Whatever Comes
Lass Small

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Cari and Rob, our daughter and son-in-law, who live in Indianapolis

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

One

Amabel Clayton was distractively feminine looking. She was fragile, with a slender body that was marvelously curved. Her hair was thick and black. So were her eyelashes. Her eyes were blue. She ignored the whole image but, careless as she was, there was nothing she could do about the facade. As a reporter, she would have chosen to look less in need of male assistance, although there had been occasions when her look of fragile helplessness...had helped.

Most of her associates called her Clayton, but there were those who called her Mab. With a bird-dog relentlessness, she was one who immersed herself completely in her work, with no need for a social life. Since she forgot about men, she had been accused of not liking them. That wasn’t true. How could anyone like or dislike something to which she paid no attention?

Living in L.A., Amabel was a West Coast reporter for Adam’s Roots, the weekly newsmagazine crowding into the Time and Newsweek slot. It had been publisher Simon Quint’s imagination that selected the name. As the roots planted in the past—by Adam—had to be dealt with, so it was that the roots planted today must be dealt with in the future.

When told of Amabel’s new job, her father had frowned at her and asked, “You’re going to work for Simon? He’s as parsimonious as his name. Does he know you were hired?”

“Yes, to both questions. He was one who interviewed me in New York. He liked the piece I did on Rufus Baird.”

Her dad responded thoughtfully, “At least he recognizes good writing.”

Her mother inquired, “What will you do? What sort of magazine portion will you have? I don’t recall much of women in Adam’s Roots.”

“Simon Quint is surprisingly liberal. I’ll report roots?” Amabel shrugged and grinned.

So her dad teased, “I have some crabgrass roots and some dandelion roots you could blast.”

How many times would she hear something like that? But Amabel had already heard all the root jokes and her reply was serious. “I’m taking the advice you gave me long ago—be fair.

“My interviews aren’t going to hatchet anyone or make them appear ridiculous, but they’ll show the readers what the person interviewed is like, how they feel about things, what interests them.”

“You’ll be brilliant.” Her father was a prejudiced man.

However, her mother just suggested, “Interview Sean Morant.”

“An interview with him is impossible!” Amabel exclaimed. “The Rock Star of all time? And you think little old Amabel Clayton could snatch The Interview of the Decade? Pish and tosh.”

But among friends her own age, that was the overwhelming reaction of all the women to her new job. How many times had she heard variations of: You might interview Sean Morant!

Her replies were fairly uniform about her chances being very similar to a sin-doomed snowball’s. She got very tired of hearing about Sean Morant.

In the several years that followed Mab’s hiring, she did well. Her research was meticulous. She was businesslike and tactful. Of those she interviewed, she asked reasonable questions and searching ones. But she asked no hostile questions or embarrassing ones. It wasn’t her job to dissect a victim. She was completely fair with any age or any sex. She had very little trouble getting interviews. But she did not interview Sean Morant.

* * *

Sean’s PR man was naturally charming. He was probably somewhere in his forties, some years older than Amabel, and he cultivated a low profile. He looked rather pleasantly anonymous. He’d chosen to be called Jamie. Jamie Milrose.

He told Amabel, “Of all the reporters in this world, my love, if Sean gave out an interview, it would be to you—you know that. But if he allowed you that privilege, then he would have to give the same courtesy to all the other clamoring reporters in this world, avidly after an interview with Sean Morant.”

Jamie was patient. He explained, “You must know how many publications there are which would want that chance at Sean Morant! From Adam’s Roots through all the variety of news to Fort Wayne’s South Side High School. I went there to school, and I was on the staff of the South Side Times! So I know what it’s like to be a reporter.” With his expansive manner, Jamie gave her a lofty look, which invited her to laugh. She didn’t laugh.

Jamie continued, “However, if that happened, if we should grant interviews so recklessly, think of it just in Sean’s time spent! It fairly boggles the mind, doesn’t it? And the wear on his poor vocal cords! Ah, my love, have pity. Give it up.”

Enunciating with some careful exaggeration, Mab told Jamie, “I’m not your love.”

“It’s an expression,” he soothed. “It’s like a greeting kiss. It means nothing.” He smiled slightly with his head cocked just a bit. “Are you really a man hater?” He was silent as he watched her.

With the same kind of patience Jamie gave to interview requests, Amabel replied, “I love every one of God’s creatures. It’s just that I love some more than others.”

“Are you a lesbian?” He asked that deliberately.

“No.” She gave him an enduring stare.

“Then if you aren’t of that persuasion, how about dinner?” He opened out his arms in an expansive gesture. “I could change your whole outlook on life.” He used his most practiced male grin.

“The incredible conceit of men is something to contemplate.” She gathered up her things, put her pad and pencil into her purse and tried to close the zipper, but it stuck.

“We could discuss the interview,” he invited temptingly. “You could see how much I know about the way to access Sean.”

She paused in her struggle with the zipper. “I thought you said there was absolutely no chance.”

“There isn’t.” He smiled. “But you could...try...with me.”

“Jamie, you’re one of the reasons I have no use for men. You never give it up.”

“Now, now.” He settled in to enjoy their word exchange. “What have I ever done to you?”

“Since I am careful, you’ve done nothing.” She looked as if she was being very tolerant, but it was a trial.

He grinned. “You are a challenge.”

“Forget it.” She went back to the zipper.

“Why don’t you interview me about Sean?” He took the purse from her, opened the zipper, stuffed a head scarf deeper and zipped it closed.

She hesitated. “How well do you actually know him?”

“You could find out.” He handed her the purse as if it was a rose and his smile was wicked. “I have a nice little place up at Big Sur, just below Monterey. We could go there and lock...heads for a couple of days and see how things go.” He gave her his honest look.

“There’s a limit to the things I’ll do for my job. I would welcome the opportunity to quiz you, but a weekend is out of the question.”

He laughed, his eyes twinkling. “There was always the chance you’d be an eager young reporter prepared to give her all for the cause. Frankly, my dear, I hardly know the man.”

Mab was taken with the thought that it sounded very like Clark Gable’s classic reply to Scarlett’s plea.

* * *

Mab had never done the “other people” format for an interview. It wasn’t uncommon to seek out the opinions of acquaintances of well-known people. Or she could raid the files stored in the newspaper morgue for involvements and speculations about anyone in the news. It seemed the lazy cop-out to only interview the friends or relatives or co-workers of a personality...such as Sean Morant.

But Jamie had planted a seed, a root. And it grew and would have to be dealt with, for it would change Amabel Clayton’s life.

* * *

From her meeting with Jamie Milrose, Mab did glean one little item that set off a furor. Among the personality briefs, in Adam’s Roots, she reported there was some question about Sean Morant’s vocal cords being in jeopardy. Would he lose his voice? If he did, what would happen to his group? What would become of Sean Morant?

