My Front Page Scandal

Brooke concentrated on spearing a slippery carrot. Liam James, Katie’s new lover, was still a slightly sore subject, although he and Brooke had stopped seeing each other before he’d started going out with Katie. Brooke believed that Liam had seen her only as a suitable choice for an ambitious, upwardly mobile executive. He’d been more interested in his work than her. By all accounts, Katie had ensnared his attention more fully.

Brooke couldn’t help feeling as if she’d been outshined… again.

She tuned in to the conversation as her grandmother remarked, “Perhaps we’ll finally get a great-grandchild.”

Joey chuckled. “Let’s hold a wedding first.”

Evelyn’s expression said that a Winfield would do it no other way. Smoothly, she switched subjects. “Brooke, dear, I hear that you’ve been asked to donate a painting to the Ladies’ League art auction. I do hope you’ll follow through, after turning down the opportunity to chair the clothing drive.”

“Certainly.” Why not? She’d wrap up one of her inoffensive still-life paintings and the ladies would think it charming.

“Excellent.”

Brooke nodded. Earning her grandparents’ approval had lost its vital importance since her mother’s death. Yet she continued to comply with her training, like a human version of Pavlov’s dog.

“The event should go over well. They have acquired the services of a celebrity auctioneer. A baseball player.”

Brooke perked up. “Oh? Do you know who?”

“I don’t recall the name.”

“Not David Carerra,” She blurted. Surely not.

“Him?” The Admiral snorted.

“Carerra’s back in town,” Joey said. “I read it in this morning’s paper. He’s already causing trouble.”

Evelyn shook her head with disapproval. “Then I’m certain it wasn’t him. The Ladies’ League has impeccable standards.”

Joey’s mention of the papers had given Brooke a small shock, but she couldn’t contain her curiosity. “I don’t really understand why Da—Carerra went from hero to goat all of a sudden. What did he do that was so terrible?”

“Let down the team,” the Admiral barked. “Unforgivable.”

“He quit, Brooke.” Even Joey scowled. “That might not have been so bad if it hadn’t come at such a lousy time, but he was the only one on the team who was playing any good. The Sox never recovered. And those damn Yankees—” she said the name of the hated rivals with all the scorn she could muster “—won the pennant.”

“Yes, but doesn’t anyone remember how Carerra won the World Series? That should keep him in the fans’ good graces no matter what happened the past season.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Over time, he’ll probably be forgiven for quitting, but not yet.”

For some reason, Brooke found herself riled up inside, ready to leap to David’s defense, but she managed to tamp it down and only added in a mild tone, “He might have had his reasons for that.”

Joey looked at her curiously.

Fortunately, Evelyn had had enough of baseball and she channeled the conversation toward another topic before Brooke could give her true feelings away. They finished lunch soon after, and the sisters excused themselves to return to work. On the way out, Joey asked Brooke if she wanted to run back to the carriage house for a real drink. She declined, knowing Joey and her skill at cross-examination; she’d worm the entire story of the previous evening out of Brooke in no time.

She wanted to cherish her secret, almost scandalous adventure for a while longer.

Brooke got into her car and pulled out her cell phone to check for messages. Nothing from David, even though he’d asked for her number before firing up the motorcycle and driving away with only a casual goodbye flick of his visor. Despite a hollow sense of disappointment, she told herself that she hadn’t expected him to contact her. But she knew the truth—a brief encounter with him wasn’t going to be enough.

She needed to make some sort of shocking change to her life, whether or not David called. A lasting change. So what if she’d resolved that before? This time she was following through. If David had done nothing else for her, at least he had lit a spark that continued to burn.

ALMOST SIX O’CLOCK. Brooke switched off the hard-rock radio station she’d been listening to on the radio and surveyed the mess she’d made of her desk and drafting table. Balled-up papers, scattered colored pencils and art markers, the refuse of a mid-afternoon snack, a lopsided stack of magazines and reference books. She closed her eyes for a minute, summoning up the willpower to set it all right, a task that was usually second nature to her.

Just once, she was tempted to leave the disorder as it was. But she knew she’d regret that tomorrow when coming in and finding a mess would put her in a bad mood for the rest of the morning.

That, and the fact that David still hadn’t called.

She snorted and jumped to her feet, suddenly determined to mow through the cleanup. Even the Gaultier dress and stilettos hadn’t been enough to entice him. What hope did the real Brooke Winfield have?

Alyce strolled in, making a rare appearance in what she considered the bowels of the building, where only the display department dwelled. Brooke tried not to be insulted. Her department consisted solely of one part-time assistant and three rooms—her office, a studio workroom and storage space. Granted, natural light would have been nice. However, neither vermin nor dirt were allowed, no matter what some believed.

“Ready for cocktails?” Alyce brandished the drawings for the February windows. “We’ve got something to celebrate.”

Brooke saw the stamp on the back of the sheets. “O.M. approved them?”

“I think it was the ruby-studded thong in the shape of a heart that put him over the top. How evil are we, turning a nice old man into a lech?”

Brooke took the drawings and tucked them safely away in the leather portfolio. “You realize we’re going to draw fire from Lois and Floyd and Genevieve in the executive suite. She’s been working on IV.” IV, as in intravenous fluids, was the employee nickname for O.M. Worthington the Fourth, who was the Chief Operating Officer of the department store and far more conservative than his father.

“Eh.” Alyce shrugged. “Throw a Teflon girdle in the window as a nod to the vanguard.” She looked around and shuddered at the stone walls and wooden beams that Brooke believed gave the rooms an interesting character. “Have you finished swabbing the decks? There’s a Grey Goose honking my name.”

Brooke checked her cell one last time. Her heart almost stopped when she saw she had a text from David.

Get ready. I’m coming for you.

“He’s coming for me,” she said in a drained, disbelieving voice.

Alyce’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Oh.” Brooke put a hand to her hair. In an instant, she’d forgotten there was another person in the room. “It’s someone I met the other night.”

“What night?”

“Last night.”

“When you were working?” Alyce smirked. “I knew it. Who is he?”

Brooke licked her lips. “David Carerra.”

“How do I know that name?”

“You would if you were a baseball fan.”

“He’s a baseball player? That’s fast-track, honey.” Alyce was clearly skeptical that Brooke could keep up. “And he’s coming here to pick you up for a date?”

“I—I think so.”

Alyce snapped her fingers. “We’ll have to do something about your clothes. Fast.” She spun on her heel, calling, “Be right back!” over her shoulder.