Lois Lane Tells All Page 5

  “Secretary.” At Susan’s disdainful look, he added, “If you get in the habit of calling Robin Wright a bimbo, you’ll slip up and say it when you don’t mean to.”

  “And that’s bad how?”

  “It’s unprofessional and could be interpreted as bias.”

  “I don’t allow my personal feelings to interfere with my work, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have any personal feelings. It just means I don’t use them in my articles.”

  “Still, I’d like us to maintain some dignity in the community. People expect and want

  that.”

  Susan looked unconvinced. “How’s this? ‘The mayor was talking to his evil, will-sleep-with-anything secretary.’”

  Mark wondered if anyone else’s eyes were the exact same blue as Susan’s. They were a gray-blue lit with gold and brown flecks, like … well, he couldn’t think of anything to compare them to. They were just amazing.

  “By the way,” she continued, “are we still having a staff meeting Monday at ten?”

  “Every Monday.”

  “I might miss it. Old Pastor MacMillan is holding a Meet the New Preacher Breakfast. I should be there.”

  He shrugged. “We’ll move the meeting back for you.”

  “Oh.” Her nose wrinkled.

  “You really hate meetings, don’t you?”

  “You should see me at the City Council meetings. Boring doesn’t begin to describe them. I once fell asleep and they finished the meeting and locked up the place.”

  He chuckled. “They didn’t wake you?”

  “Nope. I woke up in the dark in a strange room. Scared me half to death, but it taught me a lesson.”

  “Don’t sleep in council meetings?”

  She laughed. “No. Take a pillow and always carry a flashlight. I almost fell over two chairs on my way out.”

  He chuckled with her, and for one delicious minute, they were in complete accord. Then he noticed her shirt was slightly pulled up on one side and he could see a sliver of pale skin at the low-slung waistband of her jeans.

  The sight of that skin made his mouth water, his heart race. He wanted to touch that skin, to trace it with his lips. The image was startling and graphic and suddenly he wasn’t grinning anymore.

  Neither was she. She cleared her throat nervously and said in a hurried voice, “By the way, the mayor is talking reelection. Looks like he may not have the funds to run, though he said it could be a battle if someone else in town decides to run against him.”

  Focus on her words, not her hips. “How did the secretary take that?”

  “She was hopping mad. Told him that if he lost his office, he lost her, too.”

  “That could be interesting,” Mark said. “Especially if you catch them arguing in public.”

  “Or at one of the council meetings.”

  “They argue there? While it’s in session?”

  “They argue everywhere, all of the time.”

  “Hmm. Might find out something useful from that.”

  She gave him a secret smile that turned his libido upside down. “Oh, I have.” She turned on her heel and entered her own office.

  He stood, determined to find out what she meant by that, but became aware of Pat’s interested gaze from the reception area. Crossing his office, he made a great show of selecting a book before he returned to his desk and pretended to read.

  Damn it, what was he thinking? If Pat thought there was something between him and Susan, she wouldn’t hesitate a second in broadcasting it.

  He closed the book and tossed it onto the desk, where it landed on the month’s profit margins with a satisfying thunk, aware that Pat was still staring. He ignored her and began to go through the spreadsheets. The newspaper office was a fishbowl, as was the entire town—one of the many reasons why he had no interest in staying in Glory a second longer than he had to. There was nothing for him here. No, that wasn’t quite true. There was one thing—a potential flirtation with a very hot redhead with a sassy mouth and a penchant for arguing.

  Stop it, Treymayne. You’re going to get yourself in trouble with that one. Just focus on the paper. The sooner you get it in the black, the sooner you can get the hell out of Glory.

  The phone in the reception area rang and Pat had to turn to answer it.

  Mark immediately swiveled in his chair so he could see directly into Susan’s office, where she was turning on her computer and shuffling files on her desk.

  He’d been raised in Glory, and had been taught to believe in beauty as defined by his Southern heritage—demure, sweet, steady, augmented by large hair and larger breasts.