With her succinct words, panic erupted among the Rock devotees. The item was picked up and spread. It was mentioned in turn on MTV, Music Television, who hoped the rumor wasn’t true.

After a week had passed, Jamie called Mab. “You darling! His records are being snatched up—everyone thinks his vocal cords are doomed. Beautiful! I owe you.”

So, quite naturally, Mab leaped on that. She quickly asked, “How about an interview?”

His voice a purr, Jamie reminded her, “There’s always Big Sur.”

“Jamie, you just said you owe me. What about an interview with Sean?”

“Would you like an autographed copy of his Timeless album?” Jamie inquired in a generous manner. Then he added smoothly, “There’s a woman in ‘She Rocked Me’ that could well be you.”

But Mab ignored the chatter and stuck to reality. “Jamie, you said you owed me. Try for the interview.”

“‘Tis hopeless, my love.” Jamie was regretful, but that finished the conversation.

* * *

Several days later, Amabel got the autographed Timeless album, and played “She Rocked Me.” She had never listened all the way through any of Sean’s recordings. His roughened voice was what a woman wanted...she’d heard. The woman Jamie said could well be Mab used the man like a vampire, sucking him dry of innocence and love before she discarded him. It made Mab mad.

So the album was still on Mab’s desk when her boss, Wallace Michaels, walked into her cubbyhole. He picked up the album and asked, with some startled interest, “You get autographed albums from Sean Morant?”

Automatically correcting his leap to an erroneous conclusion, she replied, “From his publicity agent, Jamie Milrose.” Mab went on typing. She was allergic to computers.

Wallace asked her, “You got an in with Jamie?”

“Wally,” she explained to an innocent, “Jamie probably signs the albums himself. He’s that tricky.”

He asked quickly, “Could you get an interview?”

Wallace Michaels was VP over all the people news of Adam’s Roots. Since his job dealt only in personalities, he felt like a third-class citizen and was sensitive about it. He wanted to be in the mainstream of news and happenings and actually he was only involved in...gossip. He adjusted to the only way to handle gossip. He took it seriously.

“Wally, you know I have been trying to get an interview with Sean Morant for you for three years. I speak with Jamie Milrose several times a year in that effort. I have tried to waylay Sean Morant, and so far I’ve been unsuccessful. So has every other reporter. We get only the publicity handouts. You are aware of all that.”

Wally pushed up his lower lip thoughtfully and declared, “We need an interview.”

“Good luck.”

“Now, Mab— It was your little squib about his gold-plated vocal cords that caused all this hoorah. Now’s your time. And nothing is going on right now! So, unless some other country blows up another, we could get a cover story out of it! Do it.”

Mab was disgusted and told Wally seriously, “It would have to be with interviews of others who know him or who’ve worked with him.”

Wally was firm. “Do it.”

“It’ll kill my reporter’s soul.” Closing up her desk, Mab lifted the pull-out typewriter shelf to release the holding, spring catch in order to swing it down into the desk. It stuck. She tried again.

As if an oracle, Wally observed, “You don’t like Sean Morant.”

She temporarily abandoned her desk’s problem in order to stand up and look at Wally. She was kind. “I haven’t met a whole lot of men I do like.” She became gentle. “I find men are overrated.” She gestured. “The ones I’ve met tend to be petty, self-serving, egotistically immature and quite ruthless.” She scowled. “They’ve fouled up the world. Both politically and chemically.” She became logical. “And with Sean Morant, we have the ultimate in uselessness.”

“You are the perfect foil to find out if there’s a man under all that hype. Do it.”

She sighed impatiently and went back to fiddle with her stubborn desk mechanism as she said, “You are one of the few men I can tolerate. This isn’t really an assignment for me. I’m not into MTV, or Rock concerts, or that type of music and I believe it’s a...” She was distracted by her examination of the desk mechanism and she jounced it.

“He is involved with the Feed the World’s hunger programs.”

“Who isn’t?” She bit her lower lip and strong-armed the stubborn, probably male, desk’s unmovable typewriter tray.

“You know, Mab.” Wally had turned soothsayer. “You’re a genuine man hater. I’m glad I’m safely married. If I wasn’t, I might try for you and you’d shrivel me up.” He reached over and effortlessly swung the typewriter and its shelf down into the desk.

She considered him thoughtfully. “I could live next door to you.”

“Ah, a magnificent concession.”

“But spare me Sean Morant.”

But Wally directed, “Do the interview any way you can make it.” With that comment out of the way, he added, “Chris would like you to come to dinner on Saturday. She is having her cousin over, and she’d like to expose him to you.”

“Expose?” Mab turned back to Wally and raised her eyebrows. “You make me sound like chicken pox.”

He replied kindly, “You look so easy, and it’s just a facade. Looking at you the first time, anyone would think you’re all sweetness and light, and you’re a shock. Men can be very misled. Chris thinks Joe needs the kind of set-down you’ll give him.”

“I’m a serious woman. I dislike being taken for a dolly.” Then she enunciated her rejection distinctly, “My parents didn’t raise me to educate the male population on the rights of women to be people.”

“Chris would take it as a favor.” Wally’s eyes twinkled. “And I’d love watching it. Joe’s a revolving one. Anyway you look at him, he’s a bastard.”

“It sounds like a thrilling evening. No, thanks.”

“He would be a better man,” Wally coaxed.

She rejected the whole idea. “I couldn’t care less.”

“Then how about Friday? There’ll be just the family. Chris has missed you. And you know I love you, too.”

Mab studied Wally seriously. “You really want this interview, don’t you?”

“How astute!”

* * *

So it was that, like any hack, Mab began to go through the files; and the information, speculation and lies on Sean Morant did collect...along with the pictures. There were all sorts of pictures. Studio or candid. He looked bored. He looked like a man who didn’t give one hoot in hell about anything. The only time he didn’t look bored was in those pictures taken as he performed.

Those made Amabel thoughtful. He was an interesting-looking man. He wasn’t handsome. His face wasn’t that unusual. He was above average in height, and he was well-built, but many men are. His hair was dark, and lashes shadowed his eyes. She had read that his eyes were brown. The pictures of him performing were in vital contrast to those pictures taken of him on the street.

She collected some of his videotapes. She played them at her small, canyon house. The house was perched on a gully. Alone, she played tapes of Sean Morant on her VCR, so that she could listen and watch this person perform.

On stage, Sean did have a presence. His movements were—well—a pleasure to watch. He was a well-made male animal. He exuded maleness as he performed. He used his maleness. Deliberately. With calculation. He was a leader to the male viewers, and a lover to the female ones. He was what everyone wanted. Except Mab, of course. Mab was immune.

