you this can be a good thing. Our first goal is to jack up Mr. Marshall’s Sympathy Index—a loving fiancée can do that . Give me a month, and that number will be off the charts.”
“You don’t have a month, Jessica. You have three days.”
“That’s ridiculous! We can’t calibrate any meaningful Index in such a short time. I need three weeks, at a minimum.”
“Two. And that’s my last offer.” He sounded grim, even giving her that much.
“Two weeks,” she confirmed reluctantly.
“And get to work now figuring out your exit strategy. Don’t make me regret sending you down there, Jessica. I was already worried that it’s too soon to put you out in the field, and this fiasco isn’t helping anything.”
“It’s
not too soon. This isn’t about me, Chip.”
“It wasn’t. Until you let yourself become front page news. The old Jessica Barnes wouldn’t have made a mistake like that.”
“I worked with what I had. And it’s not a mistake. It’s going to be a perfect springboard for our plan. Just you wait.”
“Fourteen days, Jessica. And if I’m not satisfied with what I see then, I’ll have you on the first plane back to New York faster than you can say ‘fake engagement.’ There’s plenty of work here—you should be reviewing files from the past year, not acting out some idiotic sitcom down there.”
Hire a secretary, if you need your files organized. She almost said it out loud. But she knew Chip had his limits. She’d pushed him hard enough for one day. Hard enough for a year, probably. She settled for saying, “Don’t worry about me, Chip. I’m fine.” She even remembered to smile as she spoke, knowing her expression would lighten her tone.
“Phone me if you need me. You’ve got my personal line.”
Of course she did. He’d called her on it, the instant he’d found out about Kevin’s accident. At the time, in the chaos of the New Hampshire emergency room, she hadn’t even answered because she hadn’t recognized the number. In the long days that followed, though, she’d stored it away for future reference, knowing Chip didn’t share personal details easily. She suspected she was the only associate at Image Masters who had the coveted data.
“Thanks, Chip,” she said. “I appreciate your concern. And I’m glad you trust me to do what’s right.”
Maybe he didn’t. But she didn’t give him a chance to set her straight. Instead, she ended the call and turned around to find her would-be fiancé staring from his perch on the edge of the bed, looking like he’d eaten a bucket of bad clams.
~~~
Drew watched as she terminated her phone call with extreme prejudice. Of course he’d only heard her side of the conversation, but it didn’t sound good.
Nothing was good about this entire situation. God damn Sartain.
Jessica had dropped Drew’s hand the second the elevator doors closed on them. She’d refused to answer a single question before they got to the privacy of his hotel room. Then she’d started in on some basic facts—she was a spin doctor, an associate at a consulting firm that Mark Williamson had hired to get Drew’s public image back on track—but her phone had rung before she got further than that.
Now, Drew wiped his hands down the front of his jeans. “This is ridiculous. I’ll call Williamson and tell him hiring you was a stupid idea.” His agent had gotten him into this mess. He could damn well earn the big bucks and get him out.
“That won’t be necessary.” She sounded like she was used to taking command of a situation.
“You said yourself, you need a month.”
“I asked for a month,” she corrected. “I need whatever Chip was willing to give me. And that was two weeks. So we don’t have any time to waste.”
She crossed to the narrow writing desk that was shoved up against the wall, beside the TV. He couldn’t help but stare as she pulled out the drawer, rummaging around for what turned out to be a pad of paper and a pen. That navy skirt fit tight across her ass. It reinforced the idea of a woman who got things done—some sort of military general maybe, whipping forces into line. Yeah, he could see her with a little riding crop in her hand, something she twitched against her thigh just before he bent her over that desk and hitched up her narrow skirt, just before he closed his hand around the lace of her panties and—
Christ. He dropped his hands between his spread knees as camouflage, telling his dick to pay attention if it wanted to get out of the trap Sartain had sprung on him. Sartain might have had good intentions, but there was going to be hell to pay.
“First things first,” Jessica said. The ice in her voice was enough to dash his hottest fantasies about riding crops, desks, panties, and anything else he’d ever remotely imagined doing with a woman. “You need to know about me, at least enough to fool the press.”
She tossed him the pen and then the pad of paper. He caught both by reflex. “What are these for?” he asked.
“Take notes. You can memorize them here in the room, and we can burn them somewhere else. The last thing we need is for housekeeping to sell our secrets. The press will be waving around some serious cash. They’ll do just about anything to get information from hotel staff.”
