She stormed past the reception desk and into what he guessed was the newsroom. She dropped her folio onto a desk and dropped into the chair behind it.
Richard stayed on the other side of the desk, a safe distance away. “You’re angry.”
“You’re incredibly insightful.” She picked up a pile of message slips and began sorting through them.
“Would it help if I said I was sorry?
She glanced up through narrowed eyes. “Are you?”
“Not really,” he admitted.
“Then, no, it doesn’t help.” She crumpled up one of the messages and tossed it toward the garbage.
It missed.
Richard bent over to pick up the discarded scrap of paper and drop it into the metal can. “I’ve had a hellish two days,” he told her. “My head is swimming with names I can’t possibly remember, and when I saw you, I thought we might have something in common—two Americans in Tokyo.”
“It sounds like the title of a bad movie.”
Despite the derisive response, he noticed that she sounded more resigned than angry now.
“Is it really so horrible—a couple of days off to play tour guide?”
“Yes,” she said through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to play tour guide, I want to play reporter. That is, after all, why I went to college and got that little piece of paper they call a degree.”
Despite the scathing tone, she really did fascinate him.
“Where did you go to school?” he asked.
She crumpled another message and tossed it. “I think you missed my point.”
He retrieved it from the floor, fighting against the smile that tugged at his lips. “No, I’m just trying to move beyond the fact that you’re obviously annoyed with me for something that wasn’t my fault.”
“You told Mr. Taka that you wanted me to be your tour guide.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know he could make it happen. Now that he has, I can’t regret it since this may be my only chance to spend time with you.”
“You’re right about that,” she grumbled.
He lowered himself into one of the chairs across from her desk. “Where did you go to journalism school?” he asked again.
“Stanford.”
“Impressive.”
She shrugged and started shuffling through a pile of faxes from her in-box.
“Where’d you learn to speak Japanese?” he asked.
“Here.”
He glanced around the tiny cubicle, raised an eyebrow in silent question.
Finally she smiled. “In Japan. My family moved to Tokyo when I was nine.”
“From where?”
“Zurich. Before that we lived in Athens. Before that it was Venice.” She frowned. “Or maybe it was Paris and then Venice. With periodic trips back to the States—New York or Dallas or San Francisco.”
“Bet that really racked up the frequent flyer points.”
She shrugged again. “My parents like to travel, and their business demands it.”
“What’s their business?”
“Hotels.”
He felt as though a light bulb had clicked on inside his head. “You’re that Anderson? Of Anderson Hotels?”
“It’s the name on my driver’s license,” she said lightly. “And no, I’m not going to get you a discount on your room.”
“I should have guessed. A woman who wears Cartier isn’t working as a reporter for the money.”
She tugged the sleeve of her blouse over her wrist, tucking the gold watch out of sight. “You are observant.”
“That’s part of my job,” he said.
“And your job is?” she prompted, showing the first sign of interest in his reasons for being there.
“I’m a corporate attorney with Hanson Media Group.”
“A lawyer,” she said. “Figures.”
He frowned. “You have a problem with lawyers?”
“Not lawyers in particular,” she said. “Just pushy people in general.”
“Pushy?” he tried to sound indignant.
“I’m sure I’m not the first person to bring that particular attribute to your attention,” she said dryly.
“No,” he admitted. “That would have been my mother when I was about three. Of course, I learned it from her.”
She smiled, but it was the hint of sadness in her eyes that intrigued him more than the curve of her lips. There was a story there, he was sure, and damned if he wasn’t determined to find out what it was.
“It was my mother’s idea for me to become a lawyer,” he continued.
“She must be pleased that you did.”
There was a time he thought she would have been, too, before his father’s death. Since that fateful event, Richard had given up hope that his mother would ever accept the choices he’d made that conflicted with her own agenda.
Although he was glad Jenny was finally participating in the conversation, he wasn’t so pleased that she was steering it in a direction he didn’t want to follow, reminding him of things he didn’t want to remember. “Why don’t we get to know each other over coffee?”
“Because I’ve had enough coffee today and I have work to do if you want me to be available tomorrow.”
“Are you?” He smiled again. “Available, that is?”
“I’m not interested, Mr. Warren. That’s an entirely different scenario.”
“Is it just me—or are you always this prickly?”
“Only when I’ve had a hard-earned assignment taken away.”
“I really didn’t intend for that to happen.”
She sighed. “Unfortunately that doesn’t change the facts.”
“Maybe you’ll end up with a bigger and better story.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced, but then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him. “So you’re here to work on the merger.”
It wasn’t a question, but he nodded anyway.
“How long have you worked for Hanson Media?”
“A little more than a year.”
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?” He asked the question warily, but he’d already sensed her agile mind switching gears. She was in investigative mode now, full of questions and searching for answers.
“How did a publishing giant end up on the verge of bankruptcy?” she asked.
“That’s a long and complicated story.”
“I might be interested in hearing about it over dinner.”
