“Most daughters are close to their mothers,” he said. “Does yours live nearby? In town?”
Taryn’s stomach jumped but she forced the emotion down. She’d lived with the reality all her life. Woke up to it every morning. And still that empty sick feeling rose in a surge whenever she needed to say the words aloud.
She set down her fork. “My mother’s dead.”
His brows nudged together and he took a moment before responding.
“I’m sorry.”
Yeah. Where her mother was concerned, she was sorry about a lot of things.
But this wasn’t a first date. They weren’t here to analyze the past—how some were born to rule while others were left to build on crumbs. Still, the evening hadn’t been the disaster she’d half expected, although now was the time to gently but firmly reset some boundaries.
“I’d rather not discuss my personal life.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “I understand. I was only making conversation—”
“I know, Cole. That’s fine.” She pushed down those rising levels again and pasted on a reasonable face. “But we’re here because you wanted to eat. Let’s get that out of the way so we can get back to work.”
While Taryn set about consuming the remainder of her salad, Cole warred with himself. He understood this occasion was in no way a catch-up between friends or, God forbid, a night out for lovers. He had indeed been making polite conversation—and he’d ended up sticking his foot in his mouth once again. He knew about the pain of losing a parent, but how was he to know that Taryn had lost both a father and a mother?
Yes, best they keep any subsequent talk firmly centered on business, he decided, draining his glass. Definitely best they conduct future meetings in a work environment—if Taryn and her proposal made it past this evening.
One glass of wine, half a steak and no conversation later, Cole set his napkin firmly down on the table beside his plate.
“Okay. We’re done. Let’s talk.” And get back to our own lives.
Finished, too, Taryn slid her plate aside, collected her laptop and scooted her chair slightly toward his, purely to offer a better view of the screen. Before the hard drive had finished booting up, she’d outlined logistics on travel points and was expounding on visions for the future. But he was done with being chatty. Now he wanted the heart of her revised idea, and he wanted it fast.
“What’s the hook?” he asked. “The draw card that’ll have everyone and their great-grandma tuning back in week after week and advertisers cuing up?”
A manicured fingertip brushed a key and an image flashed up on the screen … a rather uninspiring shot of a group of people standing in an ordinary suburban front yard. The way Taryn was beaming, you’d think she was about to Skype with the person at the top of her “must meet” list.
Cole loosened his tie. God, why had he bothered? Why was he bothering still?
“Rather than trained reporters,” she said, moving to the next image—a handful of kids playing basketball in some rundown hall, “we’ll use real-life couples or families or groups to check out each holiday hot spot. We’ll ask viewers to email or text in reasons why they, or someone they know, ought to be the next to enjoy an all-expenses-paid trip to some amazing place, courtesy of Hunters.”
He barely contained a groan. “This is another reality show idea, isn’t it?”
“Reality shows are still extremely popular,” she insisted, rolling through more similarly uninspiring images, “and with this formula—coupling luxury with underprivileged—we can truly tug at the heartstrings of our viewers.” When he groaned aloud, she tipped toward him. “Open up your mind to the possibilities and all the people you could help make happy.”
“I’m not here to organize charities. I’m here to make good television.” Make money.
She blinked then returned her attention to the screen and went on.
“At the end of the season, the viewers get to vote on the number-one holiday couple, family, friends or whatever, and the main sponsor donates a potful of cash toward helping an associated community cause. The next season kicks off with a lucky draw winner from a list of all the voters.”
She looked so animated—her big eyes twinkling and hands dancing—he practically saw sparks fly. But …
“It’s not new enough,” he said. When she looked at him, puzzled, he elaborated. “I need more. Maybe if you include some sort of elimination strategy—”
“No. I want everyone associated with my show to feel like winners.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Great. He was dealing with an I-can-save-the-world type. Not that philanthropy wasn’t admirable. In this instance, however, it simply wasn’t feasible. He’d grown up living and breathing the culture of broadcasting. He’d learned from the best, and now, he delivered the same. Or wanted to. He didn’t know why Guthrie had let this stunt get as far as it had, but in the morning he’d tell his father he should consider a vacation. In fact, a lengthy holiday away from business—and would-be assassins—sounded like a damn fine idea.
“This will be a feel-good program,” she was saying. “Sure, along the way there’ll be all sorts of trials and fears faced, but no one will be left feeling like a loser. This show could start a whole new genre.”
“Taryn,” he said gently but clearly, “there is no show unless I say so.”
She tacked up her slipping smile. “Think of the sponsors.”
“You can talk all you want about sponsor dollars, but in the end time is money. My time. The company’s time. I won’t put valuable people on a project I’m not convinced will succeed.”
“Not convinced yet,” she corrected.
Blast it all. She wasn’t listening.
“You shouldn’t have rushed this. You should have given yourself at least a couple of days to really think through every possible angle.”
“My idea was good to begin with.”
He sucked down a breath. Okay. Blunt ax time. “There’s no room at Hunters for good. I’m after brilliant—or nothing.”
“Brilliant?”
“That’s right.”
Her gaze hardened. Then it turned to stone. “Because you’re so brilliant?”
“Because, I’m the boss and—” dammit “—no one gets to play in my sandbox unless I say so.”
Her eyes filled with an emotion that glistened at the same time as it burned. Then her hands fisted an instant before she pushed out of her chair. On her way up, she bumped the table and her glass toppled toward him. Wine hurled through the air, ending up with a splash on his lap. His arms flew out; at the same time his temper spiked and he slid his chair back. Was that an accident or was she deliberately making matters worse?
Still in his seat, Cole gripped his napkin and pressed at the cool alcohol seeping into his trousers. Somehow he managed to keep his voice even.
“I’ll assume that was an accident.”
“It was.” She leaned across the table and flung the wine from his glass, too. “That one, I did mean.”
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