Debra Webb - In His Touch Box Set (Here To Stay, Up Close, Tempting Trace, Basic Instincts) (36 page)

“Think about it, Ron.” Claire stepped out of the way so the backdrop could be removed. “The man was every teenage girl’s idol. A superstar in every sense of the word. The video footage I showed on his short career was remarkable. The fans and the media loved him. She thought about the man she’d met in her office on Friday evening. Despite his aloofness, there had been something immensely appealing about him on a very elemental level. His story was undeniably tragic. Trace Walker had lost his whole family—including his young wife—in the space of one year.

“Dig up what you can,” Ron suggested. “If we have to, we could push the segment back a week.”

“Only if we have to. I’d like to stay on this story while it’s hot.” She shrugged. “Who knows, next week the viewers may not care what happened to Trace Walker.”

“True. Oh, almost forgot, Jim confirmed that you would be happy to co-host the country music awards.”

A second surge of excitement coursed through her. “Yes! I can’t believe I’m actually going to get to do it. I was so thrilled just to be asked, and now it’s really happening.” The opportunity was one she’d dreamed of since she was a kid. “This is really an honor, Ron.”

“You deserve it, kid. You’ve worked hard. Gotta run.” He chucked her under the chin and winked. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow then.”

Claire smiled as she watched him trot away. They didn’t make men any better than Ron Davies. She sighed wistfully. Too bad certain other people couldn’t take personality classes from Ron. Trace Walker came immediately to mind. She hated the idea of him being so upset. As much as it pained her to admit it, she did have to consider ratings in the decisions she made about her show. Of course, Ron and Jim had the final say, but Claire’s ideas and opinions carried a great deal of weight. She didn’t want to let the Trace Walker story die, even if he hated being the subject of public scrutiny.

He knew the deal. According to her research so far, his current occupation appeared to be high finance. TWI, Trace Walker Investments, to be precise. His spectacular success in an area rife with colliding egos and ruthless infighting hadn’t come easily, she knew. He made cut-throat trading decisions every day. The man had to understand that ratings equaled all-important advertising dollars in the world of television.

Claire headed to the break room for a cup of coffee. She might have to hang around for the next shoot, if scheduling could work in the milk commercial. She ensured her cell wasn’t silenced in case Ron or his assistant called.

She tossed her belongings onto a table in the vacant lounge. It was too late for lunch and too early for an afternoon break, and she’d have the place to herself. Maybe she’d jot down a few of the ideas that had been whirling around in her head. She’d had a heck of a time all weekend keeping her mind off the enigmatic Mr. Walker.

Thinking back on her encounter with the man, Claire had to admit she’d been more than a little attracted to him—physically, at least. And who wouldn’t be? His unapologetic sexuality was hard to ignore. That polo shirt he’d worn had left nothing to the imagination when it came to his muscle-corded chest and arms. Every perfectly toned ripple had been undeniably obvious. And those jeans. What the man did for a pair of stonewashed jeans bordered on sinful. Truth was, she’d gotten a little hung up on him just watching all that video footage. His stage performances were...
moving
.

“Miss Carson?”

Claire spun around at the sound of the smooth baritone voice and came face to face with the devastatingly handsome subject of her reverie. Oh dear God.

“Mr. Walker?” What on earth did he want now? If he planned to complain further, he would have to see Jim Johnson, the station manager. Claire had made her position clear on the issue already, as had Ron. She had nothing else to add. Most assuredly not the apology he’d requested on Friday. Requested? Ha! He hadn’t requested one, he’d demanded it. She snatched at her composure. How was it just standing here looking at him she could go instantly from hot and bothered to frustrated and annoyed?

Walker pinned her with a look that made her shiver with something that wasn’t quite outrage. “I take it you have a few minutes free from your
busy
schedule?” Sarcasm dripped from his words like wax slipping down a lit candle.

His tone irked her, had her emotions flip-flopping again. “Actually, Mr. Walker, I am quite busy. If you’d like to have a meeting, you’ll have to make an appointment like anyone else—”

“Now is fine with me.”