As tempted as he was to take the bait she’d dangled, it wasn’t an option. “Unfortunately, it’s not my story to tell.”
“That is unfortunate,” she agreed.
“How about dinner, anyway?”
“I don’t think so.”
He was disappointed though not really surprised by her response. “You’re brushing me off because I won’t divulge privileged information?”
“I’m merely keeping my schedule open to explore other investigative opportunities,” she countered.
“I thought you were a society reporter.”
“A temporary assignment,” she assured him. “I have bigger ambitions than that.”
He’d already concluded as much. “Why don’t we talk about those ambitions over dinner?”
She shook her head. “Nice try, though.”
“I’m trying to show that I can be persistent as opposed to merely pushy.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
It wasn’t quite the response he was hoping for, but he knew it was the most he could expect at this point. He sighed. “What time tomorrow?”
Samara’s low whistle of appreciation drew Jenny’s focus from Richard’s undeniably appealing backside as he walked away.
Her oldest and best friend, and her roommate since she’d returned to Tokyo, perched on the edge of the desk. “Who’s the hunk?”
She had to admit it was an apt description for Richard Warren. The dark brown hair, deep blue eyes and quick, easy smile were a combina
tion any woman could appreciate. Add to the equation six feet of height, broad shoulders and narrow hips, and even Jenny was tempted to sigh. But she’d made the mistake of being taken in by good looks and magnetic charm before—it was a mistake she wouldn’t make again. “Your so-called hunk is my current nightmare.”
Samara’s dark eyes sparkled with interest, her lips curved. “Tell me everything.”
“Richard Warren, lawyer for Hanson Media Group. He’s in town to negotiate terms for a proposed merger with TAKA. And he cost me my byline on the Kakubishi story.”
Samara’s smile faded. “What? How?”
“By suggesting to Shiguro Taka that he wanted me to show him around town.”
“You were pulled off of a front-page assignment for that?”
“Apparently there was some kind of mix-up at the airport and Shiguro Taka is bending over backward to make up for it.”
Her friend winced sympathetically. “Who’s taking over your story?”
Jenny shrugged. “I don’t know, but it makes me furious that I did all the legwork, I sold Lincoln on the story, and now I don’t even get to write it.”
“I’m sorry, Jenny.”
“Not as sorry as I am.”
“We could make a trade,” Samara suggested. “I’ll give you my camera for your hunk.”
“As tempted as I am to take you up on that generous offer, I’m not sure Kazuo would appreciate it,” she responded dryly.
Samara waved her left hand. “Until he puts a ring on my finger, I’m a cheap agent.”
Jenny laughed. “The expression is free agent.”
“Whatever.” She shrugged. “So what are your plans for Richard Warren?”
She couldn’t prevent the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. “I’m considering a couple of possibilities.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“I know that look,” Samara said.
“What look?”
“Devious innocence.” Her friend’s gaze narrowed. “What are you planning?”
Jenny laughed again. “I’m planning to get free of Mr. Warren.”
“How?”
“By ensuring that he’s so bored after our first day together he won’t want to spend any more time with me.” She could picture it already—Richard Warren’s eyes as glazed as the chawan he’d be holding awkwardly in his hands, wishing he’d never approached her outside the shareholders’ meeting.
“How?” Samara asked again.
She smiled. “Two words—tea ceremony.”
Chapter Two
Tea ceremony?
“A lot of Westerners have the mistaken impression that tea in Japan is simply a pleasant pastime,” Jenny told Richard as they exited the subway station. “But cha-no-yu is really a spiritual ceremony—a religion of the art of life.”
She’d said nothing about their plans for the day until they’d disembarked from the train, promising only that it was an experience Richard wouldn’t forget. The way she said it, he wasn’t sure it was a good thing. She’d been pleasant and scrupulously polite since meeting him in the lobby of his hotel, but he sensed some residual resentment about the way she’d been coerced into spending time with him.
“There are various forms of the ceremony,” she told him. “Even some of the local hotels offer an abbreviated version, but I thought you would enjoy participating in a more authentic celebration.”
He tried to hide his skepticism as he listened to her explanation. While a traditional Japanese tea wouldn’t have been his first choice of how to spend the day, he was happy to be with her—and only her. Since his arrival in Japan, he’d been shadowed by one or more of TAKA’s people and while they were incredibly polite and hospitable, he was tired of constantly being on his best behavior. He wanted to relax for a little while and share unstilted conversation with a pretty woman.
Except that he was getting the impression they wouldn’t have much time for casual conversation. Even now, on the way to the teahouse, she was providing a steady flow of information as if she were a professional tour guide. If he’d been seeking company knowledgeable about the culture and history of Japan, he couldn’t have chosen anyone better. But what he really wanted was a glimpse into the woman behind the mask of polite reserve.
So far, he’d seen that mask slip only once—yesterday afternoon when Shiguro Taka had appointed her to be his personal tour guide. Since then, she’d seemed to accept her unwelcome fate with stoicism.