  Susan was slender, small chested, eschewed makeup, and always wore jeans, yet she managed to look more feminine than any woman he’d ever met. Perhaps it was her thick, dark red hair that she was even now confining to a ponytail at the nape of her neck with a band she’d pulled from a desk drawer. Or perhaps it was the way she moved with an almost dancerlike grace, even in worn hiking boots, her usual shoe of choice.

  Her cellphone rang and she fished in her purse for it. “Hello, this is Susan.” She listened intently. “Yes. Yes. I know. So I told him. Well, he’d better not and—are you OK, then? Sheesh. You have to be more careful!”

  Who in the hell was that? Mark was almost certain she was talking to a man.

  Susan stifled what sounded very much like a giggle.

  Mark was on his feet before he knew it. He grabbed the first folder he could lay his hands on and walked to the door of Susan’s office. Leaning in, he could detect that her caller was indeed a male and had a very deep voice. Who did she know in town who had a deep voice?

  She sent him a startled look and then said into the phone, “Can you hang on just a moment? My boss just walked in.” Susan cupped a hand over her phone. “Yes? You want something?”

  He wanted to know who the hell could make her giggle like that.

  He eyed the phone in her hand with rancor. He should leave; he knew that. A professional, libido-in-the-right-place boss wouldn’t even be here. But somehow—

  He walked into her office and plopped in the chair across from her desk. “I’ll wait until you’re done.” He waved a hand. “Go ahead.”

  She frowned. “I can—”

  “I couldn’t possibly interrupt you,” he said, certain his voice was clearly audible to the man on the other end of the phone line. “Go ahead and finish your conversation.” He opened the folder and settled into the chair as if already absorbed. “I’ll just read my notes while you’re talking.”

  There was a lengthy silence as she looked at him with a flat stare. Finally, she removed her hand from the phone. “Sorry, Jeff. You were saying?”

  The deep voice continued, discussing (of all things) barbecue. From where he sat, Mark could make out the faintest hint of a Northern accent. He couldn’t think of a single person in town recently arrived from up North.

  Mark tried to picture the guy. He’d be short and stocky, have black hair, and wear a lot of gold chains. Yeah. Gold chains and polyester shirts open to his hairy chest. The guy probably had the IQ of a dead horse, and a potbelly.

  Mark was feeling better when Susan said, “Jeff, I almost forgot to mention it, but Deloris at the library says your book is doing well. I—What? You’re kidding me!” Susan looked at Mark, her eyes sparkling, a genuine grin lighting her face. “The New York Times list again? That’s amazing! You have to let me write a story for the paper about you.”

  Mark’s image exploded. How could they have a New York Times best-selling author in little Glory, North Carolina? And why was he talking to Susan?

  Susan had to struggle to pay attention to Jeff, one of her poker buds. She wasn’t sure why Mark was sitting in her office and listening in, but she knew for a fact he was. Every time she said something to Jeff, Mark’s expression changed.

  She wished he would leave. It was hard enough not to stare at him when he was in his office directly across the hall from her, looking kissable and annoying.
How did one man manage to have both deliciously lickable-looking muscles and adorably nerdy glasses? It was more than the glasses that made Mark nerdy—he just had that look. And she found it so sexy. She wanted to un-nerd him—to muss his hair, run her hands over him, and shock the living daylights out of him.

  When she’d foolishly stopped by his office this morning, she’d discovered it was difficult talking to a man while having fantasies of climbing over his desk, ripping off his glasses, and throwing herself into his lap, all while wrangling a kiss from his firm mouth.

  Having him sitting here, his broad shoulders echoing the Superman in the poster directly over his head, was even more difficult. It was taking all of her effort to talk to Jeff.

  “Suze?”

  Susan realized that she hadn’t heard a word for at least a minute. Cheeks burning, she muttered, “Sorry, Jeff. What was that?”

  “I was just asking if you minded if I came by this evening and checked your grill, to make sure you have enough gas to do an entire rack of ribs for the guys at the poker game. Thought I might surprise them.”

