Deadly Blessings by Julie Hyzy Page A

scheduled soon. For my story.”
    “ The hair care story.” His
mocking voice dripped derision.
    “ The hair care story.” I
answered him in kind.
    “ Well,” he said, “it’s
obvious they know which of their researchers to give the important
stories to.”
    This guy was a total idiot.
    “ You can look at it that
way,” I agreed, forcing a smile on my face to let him know just how
pissed I was. “But then it only reinforces the fact that you won’t
need my help. Not one little bit.”
    I’ve always wanted to flounce away from
someone. It’s such a neat, strong action. So, I shot him another
insincere smile saying, “And next time you come to my office,
remember to knock first,” and turned my back in a grand gesture of
dismissal, not realizing that William the scriptwriter was right
behind me, yet again. I flounced all right. Right onto his left
instep while the knee of my other leg rammed into his thigh.
    “ Geez!” I exclaimed. I was
so embarrassed that my immediate reaction came out sounding annoyed
rather than apologetic.
    “ I’m sorry,” William said,
grabbing me by the elbow, keeping us both from falling to the
ground in a heap. He managed to keep me upright and still hang onto
a manila folder tucked under his right arm. Chalk one up for being
coordinated. Him, not me.
    I heard Fenton snicker.
    I backed away, murmuring my excuses, feeling
clumsy and off-kilter.
    “ I was just coming to see
you,” he said to me. His eyes flicked over my head. I turned and
watched the Nephew retreat back to his office. “But if you were on
your way out …”
    Totally frazzled, I stood there, attempting
to collect my composure. “No, actually, I was just trying to shake
Fenton.”
    He gave a look then; his eyebrows raised a
notch and his mouth twitched. It could have been amusement, or it
could have just been an acknowledgment that I’d spoken. I wasn’t
sure, but I headed back into my office after checking with Jordan
to be sure my nine-thirty hadn’t cancelled, and motioned William to
follow me.
    “ Come on in,” I said, with
an expansive gesture toward the two chairs by my desk. Having met
him only twice and both times being under less than ideal
conditions, I felt an inexplicable need to impress him. As if to
prove I wasn’t quite the twit that I appeared to be at first, or
even at second glance.
    “ Hmm. Different setup,” he
said, taking in the side-set desk. “Interesting chair.”
    The black leather chair behind my desk was
about as comfortable as they come. High-backed, with cushy arms, it
came with the office and it was beginning to show its age.
    “ Yeah. It’s a
keeper.”
    The man, it seemed, didn’t smile often, or
maybe it was just that he didn’t like me much. Not that I could
blame him at this point. But I got a better look at him as he
settled himself across from me. Just as handsome as I remembered,
maybe even more so now that I could assess him without little
streaks of panic distracting me.
    “ So,” I began, “How are
things going, so far?”
    “ Good.”
    “ Starting to settle
in?”
    He nodded. “Yeah.”
    His brevity unnerved me a little. It made
him harder to read, but I got the distinct impression that there
was more to him than met the eye. Still waters run deep, so they
say. Mr. Armstrong carried himself with an air of confidence that I
found compelling; I sensed there was much more to this man than his
laconic responses would suggest.
    I tried again. “Is it a lot
different here than at theDaily
Times ?”
    Amusement. I swore I caught a flicker of
amusement in his eyes. As though he knew I was trying to jump-start
conversation, and he was having fun watching me flounder. “I’m
adjusting.”
    I waited.
    “ I worked
at the Times about eight years, wanting to write, but copyediting mostly.
I knew when I started that there was a hierarchy in place and that
if I wanted to make a name for myself, I’d have to play by their
rules. I knew that, and I was prepared for