He laughed and put on a fake German accent. “Ve haff vays of making you talk?”
“Don’t joke. The greatest danger to your image is you. The second greatest danger is what others repeat about you.”
“Sounds like you’re quoting from the Bible.”
“From the Image Masters’ corporate Bible. It’s the basis of every campaign we run for our clients.”
She was serious. She sounded like some scientist in a white coat, applying scientific rules to a series of chemical reactions. And that made him some sort of lab rat, trapped in a cage. Well, that sounded about right. At least her clinical recitation had one good effect. He could lean back on the bed now and plant his palms squarely behind him. “What other words of wisdom do you guys live by?”
“Not words of wisdom. Actions plans. One: Establish sympathy. Two: Disseminate the message. Three: Establish competence. Four: Disseminate the message. Five: Establish charisma.”
“Let me guess. Six: Disseminate the message.”
She gave him a dirty look. “It works. We keep our client list confidential for obvious reasons, but I promise you we represent major politicians, actors, actresses…”
“And one ballplayer who was unlucky enough to get caught with an underage girl.”
“Unlucky, maybe. Sloppy, definitely.”
“Hey! I asked for her ID. She’s the one who lied! And it wasn’t like she showed me some crappy paper substitute—her license looked one hundred percent real. Sartain saw it. He thought it was legit.”
“That would be the same Adam Sartain who just announced to the press that you and I are engaged?”
“Yeah, he was trying to help. I guess he felt guilty about the whole Armistead thing.”
“Maybe you should ask Mr. Sartain to steer clear of your personal life for a while.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Look, I screwed up. But it wasn’t like I didn’t try to follow the rules.” She wasn’t looking sympathetic. And that reminded him… “So what’s this Sympathy Index you were talking about?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the desk. She was totally working the sexy schoolteacher thing. He couldn’t help but watch her pursed lips. He had to follow the line of her throat down to that blouse that was buttoned just a little higher than he would have liked…
“My eyes are up here,” she said.
Busted. But he was man enough to meet her whiskey-colored gaze without giving a fraction of an inch.
“The Sympathy Index is a detailed metric that utilizes multiple variables in the context of appropriate coefficients to determine measurable and repeatable incidents of a client’s demonstrated sympathetic traits relevant to others in his cohort.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t get a word of that.”
“It tells us how many people think you’re a good guy.”
“And you’ve got two weeks to make a lot more people think I’m a much better guy.”
“Precisely.”
“How do you suggest we do that?”
“First, by turning you into the most loving and considerate fiancé a girl could ask for. Starting now. Pick up your pen and write this down. My name is Jessica Barnes. I was born in Iowa, but I moved to New York for college, and I’ve lived there since graduating from Columbia with a degree in statistics. My mother and father still live in Ames, along with my older brother, James, and my younger sister, Erica.”
He balanced the pad of paper on his knee and took notes. This was ridiculous. He was going to memorize all this stuff and then start dropping it into conversat
ions? How the hell did knowing that her family lived in Iowa make him a better guy? If his goal was to make the team, shouldn’t he be working on upper body strength so he could hit more home runs?
“Five and a half years ago, I married my college sweetheart, Kevin Barnes. He died in a skiing accident a year ago.”
I’m sorry. The words were right there, stinging the tip of his tongue. He was going to say them, to offer her sympathy. But the tight skin beside her eyes told him she didn’t want any condolences from him. And that was ironic, given the fact that she was telling him her past specifically to build up his own Sympathy Index.
So she was a widow. That’s what she’d been talking about, when she told the guy on the phone that she was fine. That it wasn’t too soon. He wrote down the name. Kevin Barnes.
“Okay,” she said, and he could practically see her dusting off her hands. “Your turn. I already researched the basics, before I came down here. Your father is Robert Marshall, goes by Bobby. Your mother was born Susan Thomas. You were born in St. Louis but moved to Charlotte when you were four. No siblings. You attended Kensington Elementary School and Jefferson Middle School. In the middle of fifth grade you moved to Greensboro, and then you moved once a year or so for every year after that, always in North or South Carolina. Your father’s current whereabouts are unknown. And your mother?”
“She’s dead,” he said tightly. “Cancer.”
“Which of them were you closest to?”
Is “neither” an option? “Susan,” he said. He hadn’t called her “Mom” for fifteen years. “Aren’t you going to write this down?”
“I don’t need to. Let’s go through some favorites. We’ll only do a handful now, but we’ll add more after a break. Favorite color?”
“Red,” he said automatically.