Taylor sighed. "Yes and no. If you're asking if anyone's been following me, no. Today's it's been just
me and my pepper spray."
"But?"
"But I had an unsettling meeting."
"With the parents of one of your students?"
"No. With Jonathan Mallory."
"Jonathan?" Reed stared. "Where the hell did you see him?"
"At Dellinger. Right before I left. He was guest-speaking at a club."
Anger drew Reed's lips into a grim line. "Funny, he didn't mention that to me. I had lunch with the guy."
"Today?"
"Yup. Not three hours ago."
Taylor studied Reed's reaction curiously. "You're angry."
"Damn right I am. We discussed you. He never said a word about heading over to your school."
"You told him we were seeing each other. He admitted that."
"But he hit on you anyway."
Taylor's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "He didn't exactly hit on me. It's more like he was pleading his
case, letting me know he was nothing like Gordon. Yes, he asked me out. But not in any offensive
way. Not really. It's just that. . ." Her voice trailed off.
"Go on."
"The guy just makes me uncomfortable. I don't know why. I try to separate him from Gordon, but
I don't like being around him. He gives me the creeps."
"That's the last thing you need right now. I'll talk to him."
Taylor felt herself smile. "Reed, you don't have to take me on as a cause. I'm very capable. I know
how to take care of myself. I've been doing it for almost twenty-eight years."
"Yeah, too much so." Reed took a gulp of coffee. "It's time you learned to rely on someone else—or
at least to trust someone a little."
"I already do trust you a little. It's a lot that'll take some time."
"I know." He paused, his forehead creasing as he weighed out his next words—or rather, how Taylor would receive them. "I gave my brother Rob a call this afternoon. He and his partner were heading out
on some priority investigation, but he said he'd get me a few names by the end of the day. And, no, I'm not making decisions for you," he added quickly.
"What you do with the names is up to you. I'm just trying to be time efficient. So don't rip my head off."
"A few names." Taylor stopped munching on her sandwich. "You mean, of private investigators?" At Reed's nod, she pushed away her paper plate. "I'm not going to rip your head off, but I am confused.
I thought we were giving things a day or two to play out—or at least waiting until the next time I sensed
I was being watched. What's changed?"
"Nothing." The lie tasted like sand on his tongue. "I just felt better starting the process. This way there won't be a time lag—if you need to hire someone."
"Right." She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. "Why don't you tell me what this
is really about? What occurred to you between the time you left my apartment and the time you called your brother?"
Reed blew out his breath. Ethically, he couldn't tell her about Jonathan, but he sure as hell could touch
on the other possibilities that had kept him up most of the night.
"A lot of things occurred to me, starting with the fact that I couldn't throw the inside bolt when I left
your place, so your apartment wasn't double-locked last night. What else? How about the fact that you represent emotional sanctuary—and God knows what else—to a lot of teens, any one of whom might
be unstable enough to try transforming fantasy into reality. Like the fact that you're not only a public figure, but a public figure with a rich family, which makes you a prime target for kidnappers and extortionists—potentially including professionals who have an ax to grind with your father. Is that
enough? Or do you want me to go on?"
"You can stop." Taylor's tone was composed, but the intensity of her stare hadn't changed. "None of
this is new territory. I've considered all of it. I'm sure you did, too, within two minutes of my relaying
the situation to you. You have a sharp, analytical mind. You deliberate the possibilities at warp speed. You keep a cool, level head. All that's part of being a crackerjack defense attorney—which my sources tell me you are."
"A crackerjack attorney would inform you that that's all hearsay and supposition," he countered lightly.
"Fair enough," she returned. "Then I'll rephrase. From personal observation, I can safely conclude
you're smart as a whip and not the panicky type. So try that explanation again."
Reed did just that. This time, he went for a different, equally risky kind of candor. "You're right. I'm
not the panicky type. But staying cool only works in situations where I'm not personally involved—
which I never am with my clients. That's not the case with you. I am involved. So the same rules
don't apply."
He knew he had her there. She couldn't argue with him. Not when they both knew it was the truth.
The question was, how would she react?
He found out soon enough. Taylor's lashes lowered, and she shifted in her seat, looking torn and unsettled. Whether she was torn by the bluntness of his admission or by her own continued doubts
as to whether or not he'd been entirely honest with her—that was another story.
Either way, she let it go. "Okay, so you called your brother. Thanks— I think. In the meantime, based
on your picking me up after school like a worried parent, am I to assume you've appointed yourself surrogate PI?"
Her analogy made Reed grin. "A worried parent? Hardly. More like a cautious escort. As for the title of surrogate PI, you have to admit, it would be a unique addition to my resumé."