She would look at him, performing on the VCR, then lift the candid street shots up to compare his pictures to the screen. Away from music, he looked as if he was ‘on hold,’ uninvolved, disinterested. The pictures taken of him then showed his disinterest even in being photographed. He didn’t turn from the camera or give a big celebrity smile. He simply looked at the lens as one would a post.

The candid pictures fascinated Mab. And it was those which caught her attention. Those with women. A multitude of women. Each picture was remarkably the same. Each showed Sean to the left, full-length, dressed each time in the same type of casual clothes. His hair was carelessly tousled. His sober eyes were on the camera in disinterest. And on his left in each of those pictures was a different woman.

The women were dressed variously, some smiling, some as sober as he. All were tall, lovely and walking in step with Sean.

Mab began to pin the lookalike pictures up on her bulletin board. Her plan board. Row upon row of the almost-identical pictures: Sean walking with another woman.

In viewing the pinned rows, it seemed obvious to Mab that Sean wasn’t indifferent, he was exhausted! All those women! They would take a toll. He was only in his middle thirties. He seemed older. It was probably his life-style, eroding him.

She geared her article to expose Sean Morant, the womanizer. All those women were known. A few had been fans or relatives. Those pictures had been discarded, and Amabel concentrated only on those known personalities who had been pictured walking with Sean Morant. She interviewed each one of them.

It annoyed Amabel Clayton to find she wasn’t the unbiased reporter she’d always been. She wondered if she’d reached burnout at twenty-eight. Why should she feel a hostility to the women who walked with Sean? Why did she feel such a strange...distaste?

The only other time she’d felt such antagonism to another female was in sixth grade when her best friend was caught sending a note across the classroom to Amabel’s boyfriend. He hadn’t known he was her boyfriend but her best friend had. The feeling then was very similar to what Amabel felt now. It was almost as if she felt jealous of those women she was interviewing about Sean Morant.

Wanda Moore was one of Sean’s side-by-side women whom Amabel interviewed. The interview was in Wanda’s bedroom. Wanda was in bed wearing a thin bed jacket. The indication being that that was all she wore under the satin sheet.

In a marked contrast, Amabel was wearing a shirt with a light sweater vest, a matching skirt, hose and flat-heeled loafers. Her hair was under a neatly tied scarf.

Wanda giggled and confided, “My name’s a, uh, play on words, you know?”

Feeling uncomfortably obtuse, Mab asked through thinned lips, “Really?” in a quite indifferent manner. She waited with poised mike.

“It’s like I want—more.” Wanda giggled and squirmed as she rubbed her knees together under the satin sheet.

“More—what?” Mab questioned; by that time she was being deliberately blank.

“You know. Sex.” And she rolled her eyes at the grinning cameraman.

Mab looked out the bedroom window and considered applying to woman a one-person satellite filled with plants to resow the diminished world. It was painfully obvious Sean’s attraction to Wanda was not mental.

One of the more irritating responses was when Mab asked, “Tell me about Sean Morant. What is your opinion of him?”

“Oooh!” Wanda went into spasms of giggles and eye rolling.

“Could you tell us what you mean?” Mab inquired with careful seriousness.

“He’s just delicious!”

Stoically, Mab could not resist, “Did you ever discuss world affairs?”

Wanda lost the giggles as she inquired succinctly, “Are you kidding?”

So Mab asked kindly, “Would you mind our taking your picture? We may use it with the article.”

“What do you think this whole exercise is all about, ice queen!”

* * *

When Mab returned to her office and confronted her boss, Wally said, “But, honey, it’s very lonely out in space.”

“Don’t call me honey.”

“Well, don’t get mad at me if Sean’s choice in female companionship isn’t up to your standards. I’m not guilty! I married Chris before I ever even knew you, and you approve of her.”

Mab commented, “I have this terrible feeling you’d react to Wanda Moore just like the cameramen.”

“How?”

“Flushed and laughing and restless.”

Wally asked with interest, “Are you jealous?”

“My God, Wally!”

“Well...”

On her soapbox, Mab responded, “When women are trying to be taken seriously? And Wanda acts that way? Instead of Hillary Rodham Clinton, men tend to think of the Wandas of the world when they mentally picture ‘women.’ It’s excessively depressing.”

“Are all the women who marched along with our hero like Wanda?” He went over to the bulletin board and viewed along the lines of similar pictures.

“A shuddering number of them. His IQ must range between forty and fifty.”

“He’s a fine musician.”

Mab agreed. “There are many flawed people God compensated with a brilliance in some talent.”

Wally gave up on the pictures on the board to look at Mab. “How many more do you have to see?”

“Three.”

Then he asked, “Have you tried the computer yet?”

“Don’t push.”

“You’re the last holdout.” Wally reminded her. “It will change your life.”

“If God had intended me to fly, he would have given me wings.”

Wally chided, “That’s the argument for planes—this is a computer.”

“Don’t irritate me.”

“You’ve been that way lately, with no help from anybody.” Wally was kind. “If I didn’t know you for a basic man hater, I’d think you had an unrequited passion for Sean Morant.”

“Good grief.” She looked up at Wally with wide eyes of shock.

Wally observed, “You’re paranoid when it comes to machines—and men.”

“I’ll grant the machine half.”

“It’s just that you don’t understand either one.”

Mab gestured. “Of course I understand men. They are simple, basic creatures.”

“We’re human.” Wally admitted that.

“Very.”

Wally inquired thoughtfully, “Did you ever get any help with this problem?”

“I don’t have any problem! I am content to live alone, I don’t need a man to take care of me, I can support myself. The only problem I have with men is they don’t understand why I don’t want to hop into bed with them.”

He grinned. “Again, I’m glad I’m already safely married to Chris.”

“Me, too. If you weren’t you’d probably be depressingly like all the rest.”

“Simon Quint, too?”

“No,” she retorted. “I find our publisher a perfectly rational human being.”

* * *

As Amabel compiled the Sean Morant interviews, she noticed there was one characteristic all the women had mentioned. Sean Morant was kind. Amabel put that into her report, which was very cleverly written. She was subtle. She implied he was a womanizer who kindly spread his attentions as widely as he could.

The rows of pictures from Amabel’s bulletin board were used for the magazine cover. All those row on row, almost identical pictures of Sean Morant walking with different women—except for the last, bottom, right-hand corner. There the picture showed a similar shot of Sean, but next to him was a female shadow and on the feminine outline was written: Who’s next?

With that cover, the article inside the magazine was superfluous. The cover said it all.

* * *

When the time came, Jamie had a preview copy and he called Mab. “Shame on you. Do you think our boy will be pleased?”

