office was cooler…but not cool enough. An ancient air conditioner was probably struggling to keep up with the blast furnace Missourians called summer. Mark flexed his shoulders, trying without success to convince the back of his shirt to release its uncomfortable grip on his skin.
“May I help you?”
A middle-aged woman came through a door at the back of the small reception area and looked at him over the top of her half glasses. A bit stocky, with streaks of gray in her short black hair, she regarded him warily.
“Yes. I’m Mark Campbell. Ms. Warner is expecting me.”
“Have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.” She gestured toward some chairs surrounding a low table, then moved toward a desk in the corner and picked up the phone.
Not exactly the warmest welcome he’d ever received, Mark reflected as he strolled toward the seating area. But then, most people didn’t like change—the very thing he represented.
He remained standing, staring out the window at the lifeless street, as she spoke in low tones on the phone behind him. A couple of minutes later he heard the door to the inner sanctum open again.
Mark wasn’t sure what he’d expected Abby Warner to look like. But when he turned, the petite woman in the doorway didn’t even come close to any of his preconceived notions. Slender and fine-boned, she couldn’t have been more than five-three or five-four. Her shoulder-length light brown hair, worn straight with a simple part on one side, was touched with appealing glints of copper, and her deep green eyes were fringed by long lashes.
Not that she was his type, of course. He preferred voluptuous blondes.
Still, he couldn’t help but notice that her face had character, for want of a better word, and the kind of classic bone structure that would age well.
As Abby watched Mark give her the once-over, her back stiffened. She was almost tempted to point out that he was supposed to be evaluating her business, not her body. But she held her tongue. A lot of good-looking men went through this kind of inspection with every woman they met. And there was no disputing the fact that the Campbell heir was good-looking.
At close to six feet, Mark Campbell was an imposing figure, with broad shoulders and a toned physique—the result of hours in an expensive health club, she guessed. His dark brown hair was cut short, and she’d put his age at midthirties.
As she finished her own survey, she caught the amused glint in the depths of his dark brown eyes. A warm flush crept up her neck. After faulting him for sizing her up, she’d done the same thing. Well, he’d started it. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to move toward him.
“I’m Abby Warner.” She held out her hand.
At closer range, Mark was struck by the intriguing flecks of gold in the woman’s eyes. And the editor of the Gazette seemed even more petite—and fragile—than she had at a distance. As his hand swallowed hers, he was almost afraid to squeeze for fear of breaking something. “Mark Campbell.”
“I hope you had a good trip, Mr. Campbell.”
“A hot one, anyway. And it’s Mark.”
“Welcome to August in Missouri.” Abby retrieved her hand. “That’s why we dress pretty casual here.”
He’d noticed. In contrast to his perfectly creased gray trousers, impeccable navy blue jacket and tailored blue-and-white-striped shirt worn open at the neck, she sported khaki slacks and a crisp short-sleeved blouse that made her look more like a college student than the editor of a newspaper. At least from a distance.
But now that she was a whisper away, he wouldn’t make that mistake. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes and faint parallel grooves in her brow belonged to a woman who’d known more than her share of fatigue and stress. Concerns about the future of the Gazette could be the cause, he reflected. In fact, hadn’t his father said something about the paper being a family business? He supposed it was time he reviewed the file that had been passed on to him.
Still, her personal problems weren’t his concern, he reminded himself. He was here to analyze the business, not the editor.
“I’ll keep the casual dress code in mind in the future,” he responded. “I can’t say that I’ll be sorry to ditch the jacket.”
A faint brief smile quirked her lips, vanishing as quickly as frosty breath on a cold day. “Would you like a tour now or would you prefer to settle in and come back a bit later? Or even tomorrow morning?”
“I’m up for a tour if this is a good time.”
She nodded, then gestured toward the receptionist. “I’ll just stick with first names for now. You’ve already met Molly. She handles all our administrative work and does double duty as our receptionist. This place would shut down without her.”
A pleased flush spread over the woman’s cheeks, and she rose as Mark walked over to shake her hand.
“How long have you been here, Molly? Twenty-one years?” Abby prompted.
“Twenty-two.”
A warm smile softened the tense lines of Abby’s face. The transformation was remarkable, and Mark caught himself staring. Fortunately Abby didn’t notice.
“All I know is that you’ve been here as long as I can remember,” Abby continued.
“That’s understandable, since you were only ten when I came.”
That made Abby thirty-two, Mark calculated, filing away that piece of information. He wasn’t sure why.
“In any case, Molly does a great job,” Abby noted. “Now let’s go back into the newsroom.”
It didn’t take long to complete the tour. The working space wasn’t large. Abby’s office and a conference room were the only enclosed areas. The rest of the area was divided into eight cubicles. As they moved from one to the other, he met the three reporters—Jean, Steve and Laura—as well as Marcia in marketing/sales, Jason in photography, Les in circulation and Paul in layout. Though Abby smiled at the staff members and their mutual respect was evident, she seemed to grow more subdued as the tour progressed.
He tried his best to put people at ease, insisting on first names and joking when appropriate, but the apprehension in the office was palpable. Was every operational audit this tense? he wondered. To him, an acquisition had always meant an evaluation of the books, an assessment of the effect on Campbell Publishing’s bottom line, done in the plush confines of his office. He’d never factored in the effect on people.
They ended their tour with Joe in accounting.
“How’s Cindy doing?” Abby greeted the sandy-haired man who looked to be in his late thirties.
“Okay. We’ll know more after the third ultrasound in—” he checked his watch “—two hours.”
“The ultrasound is today? Why on earth are you here?” Abby scolded him.
“Well, when the tour got bumped to the afternoon, I figured I should hang around.”
“Cindy needs you more.” Abby turned to Mark. “Joe’s wife is having a complicated