"Not to mention a great icebreaker at parties," Taylor agreed. She studied him thoughtfully. "Your resumé, huh? Does that mean you're in the process of updating it?"
One dark brow rose.
"Reed, I'm not pushing. I'm here to talk, or just to listen. Moral support goes both ways, you know."
"Yeah, I know." He reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You may not believe it, but
I'm looking forward to confiding in you. I have a feeling you'll give me some major perspective."
"Just not yet."
"Right. Just not yet. But soon." Mentally, he counted the days. The senior partners had asked for two weeks to review his situation and come to some sort of agreement with regard to the terms of his leaving the firm to go out on his own. He was giving them that time. One week down, one to go. But after that, he'd start the ball rolling. Soon he'd be saying his good-byes.
"By the way, Mr. Surrogate PI, you can have the night off," Taylor interrupted his thoughts to inform him. "WVNY is supplying me with a taxi home after work."
"Really. What's the occasion?"
"Jack Taft's book of rules." She smiled, going on to explain. "Jack's our program manager. He always sends me home by cab when I work past midnight. It's his way of appeasing his own guilt."
"And tonight's one of those late nights?"
"Definitely. We've got a special college-oriented show we're pre-taping. I'll be lucky if I get out of the studio by one. I'll have door-to-door service to my apartment. And my doorman will take over from there. So go home early and get some sleep. You'll do a better job of working out your dilemma with
a rested, if not clear, mind."
Reed nodded. "Okay. But don't leave the building until the taxi is waiting. That way, you won't be
alone. Plus, it's supposed to be freezing tonight. Subzero temperatures. So stay inside."
"Gotcha. No isolation and no frostbite."
"Right. And I'll call you tomorrow with the names Rob gives me."
Reed couldn't shake his uneasiness.
CHAPTER 14
FEBRUARY 4
6:03 P.M.
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WVNY
The station was its usual lively self when Taylor arrived. Sports Talk had just launched into its second hour, and the broadcast could be heard throughout the station. Taylor smiled as she hurried down the
hall, listening to Bill's heated debate with a die-hard fan about a bad call in last week's Super Bowl.
She blew into her recording studio, glancing at Kevin as she shrugged out of her coat. "Early enough?" she teased.
He looked up from the book he'd been reading—a copy of Bad Kids, Worse Parents—and nodded. "Yeah. Bernice Williams isn't here yet. Her publicist called, said she was on her way and would be
set to go by seven-fifteen."
"Perfect." Taylor ran a brush through her windblown hair. "That gives me an hour to prep, meet with Laura, and zip through some e-mails. As for Bernice, I suggested she not arrive before then. The last thing she needs is to wait around too long before airtime. Watching us run around like chickens without heads will only stress her out. This way, I'll take her into my booth at seven-fifteen, get her centered
and calm, then run through a few format questions to set the stage. Once she's in the zone, she'll be
fine."
Kevin rolled his eyes, plopping the book on his desk. "That's why you're the psychologist and I'm the producer. The only zone I can relate to is the one Bill's arguing about right now—the end zone."
Taylor chuckled. "Just don't share that with Bernice."
"I won't." Kevin leaned back in his chair, fiddling with a pen as he scanned the computer screen. There was a definite furrow between his brows.
"What's wrong?" Taylor asked. "You have that look you get when something's bugging you. And you're playing with your pen—not a good sign." A hint of tension crept into her voice. "Is it Romeo? Did he
call again?"
"No." Kevin shook his head. "It's Rick."
"Rick?" As soon as she realized her audio engineer was the subject of this conversation, Taylor shut the door. "Did something happen with Marilyn?"
"Oh, I'd say so. He came in a half hour ago a total mess. He'd definitely had a few drinks. He was muttering about separation agreements and lawyers' fees. Mostly, he kept talking about his kids and the what-ifs of Marilyn getting custody. He broke down, started to cry, and beat it out of here. I haven't
seen him since. I don't even know if he's coming back to do the show."
"Oh, no." Taylor propped her elbows on the ledge next to Kevin's desk and covered her face with her hands. She'd prayed it wouldn't come to this. Rick and Marilyn had three great kids—an eleven-year-old daughter, a nine-year-old son, and a six-year-old son—all of whom they both adored. Especially Rick.
His kids were his life. If he and Marilyn split up and the judge gave custody to Marilyn . . . well, Taylor didn't know what he'd do.
"I haven't told Jack that Rick left," Kevin continued. "But if he's not back soon, I won't have a choice."
"I know. But wait as long as you can," Taylor replied. "We both know Rick. He needs to be alone when he loses it. He could still be somewhere in the building. But even if he's not, he won't leave us high and dry, no matter how messed up he is. He's too conscientious to ditch us with no backup."
