Something About Eve

by Debra Salonen

  Why? Matt wanted to know. What were they waiting for? Maybe the answer would lead him to Eve.

  After bluffing his way past the guard, Matt made his way to the third floor. More funeral parlor than leading-edge newsroom, he thought, looking around. Two richly appointed sound studios with state-of-the-art-looking equipment occupied half the floor space; both were dark and deserted. Matt turned to a grouping of gray-and-burgundy-walled cubicles. He picked the first one with a live body at a desk.

  “Hi, there. My name is Matt Johnson. I’m here for a four-thirty with Eve Masterson,” he said briskly.

  The woman, a twenty-something blonde, looked up, surprise and confusion on her face. “Really? Is she feeling better?”

  Matt shrugged. “I didn’t know she was ill. The gal I talked to said she was eager to talk to the media.”

  The woman’s perfectly penciled eyebrows arched severely. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” she said, her soft southern accent conveying scorn. “Eve hasn’t been what I’d call a team player. Frankly, I haven’t seen her in over a month. Rumor had it she was in Chicago with Barry, but he got back two days ago, he was alone.”

  “Well, darn,” Matt said. “I just drove down from Nashville to do this interview. I knew I should have called first. This always happens with stars. You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to talk to Willie Nelson.”

  She gave him a sweet, sympathetic smile. “Do you want me to try her home number?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure.” She smiled coyly. “For a drink after work.”

  Once again Bo’s cynical voice prodded him, but Matt ignored it. “I’d love that but I promised my wife I’d refrain from flirting with beautiful women on this trip—it being so close to Christmas and all.”

  Her disappointment seemed genuine, and while she dialed the phone, Matt took a second look just to make sure he wasn’t interested. Pretty. Friendly. But too unreal. His next woman—if he ever got involved again—would be down-to-earth, honest—even plain. He’d married a homecoming queen and didn’t plan to get involved with another beautiful woman.

  “Just her answering machine,” the woman said, hanging up. “I’ve already left enough messages to start a fire. She’s either not there or dead.”

  A sudden jolt arced through Matt’s belly. He flinched. The woman gave him a curious look. “Got a lot riding on this interview?”

  “Six hundred bucks. At this time of year, that really counts.”

  She sighed. “That’s true, but it ain’t diddly compared to what we’ve got riding on Eve Masterson.” She suddenly looked past him and said, “There’s Barry. Barry LaPointer. He’s the one who recruited Eve. You could ask him if he knows where she is.” She lowered her voice. “Rumor has it they’re involved. Romantically. But who knows…he’s here and she’s not.”

  Matt turned. The only person moving was a tall, fellow in an expensive suit—Armani? With blow-dried blond hair and pearly-white teeth made even whiter by his perfect tan, Barry looked like an updated version of Clark Gable—complete with slim golden mustache above his lip.

  “Thanks for your help. I’ll check it out,” Matt said, rising.

  He crossed the room in five steps and intercepted Barry before he could insert his flat key card into a door marked Private. “Excuse me. Could I talk to you a minute?”

  Barry, who was an inch or two taller and twenty pounds lighter than Matt, turned with slow grace and looked him straight in the eye. “And you are?” His accent was even thicker than the woman’s at the desk.

  “Matt Johnson. Freelance writer. I was scheduled to meet with Eve Masterson today, but apparently she’s missing in action. I was told you might know where to find her.”

  Barry’s reaction read like the dictionary definition of the word suspicious. A flush crept up his throat while the skin around his eyes blanched. His gaze shot from floor to ceiling to Matt’s earlobe. From years of experience interrogating crooks, Matt knew better than to believe anything that was about to come out of the man’s mouth.

  “Eve Masterson? The news commentator? Are you sure…?”

  Matt didn’t feel like playing games. “Listen, Mr. LaPointer, my assignment was to interview Ms. Masterson. Here. I know Communitex hasn’t formally announced her employment, but you know what they say. It’s easier to let the cat out of the bag than to put it back in. Can we cut to the chase?”