  “Sure. I’ll be home at six.”

  “I have to fly at five, taking Doc Wilson to

  Raleigh. How about I just stop by in an hour

  or so? The grill’s on the back porch and I can check it—”

  “No.” She said the word too quickly, because Mark’s brows lowered and Jeff went silent. “My dad, ah, he might be taking a nap. But it’s no problem. I bought a brand-new tank of gas just last week.” She’d stop by the hardware store on the way home and make that lie the truth.

  “OK, then.” Jeff’s voice sounded relaxed again. “Talk to you later. And Suze?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t let that ass of a boss ruin your day.”

  Mark’s expression darkened and she knew he’d heard every word. It served him right for listening in.

  Susan fought a sudden grin, feeling as if she were back in control of the situation. “Thanks, Jeff.” She hung up the phone.

  Mark’s blue eyes fairly burned through his glasses. “Jeff?”

  “Brockaw. He runs the FBO at the airport.”

  “FBO?”

  “Fixed Base Operation. He provides gas, showers, and beds in case the weather socks in a pilot. You wouldn’t believe how gorgeous the facilities are—marble countertops in the restrooms, high-speed internet computers set up in the lounge area, leather couches, and a full kitchen. It’s luxurious.”

  “And people use it here in Glory?”

  “You’d be surprised. Doc Wilson flies out once or twice a week to visit his patients in Raleigh. Mayor Harkins rents a plane every time he has to go to the capitol. Others in town use the airport, too, plus Jeff’s a certified flight instructor and gives lessons.”

  “All that and a New York Times best seller, living right here in Glory.”

  There was nothing rude about Mark’s tone, but she couldn’t help but feel that he was sneering. “Jeff writes mysteries. You may have heard of him; he writes under the name Thomas Shoreham.”

  “Shoreham? The Leonard Chronicles series? Those have been made into movies!”

  She grinned. “I know.”

  “Have you written about him for the paper?”

  “No. He’s sort of incognito.”

  “Not if Deloris Fishbine knows his identity.”

  “He doesn’t mind people in town knowing about it, but he doesn’t want the bigger media outlets to pick up on it.”

  “Hmm. How long have you known this guy?”

  “A few years. He plays poker at my house every Wednesday.”

  Mark’s gaze narrowed. “You have a weekly poker game?”

  She nodded. An awkward silence grew. Good God, does he expect me to invite him to the game? It’s hard enough to have to see him at work, especially after that stupid kiss. She twiddled her thumbs, the silence growing.

  Finally, her Southern manners got the best of her. “You, ah … do you play poker?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, good.”

  He lifted his brows and her face grew hot. “I mean, I’d hate to owe you money. I daresay you’re very good at bluffing. You don’t show a lot of emotion and—” She winced at her own words. “I mean, I just think you—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said shortly. “I appreciate the invite, but I have things to do on Wednesdays.”

  “Right. I’m sure you do.” She cleared her throat. “You came in to ask me something, I believe?”

  “Yes, I did but—” Mark frowned. “If you decide to do a story on this Jeff guy, be careful to check his story.”

  “You sound as if you don’t believe it.”

  Mark adjusted his glasses. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Good,” she said, bristling, “because he’s a friend of mine. He’s the real thing and I’ll vouch for him.”

  Mark’s lips thinned. “You can vouch for him all you want, Collins, but if you do a story on him, I want more research than your opinion.”

  Her jaw tightened. “I would never write an article without checking the facts thoroughly, and I don’t appreciate the suggestion that I would. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have work to do. I’m actually verifying some of the facts I got from the new preacher this morning.” She lifted the phone and angrily punched in a number.

  Mark sighed. “Susan, I’m sorry. I just—”

  “Hello! Johnson Bible College!” came a cheery voice on the phone.

  “Hello,” Susan said smoothly. “This is Susan Collins, a reporter for The Glory Examiner. I need to verify the graduation dates for a previous student.”

