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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, keeping busy.”
“Oh, I just bet you are,” she said.
He stopped a moment. “Yeah. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you still wanted to get together. How about dinner tomorrow night? I was hoping we could talk.”
“We can talk now.”
“Face-to-face is a lot more fun,” he said. “Come on, let me buy you dinner.”
“How about lunch?” she countered. He was right, face-to-face was a lot more fun, and she couldn’t wait to see his when she dropped the bombshell. “Let’s go somewhere downtown,” she added.
“All right. How about noon at Conroy’s?”
“Great. I’ll meet you there.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said.
Not nearly as much as she was, Jillian thought grimly as she hung up the phone.
“Reynolds. My office, five minutes.” Russell Gleason, the Gazette’s publisher, barked the words through Gil’s open door.
“I’ve got—” Gil began but he was already gone. Gil bit back a curse. He was supposed to be leaving for lunch with Jillian, not sitting in a meeting all afternoon. And with Russ, you never knew. The discussion could last five minutes. It could just as easily last an hour and forty-five, depending on how many tangents he wandered off on.
The topic was sales and circulation. Or, more to the point, what Gleason thought they ought to do to editorial to provide him with better sales and circ.
Like controversy.
“I’m just saying, we need stories that sell.”
“Stories that sell?” Gil stared at Gleason. “We’ve just lit a big enough fire under Nash and his cronies that the state’s threatening an audit. What more do you want?”
The publisher tapped his fingers on the black slab of his desk, dissatisfaction coming off him in waves. “That’s politics. That doesn’t sell papers in this day and age. We need something juicier.”
“Politics doesn’t sell papers? This is Portland we’re talking about. People here live and breathe politics. Take a look at your reader surveys.”
“All I know is when you broke the story about that football player’s kid, our newsstand numbers went through the roof.”
Gil bristled. “First of all, I didn’t break that story. I was on vacation when it hit. And if you remember, we had to print a retraction on parts of it. Sloppy researching, sloppy editing and it was just your pure damned good luck that Lisa Sanders didn’t take legal action.” And that he hadn’t lost one of his closest friends over it, Gil added silently.
“There wasn’t anything actionable,” Gleason scoffed, but his eyes flickered.
“Look, Russ, you take care of the business end and let me deal with editorial. Separation of church and state, right?”
“I’m just saying we’ve got stuff going on around here. What about that Logan thing?”
“I’ve got Mark Fetzer on it.”
“So why haven’t I seen any more stories?”
“They have to do something before we can write about it,” Gil reminded him wearily.
“Look at that Weekly Messenger. They run a Logan story on the front page just about every issue.”
“When they’re not writing about Elvis sightings. Russ, for Christ’s sake, the Messenger is a tabloid. They don’t need facts, they print tripe. We’re Portland’s primary newspaper. We’ve got a responsibility.”
“Yeah, to our advertisers and shareholders. I want Logans,” Gleason said obstinately. “That family sells newspapers. Besides, it’s a public service. With all the fiascos that clinic has had, it should be shut down.”
“Funny, the state and federal regulators don’t agree with you.”
“Yeah, well, our state senator does.”
“Showboating.” Gil dismissed it. “Look, it’s not our role. Our role is to support the news.”
“Our role is to support our shareholders,” Gleason countered.
“Circulation was just fine the last time I checked. And ad sales. In fact, I seem to remember cutting a story last week because the ad count ran over. You do what you do well, Russ, and leave me to what I do well. Look—” Gil checked his watch “—can we get back on this in the afternoon? I’ve got a lunch meeting.”
“Skip your lunch meeting. Go ask Nash what he thinks about a babynapper running a day care center. Better yet, go interview a Logan.”
Gil snorted and rose. “Yeah, sure, Russ. I’ll get right on that.”
She had to give it to him, he’d chosen well. It was a quiet little restaurant in the Pearl District. Once, the area had been home to light industry, auto-repair garages and the like. No, it had become fashionable, the welding shops and upholstery businesses supplanted by galleries and expensive boutiques, hair salons and intimate restaurants whose tabs rose in indirect proportion to the number of tables.
Gil hadn’t chosen one of the chichi ones, though, but a modest little pub that might well have been there the whole time. It was quiet and only half full. Privacy, Jillian thought as she glanced at her watch. They’d be able to have their conversation without having to shout to be heard. Which was fine with her. Scenes had never been her thing. She wanted answers. She wanted to know why the Gazette had gone after Robbie. She wanted to know why Gil had lied. And she’d find out.
Provided he ever bothered to show up.
Stifling impatience, she took a sip of water and set the glass precisely back in its damp ring. She’d arrived her habitual five minutes early. Now fifteen more had gone by and she itched to check voice mail, to drag out her PDA, do something productive with the time. But she didn’t. She had a personal rule about waving electronics around in restaurants. Then again, if Gil didn’t show up soon, she might just break that rule.
Or walk out entirely.
When she glanced over to the door again, though, he was there. And for a moment, her thoughts scattered. For a moment, she was back in the church at the head of the aisle and he was watching her every step. Except this time around, she was the one watching. The man had presence, she’d give him that. There was something absolutely riveting about him. She wasn’t the only one who thought so; she saw a waitress turn to stare in his wake.
Jillian just gazed, unmoving, until he was standing beside the table, looking down at her.
“Hello,” he said. She hated the fact that her pulse stuttered. He hesitated a moment, long enough that, for a breathless instant, she wondered if he was going to lean down and kiss her.
But he didn’t. Instead, he sat. “Sorry I’m late. My boss called me in just as I was leaving.”
“Trouble?”
His grin flashed, quick and white. “No more than usual.”
Just looking at him made her remember the feel of his mouth on hers, the taste of him, the intimacy of that dark, male flavor. And the man knew how to kiss, knew how to use that clever, clever mouth to turn a woman to mush.
Not her, not anymore, she reminded herself grimly.
“So how was the rest of your weekend? Breakfast with your brother, right?”
“Good memory,” she said.
“Where’d you go?”
“His house. His wife’s pregnant and on bed rest, so I brought the breakfast. We mostly just sat outside, drank coffee. And read the paper,” she added, watching him closely. “After all, it wouldn’t be Sunday without the paper, would it?”
“No, indeed. Are you a big newspaper fan?” he asked, just a touch of care in his words.
“Oh, about like average. I like to know what’s going on in town. Of course, I like it from a reputable paper, not a scandal rag.”
“Don’t like reading about Brangelina and space aliens?” He looked amused.
“Don’t like seeing people’s reputations trashed. Some of these reporters, they’re like snipers taking potshots from deep cover. They stay nice and safe while they destroy innocent people’s lives. And the editors just let them do it.”
“Not everybody who winds up in the paper is innocent.”
“And not every story written is accurate. Of course, the problem is that the jazzy stories show up on page one and the retractions show up on the bottom corner of page thirty-eight.”
“News sells.”
“Wrecking people’s lives sells,” she countered.
Gil leaned forward. “So did Woodward and Bernstein destroy lives or uncover corruption in government?”
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