“He should have given me the interview.”

Thoughtfully Jamie chided her, “This is a cheap shot, my love—you singled out one small segment of his life, and you exploited him. That’s too bad.” Jamie tsked, enjoying himself.

Mab didn’t laugh. “He can give me the interview, and I will correct any mis...conceptions. I interviewed all those women, and it was a bloody bore, they were that alike, but I wrote exactly what they said. That is an honest report.”

Jamie’s voice was soft. “You are heartless, love, I feel very sad about you. Why don’t you come with me to Big Sur? I believe I can still save you.”

“Lay off.”

“I have to get on before I can lay off.”

“Jamie, you are a bore.”

“Ah, but I’m not vicious.”

Mab retorted, “That article was not vicious. It was only the facts.”

Jamie agreed, “Chosen, and applied with great care and skill. You do know you will now have difficulty in getting interviews? Stars have felt safe with you. Now they will wonder.”

“You are exaggerating and you know it. You enjoy needling people. No one has any cause to worry about an interview with me.” Mab was very serious. “I’m sorry the truth is distasteful to Mr. Morant. He should choose his company more carefully.”

“He will. He will.”

* * *

In the wealth of news constantly being printed, the article and cover picture of Sean Morant was no big deal. It wasn’t received with cries of delight or outrage beyond those intimately concerned. Among those, interested reactions to the article were varied. Her publisher, Simon Quint, called from New York and said in his parsimonious way, “I was surprised by the article. The cover was brilliant. You should have left it at that. But the man is deeper and wider and more complex than you made him appear.”

Wally said it was one of her poorer jobs and she shouldn’t put it in the portfolio.

Her mother wouldn’t speak to her at all.

But her father eyed her solemnly and chided, “You really weren’t very kind to that man. If I didn’t know your professionalism, I’d find myself wondering if you’re fighting a secret, jealous passion for the man.”

“Passion!” All Mab could do was sputter over how ridiculous that was!

However, she did get a trite thank-you note from Wanda Moore on stationery printed with voluptuous bunnies.

Mab didn’t get a thank-you call from Sean Morant. She really hadn’t expected one.

Two

When Jamie Milrose walked into his agency office the next day, his secretary said, “There’s someone waiting for you. He didn’t give a name, but he called you Sarge, so I let him wait in your office.”

“No kidding.” Jamie paused to relish the moment. There were very few who were still in touch, after the U.S. sojourn in Nam, who knew of his change in name, job and total character revamp. Those few were all cherished friends. Who would it be?

All the survivors in his group were forty-some-odd. They had been able to put Nam behind them. They were now spread out, very involved in their lives, established. They saw each other seldom but with great pleasure. Jamie opened the door with anticipation...and he drew a complete blank.

Jamie stared at the man sitting at his desk. The man looked up from the Wall Street Journal and greeted him, “Good morning, Milrose.”

Jamie couldn’t recall ever seeing him before in his life...then he walked closer and inquired, uncertainly, “Sean?” Jamie’s business with Sean had been conducted by mail and occasional phone calls from someone of the group. Jamie had met Sean once.

The lazy, husky voice was casual. “I believe it has been mentioned that, off the stage, I’m to be called Tris Roald?” With automatic courtesy, Tris rose and moved away from Jamie’s desk to stand with his back to the window.

Prickly, Jamie thought as he raised his brows. It said something for Jamie that he didn’t need to immediately sit in the chair of authority at the desk; he stood also and smiled in his non-army sergeant personality as he explained, “Forgive me. You have to realize I hear ‘Sean Morant’ all day, half the night and worse on concert tours. Had you ever been in Nam, you’d understand about brainwashing.”

“I was fifteen when that war ended.”

Tris’s control and power were there. Jamie could feel it. Tris was a man who ran his own life. “Fifteen was young,” Jamie conceded. “Then you can’t know how it could be to hear something endlessly and be swayed?”

With droll humor, Tris denied that. “I have a mother who was an army sergeant in the Korean War. She was a strong disciplinarian.”

“Was she now.” Jamie laughed. “I have to meet her. We can exchange stories.”

“I believe you would have the edge. Her war was an accepted one.”

“Ah, yes.” Jamie’s voice was soft and his liking for Sean began. “How did you know I was a sergeant?”

“I research my people quite thoroughly.” As he did everything.

Jamie nodded once before he asked, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” And his eyes twinkled.

“Did you clear that article and cover layout in Adam’s Roots?”

“No, of course not.” Jamie’s voice was conciliatory. He knew with Tris’s words that the man was irritated.

The soft, husky voice suggested, “Tell me about Amabel Clayton.”

“An interesting experience for any man, she—”

“What do you mean by that?”

Jamie shook his head once. “Not your first impression. She looks like a man’s summer idyll, but she’s a staunch women’s righter. She’s also a damned good reporter. No one calls her Amabel...she’s called Clayton or Mab. On occasion it’s Mad Mab. She has asked for interviews, along with every other conceivable publication that can possibly call itself legit, and of course, as per instructions, I’ve turned her down—every time—although I did give her the publicity handouts.”

The roughened voice was grim. “She’s taken revenge? Just because I wouldn’t give her an interview?”

“I doubt the article was her idea. Wallace Michaels is her boss and he does push for what’s current. And not being able to see you, she was free to handle it any way she wanted.” Jamie added coaxingly, “We could tell her about those women.”

“I don’t owe anyone any explanation.” The mild tone was deceiving. Tris meant just that. The glint of yellow fire was in his brown eyes even with his back to the light. “I don’t like being labeled a womanizer.”

“The article will offend a few people—your mother, you, some of your good friends—but the great majority won’t be affected.” Jamie was practical about it. “This is ‘typical’ Rock Star stuff. It won’t harm you. It might cause irritation, with an increase in panting groupies, but that can be handled. No problem. This is a one-day sensation. In a week, it’ll fade away. I promise.”

“I would like a close look at her. I would like to talk with the kind of woman who could be so judgmental.”

“An...interview?” Jamie was startled.

“No. Anonymously.”

“Ah? Let’s see.” Jamie went to his desk and flipped through his appointments. “In two days there’s a reception for reporters and publicity personnel at the Beverly Hilton on Wilshire. As a sop to all the frustrated reporters, we give them—us!” Jamie grinned with real humor.

“Would anyone recognize me?”

“I don’t even recognize you.” Then Jamie cocked his head in disbelief. “You mean you’d go there?”

“Can you get me a badge?”

“You’d boldly go where no Rock Star has gone before? It would be madness, man!”

“I could be visiting from Indiana to see how the big boys handle things.”

It was the beginning of their friendship. “Where abouts in Indiana you from, boy? I don’t remember Indiana being in your bio.”

