couldn’t believe the horrible headline and the article that followed.
Even worse, she couldn’t believe her name was there in black and white for the world to see. She felt sick to her stomach.
When she’d come home from her parents she’d found her answering machine jam-packed with messages. Rag Magazine, the Financial Journal, and some maniac named Simon Masterson were the three most persistent callers. Each had left multiple messages. There was a handful of other magazines and papers, all asking for interviews about her study.
Her thesis, “The Effects of Telephone Answering Systems on Psychological and Physical Well-Being” had not only been accepted and passed by the thesis committee in practically record time, it had been published in Psychology Forum. She’d been so proud, so thrilled to see it in print.
And now she wished she’d never made the phone call that led her to think of doing a study on answering systems.
She’d run out to the all-night grocery store after listening to her messages and bought a copy of the Rag. She’d been instantly mortified when she read the headline.
If The Wait Doesn’t Kill You…The Answering System Will.
It was a horrible headline, and the rest of the article had been just as bad, distorting the results of her study to the point of ridiculous.
Yes, she’d found that people’s stress levels rose when they were forced to work their way through answering systems that resembled phone mazes. Systems where it took more than five minutes to reach a human being.
The subjects’ blood pressure climbed, their heart rate and respiration increased, but none to the extent it threatened their lives.
She’d never claimed phone answering systems were deadly, just that they could induce stress and that was cause for concern. The twenty-first-century world was stress-filled. Look at what it did to Collin’s libido.
Ari thought if she could prompt change in some of the smaller stressors, such as phone mazes, it would leave people more capable of dealing with the bigger ones.
She’d hoped the study would prompt companies to look at their systems and find ways to improve them, making them more user friendly.
She’d never expected anything like the story Rag Magazine had run.
She had no idea how to handle something like this. They didn’t teach Public Relations Disaster Management in her psychology classes.
She’d sat up all night worrying, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach and a raging headache.
She glanced at the clock. It was almost eight now. Her father would be up soon. She’d call him and see if he had any suggestions on what she should do for damage control.
After all, he’d run Kelly’s Plastics for years. He must have some experience with media. Nothing like this, of course, but he had to know more than she did. She wondered if her calling would upset him. He’d retired to avoid stress and—
The doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts.
Not just one polite ring.
No, a continuous string of rings.
Who could be at her door at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning?
She didn’t need any more surprises. Last night was all she could handle. What she really needed was some peace and quiet to get things in order.
The ringing continued.
Not an exactly peaceful sound, and certainly not quiet.
Sighing, she went to the door. She left the chain in place, and opened it to find a large man standing on her stoop.
A large, rather annoyed-looking man.
“Yes?”
“Are you Adrienne Kelly?” he asked.
His voice was low and gravelly. The sort of voice that probably had women swooning at his feet his entire life.
Maybe she should do some research on auditory aphrodisiacs.
No, forget that. She shuddered to think what the tabloids could do with a subject matter like that.
She took a closer look at Mr. Sounds-Yummy.
He looked good, too.
Real good.
Okay, so maybe the frown lines on his rather annoyed-looking face took a bit away from his tall, dark looks, but it didn’t take away enough to dim his hot looks.
“Miss Kelly?” he said, even more annoyance tingeing his tone.
She sighed.
Yesterday, Collin didn’t ravish her on the park bench, and now this good-sounding and good-looking man was scowling at her.
She couldn’t seem to catch a break lately with men.
Thinking about her parents’ strained relationship and the tabloid’s perversion of her research, she realized it wasn’t just men she couldn’t catch a break with but rather life in general.
“Yes?” she said with a sigh.
“You’re the Adrienne Kelly from this article?” He held out a well-crinkled copy of the Rag.
Drat.
A reporter.
Yes, this was just what she needed to start her day off right.
“I’m sorry, I’m not doing any interviews.”
It was almost a sin that a man who sounded that good was a reporter—a man who made his living listening more than talking.
Wait, maybe he worked for a television station, although she didn’t see a camera.
“I’m not a reporter,” he said. “It’s not about an interview. I want to see copies of your findings. I want to see the figures you collected. You’ve single-handedly set out to ruin my company with this article and I want you to back it up.”
He waved the paper at her, as if he wanted to be sure she knew what he was talking about.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Annoyance faded and for a second he looked slightly chagrined. “Sorry. I’m Simon. Simon Masterson. I called you last night. I own SimonSays. We produce computerized telephone answering systems for businesses. We work hard to see to it that our products are the best there are. And you are trying to ruin us.”
“Oh.”
Okay, Ari realized it wasn’t the most brilliant reply, but at the moment she was feeling less than brilliant. As a matter of fact, she was feeling quite rumpled, anxious and sleep deprived.
This Simon Masterson owned a business that manufactured answering systems. No wonder he was annoyed.
“Mr.