  Barry took his elbow and led him to a quiet spot away from the desks. “Ms. Masterson isn’t here, and I can’t say for sure she ever will be. Do you get my drift?”

  “Let me get this straight,” Matt said. “One person said Eve hasn’t been here in weeks. Somebody else said she was out on sick leave. Now you’re saying she may or may not work here.” Matt leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you think she’s at some kind of dry-out clinic? Or maybe she’s pregnant? Either one would make a great scoop.” And both were possibilities that had crossed Matt’s mind.

  Barry’s refined features wrinkled distastefully. “Don’t be ridiculous. If I see one snippet of such slander appear in…what magazine did you say you write for?”

  “I freelance. This piece is for Let’s Talk magazine—that is if I ever get to talk to Ms. Masterson.”

  Barry seemed to relax once he decided the piece was fluff not news. “I apologize for the inconvenience. Why don’t you give me your card. If I speak with her, I’ll have Ms. Masterson call you to reschedule.”

  “No chance,” Matt said contentiously. “I drove a helluva long way to talk to her. I’m going to talk to her.”

  Barry stepped back as if repelled by Matt’s ire. “I’m terribly sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. I’ve been away. I haven’t spoken with Eve in several days, and I don’t know what to tell you.”

  If the man had a passionate bone in his body he’d probably paid to have it surgically removed, Matt thought, put out by the guy’s bloodless reaction. How could this jerk have interested Eve?

  “Well, ain’t that just great. Merry F-ing Christmas.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the elevator. Suddenly anxious to be anywhere but in this building, Matt took the stairs. For the first time since he’d been cajoled into taking this case, Matt felt an urgent imperative to find Eve. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Someone as smart and savvy as Eve Masterson would never have willingly succumbed to a sleazeball like Barry. If he was behind her move to Atlanta, then she was in big trouble.

  THE POUNDING IN HER HEAD kept getting louder and louder—like a really bad hangover, but Eve couldn’t remember drinking anything. As she puzzled over the question, her mind kicked in on other levels. Cold. She was freezing. Shivers wracked her body starting from the inside out. Opening her eyes, Eve was treated to a view of the underside of her kitchen counter and a corridor of unpacked boxes edging past the confines of what was supposed to be her dining nook. Gradually, she became aware of something gritty imbedded in her cheek.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned, rolling to her back. She remembered walking to the kitchen for a drink of water but nothing after that. She must have fainted.

  Forcing herself to move, she levered to a sitting position.

  The pounding sound, which had momentarily ceased, started again with a vengeance. She put her hand to her forehead to push back a sheaf of dirty black hair that had come loose from her makeshift braid. Blinking against the dizziness that swam across her vision, she took a deep breath and tried to focus on a strange, muffled sound interspersed between thumps.

  “Eve Masterson. Are you in there?”

  Her name. And a question. A good question. Am I here?

  “Eve. Can you hear me? Do you need help?”

  More questions. Too many. Ignoring the voice and the questions, Eve channeled her limited resources to her most immediate need—warmth. Distantly, a part of her body suggested other needs, but the wracking chills were her first concern.

  “Blanket,” she whispered in a hoarse voice she didn’t recognize.

  She spot
ted a fluffy down comforter draped tent-like over her coffee table. Half of it was on the couch—her refuge.

  “Eve. My name is Matt Ross. I’m Bo Lester’s cousin from New York. Ren and Sara Bishop hired me to find you. To find out if you’re okay. Can you hear me?”

  On her knees now, Eve crawled forward, teetering like a child just learning to maneuver. She had a flash of Sara and Ren’s little boy Brady running like the wind in his miniature tuxedo at their wedding. Tears clouded her eyes. She missed her friends.

  “Call Sara. She’ll confirm who I am,” the voice cajoled.

  Call. Phone. A shudder passed through Eve’s body and she misplaced her right hand. Off balance she fell against a tower of packing boxes. Bracing for impact, she squeezed her eyes tight. The top box fell in the other direction. Noisily.

  Immediately, the pounding started again. Louder. “I heard that. What the hell’s going on? Are in trouble? Do you need help?”

  Eve’s lips formed the word help, but no sound came out.