“I’ve an aunt up near Fort Wayne.”

“We’re practically kin!” Jamie laughed. “I’m from the actual city of Fort Wayne!”

Tris finally smiled. “I know enough about the city to pass casual inquisition.”

“I’ve a friend on the Journal Gazette who’ll cover for you. You can be their West Coast representative for the day. No problem.” Jamie hesitated thoughtfully. “Are you sure? It’s a rash thing to do.”

Tris’s instructions were firm. “You would ignore me completely.”

“If anyone asked me, I would say, ‘Sean? Here? You’re crazy! Why would he come to the lion’s den?’” Jamie appreciated the idea. “It would be illogical enough—no one would expect you to be there.”

“I’ll go. What do reporter types wear? Something somber? Something flashy?”

“A suit. Tie.” Jamie frowned rather absently. “Be professional. You’ll see all sorts of dress, but since you’re from Indiana, allegedly, you would dress. Let me put my mind to this—there must be an easier way for you to see Amabel Clayton.”

“It intrigues me to do it this way. And the sooner the better.”

“There’s enough madness in the idea to please me.” Jamie grinned in anticipated malice. “May I mention—later—that you were there?”

“No.”

“It tempts me.” Jamie coaxed for permission.

Tris’s refusal was said flatly: “Don’t even consider it.”

“It would be such a joy to see some faces as I told it. I could do it confidentially. I would limit it to two. Mab being one.”

“I’d fire you.”

Jamie gave a gusty sigh. “No humor. None at all...at all.”

* * *

So two days later, when the reporter/publicist meeting was scheduled, Tris drove a rented car to the hotel. The pressure in his life too seldom allowed him to be alone—there was simply never enough time—so he took advantage of any opportunity that came his way to be free for a while.

He kept a house in the canyon country, north and west of downtown Los Angeles. With the badge for the meeting delivered to him, there had been a picture of Amabel Clayton. She was “an interesting experience for any man.” Those were Jamie’s words. How could anyone who looked as she did be the shrew she must be?

He arrived at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, which is located on Wilshire Boulevard, west of Los Angeles, in Beverly Hills, seven miles from the Pacific. Tris handed the car keys to an attendant to park it in one of the garages. Then Tris went into the lobby, as he pinned on his badge and followed the discreet signs to the International Ballroom where the meeting was held.

There were close to a couple of hundred people in the crowd. There were more men than women. There was the subdued roar of conversation and laughter for they were almost all acquainted. It was their business to know each other.

Even in that crowd, she wasn’t hard to find. She looked like any man’s summer idyll, as Jamie had promised. It was a while before Tris could quit staring. It was odd the number of men who stood out of her reach but who looked at her with a kind of vulnerability. Look but don’t touch seemed a tested rule for her. So although some women spoke to Amabel, all of the men did at least greet her. She was natural and courteous in her responses. Why did Tris find that so strange?

With the cover story firmly in his mind as a shield against her, Tris worked his way through the throng to her as he considered approaches. It had been a good many years since he’d had to approach any woman. All he’d had to do was say okay.

He tried one of the classics deliberately. He wanted to hear her screech. Pretending to be joggled, and with perfect timing, he spilled his drink right into the open collar of her blue shirtwaist dress. He apologized, “I am sorry,” as he handed her a clean handkerchief.

“Don’t worry.” She busied herself with the mop-up. “I buy my clothes with this sort of thing in mind. But being only February, it is a little early in the season for an unexpected dousing.”

Her reaction puzzled him. She was lovely, courteous and kind. That wasn’t his mental image of Amabel Clayton. He said, “Back home in Indiana,” and he had to prevent himself from singing the line, “we don’t drink cocktails this early in the day.”

She held her dress out from her very nice chest and inquired, “What do you drink in the early afternoon?” And she raised those black fringed, blue eyes up to his and smiled just a little. Then she sobered and her eyes went out of focus as the most amazing shiver touched her core.

Without really paying any attention, he replied, “Lemonade under a sycamore tree.”

“In February?” Her reporter’s training saved her from the bemusement. “In Indiana? The spring thaw hasn’t even started.”

“February in southern California is a fooler. You forget how the top half of the country lives. In February all us Indiana farmers are down yonder, by the Rio Grande, sitting in the sun in trailer lots. They call us Winter Texans or Snow Birds, since we tend to migrate like birds to escape the northern winter.”

“How did a farmer get in here?” She moved one hand to indicate the ballroom and that meeting.

“Yes. Well.” He thought rapidly and replied, “I never actually farmed. I went to school and learned to read and write, and I’m a reporter in the metropolis of Fort Wayne, home of Mad Anthony Wayne, who licked the British.”

Taking anyone called Mad Anthony’s heroic deed literally, she expressed great astonishment. “He licked them? Why would he do a gross thing like that?”

Quite gravely he replied, “It wasn’t with his tongue, it was in the War of the Revolution.”

“And he was mad?”

“Probably because the British weren’t being nice.” He considered her damp dress. “He’s the one who said, ‘My country, right or wrong.’”

Fully realizing she was playing straight-woman for him, she asked, “Why did he say that?”

“More than likely his country was doing something he didn’t entirely agree with.”

“On occasion, I’ve had that very feeling.”

“We are members of the same club.”

It wasn’t until then that she laughed. “Are you new on the Coast?”

“And new in the world of journalism,” he agreed with complete honesty. Then he told her, “My name is Tristan Roald, but since that sounds like a contender for the throne, I’m called Tris. And on occasion that comes out Chris with a good many of the uninitiated.” Since it really was his name, his eyelids didn’t flicker, nor did his eyes shift even the least little bit, as he watched to see how deep her research had been, and if she’d discovered that fact about Sean Morant.

“Tristan Roald sounds like a Viking.”

“We tend to take that very seriously.” He nodded with the words quite emphatically. “Plunder and all that sort of thing.”

“I’m Amabel Clayton and I’m—”

He interrupted in his lazy, husky voice. “You wrote the cover story on the Rocker. Uh, what’s his name.”

She supplied the name easily. “Sean Morant. If you don’t recall that name, you must not be into Rock.”

Adroitly he avoided a reply by saying, “The cover was impressive. Do you really think he managed so many women in that short a time?” He began laying his trap.

“Pictorial proof.”

“You don’t think it might have been just circumstances? That he’s an actual innocent?”

She grinned.

To cover his face, he scratched his nose, since she was looking at him with thoughtful eyes, but he went on, “The pictures were taken,” he conceded. “But he might not have even been very well acquainted with those women.” He pretended the comment was casual. He had to hear her reply.