"I agree." Kevin gestured toward the door. "Go downstairs and do your stuff with Laura. I'll buzz you
if either Rick or our guest shows up."
"Or if time gets too close and you have to alert Jack."
"Yeah, then, too."
* * *
As it turned out, Rick and Bernice arrived one after the other.
Taylor was back in the studio, standing at Kevin's desk as he reached for the phone to reluctantly clue Jack in to what was going on, when Rick walked in.
"Hey." His eyes were red. From drinking? Taylor wasn't sure. But his shoulders were slumped. "Sorry
to cut it close. But I've got more than enough time to set things up and do a voice check on our guest."
"Don't worry about it. She's not even here yet." Taylor laid a hand on his arm. "Rick, are you okay?"
He gave her a tormented look. "No. But I can do the show, if that's what you're asking."
"I wasn't. I know you can do the show. I'm just concerned about—"
"Look, Taylor, I appreciate your concern." He cut her off, shrugging his arm free. "But there are some things even you can't fix. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want your compassion. I just want to do
the fucking show and then be alone somewhere with a bottle of bourbon."
There wasn't time for her to answer. The door flew open and Jack led Bernice Williams in. "Our guest has arrived," he announced.
"Ms. Williams—welcome." Taylor extended her hand to the plump, middle-aged woman whose eyes were darting around like a frightened sparrow's. "You remember my producer, Kevin Hodges, and my audio engineer, Rick Shore?"
"Yes, of course." The author nodded, practically vibrating with anxiety as she shook everyone's hand. "And, please, call me Bernice. I'll feel calmer if we're on a first-name basis."
"Great. The same applies to all of us. We're a very informal bunch here." Taylor gave her program manager the okay signal with her eyes.
Jack took the cue. "I'm leaving you in capable hands," he assured Bernice, although he did cast a
puzzled look in Rick's direction. The normally friendly engineer had said a brief hello, then gone over
to his control panel. "So relax and enjoy yourself."
"I will."
Jack hesitated. "Hey, Rick, you look beat. It's going to be a long night. If you need a break, give a
holler. I'll send Dennis in."
"Thanks." Rick's tone was cordial but his body language was tense. "I'm fine. Besides, I can do this
job with my eyes closed by now."
"I know you can." Jack shot a quick glance at Kevin, whose slight nod said he had things under control.
"Okay, then." Jack moved toward the door. "I'll check in with you later. Have a great show."
9:45 P.M.
EAST EIGHTY-SIXTH STREET, NEW YORK CITY
Jonathan lay back on his bed, his arms folded behind his head, cushioning it as he stared at the ceiling.
The entire day had sucked.
Everything had gone wrong, from his disagreement with Douglas, to that obnoxious lunch with Reed,
to being shut down by Taylor, to an afternoon of scrambling around, trying to fix things.
He'd tried getting through to Douglas since four o'clock. But he was in meetings all afternoon, after
which he'd left for some business dinner where he couldn't be reached. Great. Jonathan had left a message at Douglas's Upper East Side brownstone, hoping he'd spend the night there rather than telling his driver to head all the way back to the Hamptons. In either case, Jonathan sure as hell wasn't calling the East Hampton estate. With his luck, Adrienne would answer the phone. And there was no way he
was making small talk with that slut tonight.
What Douglas saw in her was beyond him. Other than the obvious, of course. The woman had a face
and body to die for. But everything beneath it was trashy and shallow.
As opposed to Taylor, who had substance as well as beauty.
The comparison made Jonathan's jaw tighten. He couldn't stop thinking about Taylor—and the fact
that she was falling for Reed. If he'd only had a little more time, things could have been different. But Reed had taken that time away. Plus, he was holding a loaded gun, one that could blow Jonathan's
entire world apart.
He'd have to take a more aggressive stand. He'd have to move fast, accelerate his entire plan.
So be it. That's what he'd do.
He yanked his laptop toward him, dashing off a high-priority e-mail to Douglas. That should cover his
last remaining base, no matter where Douglas was spending the night. The man checked his BlackBerry regularly. At the latest, he'd read it first thing in the morning. Then he'd call and Jonathan would get
>
things on track.
Fidgeting, he glanced at the digits on his clock radio. They told him it was nine fifty-five.
Nine fifty-five?
With a muttered curse, Jonathan rolled toward the night table and clicked on the radio.
Taylor's voice filled the room immediately, responsive and intense.
"Bernice, in our final minutes together, I'd like to sum things up. Your opinion, as you express it in your latest book, Bad Kids, Worse Parents, is that most of the negative traits we see in adolescents are
caused by their home environment. Not by their schools or their peers, but by their parents."
"Absolutely," the other women replied. "I'm not disputing that those traits are reinforced by their peers