“The Financial Journal is picking the story up, too, as part of some article on stress,” he said.
Her smile faded. So much for reassuring either Simon or herself. “I heard. The Journal said they wanted to run an article in their August issue. They left me messages and I plan on calling them back. I’d be happy to answer their questions. I’m pretty sure they’ll be much more factual with the article they run, which will be good for both of us.”
“But the Rag?” he pressed.
“Simon, tabloids aren’t interested in the truth. All they want is shock value. Anything I say will probably just be twisted to suit their purposes, just like my study was.”
She took a sip of the strong black brew, and realized Simon hadn’t. “Did you need cream or sugar?”
“No,” he said, and took a sip as if to prove it was fine. “So you won’t come with me to their office and demand a retraction?”
“I’m telling you, it won’t do any good.”
“Will you at least give me a written statement saying that their article was fraudulent?”
Ari sighed. “If that’s what you want, sure. But truly, I don’t think it will help.”
“It will. I’ll make it work.”
Ari doubted it, but didn’t say so.
Simon Masterson might be gorgeous, but he was stubborn, tenacious and confident to the point of foolishness.
Annoying qualities in a man.
Enough to almost make her forget that she’d had a lust attack when she first saw him.
Almost, but not quite.
She’d give him his statement, and with any luck that would be the last she would hear of Simon Masterson.
They went into the living room and he sipped his coffee as she downloaded her thesis from her laptop onto a disc.
She glanced at Simon and tried to concentrate on how annoying he was, but her heart did this weird little beat. Annoying but good-looking. Not that she cared. Maybe he wasn’t even all that hot.
Stress.
Stress just made him look better than he really looked.
Wouldn’t that be an interesting study?
How Stress Impacts a Woman’s Libido.
“Hey, are you going to write a letter or not?” he asked.
She sighed and opened a blank document, then wrote a quick letter to the Rag expressing her outrage over their article and demanding they print a retraction. She signed it with a flourish.
“Here,” she said, handing him the paper and the disc. “All my data—the real data, not the stuff they made up—is there, along with my conclusions. Maybe that will help.”
He was off the stool and headed toward the door without even a thank you.
That was rude.
Rude men weren’t attractive men.
He probably didn’t look nearly as hot now, she thought.
Ah, but she was now walking behind him, following him to the apartment door and the view was mighty fine.
And hot.
Darn it all.
She needed to sleep. Maybe she’d do some yoga. Anything to reduce her stress, and thus reduce her state of lust. Because, boy, did she have it bad right now.
“I still think you’re making a mistake,” she said, frowning.
He opened the door and turned to face her. “I don’t think—” he said, just as a bright light flashed.
They both whirled toward the hall and saw a small, dark-haired man with an oily smile and a camera.
“Alphie Newman,” he said, smiling even broader, which bared his uneven teeth. “I’m from Rag Magazine. I know you. You’re Simon Masterson from SimonSays. I got your messages on my machine this morning. I tried to call you, but didn’t get an answer. Imagine finding you here with Miss Kelly. Maybe I could get a statement from you before I interview Miss Kelly?”
“No interviews,” Ari said even as Simon said, “I was just going to head to your office to talk about the retraction you’re going to print. You’ve saved me a trip.”
Leaving the two men in the hall, Ari closed the door. She had a bad feeling about Simon’s plan.
A very bad feeling.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Ari’s persistent bad feeling had mushroomed into a horrendous feeling.
It seemed that anything that could go wrong in her life, was going wrong.
But this? This was out of the blue.
She hung up the phone feeling a bit more than shell-shocked.
The Warnheimer Institute’s director had called, saying there was a problem with the funding for her position. Her new job—her dream job—was temporarily on hold.
The director had been apologetic as she assured Ari that she’d try to clear it up as soon as possible.
Then the woman had added that while she was trying to clear up the funding problems, she hoped Ari would clear up her little media disaster.
Ari hung up the phone and cursed the tabloid.
She’d hoped her ten minutes of fame—or rather infamy—were over.
Now this.
Her dream job was on hold, possibly gone for good.
What was she going to do for money?
Maybe the hospital would hire her back? It was an option that didn’t thrill her. She didn’t want to go back to nursing. She wanted her research job at the institute. She’d worked hard to get her advanced degree. Two long years of working full-time and going to school.
And now what did she have to show for it?
Nothing.
As she pondered how she was going to pay next month’s rent, her doorbell rang. It was one polite little ring, so she knew it wasn’t that Simon Masterson coming back, which was good. She hoped she’d seen the last of him.
She opened the door and found Collin standing there, looking decidedly annoyed.
“Collin, what a surprise,” she said, letting him into the apartment as a wave of gratitude swept through her.
She so needed him to hold her and tell her everything was going to be all right, that the institute would realize how valuable she was despite the tabloid coverage and tell her that her job was waiting for her whenever she was ready to start.
He strode in and as soon as she’d shut the door, he thrust a paper at her.
Uh-oh.
Feeling more than slightly sick to her stomach, and knowing that things might be worse than she thought, she looked at the headline on this week’s Rag Magazine.
Attack of the Deadly Phone Maze, just under it was a picture with the caption, “Simon Says…Study Stupid.”
It was the picture the reporter had taken of Ari and Simon when they’d opened the door last week. It was apparent that there was more than just a little tension between them.
“I told him it wouldn’t work,” she muttered.
“Told who?” Collin asked.
“Simon Masterson. He came here demanding I do something, write a letter to Rag Magazine refuting their article. I told him it wouldn’t work.”
“And