It's News to Her (3 page)

“Showing support to our star journalist is hardly a waste of my time,” Cord replied. “Besides, as Gramps
pointed out, this will give us the perfect opportunity to talk.”

Hunter stared at his reflection in the polished brass doors. For all of his striking presence and his new stature, she refused to go to her strategic guillotine without a fight. “At the risk of annoying you to where you buy out my contract, I'm not going to discuss Denny with you.”

He whistled softly. “You
are
still angry. Were you really that serious about him? I saw live feeds of your news reports only days after he left Texas, and you looked and performed better than ever. There wasn't the slightest hint that you were suffering an emotional meltdown.”

Hunter seethed. For the better part of a week, she hadn't been able to eat more than toast without losing it in seconds. She'd been afraid to pass a copy editor her adjustments to a field writer's report for fear that someone would see how badly her hands were shaking. She had felt totally humiliated and had lost all confidence in her judgment, which for a person trained to analyze was the most bitter of pills. But to Cord Rivers she offered a cold smile and said, “That's why you pay me what you do, Mr. Rivers.”

“I don't buy it.” The elevator doors parted and Cord followed Hunter inside. Once they turned to face front again and the doors slid shut, he continued, “All I'm saying is that if we were in love, you wouldn't be able to hide it, and I know I sure as hell couldn't.”

Hunter wasn't prone to blushing, but hearing the
undertones of passion in his voice, she felt an unwelcome heat flood her body. She gripped the strap of her leather shoulder bag to keep from yielding to unwanted fidgeting that would give away her physical awareness of him. “Mr. Rivers—”

“Cord.”

She would choke if she tried to call him by his first name. She was already feeling queasy because the elevator was doing its best to beat a record to the first floor. Pressing her free hand to her tummy, she blurted out, “I can't take this trip with you. If you'll drop me off at the airport, I'll see about that alternate flight.”

“Do I frighten you that much?”

“Try annoy.”

“Honesty at last. Thank you. We have a launch point to work from.”

“Better yet, start from the fact that your personal comment just now was inappropriate.”

Unbuttoning his suit jacket to slide his hands into his pants' pockets, Cord shrugged. “Maybe I'm less formal than my grandfather, but then I'm not eighty nor have I ever been the cookie-cutter, politically correct type. The point is that you have issues with me, and that simply can't be left unaddressed.”

“As long as I get your station good ratings, what do you care what I think about you?”

“Because I have been thinking about you since the day I talked my grandfather into moving Denny to L.A.—longer, if you must know—and it's time I do something about that.”

C
ord accepted that he might live to regret his honest admission; nevertheless, he was determined to enjoy the moment. The look on Hunter's lovely face was truly priceless; her deep brown, often cognac-warm eyes went wide, becoming a mirror to a fine mind racing at Mach speed. It wasn't often that anything or anyone got under Hunter Harding's skin. When she wasn't being the consummate professional, she was a prankster often getting the best of the guys in the control room after they'd teased her or played a fast one. This he knew from anecdotes his grandfather had passed on through the years or from staffers themselves. She was always quick with a quip and never lorded her position over the reporters and researchers, or anyone else at the station, which made her well liked. In personality, as well as looks, she could pass for Sandra Bullock's kid sister.

But he'd been studying her for a long time and knew that beneath that physically delightful shell that won her both male
and
female fans and earned her a beloved label was a gentle, wounded soul who protected her heart with a samurai's determination. It troubled him that someone as shallow and self-absorbed as Denny Brewster could have inflicted such hurt on her.
Well, no more,
he thought. Not if he had anything to do about it. He definitely liked that his compliment was taken exactly the way he'd intended it to be.

As the bell sounded their arrival at the ground floor and the doors parted, he watched as Hunter squared her shoulders, exited and launched into a determined march through the lobby. Quite a feat in that figure-enhancing skirt and killer heels, even with those long legs. While she stood about five-ten in her sexy shoes, he was still inches taller. If he wasn't so concerned about her slipping on the highly polished, Italian marble floor, he would be grinning with pleasure for the enticing show she was putting on.

“Miss Hunter, Mr. Rivers.” Joey, the security guard, came bustling around the reception desk, all seriousness and authority. “Your car is waiting, sir. Miss Hunter, do you need me to walk you to your vehicle?”

“No need,” Cord replied for her. “She's coming with me. Our flight probably won't return until after midnight. Be sure to tell those on the next shift to keep an eye on her vehicle, would you?”

With his low brow furrowed and his lips pursed, Joey
nodded. “Absolutely, sir. Have a safe trip.” He held open the first door, then quickly lunged to get the outer door.

As Hunter warmly thanked him, Cord's attention shifted to the black Cadillac at the curb. The rear door was already open, and his chauffeur stood in attendance.

