“You admired her, did you?” His expression was cynical.
“Not quite. She was too bitchy for any of us to like her, but she’s a professional. She looked good in front of the cameras and she has credibility.”
He quelled a little rush of anger. Like some other people, he wasn’t a forgiving soul. “She insulted a lot of powerful people once too often, Cavanagh. Not to set the story straight but to establish her own questionable style. Then as you say, her in-house standing was far from good.”
Chloe nodded, looking suitably chastened. “I knew I wasn’t going to leave your office with a big smile.”
“Why so sure?” His black eyes sparkled with sardonic humour. “Mel Gibson will be in town the beginning of next month,” he found himself saying. “A quick trip home to promote his new movie. He’s willing to talk to us. I’ve had it confirmed.”
Chloe looked back at him in astonishment. “You’re surely not handing the job to me?” Her melodious voice, one of her big assets, took on a decided lilt.
“Can’t handle it?” One black eyebrow shot up, giving him a rakish look. Surely he should be handing the interview to Jennifer?
“I’ll have you know I once sat a few seats behind Mel on a plane.” She smiled.
“Is that so? Then you won’t want to miss this golden opportunity, either. He’s happy to talk. Keep it short and keep it light.”
“A pleasure.” She totally forgot herself and beamed at him. Gosh, what was in that muffin? “It should be fun. They say he’s the easiest person in the world to talk to. None of that Big Star ego. A down-to-earth Aussie. Won’t Jennifer have her nose put out of joint?”
He held up a large palm. “There’s no law against passing over our senior female reporter. Though Jennifer is never late, never misses meetings, and never gets herself involved in ongoing brawls.”
“She’ll certainly have something to say to me.” Chloe smiled wryly. There were big jealousies abroad. Grudges. Undercurrents.
“That’s your problem, Cavanagh.” He stared at her for a minute or two. “I had intended to bawl you out, but I seem to have surrendered to your charm. You can go now. I’m busy. By the way, Sir Llew is giving a small party, which means roughly a hundred people, Saturday night. You’d better go out and buy yourself a new dress.”
Anyone else but McGuire, she would have rushed to kiss his cheek. “You mean, I’m invited? That’s a first.”
His eyes sparkled sardonically. “Cavanagh, you’re well on your way to becoming a high flier. I’m in a position to provide you with wings. Sir Llew wants four of us for company. Bright, engaging people, he said.”
Chloe suppressed a snort. Sure! McGuire was brilliant. Engaging? Never.
He had to be a mind-reader because his dark eyes flashed. “Cavanagh, your face is so transparent you ought to wear a mask. The party’s for Christopher Freeman, by the way.” He named an international businessman of legendary wealth. Australian born, but currently residing in the U.S.A.
“The wild one.” Chloe feigned a gasp. “Freeman has quite a reputation as a womaniser.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there to protect you.”
“No problem,” Chloe responded blithely. “The likes of Christopher Freeman would get nowhere with me.” A professional virgin with ice cubes rattling in her veins.
“I like that, Cavanagh,” he said. “By the way, I’d like you to know our present weekend anchorwoman is looking to retire.”
Chloe, walking to the door, turned back in surprise. “She never said so.”
“She hasn’t seen much of you of late,” McGuire pointed out dryly, bewitched despite himself at the image of her. “For a girl who doesn’t run with the crowd, you keep yourself mighty busy.”
“I have a wonderful garden,” she quipped.
“I admit you’re a bit of a puzzlement, Cavanagh.” He seemed to lose interest in her, reaching for a pile of papers. “Get Farrell in here, would you. I wish he had a few of your daredevil qualities.” He glanced up casually. “I can give you a lift Saturday night if it would help. Drop you off home afterwards. The party’s at Sir Llew’s so it’s going to be difficult getting parking near the house.”
It sounded so simple yet it took her by storm, McGuire at close quarters? How claustrophobic could one get? Her moods were shifting madly back and forth. She couldn’t account for it. “Thanks for the offer, Chief, but I’ll be okay. I know my way around that neck of the woods.”
“Well, the offer’s open in case you change your mind. Oh, there’s something else, too. I want a piece on Jake Wylie, the writer. I don’t suppose you’ve gotten around to reading his book, One Man’s Poison?”
Chloe’s expressive face brightened. “As a matter of fact I have. I bought the hardback to see what all the fuss was about. A mite strong, but a cracking good story, very funny in places.”
McGuire nodded. “He has all the makings. Our new great white hope, though he could pare down a bit on the sex. We don’t need a potted course in how and where to do it.”
I might, Chloe thought. “When would you want the piece?”
“Couple of weeks.” His eyes were already on some newspaper clipping on his desk. “I’ll give you time. Talk to him first. If you think he might have some on-camera potential we can find a spot for you both.”
Just when she thought miracles were for someone else! “That’s great!” From such a shaky start she thought a soft billowy cloud was beneath her. She could almost have gone skydiving. Sans parachute.
“Well?” He glanced up. For all his black eyes could bore a hole through her, their expression was almost kindly. “Everything okay, Cavanagh?” he jeered. Why did she have to look so beautiful, so delicate, so refined? It pierced his heart. She was usually such an uppity little devil, as well, with a lot of aggravation. Hair like flame, and a spirit to match.
“Everything’s fine, Chief.” Chloe tried to move off but she seemed stuck to the spot. “I suppose about Saturday it doesn’t make sense taking two cars?” She didn’t say that. She couldn’t have said it. She began to seriously wonder what had befallen her. Maybe she should rush out and see a psychiatrist. This was McGuire, remember? The Wolf Man. Rumour tied him to Sir Llew’s nubile daughter, the very attractive, high-profile party-goer, Tara.
“No sense at all,” McGuire casually agreed. “Let’s say I pick you up around eight o’clock.”
So that was that.
Chloe fled McGuire’s office before she found herself agreeing to dropping off his dry cleaning.
She and Bob were watching a clip on a monitor, one of her assignments due to air, when Rosie, clipboard in hand, bustled into the studio. “Listen, there’s a protest meeting going on out at Ashfield parklands. Caller rang in. Usual thing, the greenies versus a developer.