The outrage rushed ahead of all the rest like a horse winning the race by a mere nose. “What is it you have to say, anyway?” She bracketed her hands on her hips. Let him get it over with and then maybe he’d leave.

“Have you changed your mind about doing a sequel on my story?” He slipped his hands into the pants pockets of his elegant suit. The expensive tailoring defined his muscular frame, broad shoulders, lean waist, long legs.

Stop inventorying his assets!
“Why would I want to change my mind?” The man apparently thought his unannounced visit on Friday had done more than annoy her. Well, he could just take his highly advanced fashion sense and handsome mug elsewhere. Claire wasn’t impressed—or intimidated.

He reached into his jacket with his right hand and pulled out a folded document. Using both his big, square hands, he ripped it straight down the middle and presented the two equal parts to Claire.

“What’s this?” She stared at the torn document she instinctively accepted.

“That’s your old contract,” he said smugly, a glint of triumph in his eyes.

“What are you talking about?” The man had lost his mind. Dear Lord, her story had pushed him over the edge. A strange lump rose in Claire’s throat. She hadn’t meant for him to be hurt—not really hurt. But he had to have been close to the edge already for anything she could have done to send him hurtling over the precipice. But still, she’d never upset anyone to this degree before. Not in three years of hosting
Heart Beat
.

While she struggled with her conscience, Trace withdrew another document. “This is your new contract.” He extended the neatly folded document in her direction before she had the presence of mind to look at the one she held already.

At a loss as to what to say, she accepted the paper and carefully unfolded it. Clearly, the man was irrational. Delusional. As she recognized the official-looking document as actually being a contract very similar to the one she’d signed last year with WCMB, her breath left her. The figure near the bottom of the page caught her eye. The sum was nearly twice her current salary.

Thoroughly puzzled, she shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why am I getting a raise? And what does it have to do with you?”

“When additional duties are added to an employee’s job description, it’s appropriate to increase the salary proportionately. Don’t you agree?”

Somehow she nodded, although she had no idea to what she’d just agreed. None of this made sense.

“If the new contract is acceptable with your agent or legal representative, you’ll need to sign it as quickly as possible.”

“What additional duties?” she blurted. His words finally penetrated enough to make an impact. “I have no idea what you’re talking about or why we’re even having this discussion.”

“Secretarial duties.”

“Secretarial duties?” Been there, done that, flashed through her mind.

“Your resume indicated that you’d worked as a secretary in the past. Is your resume accurate, Miss Carson?”

“Of course it’s accurate! I worked as a secretary for the WCMB station manager right after I graduated from college.” She shook her head again, harder this time, to clear the confusion. “What does my work history have to do with anything? And what business—”

“Your personnel file also indicated your age is twenty-seven,” he broke in before she could finish her next question.

“That’s right.” When had he looked at her file?

He shrugged, “I would have guessed thirty at least, but I suppose you television personality types don’t like to admit your real age.”

Heat climbed up her neck and across her cheeks almost as fast as the rage flooded her body. “I am twenty-seven,” she stated hotly. “I have no idea why we’re engaging in this conversation, Mr. Walker, but I can tell you that my personnel file is confidential. I don’t know how—”

“About those secretarial duties,” he cut in smoothly, as if accustomed to having those around him yield to his authority on a regular basis, “I’ll go over everything with you at the office. And, of course if you decide to stay on, you will have Fridays free to do the show. We wouldn’t want to disappoint your fans.”

Claire held up both hands, palms out. He wasn’t insane. She was, for standing around listening to him. “I’m calling security, Mr. Walker. You’re obviously crazy.”

Walker smiled then. In spite of the confusion and the outrage, her heart thumped wildly. Never in her life had she been subjected to such a killer smile.

“Miss Carson, I may be a lot of things, but crazy isn’t one of them.” He cocked his head and studied her more closely. “I’m not fond of training new personnel, but the task is sometimes necessary.”

Claire frowned and waived an inpatient hand. “You’ve lost me.” She had to get to the phone and call security.