  Mark sighed and left.

  Susan watched from under her lashes as he crossed the hall and made his way to his own office. He sat, staring down at the folder in his hand for a long time. Then, with a sigh of frustration, he threw it down, got up, and walked out. She heard the creaky swoosh of the elevator doors and then nothing.

  Susan waited as long as she could before she stood, moving the phone with her as she separated the slats in the blinds and stared down into the parking lot. For a nerdy guy, his clothes fit astoundingly well, his khaki trousers hugging his ass and muscular legs, his polo-style golf shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and neatly tucked in, a belt defining his narrow waist.

  Nerd clothing on a hot bod. The fascinating contrast drove her wild. Just watching him cross the parking lot was getting her all hot and bothered. It was a pity all that male sexiness was controlled by a brain so coolly calculating that he was Borg-like: part human—the part that had kissed her—and part adding machine—the part that had stopped kissing her and was now causing him to avoid her like the plague.

  Barely listening to the automated voice on the other end of the phone, she took her seat behind the desk again. Why, oh why had she kissed him? Now she wanted to do it again, and again, and again, on his desk, in his chair, on the floor. She couldn’t remember wanting a guy this bad since high school, including Mark himself. She’d known him then, of course, though not well. Besides, she’d been into the handsome football hero sort, which hadn’t been Mark at all. In fact, she barely remembered him, except that he hadn’t looked anything like the way he did now. It was amazing what sixteen short years could do for a man.

  The cheery voice on the phone broke into her thoughts and, with a sigh, she found a pen and began to take notes. He was a tough egg to crack. For this one, she was going to need help. Fortunately, she knew right where to get it. Wednesday’s poker game couldn’t get here fast enough.

  Chapter 4

  Dear Bob,

  I’ve never been the sort of girl that boys ask out. Instead they offer to take me fishing or to see a race—that sort of thing.

  My mom is worried that there’s something wrong with me and that I should try to look more feminine. She wants me to get a perm and wear dresses and stuff.

  I think it would be wrong to dress and act in a way that’s not me. What do you think?

/>   Signed,

  Tomboy at Heart

  Dear Tomboy at Heart,

  You have to be true to who you are or you’ll never be happy. Tell your mother that you love her, but that you need to decide who you are, and a perm won’t do that.

  Enjoy who you are and you’ll eventually find the right guy: one who will appreciate you for being you.

  Sincerely,

  Bob

  The Glory Examiner

  June 31, section B2

  Pat limped into the meeting room, dropped into her seat, and said in a querulous tone, “What do you want, Treymayne? I have a hot lead and I don’t have time to meet every ten minutes.”

  “We only have one meeting a week, Pat.”

  “Yeah, well, you keep having them right when I get my leads.” Pat leaned back in her chair and plopped her feet on the table. “Get to it, Treymayne. I’ve got interviews to do, leads to—”

  “Follow. I know. So what are these leads, anyway?”

  “A reporter never reveals her secrets.”

  “I think the phrase you’re looking for is, ‘A reporter never reveals her sources.’”

  “Same thing.” She snorted in disgust. “That’s why they should never let a bean counter run a paper. You don’t know the first damn thing about the news, do you?”

  “No. Fortunately, it doesn’t take Lois Lane to realize the facts, which are—”

  “Did someone mention Lois Lane?” came a sprightly voice. Susan came in, her hands overflowing with cups of coffee and a bakery box. She was dressed in jeans and a white stretch T-shirt that made her look about eighteen.

  Pat thumped her feet back on the floor. “You’ve been to Micki & Maud’s!”

  “Yup, and Connie’s up to her usual magic. She made cinnamon buns that are out of this world. I had two extra but Ray conned me out of one of them.”

  Pat eagerly tore into the box. “Good God, they’re huge!”

  Susan placed a coffee in front of Pat and one in front of an empty chair, scooting the third toward Mark. “Thank goodness Ray was there to catch the elevator for me. It was all I could do to carry all of this.”