“I believe it’s the exactness in the duplication of the pictures that got to me. He always looks the same, his clothes, his designer-tossed hair, his expression of boredom. Only the woman is different. It’s time for another picture. The time lapse seems almost measured. It’s as if Sean yawns and grumbles, ‘It’s time for me to be photographed with another bimbo.’”

He smoothed a hand over his hair to be sure it was all still neat and orderly, and he questioned with raised brows, “Bimbo?”

Amabel groaned. “I had to interview them. One does wonder why he chooses them.” Then she had the grace to blush rather vividly and sputter, “Well, I mean, I suppose...” And she just coughed and tried to change the subject.

But he wouldn’t allow it. “You think he just chooses a body for...physical reasons.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s not for conversation.” Her reply was so positive on that score that it sounded a little heated.

“Do you have an unrequited desire for Sean’s body?” His eyes were almost hidden by his lashes, but she could see the glints of golden laughter in them.

“I have the strangest feeling I know you.”

“Ever been to Fort Wayne?” he inquired with honest candor.

“No. I am going to Indianapolis in March for a Women’s Seminar—”

“I’ll be just north of there, in Fort Wayne. Where is the seminar?”

“At the Hyatt.”

“Ever been to Indiana? We’ve lots of wonders to see.” And he had eased her past talking about who he might look like—or indeed, who he might be.

They talked of hotels, Indiana, California, people, and she introduced him to several people as Tris. Two asked if they knew him. Was he a publicist? He looked familiar somehow. He replied, “Well, if you’ve ever been to Indiana there are a good many of us around, and we tend to have the family look. My mother was a Fell, and her family were Davie and Hughs. And there are some...” But oddly enough by then the questioner had lost interest.

At the buffet, he crossed glances with Jamie and gave him a bland, vague look of a stranger. Jamie coughed then choked quite hard, and he had to be slapped on the back.

Tris said to Amabel, “He’s probably drunk. Most reporters drink too much. Do you?”

“He isn’t a reporter—in fact he’s Sean Morant’s publicist. No woman drinks too much if she’s as opposed to men as I am.”

“Now why would you be opposed to men?” he inquired in great surprise.

“Basically... Well, that word says it all. Men are very basic.”

Tris snagged them each another drink from a passing tray—carried, of course, by a waiter—and he handed one to Amabel before he lifted his as he said, “Here’s to the good old days, when men were men and women were barefoot and pregnant.”

She refrained from sipping the drink and cautioned, “I can see we need to talk about women’s rights. I do believe you’ve been somewhat out of touch? And that’s especially bad for a news—”

But then a sly and droll woman’s voice interrupted, “You still here, Mab? I thought you had left.”

“Not yet.” And Tris was delighted to see Mab blush faintly. “I’m still here.”

And the woman eyed Tris as she replied in very slow, drawling tones, “So I see.”

Amabel ignored that and didn’t introduce Tris but asked him, “Has our sunshine staggered your physical balance and given you a cold? You’re a little hoarse.”

Tris replied quite easily, “All hog callers are hoarse.” And with some pleasure in his own ready tongue, he added, “Pigs are deaf.”

“You’ve said you were never a farmer, and since you’re new to the newspaper business, what did you do before? I have such a strange feeling I know you. Have I seen you somewhere?”

“Interesting you say that. It’s the oddest thing, but women often say that to me. Maybe it’s our past lives, my Viking ancestors raiding villages and carrying off women, and there’s now a basic, genetic fear of me.” He smiled. “Are you afraid of me?”

And that strange shiver shimmered inside her from her core to her nipples. She glanced aside and decided it wasn’t Tris; it was the damp cloth on her chest. She asked, “Have you been in porno flicks?”

“Do you watch them?”

“No, of course not.” He puzzled her and she was a tad impatient as she went on. “But you seem reluctant to tell me what you did before you began work on a newspaper.”

“The Journal Gazette,” he supplied the name as if to her inquiry.

She accepted that. “Before you began to work for the Journal Gazette, what did you do?”

“Is this an interview?” His eyes glinted. He was enjoying himself.

“No, of course not.”

“I’m perfectly willing, you know. This is your great opportunity.” He gave her a wicked smile. “If there are any questions at all, I’ll answer them truthfully. Fire away.”

“What did you do before you began reporting for the Journal Gazette?” She pretended to get out a pad and poised an invisible pencil as she looked up, elaborately attentive.

“I am only just associated with the Journal. I have yet to turn in my first article.” All true.

“And...what did you do before that?”

“A multitude of things, nothing with any future. I’ve been the background for Vogue fashion models a couple of times.” That was true. “I’ve helped do a Public Broadcast conservation tape.” That was true. “And I’m a poet.” He wrote lyrics.

“Make me a poem.”

“Uh, there once was a woman named Mab, who with men would flirt just a tad, but when it came to brass tack, she would just turn her back, and leave the men weeping and mad.”

She laughed. “Limericks are easy.”

“Poems take longer. Anything worthwhile takes longer. Like friendship.” He watched her. “Snap judgments are generally a disaster. I’m a good man.” That, too, was true.

She sobered. “Did I give the impression I thought you otherwise? I don’t know you well enough to make such a decision.”

“Very true.” His face was serious.

“And do you think I am really as heartless as your limerick?”

He smiled. “I’ll find out.”

“We were speaking of women’s rights,” she began. “After all this time, in our struggle, and with you being in the newspaper business, it seems incredible you can be so out of touch.” She was amused by his rash stance.

He didn’t bend. He replied, “You’ll be glad it’s over. It was nonsense. Thank God you all have come to your senses!”

“God is on our side,” she countered.

“If you tell that old, old joke about God being a woman, you’re going to make me cranky.”

They looked at each other, and although they smiled, amused by their chatter, their bodies moved almost as if they were squaring off for some kind of combat. He understood it, but she wasn’t really aware of more than the feeling. Both felt the strong attraction between them and each had a very good reason to be wary of the other.

She was cautious with men so that around her there was a solid wall of protective reserve, but while she felt he was a male threat, she saw the humor and attractiveness of this Tris Roald.

He had a very unfair advantage in knowing her identity when she didn’t know who he was; but he had the greater reason for his calculation. He intended to teach her a lesson. He excused himself, saying he had to make a phone call—and it was with a satisfaction, of hunter for prey, when he saw she was still there waiting for him when he returned.

They didn’t see anyone else in that crowd, as they sipped the wine and nibbled from the elaborate buffet. Mab only spoke to others who spoke to her. No one spoke to Tris, for no one knew him.

The two laughed and talked. She teased him, saying she was one of three non-Indian “natives” living in Los Angeles, everyone else was immigrant. Then she added the truth, telling him in actual Los Angeles, her family really went back only two hundred years. “My great-grandfather jumped ship on the way back to Boston. Ezekiel was a misfit, from the stern and rockbound coast of Massachusetts, who apparently wasn’t spoken about as kin by that branch of the family until after World War I!