“Hunter,” Cord said as they drew nearer. “This is Phil Porter, my driver going on four years now. Phil, this is Ms. Harding. That homely guy behind him,” he added, nodding to the handsome blond also dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, “is my executive assistant, Lane Nugent.”

Greetings were exchanged with proper circumspection, and all three of the men waited for Hunter to get settled before climbing in themselves.

As Lane buckled up in the front passenger seat, Cord said to Hunter, “I can't offer you any refreshments until we get on the jet.”

“I don't care for anything, anyway, thank you.”

For the first time, Cord wished for the limousine, where he could push the button and close the divide between the front and back seats and even pull drapes. There were things he wanted to say to her, more he wanted to ask, and none of that was possible in this environment. But his grandfather used the limo, as was only right because it provided more security in every way. Cord relied on Phil's excellent driving for a good part of his safety, and Lane's expert marksmanship and martial arts skills for the rest. With today's increased atmosphere for extortion and terrorism, no successful
businessman or high-ranking politician could take his or her safety for granted.

“So, tell me about how you got invited to speak up in Jersey,” he said when it was clear that Hunter would remain silent if he let her.

Keeping her eyes forward, she replied politely, “It would have been my alma mater if my father hadn't died, and we hadn't moved down to Texas.”

As the Cadillac left the parking lot and merged into service-road traffic, Lane initiated low-key small talk with Phil. Cord knew him well enough to understand he was trying to provide him with what privacy he could.

Cord leaned ever so slightly toward Hunter in order to keep his own voice soft. “What has me curious is how you came to the administration's attention. You're barely old enough to have had your ten-year reunion.”

Hunter slid him a brief flattery-will-get-you-nowhere look. “That was two years ago and, since I didn't graduate there, I didn't feel I should attend. From what I was told, a former classmate saw some story I did that played on our New York sister network, and she's active in one way or another in school extracurricular programs. Apparently, she put a bug in someone's ear, and I was invited.”

“You're good at promoting everything and everyone but yourself,” Cord said.

Shrugging, Hunter said, “Blame it on my German genes. My Grandmother Bayer used to tell my mother,
‘Selb loben stinkt,'
whenever Mother came from her violin lessons proud of learning a difficult piece.”

“I take it that the translation isn't complimentary.”

“Self-love stinks.”

“Ha! That explains a good deal.”

“Speaking of compliments, this car is surprisingly low-key.”

“More German genes in play?” Too amused to take offense, Cord replied, “Knowing my grandfather as you do, you must remember he doesn't approve of us drawing unwanted attention to ourselves. But these are different times, and his safety must come first, so with Lenore's help, I did get him into the limo. Otherwise, I use this leased vehicle when here. There's another on each coast, so when we travel, our chauffeurs fly with us. When we travel elsewhere, we rent. It's proven both more economical and practical working with personnel who know our routines and schedules as well as we do ourselves.”

“I've met Stuart, Mr. Henry's driver,” Hunter said with concern. “He's some years away from retirement. What will happen to him?”

“He'll remain at the estate. He lives in the spacious apartment above the four-car garage with his wife, Meg, who works in the house.” There would be many doctor appointments and hospital stays. Devoted to the family, Stuart would make sure both Cord's grandfather and step-grandmother were well cared for, as would the rest of the staff.

“That's undoubtedly going to be a great relief for Mr. Henry and Lenore.”

Her sincere concern had Cord venturing another
probe. “What about your grandparents? Are they still alive?”

“My paternal grandparents died when I was very young. My maternal grandfather passed away four years ago. My grandmother lives with my mother in Boston.”

“Boston—that's right, she's an accomplished musician.”

“You've been in my files.”

Her voice held more resignation than resentment, and Cord's gesture made the observation matter-of-fact. But he wasn't about to admit that he'd perused her Facebook profile and routinely checked her page on the network's website. “It's my job to know who our people are.”

“Then you know she's a First Violin for the Boston Symphony Orchestra.”

“That's impressive. Do you play?”

She glanced at him again with a look that said, okay, we'll play this silly game of yours. “The piano. Badly.”

But she had the elegant, long-fingered hands for the instrument. “Do you see your mother and your grandmother often?”

“You know my schedule.”

True. KSIO kept her on the air as much as they could and then encouraged special appearances on behalf of the station. “I'm sorry that work keeps you apart so much, but their loss is our gain. I hope they're proud of you.”

“When they aren't worrying that I'll accept an overseas-correspondent job like my father's.”

Cord felt a jolt himself and he couldn't quite hide a frown. “Is that an ambition?”

Hunter looked out her window. “Worried about losing your senior anchor?”