  “Eve,” the voice said, lower but more forceful, “I’m going for the super. If I have to call the police, I will. I’m coming in.”

  Sudden panic, from a source she couldn’t identify—maybe years of dealing with the public, made her cry out, “No.”

  When he didn’t answer, Eve crawled forward, almost in reach of the sofa and her blanket. She drew in a breath and tried again, “No.”

  The word echoed in her head, shaky and breathless. Pitiful. That’s what she’d become—pitiful, and she didn’t want the world to see her this way. She clawed at the puffy blanket. Too exhausted to crawl up on the sofa, she collapsed where she was, pulling the blanket over her. A thick cushion against the world.

  The metal mail flap in the middle of the door flipped open. “Eve, what’s going on?” His voice wasn’t muffled anymore, but it sounded strained, a little frantic. “Talk to me. I’m a friend. I’m here to help.”

  Eve tried to sink lower in the folds of the blanket but was stymied by the position of the couch. Like a hot dog in a bun, she was wedged between the sofa and the coffee table, snug and safe, except for the viewing hole created by the legs of the coffee table. The gap framed the door—with its little rectangular slit.

  “Go away,” Eve pleaded.

  The pen—or whatever tool the man was using to prop open the slit—wiggled back and forth like a snake’s tongue. “I will go away…just as soon as I’ve seen you and confirmed that you’re okay. That’s my job. I won’t get paid if I don’t.”

  His deep husky voice sounded anxious and a bit distraught. He probably needed the money pretty badly to be on his hands and knees talking through a mail slot. But that was his problem not hers.

  “You don’t believe me, right? You think I’m some crazy fan trying to get to you. But I’m not. I’m legit. I’ll prove it.” The flap slammed shut.

  Good. Peace again. Temporary peace. Until the dreams start.

  A minute or two later, a clanking noise at the door made her start. “Okay. This is what I’m going to do. I’m putting my wallet through the slot. It’s got my ID in it.” He paused. “And my money and my credit cards. That means you are in control of my fate because I’m flat broke and homeless in a strange city if you don’t open the door and give it back to me.”

  A dull thudding sound made Eve open her eyes. Six feet away, lying at the base of the heap of mail was a brown wallet. She could tell it wasn’t new. It had a molded-to-the-butt look. A part of her mind she hadn’t heard from in a long time wondered about the butt that had shaped it—young and virile? Or old and flabby?

  “Eve?” He sounded even more worried now. “Are you going to help me out?”

  Eve wanted to help. She was a helper. Her mother’s little helper. Miss Congeniality. A team player. A trouper. But she couldn’t. Not physically, or mentally. She eyed the distance to the brown wallet. Maybe I could do it. Pick it up and put it back through the slot.

  Rallying all the strength she could muster, Eve pushed backward until she was on all fours. Dragging her blanket with her, Eve gracelessly worked her way to the marble tile of the entry.

  Leaning on one elbow, she picked up the soft leather object. Inhaling, she drew pleasure from the smell. Masculine. She rubbed her cheek across the soft smooth surface.

  “Eve?” the voice whispered hoarsely. “Eve, please answer me. Tell me you’re okay.”

  The man’s concern touched her, and she wanted to answer him but couldn’t. The exertion of crawling to the door had worn her out. She rolled to one side and closed her eyes, but her grip on the wallet didn’t lessen.

  MATT JERKED HIS PEN out of the viselike grip of the metal flap and plopped back against the door, his legs sprawled into the hallway. He was lucky her apartment occupied the rear corner of the top floor of the turn-of-the-century building—no one was around to witness his complete and utter humiliation.

  He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. What the hell was wrong with the woman?

  Matt had caught a glimpse of her through the mail slot. That is, he’d seen a person crawling. Small. Black hair. Bingo, he’d thought.

  The hands-and-knees thing made him figure she was drunk, although her single response to his plea hadn’t sounded drunk—just weak.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “Drunk or drugs. Doesn’t matter. At least she’s alive and she’ll snap out of it sooner or later. If worst comes to worst, I can always call the super.”