“Ezekiel very boldly stole a Chinese girl from the ship’s hold. And he lived with the girl here in the sun of southern California. They had fourteen children, all of whom lived. He was a shrewd Yankee trader and he did excessively well.”

Tris nodded, watching her face. “Our families have much in common. Adventure, independence and trade.”

She agreed as she said, “And apparently a love for the written word. That grandfather had also stolen the captain’s pocket Bible, and his two-volume set of the works of Shakespeare. A family story tells to what lengths Ezekiel went, in order to eventually trace down the captain, to return the carefully kept books. Charming. Very sentimental.”

With his steady eyes on Amabel, Tris commented, “Another thing we have in common—honor. Our good names. Ezekiel had to clear his books of his theft. Did he also pay for the Chinese girl he stole? He did marry her?”

She thought Tris looked rather stern. He had a hard chin. She would hate to cross him. But there was that strange quivering deep inside her. And now even the surface of her skin seemed to feel him.

She blinked back into focus and replied readily enough. “According to the family Bible, they married soon after the seventh child was born. The family never mentioned the delay in Ezekiel’s marriage. I discovered the fact one rainy day, in browsing through the names and dates, and called my mother’s attention to it.

“She said preachers weren’t always available for the niceties and, on occasion, emotions could get entirely out of hand—and these weren’t those days and I should behave myself! To remember Ezekiel’s stolen wife.”

Amabel smiled a little before she continued, “I used to wonder about Ezekiel’s wife. She probably didn’t have any idea what in the world was going on when he snatched her and jumped ship. Then to be in a strange land, with a great bear of a bearded man whose voice rumbled sounds she couldn’t comprehend. Did she want to be with him? He was obviously friendly...fourteen children! But what about her?”

With no hesitation, Tris explained it all. “In olden days most captive women were chosen by the men, and women adjust well to captivity.” He slowly licked his lower lip as he glanced down her still-damp body.

“Spoken like a Viking.” She shook her head chidingly. “Why are you brown-eyed and dark-haired? And not even six feet tall? You must lack a whole portion of an inch!” She smiled sassily.

“We ranged far and wide, and differences have always intrigued men.” He reminded her, “Ezekiel chose a Chinese girl.”

“You think he gave her much thought?”

“A man that bold wouldn’t just take what was handy. It would be his choice. Any man who would—borrow—such reading material would be a sensitive, romantic, loving man.”

“How nice of you to soothe my worry about My Ling.”

“That was her name?”

“We aren’t sure. He always called her that and spelled it M Y. Her name could very well have just been Ling. And it was the possessiveness of a thief which made him call her his.”

“I like Ezekiel.”

“Men would. He forced his own life to be as he chose it. And dragged that little Chinese girl along. He was a formidable man from the stories handed down. But women shiver a little over being stolen. Women are very vulnerable. Men have directed our lives for all time. We are just getting to the place where we have a toehold in guiding our own fates.”

He dismissed her words. “It’s only natural for men to control women. My dad used to remember about the olden days when men had it all. I never thought things would get back to normal in my lifetime.”

She watched the wicked, golden glints of humor that betrayed him, and she smothered a smile in turn. “I’m going to run for an office in NOW.”

“Now? This year? Here in L.A.?”

“In the National Organization for Women.”

He gasped with some flair. “National? It’s spread that far? That sounds serious!”

She shook her head and sighed, gustily patient. “I believe we need to talk.”

He smiled. “Anytime. I’ll be glad to instruct you on the woman’s place in the overall scheme of world affairs. And yours in particular. I have a car, may I take you home?”

“Now what is the great-granddaughter of a captive Chinese girl supposed to reply to a descendant of a Viking under such circumstances?” She laughed as if it was cocktail chatter.

He replied easily, “Chance is a great determining factor in our lives. Each thing that happens nudges people into actions they wouldn’t have taken. Like my being here. It’s exactly the reason Simon Quint named his magazine Adam’s Roots.”

“You believe in fate?”

“You can call it fate, or kismet, or destiny or revenge.”

“I can’t believe you read horoscopes.”

“My life is self-determined. I do as I choose. I follow the paths I want to follow. May I take you home? I must leave now.”

“That’s a rash offer in this area. I could live fifty miles cross town. But you’re lucky—you don’t have to back down from your offer. I live just west of here in the Canyons.” She gave the address.

He said, “I’m staying at a house in that area. I believe you’re just on my way. Let’s go.” His smile was rather strange, and it did give her some pause, but she shrugged it off and they left.

As they walked from the room, he removed his tie and put it in his suit pocket. Then, using both hands, he ruffled his hair before he unbuttoned his shirt several buttons. He took off his suit jacket, unbuttoned and folded up his shirtsleeves, and slung the jacket over his shoulder very casually.

The photographer was there just outside the entrance to the hotel, and the pair looked up blankly as the pictures were snapped.

Amabel asked Tris, “Why us?”

“They may know who you are.”

“I’m not newsworthy,” she scoffed.

“Your article created quite a stir. You’re probably doomed to a life as a camera-dodging celebrity.”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied easily.

“It happens to the best of us.”

Three

With perfectly ordinary courtesy, Tris drove her home. Their conversation was pleasant. He drove well. Her body watched his. She had never been so intensely aware of a man as being male to her female.

Almost shyly she asked him in for coffee. He declined with a fairly standard semblance of regret. He saw her to her door, said goodbye and left her standing there, rather pensively, as he drove away.

She was disappointed. She went inside the little house, which perched recklessly overlooking the gully below, and she prowled through her few rooms wondering why she would be just a little irritated with Tris Roald for being smart enough not to prolong the day’s visit.

He was wiser than she. Anything can be overdone. Much longer and they might find themselves wearing on one another.

But she really hadn’t had enough of him, and she felt a puzzling lack or vacuum with him not there. She didn’t encourage her brain to examine any reason for that feeling.

It would have been nice if they’d sat on her small terrace, looking out over the gully as they watched the sun setting on beyond the hills.

The problem was, he hadn’t mentioned the possibility of seeing her again. What if he went back to Indiana and never gave her another thought? And she remembered the misguided photographer who had taken their picture. She wondered who it was. She would like to have had a copy of it.

* * *

It was Wally who brought the advance copy of US magazine into Amabel’s office within the week. On the cover was the picture of Sean Morant and Amabel Clayton exiting what was obviously a hotel.

Their pose was the requisite one. He was on the left, casually dressed, his hair designer mussed, his face to the camera and his eyes blank. Next to him, on the right, was Amabel, her damp dress soft on her nice bosom, her face equally blank as she looked at the camera.

