Hokus Pokus by Fern Michaels

hear from Ted today?”
    â€œYour boyfriend seems to think I work for him, not the other way around. That means, no, I haven’t heard from him. Espinosa, his shadow, said Ted was hot on some big political story and would call in from time to time. Look, with Ted out doing his own thing I’m going to need you to work some overtime. I know you hate covering the doings at the White House so I’m giving you a pass on covering the Russians’ arrival. Instead you’re going to be covering the arrival of the . . . the . . . some . . . what they are is a musical group out of South Africa called . . .”
    Maggie let out a whoop of pleasure. “The G-String Girls! I have every CD and album they ever made. Ted loves them more than I do. Sometimes,” Maggie said happily, “there is a silver lining. When do they arrive?”
    Liam Sullivan tossed a thick blue folder in Maggie’s direction. She caught it in midair, two of the glossy pictures falling to the floor. She offered up a wicked grin as Sullivan turned beet red. A devil perched itself on her shoulder. “Guitars . . . strings . . . G-strings. Get it?”
    â€œI get it. Now get out of here and make sure your readers get a good human-interest story. I don’t see any need to play up all that . . . skin.”
    â€œThat’s what it’s all about, Chief—skin, long legs, bosoms and a little music and lots of sparkle and lust.”
    Sullivan grumbled something that sounded like, “It’s a damn sick society where women have to cover their naked bodies with guitars and the damn music sounds like a bunch of sick cats squalling their heads off.”
    Maggie shrugged. Liam was old, at least fifty, what did he know about good music? She clicked on her computer, swivelled her chair a little to the right so she could see Ted’s desk if he decided to grace the Post with his presence. Political story slash scoop, my ass.
    Before Maggie could work herself into a frenzy over what she considered Ted’s thievery, she logged onto the think tank where Tyler Hughes worked. She fired off an email and wrote the word “URGENT” in the Subject line. All she could do now was wait for a reply.
    The newsroom was quiet. Maggie looked around. Half the desks were empty, the computer screens blank. Obviously nothing newsworthy was going on in the nation’s capital. When that happened the bosses told the reporters to get creative. In other words, make up something but make sure you have two sources. Not that Liam Sullivan ever said anything like that. All that would change in a matter of hours when the Russian delegation appeared. Maggie knew in her gut that no one was interested in the Russians but would be incredibly interested in the G-String Girls. Maybe interested was too mild a term. She liked the word “obsessed.” Just in case the G-String Girls didn’t generate enough interest media-wise, she knew how to be creative.
    Maggie leafed through the glossy publicity pictures. It wasn’t fair that these women were so gorgeous, so long limbed and she was so ordinary-looking. With freckles and flyaway hair to compound the problem. They were satiny and sexy-looking. So visual. Even the damn guitars looked sensual.
    Maggie blinked when out of the corner of her eye she saw her intrepid colleague approaching his desk just as she received an email alert. She quickly shuffled the photos of the G-String Girls back into the blue folder. Within seconds she changed her password again and then clicked off the computer before Ted could see what she was doing. She’d pull up her email on her laptop the minute she left the building.
    â€œMaggie, wait,” Ted said, trying to grab her arm.
    Maggie swung the backpack at the same moment her foot lashed out. The backpack caught Ted square on the side of the head, her foot making impact with his groin. An evil grin spread across her face when he howled with pain.