“It was a Zen priest who first brought tea to Japan,” she informed him. “And the simplicity and purity of the religion was a strong influence on the form of the tea ceremony. But Zen focuses on the enlightenment of the individual through isolation and mediation, and cha-no-yu involves the communication of people through spirit and mind.”
He watched the subtle sway of her hips as she walked ahead of him, his mind more focused on the urge of his body to communicate with hers than any spiritual matters. It was a desire he knew would go unsatisfied. Jenny had made it clear that being with him today was nothing more than a command performance, the fulfillment of a professional obligation.
Disappointed though he was, he knew it was for the best. He couldn’t afford to have his attention diverted from the task that had brought him to Japan. So he tore his gaze from the enticing curve of her backside as he followed her up the stone path toward a small building made of wooden logs that seemed to be held together with mud.
“Japanese tearooms and gardens are designed to blend harmoniously with their natural surroundings,” she explained. “Because the ceremony is linked closely to nature, parts of the ceremony vary according to the season. The flowers displayed, the utensils used, the cakes served.”
He watched as she removed her shoes and set them neatly at the entrance. He did the same, then followed her into the building. She set her purse in a woven basket on the porch before turning to him. “Do you have a cell phone?”
He nodded. It wasn’t actually his but one that had been loaned to him for his personal use while he was in Japan. He might be frustrated with the delay in negotiations, but he couldn’t fault the TAKA people for their gracious hospitality.
“You leave it here—” she gestured to the basket “—in the yoritsuki, the entry.”
“Leave my cell phone?”
She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “Is that a problem?”
“Of course not. But…” he faltered, wondering how to convey his objection, wondering why he wanted to object. Because he was here on business and he needed to be accessible to Helen. Because he was a lawyer and his cell phone was like a natural appendage.
“You could just turn it off,” Jenny said. “But it’s more respectful to leave such obvious symbols of the outside world outside of the teahouse.”
Despite the nonchalant tone, he sensed a hint of disapproval in her words. He unclipped the phone from his belt even as he wondered why her censure bothered him.
Still, he couldn’t resist teasing her. “Do you think I could have coffee instead of tea?”
She turned back, her expression no longer neutral, and he took a perverse sort of pleasure in the sparks in her deep green eyes. “This isn’t Starbucks,” she said frostily.
“I’ve just never been much of a tea drinker,” he explained.
“Tea is only part of the ceremony,” she told him. “It’s more about achieving harmony with your host and spiritual satisfaction through silent meditation.” She glanced at the cell still clutched in his hand. “If you can’t part with your phone for a little while, you’re welcome to wait outside.”
Although a part of him still balked at being unavailable if Helen needed to get in touch with him, he couldn’t refuse her challenge. He turned the phone off and tossed it into the yoritsuki with Jenny’s purse.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he told her.
They were words Richard would regret as soon as he realized there were no other guests for the tea ceremony.
&
nbsp; Maybe he should have been flattered that Jenny had arranged a private demonstration, instead he felt as if he were a foreign specimen being examined through a microscope. An apt description as he was foreign to the setting and completely out of his element. Unlike Jenny who was obviously familiar with the customs and rituals.
He tried to follow her lead, bowing when she bowed, kneeling when she knelt. But he remained silent while she made conversation, complimenting their host on the ink painted scroll and the beautiful arrangement of flowers. At least that’s what Jenny told him she was saying—as the entire dialogue was in Japanese, he couldn’t be sure.
The woman hosting the ceremony was introduced as Izumi. She wore a silk kimono of deep blue patterned with silver fish jumping over it. She was obviously elderly, her hair more gray than black and fashioned into a knot at the back of her neck. Her face was deeply lined, her posture slightly bent, but there was a quiet strength evident in the grace of her movements and a sparkle in her dark eyes befitting a woman half her age.
“Kaiseki,” Jenny said, offering no further explanation for the selection of dishes that was set in front of him.
He was both impressed and confused by the elaborate presentation of the food, each item or a small selection of items—most of which he’d never seen before and couldn’t have guessed at the names—served on individual dishes. Small glazed bowls, shallow square plates, crescent-shaped dishes, miniature cups for sauces and garnishes. Growing up, Richard could only remember eating salad from a separate dish if there was company at the dinner table. Otherwise, his mother insisted the greens went on the same plate as the rest of the meal.
He wondered if that was still true. It had been so long since he’d had a meal in her home, he was no longer certain. With the thought came a sharp but now familiar pang of regret. He’d lost his father almost ten years ago and his mother had distanced herself shortly after that, more concerned with putting her husband’s killer behind bars than maintaining a relationship with her sons.
Izumi spoke softly to him, interrupting the painful memories of his past and returning his attention to the present. Unfortunately, his Japanese vocabulary was too limited to even attempt a translation.
Her Best-Kept Secret Page 2