The tag line read, “Who’s next? It’s Amabel Clayton!”

At first glance, she thought it was a trick perpetrated by the staff there in L.A. on the order of a Harvard Lampoon. So it took a little while for her to realize it was an actual cover and one that was going to be on the stands for everyone to see.

While she remembered the cameraman outside the Hilton, she became vividly aware of the fact that Tris was Sean Morant. He’d deliberately set it up. She remembered the way he’d ruffled his hair, taken off his tie and shrugged out of his suit coat. And she remembered his talk about appearances being deceiving, and honor—and revenge.

Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord. But this time Sean had helped.

He had his revenge. It was too bad he wasn’t there to witness it. All the kinds of comments and smiles sent Amabel’s way that weren’t particularly nice.

Jealous women smiled and their eyes were sly. But the men! It was as if Sean’s revenge gave each of them a little triumph over her.

He’d been so charming. So attentive...as he’d set her up for his revenge. She remembered her body’s reaction to his and how aware even her skin had been of him. It hadn’t been attraction; it had been a warning!

* * *

She endured. The magazine was distributed, and she had more copies of that picture than she’d ever dreamed when she’d wished for just one. They couldn’t just have the glee of the sassy cover and a poke at Adam’s Roots. No, there was a story.

Their interviews were with people on the street. Instead of replying to the interviewer’s question, most asked, “Who’s she?” And one said, “Not up to his usual standards.”

That hurt. Jamie was quoted as saying, “They’re just good friends.” Of all people, he knew she didn’t even know Sean Morant, whose real name was Tristan Roald.

So it was days before she even considered the courage it had required for Tris to walk into that maelstrom of publicists and reporters just to meet her and set up the photograph.

That had to have been the telephone call he’d made, and he’d timed it, saying he had to leave right then.

How could he have done that to her? What difference did the multipicture cover make to him? Why was he so angry with her that he would take such calculated revenge?

He’d actually been in all those pictures. She had interviewed all those tiresome women.

No one gave her any sympathy. More than one woman ignored the implied relationship, of the pair leaving a hotel, and expressed envy for her having met Sean—however and whatever.

Mab didn’t blab his real name. Although sorely tempted, she considered that sort of backlash as beneath her professionally. But she felt noble about not doing it. And she hated him.

* * *

Tris didn’t feel the satisfaction he’d expected and his conscience twinged. He’d wanted to teach her a lesson but he hadn’t expected such a reaction for her, to her, about her. He suspected he’d been too rough. He could have... Well, it was done.

As with any exposure to public consideration, the incident quickly passed. In a few days it had faded. It was overlaid with all the other things about other people which went on in the rest of the world.

But it festered in Amabel. She spent a lot of time as she argued with a phantom Tris using reason and wide arm gestures.

“What’s going on with you?” Wally asked one day.

She looked up at him. “Nothing.”

Wally frowned at Mab. “You act unhappy. It’s not still that cover, is it?”

“No, of course not.”

“It’s funny, if you look at it right.”

Her responding, “Of course,” was rather dull.

“You don’t sound sincere.”

She gave him a look.

“Are you going to Indy next week?”

“You know I am. What’s the matter, are you running out of things to say?”

“Pretty much.” He bit thoughtfully into his lower lip and watched his feet shift and then he told her, “There’s a concert in Fort Wayne just about that time. I wonder if you’ve ever been to a Rock concert?”

She was cautious. “Rock concert?”

“Since you’re not a devotee, it might make a very interesting viewpoint.”

“Let me guess. It’s Sean’s?”

“Why, by George, it is!” His surprise wasn’t well done.

“Cute. I won’t do it.”

Wally mentioned casually, “I got the ticket from Sean.” He flipped it onto her desk.

She looked at the envelope as if it was a snake.

“It’s sealed. The courier said there’s a note inside. Read it.”

She wouldn’t touch it.

“Mab, you know I’m partial to you. Chris loves you and that by itself would be enough to influence me, but I admire your work and I believe you’re one of my best—”

“What sort of horror are you working up to?”

Wally was chiding. “Now, Mab! Whatever gave—”

“No!”

He waved his arms. “How can you refuse when you don’t even know what I’m going to...suggest?”

“I know what you’re going to suggest! And I will not!”

“Now, Mab, you can do it. This little exchange between US and us could develop into a nice Hope/Crosby kind of humorous conflict. It would be good for circulation. All you have to do is go to Fort Wayne and see the concert. Then you tell us what it’s like. See?”

“Sean’s.” Her look was deadly.

“Well, it just so happens you’ll be in Indianapolis anyway, and he’ll be up in Fort Wayne. It’s only a hundred miles. There are planes and airports out there in the wilds of Indiana and very excellent highways, if you’d want to drive.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Mr. Quint thought it a good idea.”

“He’s out in New York.”

“I know that.” Wally scowled at her.

“You suggested this, didn’t you.”

“With the US magazine cover we could bounce back with the article and have a neat little thing going here.” He smiled beguilingly.

“How can you ask it of me? I thought you were my friend.”

Wally observed critically, “The tremble in your voice is touching. You do that well.” But then he warned, “If you let a tear leak out, I will insist on a personal interview with Sean, if you have to pretend to be a bellhop!”

“Wally!”

“Even Chris is excited about this!”

“I’m going to apply for the space capsule.”

“Fine. Right after you do the concert. Then we can work in something about unrequited passion on your part and milk this dandy little incident as far as we can go.”

“I don’t see how you can do this to me.”

He shrugged and said the obvious, “Circulation.”

“You are a nasty man.” She glowered at him.

“Coming to dinner Friday?”

“I believe Chris should divorce you. I doubt she has ever suspected what you’re really like.”

He smiled. “You’re a reporter. You’ll do it because you know it’ll make good copy. We got a glossy of the picture. We’ll rerun a copy of the cover, then the US cover and then your story. Hot dog, this’ll be one for the books.”

She smiled in an icy manner. “I want a raise.”

“Mab, don’t get hostile on me.”

“Do you realize the reason I’m going to Indianapolis is to speak at a Women’s Seminar? Then I’m to go to Fort Wayne and witness a Rock concert! Tell me this can’t tarnish my credibility as a serious woman.”

“There are a great many serious people who enjoy Rock and heavy metal. There are people who enjoy jazz. Not everyone listens only to a single kind of approved music.”

He stood straight and looked at the wall as if he was seeing it for the first time. “This would make an interesting series! A spin-off from your Rock article!”

He turned back to Mab. “We could interview all sorts of people whose tastes vary...on the kinds of music... The ramifications of Sean’s cover story has Roots!

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