“Your little expose on my past upset Lorna, my previous secretary—personal assistant, actually—so much that she retired earlier than expected. I’ll miss her,” he added, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. “Very efficient and reliable. I hope you can fill that bill, Miss Carson.”

Deep breath. Think rationally
. How had the man gotten it into his head that she would be willing to be his secretary, personal assistant or whatever? Maybe she could reason with him. Keep him calm until someone came along. “Mr. Walker, I know you’ve suffered a shock with all the media attention. But, really, you must know that what you’re saying makes no sense at all.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone anything but apologetic. “Did I fail to make myself clear?”

“You lost me from the get-go.”

“Let me clarify the situation for you, Miss Carson.” He tapped the contract she held in her hand. “This is your new contract, if you choose to accept it. From now on you answer directly to me.”

“You’ve lost your mind!” The words popped out before she could stop them. So much for keeping things civil.

His stare turned dark and deadly. “Do you know what I did this weekend, Miss Carson?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Walker.” She didn’t dare breathe.

“I bought myself a television station.”

Claire felt like a cartoon character that had just been zapped by a zigzag lightning bolt. “A television station?”

“That’s right. I own WCMB now.” He smiled another ten-thousand megawatt smile. “And I guess that means I own you, too.”

Chapter Two

“Why in the hell did you buy a television station? Surely you don’t plan to get involved with the entertainment industry again?” Gabe Jarrett, vice president of TWI, leveled his questioning gaze on Trace.

Trace leaned back in his leather swivel chair and propped his feet on his desk. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and tried to come up with a good answer. Nothing came. Gabe continued to stare at him expectantly.

“It’s that Carson woman, isn’t it?” Gabe tossed the WCMB file on Trace’s desk. “She really got to you.”

Gabe had no idea how very true his words were. Trace hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything else since meeting Claire. Seeing her on television had been one thing, but sparring with her in the flesh had been entirely another. Not much bigger than a minute, the woman appeared every inch the femme fatale.

Chestnut curls that looked so soft Trace had been hard pressed not to reach out and touch them, framed a face that dreams were made of. Full, pink lips and eyes that were more gold than brown drew a man’s attention even before that sultry voice reached his ears. Everything about the woman beckoned to his senses—including her fiery defiance. Trace hadn’t been this hell bent on having the final word in a confrontation in too many years to remember.

He had gone to the WCMB building on Friday evening expecting to intimidate the uppity female into an apology and maybe take her down a notch or two. He’d also hoped he could pressure the station manager into cancelling the so-called Trace Walker sequel he’d heard was in the works. Neither of which had been accomplished. The only thing he’d walked away with turned out to be a burning desire to tame Claire Carson.

“Actually,” Trace finally said, “I think I got to her.” He grinned as he recalled the look on Claire’s face when he told her that he owned the station and
her
. Taking control had been easy. As luck would have it, one of TWI’s subsidiary companies already owned sixty percent of WCMB. The rest had been a piece of cake.

“And just what do you expect to accomplish?” Gabe rose, shot another disgruntled look at Trace and walked over to the bar.

Trace knew from experience, as well as from the censuring look Gabe had just given him, that he had more to say. So he waited, silent and patient, while Gabe poured himself a bourbon, neat. It was a little early in the day, especially for a Tuesday, to have a drink that stiff. But Trace’s weekend mission seemed to have really shaken Gabe. Trace didn’t have to explain his actions to Gabe, but for some reason he always did. They’d known each other entirely too long to pretend theirs was nothing more than a purely working relationship.

Gabe walked back to his chair. “A guy tosses a few million bucks around, he has a goal. Or at least one would hope he has a goal.”

“One meaning you?” Trace asked and lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Since when do you care what I do with petty funds?”

“That amount is far from petty.” Gabe took a substantial gulp of bourbon. He cleared his throat of the burn that no doubt followed the liquor and then added, “Very far from petty.”

“Get to the point, Gabe.” Trace didn’t like beating around the bush and his VP seemed particularly adept at doing just that today.