“I'd be a fool not to be.” He replied amiably, but a cold lump formed in his stomach as he thought about her on a war-torn front. Since it was way too early to tell her that he had no intention of ever letting her take such risk, he asked instead, “Your mother didn't remarry?”

“No. My father was… Their relationship was one of those rare ones. After we lost him, my mother redirected her passion toward her music, which probably saved her sanity. Can we change the subject, please? The graduates I'm going to speak to deserve an uplifting speech,” she said. “Lingering on those initial days and weeks after losing my dad isn't conducive to assuring those kids will get that.”

Cord reached over and gently touched the tightly clasped hands in her lap. “I'm sorry. Again.” He spoke quietly so that the sound was barely a whisper around them, and he kept his contact brief. Then he added in a conversational voice, “Are you speaking from notes tonight or a written-out speech?”

“It's written. Though I do like to speak extemporaneously for more informal occasions. That tends to relax and engage the audience more.”

“I'm looking forward to hearing you. Or would you be more comfortable if I don't follow my grandfather's directive to the word and just have Lane escort you?”

With a mirthless chuckle, Hunter shook her head.
“Mr. Rivers, one thing I do understand is that this has ceased to be about what I want. If the school administrators learn that the new CEO of Yarrow Communications is available to attend their ceremony, and I deny them your presence, I'm likely to find my appearance cancelled before I get on the stage.”

Cord almost reached for his tie to ease the knot at his throat.
She loathes you, pal—and she's no ingenue. It'll take more than charm and chitchat to bring down her walls to the point of being willing to even hear you talk about something other than the weather.

With that realization stinging, Cord was still surprised at how quickly they reached the airport. After a short pause at the security gate, they drove up to YCI's jet. Cord climbed out immediately, ready to offer his hand to Hunter, but Phil was at the opposite door faster, and had the honor.

Captain Zack Murray stood at the top of the stairs to offer a crisp salute in welcome. Beside him was Steward Chris Duluth. Cord introduced Hunter once again.

“Ms. Harding,” Chris said, nodding down the aisle of the cabin. “Sit wherever you'd like.”

“Sorry to interfere with this afternoon's golf game, Chris,” Cord said, once she had passed.

“Full disclosure—I'm relieved, sir,” the younger man said good-naturedly. “I'd prefer a morning game instead of melting on the fairway. Captain Murray says we're good to go as soon as you settle in.”

“Then let's not waste any more time. No telling how backed up things will be on the Eastern Seaboard.”

Once he headed further into the plane, Cord saw that Hunter had chosen an aisle seat forcing him to either do the obvious—sit by the window beside her—or take the opposite aisle seat. He chose the aisle seat.

“This is belated, but what kind of flier are you?” he asked, fastening his seat belt.

“I promise not to charge the door and try to open it at the first hint of take-off.”

Cord adopted a smile but was sobered by the thought of her never being able to get on a plane without thinking of her father. Such a catastrophe would kill his enjoyment of air travel, too. “If I had to fly commercially more than I do—I'd dislike it myself.” He nodded to the open cockpit door. “They usually leave it open for me but if too much view disturbs you, they can shut it.”

“I won't be looking.”

As she turned her head away, Cord motioned to Chris to shut the door, which he did quietly. Once that task was done, the steward approached her. “Would something bicarbonate help after we take off?”

Grimacing, Hunter asked, “Am I already turning green? Ginger ale would be great if you have it.”

“We do. One other thing. If you haven't already, you need to turn off your cell phone and any other electronic devices.”

“Of course.”

As she reached for her BlackBerry, Chris turned to Cord. “Sir, anything for you?”

“Water, thanks.”

Once he was gone, Cord leaned over his armrest.
“I'd risk eardrum damage if you'd like to chitchat until we're in the air.”

“How brave of you. But trust me, it won't help.”

“It bothers me that you're determined not to like me anymore.”

Raising her eyebrows, Hunter replied, “You're assuming conditions were once different. I met you what—a half dozen times prior to Denny's promotion? Half that since? That's not the basis on which to draw any reliable conclusion, let alone trust there's been an improvement.”

Clearing his throat to hide a delighted laugh, Cord relaxed in his seat, determined to change that regardless of her stubbornness. “I'm thirty-eight, no failed marriages or illegitimate children to confirm any serious character flaws—although I'll be the first to admit I'm far from perfect—but my grandfather and step-grandmother love me enough to give me a key to their residence when I'm in town.”

“Do your parents?”

“They sold their place after my father retired from the University of Texas. They enjoy being gypsies, traveling around the world. Fortunately, they know enough people to always have somewhere to stay. I'm afraid if they had kept their house, I'd be closer to the dust mites than I am to them.”

Although Hunter's lips twitched, she quickly replied, “It's none of my business, anyway.”

“Fraud. I've just piqued your interest, admit it.”