  Matt glanced at his watch. I’ll give her half an hour then go get some dinner, he thought, patting the pocket where he’d stashed most of his money and credit cards. Sooner or later, she has to open up—for more drugs, if nothing else.

  Matt let his head settle back against the door and gave in to the long, fatiguing day. Not only did he hate traveling during the holiday season, he’d had to deal with Sonya that afternoon when he’d called to tell Ashley goodbye.

  She’d given him the usual lament about his career then dropped a new bomb. “Something’s come up, Matt. Alan has been offered a chance to relocate to a very lucrative area with a starting salary that’s out of this world. We’re going Monday to check it out.”

  “Monday? This Monday?” he’d cried. “That’s Christmas. That’s my day.”

  “I realize that. But all the flights are full on Tuesday. We can get a red-eye out Monday night, if you insist on sticking to the letter of our custody agreement. But Ashley will be the one to suffer. She’ll be tired and moody and have a terrible cross-country flight thanks to you.”

  “Cross-country? Where are you thinking of moving to?”

  “California.”

  “Like hell. I’ll see you in court first.”

  “Alan said that’s what you’d say.”

  Matt had been too upset to think of anything else. As things were, he barely got to see his daughter—what would it be like if she lived on the other side of the continent?

  “…a million-dollar business opportunity,” Sonya had blathered on. “It’s a beautiful place with sunshine and great schools.”

  “Forget it, Sonya. I’ll contact my lawyer and fight this. You can’t take her out of the state without going back to court.”

  Sonya’s voice had turned icy. “And we’ll win. I’m her mother and she’s entering her teen years. She needs me.”

  Before Matt could reply, Sonya had said, “I have to go. I’ve got a touch of flu and my herbal tea’s coming back up. Please. Think about switching days. Who knows? Maybe the job won’t pan out, but Ashley will still have a great trip. Disneyland. Universal…” She’d hung up without letting him talk to Ashley, but for once Matt didn’t mind. He wouldn’t have known what to say to his daughter anyway.

  Groaning, Matt sank a little lower. Could my life get any worse? I’m on my butt. In a hallway. Waiting for some wasted celebrity to sober up and open the door so I can take back my ID and go home. Ho, ho, ho.

  CHAPTER THREE

  EVE AWOKE GROGGILY. Her neck was stiff, her shoulder sore. She lif
ted her head and gave a nudge with her chin to remove the bulky object tucked beneath her cheek.

  A wallet.

  A man was here. Bo’s cousin. He came to save me, but I sent him away.

  “Oh, God,” she cried. “What did I do that for? My privacy isn’t worth dying for.”

  Desperation gave her strength. She pushed herself into a sitting position. Her fingers gripped the wallet like a lifeline. An almost forgotten impetus—curiosity—made her draw the wallet into her lap and open it. On the right side, a clear plastic display area held a driver’s license. New York. Matthew Michael Ross. She squinted but couldn’t make out the details of his age, height and weight. Her gaze settled on the picture.

  Medium-long face, uncompromising jaw. Dark hair. Dark eyes that looked straight into the camera in a manner that said, “What you see is what you get.” His nose was long and straight, but fit nicely above his lips. The bottom lip was fuller than the top—both masculine and sexy. A handsome face, but real.

  Eve thumbed through the wallet’s plastic photo holder. Back-to-back cards. His business card—silver lettering embossed on navy stock. Matthew M. Ross. RBL Investigations. She paused at a school photo of a young girl, age twelve or thirteen. Blue backdrop. A reserved smile, as if self-conscious of having too many teeth for her delicate jaw. Big eyes. A mass of brown locks. She probably hates her hair, Eve thought, recalling how she’d begged her mother for a Farrah Fawcett cut.

  At that age all you want is to fit in, Eve thought. She’d interviewed far too many young girls who had no sense of self beyond what television, the music industry and movies told them they should be. That was one of the reasons she’d been so eager to listen to Barry’s baloney.

  “The Internet is the medium that will connect with those girls, Eve. They don’t watch television news. That’s for their parents. With Communitex you’ll be able to reach them and make a difference,” he’d promised.