Whatever Comes

However, she did get a trite thank-you note from Wanda Moore on stationery printed with voluptuous bunnies.

Mab didn’t get a thank-you call from Sean Morant. She really hadn’t expected one.

Two

When Jamie Milrose walked into his agency office the next day, his secretary said, “There’s someone waiting for you. He didn’t give a name, but he called you Sarge, so I let him wait in your office.”

“No kidding.” Jamie paused to relish the moment. There were very few who were still in touch, after the U.S. sojourn in Nam, who knew of his change in name, job and total character revamp. Those few were all cherished friends. Who would it be?

All the survivors in his group were forty-some-odd. They had been able to put Nam behind them. They were now spread out, very involved in their lives, established. They saw each other seldom but with great pleasure. Jamie opened the door with anticipation...and he drew a complete blank.

Jamie stared at the man sitting at his desk. The man looked up from the Wall Street Journal and greeted him, “Good morning, Milrose.”

Jamie couldn’t recall ever seeing him before in his life...then he walked closer and inquired, uncertainly, “Sean?” Jamie’s business with Sean had been conducted by mail and occasional phone calls from someone of the group. Jamie had met Sean once.

The lazy, husky voice was casual. “I believe it has been mentioned that, off the stage, I’m to be called Tris Roald?” With automatic courtesy, Tris rose and moved away from Jamie’s desk to stand with his back to the window.

Prickly, Jamie thought as he raised his brows. It said something for Jamie that he didn’t need to immediately sit in the chair of authority at the desk; he stood also and smiled in his non-army sergeant personality as he explained, “Forgive me. You have to realize I hear ‘Sean Morant’ all day, half the night and worse on concert tours. Had you ever been in Nam, you’d understand about brainwashing.”

“I was fifteen when that war ended.”

Tris’s control and power were there. Jamie could feel it. Tris was a man who ran his own life. “Fifteen was young,” Jamie conceded. “Then you can’t know how it could be to hear something endlessly and be swayed?”

With droll humor, Tris denied that. “I have a mother who was an army sergeant in the Korean War. She was a strong disciplinarian.”

“Was she now.” Jamie laughed. “I have to meet her. We can exchange stories.”

“I believe you would have the edge. Her war was an accepted one.”

“Ah, yes.” Jamie’s voice was soft and his liking for Sean began. “How did you know I was a sergeant?”

“I research my people quite thoroughly.” As he did everything.

Jamie nodded once before he asked, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” And his eyes twinkled.

“Did you clear that article and cover layout in Adam’s Roots?”

“No, of course not.” Jamie’s voice was conciliatory. He knew with Tris’s words that the man was irritated.

The soft, husky voice suggested, “Tell me about Amabel Clayton.”

“An interesting experience for any man, she—”

“What do you mean by that?”

Jamie shook his head once. “Not your first impression. She looks like a man’s summer idyll, but she’s a staunch women’s righter. She’s also a damned good reporter. No one calls her Amabel...she’s called Clayton or Mab. On occasion it’s Mad Mab. She has asked for interviews, along with every other conceivable publication that can possibly call itself legit, and of course, as per instructions, I’ve turned her down—every time—although I did give her the publicity handouts.”

The roughened voice was grim. “She’s taken revenge? Just because I wouldn’t give her an interview?”

“I doubt the article was her idea. Wallace Michaels is her boss and he does push for what’s current. And not being able to see you, she was free to handle it any way she wanted.” Jamie added coaxingly, “We could tell her about those women.”

“I don’t owe anyone any explanation.” The mild tone was deceiving. Tris meant just that. The glint of yellow fire was in his brown eyes even with his back to the light. “I don’t like being labeled a womanizer.”

“The article will offend a few people—your mother, you, some of your good friends—but the great majority won’t be affected.” Jamie was practical about it. “This is ‘typical’ Rock Star stuff. It won’t harm you. It might cause irritation, with an increase in panting groupies, but that can be handled. No problem. This is a one-day sensation. In a week, it’ll fade away. I promise.”

“I would like a close look at her. I would like to talk with the kind of woman who could be so judgmental.”

“An...interview?” Jamie was startled.

“No. Anonymously.”

“Ah? Let’s see.” Jamie went to his desk and flipped through his appointments. “In two days there’s a reception for reporters and publicity personnel at the Beverly Hilton on Wilshire. As a sop to all the frustrated reporters, we give them—us!” Jamie grinned with real humor.

“Would anyone recognize me?”

“I don’t even recognize you.” Then Jamie cocked his head in disbelief. “You mean you’d go there?”

“Can you get me a badge?”

“You’d boldly go where no Rock Star has gone before? It would be madness, man!”

“I could be visiting from Indiana to see how the big boys handle things.”

It was the beginning of their friendship. “Where abouts in Indiana you from, boy? I don’t remember Indiana being in your bio.”

“I’ve an aunt up near Fort Wayne.”

“We’re practically kin!” Jamie laughed. “I’m from the actual city of Fort Wayne!”

Tris finally smiled. “I know enough about the city to pass casual inquisition.”

“I’ve a friend on the Journal Gazette who’ll cover for you. You can be their West Coast representative for the day. No problem.” Jamie hesitated thoughtfully. “Are you sure? It’s a rash thing to do.”

Tris’s instructions were firm. “You would ignore me completely.”

“If anyone asked me, I would say, ‘Sean? Here? You’re crazy! Why would he come to the lion’s den?’” Jamie appreciated the idea. “It would be illogical enough—no one would expect you to be there.”

“I’ll go. What do reporter types wear? Something somber? Something flashy?”

“A suit. Tie.” Jamie frowned rather absently. “Be professional. You’ll see all sorts of dress, but since you’re from Indiana, allegedly, you would dress. Let me put my mind to this—there must be an easier way for you to see Amabel Clayton.”

“It intrigues me to do it this way. And the sooner the better.”

“There’s enough madness in the idea to please me.” Jamie grinned in anticipated malice. “May I mention—later—that you were there?”

“No.”

“It tempts me.” Jamie coaxed for permission.