“Don’t give yourself ulcers over it,” Eric said. “That first story was a little strong but they’ve been better since.”
“Sure. Now they want a comment from him. Now that he’s gone. Or maybe they’re just sniffing around for a new story.”
“They don’t really have to. The tabloids have kind of taken it over.”
And it drove Jillian nuts. One day Robbie had been there, the next he’d been gone without a word. One letter, no phone calls. Five weeks. She shook her head. “It’s driving Nancy to distraction, especially since he’s supposed to be checking in with his parole officer.”
“I don’t know how she’s managing. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if Eric just disappeared like that,” Jenny said. “I’d be worried out of my mind.”
“She is. I just keep hoping it’ll all die down, but fat chance.” Jillian leaned back in her chair, staring at the paper that hid Eric. “It’s just one story after another after anoth—” Suddenly, she froze, staring at the banner. The Portland Gazette, it read. And on the line below, in fancy script, A Blazon Media Company.
A Blazon Media company.
“What’s wrong?” Jenny asked, frowning. “You look like you’d seen a ghost.”
“Eric, can I have the front page for a minute?”
“Hmm?”
“The front page. Just for a minute. Here, you can have the sports section.” She took the opening section with shaking hands. “Come on, come on, come on,” she muttered.
“You mind telling me what’s going on?” Eric asked.
“Nothing.” It didn’t mean anything, she told herself as she turned back to the editorial page, the part that carried the masthead. Just because Blazon owned the paper didn’t mean Gil worked for the Gazette. He could do any one of a number of things. Maybe he was in corporate, maybe he was in radio. Maybe he handled their Internet properties.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was the managing editor for the metro section of the Gazette.
“I’m going to strangle him,” Jillian said.
Chapter Four
He was staring into space again, Gil realized with a start. Looking aimlessly out the window at the lights along the Willamette River. And seeing a pair of whiskey-colored eyes, for the umpteenth time since he’d watched Jillian Logan drive away on Saturday night.
It wasn’t like him to let a woman get into his head like this. Sure, he’d been attracted before. He’d even been wildly in lust a few times. Love? Not really his thing. He did better with like. He was one of those guys who liked women through and through, the way they looked, the way they smelled, the way they walked and talked and dressed and blushed. The way they were all different. He liked taking them out, he liked taking them to bed.
And he liked having his life to himself after it was over.
So why did he have Jillian Logan stuck in his head? He kept remembering that husky laugh of hers, that way she had of staying two steps ahead of him, of keeping him on his toes the way almost nobody did. And those soft little gasps she’d made when they were kissing, her hand curled into the front of his shirt as though she couldn’t get enough. Those soft little gasps that had kept him thinking quite a lot about what was underneath that pretty purple dress of hers. If it had just been him and her somewhere private, he might have started to find out.
But it wasn’t just him and her, that was the problem. She was Jillian Logan, the sister of Robbie Logan of the Children’s Connection scandal. And he was the city editor of the Gazette. Alan had warned him of that going into the wedding, Gil reminded himself. He’d known ahead of time to keep his distance.
He just hadn’t been able to help himself.
So now he had a fine mess on his hands. He was the editor of the paper that had outed Robbie Logan and touched off a media firestorm. Considering how protective Jillian had been over Lisa when Gil had missed the rehearsal, he had a pretty good idea that she was going to be seriously ticked when she found out.
Add to that the fact that he’d told her he was with Blazon Media instead of the paper, which only made it look as though he was trying to hide it. That was far from the case, but how would she know?
Letting out a long breath, Gil drummed his fingers on the arm of his couch. He had to be straight with her, that was all there was to it. If he wanted to see where things between them could go, he had to come clean. He’d take her out to dinner, somewhere with good wine and quiet music and lay it all out for her. She’d be angry at first, maybe—okay, definitely—but once she’d had some time to think about it, there was a good chance she’d get past it. After all, the paper was only doing its job, reporting the facts. The public had a right to know. Gil believed that through and through.
The question was, would Jillian?
She’d never been much good at meditating. Oh, sure, she had all the yoga poses down, but as she eased into the triangle, standing on her living-room carpet, Jillian’s thoughts coalesced like bits of mercury, flowing together in fits and starts.
Until she was thinking of Gil Reynolds once again.
He worked for the Gazette, the paper that had driven Robbie away. Maybe he hadn’t written the articles himself, but as editor he might as well have. And the worst part about it was that he’d lied to her. Lied to her. Blazon Media her ass. He’d only said it because he’d known who she was, and known she’d go off on him if he told her the truth.
Instead, she’d kissed him. She’d stood in the parking lot and glommed onto him like a limpet. And made it totally clear she’d liked it. Forget like, she’d loved it, and he’d known. She remembered the feel of his mouth curving against hers and she suddenly had a new appreciation for the phrase seeing red because she swore she could see the ruddy haze of anger like a fine mist over everything in her view.
A dozen flavors of fury, humiliation, betrayal layered over one another, and underneath, deep underneath lurked a dark, sneaky disappointment. It had felt so right. This was the one that she’d thought was actually going to work, the one that was going to happen the way it did for everyone else, meeting a guy, going out and, who knew, maybe getting involved, maybe even, God forbid, having sex for once in her life. It wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Was it?
Instead, she’d gotten Gil Reynolds playing his tricky game and probably laughing at her the entire time.
Relax, Jillian reminded herself, taking a deep breath as she changed sides and sank back into the pose. Exercise was supposed to soothe, not give her a chance to get more agitated.
The worst part was that she’d liked him, really liked him. He’d seemed genuinely interested, as though he’d been attracted to her, wanted her. What if he hadn’t been?
What if he’d only been trying to pump her for a story?
And at that thought, all possibility of relaxation flew out the window. Forget yoga, she needed to learn something more violent. Kickboxing, maybe, something where she could hit and kick and…
Release, she reminded herself. Let it go.
The phone burbled. Jillian struggled out of her pose and made it over to the handset. As a social worker, answering the phone was never optional for her.
“Hello?”
“Jillian? Gil Reynolds.”
Let it go? Not likely. “Why, Gil,” she said silkily, “what a coincidence. I was just thinking about you.”
“Great minds,” he said. “Having a good week?”
“All right. How about you?”
“Ah,