Starting from Scratch (10 page)

“W
hat the hell makes you think that you have the slightest idea about what goes on in a black-ops world?” Ryan Sutherland demanded as he strode into her office without so much as a knock on her door. He slammed the same door in his wake.

The vibrations, or maybe it was the gust of wind he'd created, made the remainder of her cold coffee slosh dangerously in her mug. Had her cup been full, it wouldn't have stayed that way one second into his dramatic entrance. And the pages she'd spent half the morning working on, reading and rereading because her mind insisted on wandering instead of absorbing, would have been rendered a disconcerting shade of deep brown.

Elisha was just hanging up the telephone receiver after a lengthy forty-five-minute conversation with Sinclair. Though she loved him dearly, both on the page and off, he was, until Sutherland had been tossed into her life, the most taxing of all her authors. Her part of the conversation had consisted of trying to reinflate the man's suddenly roadkill-flat self-esteem.

Between talking up Sinclair's flatlining ego and sparring with some very dark thoughts about her brother's swiftly deteriorating condition, Elisha felt completely drained. There wasn't an upbeat, friendly bone left in her body. Certainly not any words that might remotely lead a person to believe that she was capable of sustaining that mood.

The last person she felt like taking on right now was Ryan Sutherland. But wishing him away wasn't about to work. Glancing at her cup to make sure no damage had been done, she then raised her eyes to her intruder. Better to end her silence than allow his fuming to continue.

“Because I have expertise and an imagination, not necessarily in that order,” she said, answering the question he'd just shouted at her. Sporting what appeared to be a week's growth on his face, Sutherland looked more the part of an angry backwoodsman than an author who regularly occupied the first slot on the
New York Times
best-seller list. He also acted the part of the aforementioned backwoodsman. “Didn't your mother ever teach you how to knock?” The question came out sounding more tart than she'd intended, but she wasn't sorry.

Sailors at sea watching an approaching squall were privy to more sunshine than she saw now on Sutherland's face. At the mention of the female contributor to his gene pool, the man's expression had gone from highly annoyed to a place she had no way of describing.

“My mother didn't teach me anything,” he informed her angrily.

His voice seemed to be coming from a deep, dark place. It occurred to her that she had absolutely no knowledge of his background. All she knew about Ryan Sutherland was that he was forty-eight and had been a Navy SEAL. Speculation had it that at one time or another, one of the alphabet-soup government agencies, one that wasn't widely known by the public at large, had used him as a covert operative. Others said he'd hired out as a mercenary for several years.

But as to Sutherland's origins, if he had any family, or what he did to unwind, none of that was common knowledge to her. She'd been remiss, Elisha suddenly thought, upbraiding herself. She knew everything there was about her other authors—their birthdays, their marital status, what teams they followed and what they liked and disliked, but nothing about Sutherland. But then, Sutherland had been shoehorned into her life at a time when her emotional world had been set on its ear, and he hadn't exactly been a font of information himself.

Besides, the man irritated the hell out of her.

“Sorry to hear that,” she finally murmured. Rallying, she flashed a somewhat less-than-sincere smile. “Then let me be the first to tell you, doors are for knocking on if they're closed.”

Elisha was surprised to see something like a half smile emerge on Sutherland's lips. They were sensual, she caught herself thinking. The man had great luck when it came to women, she'd recalled hearing. Part of it had to be that smile. It certainly wasn't because of his charming manner.

Looking at it, she couldn't tell if the smile was sarcastic or if he was amused. If it was the latter, it was undoubtedly at her expense—as in she'd forgotten to wipe away traces of the jelly doughnut that had been her breakfast from her mouth, or worse, from her cheek.

Trying not to be self-conscious or obvious, Elisha brushed her fingers first along the outline of her lips, then against her right cheek. She bided her time before she brushed them against the left one.

She got her answer in the next moment. “According to what you edited, you would have been blown away in your first five minutes as a black-ops agent.”

“Maybe not.”

For the life of her, Elisha had no idea where the retort or the feeling behind it had come from. She was as suited to his former life as she was to being the lead ballerina in the Bolshoi Ballet.

Less.

But there was something very galling about Ryan Sutherland's brand of supremacy. Try as she might to ignore it, exposure to Ryan raised a very real, overwhelming desire within her to put him in his place.

“Lady, there's no way that you could have survived in my world. You couldn't have handled it.” Ryan turned the idea of her existing in his world over in his mind and then laughed. “Hell, you couldn't have even handled the recreation part.”

“Drinking and whoring?” she heard herself asking. “I'd take a pass on the whoring, but I can hold my own drinking.” It wasn't something she had even remarked on once she was out of college. What was it about this man that suddenly made her want to compete with and best him?

Ryan's eyebrows rose like dark crescents on his forehead.

Amusement, it was definitely amusement that she saw there, Elisha thought. He was laughing at her, damn him. If it wouldn't have meant defeat, she would have marched out of her office into Rocky's to demand that he place Sutherland with some other poor soul as his editor. But that would have been crying uncle and she wasn't about to give Sutherland that satisfaction.

“Poker,” he counted.

Lost in her own thoughts, she wasn't sure she had heard him correctly. She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

This time, the smile went a little deeper into her. Like a second layer of skin toning. “We played poker to ease the tension.”

Poker. Memories came flooding back. Memories like one endless, hot summer when her father had taught both her and Henry the fine art of the game. Taught them that winning at poker wasn't just about luck but about skill. Mostly about skill. His intention had really been to teach Henry, but her sense of competition had won her father over and he'd taught her, as well. And she had become the better player because it meant more to her to win than it did to Henry.

Henry had always been more noble than she was.

She looked at Ryan now, thinking how much she'd like to wipe some of that smugness away. “I play poker.”

The amusement on his face grew. He leaned over the desk, close enough for her to taste his words as he asked, “Sure you're not confusing it with gin rummy? Or old maid?”

Something went very rigid inside her. Paula had been right. The editor's last words as she'd stormed out of Rocky's office had been to peg Sutherland. A male chauvinist pig. Not very original, but damn accurate.

“Poker,” Elisha repeated with feeling, her voice low, her eyes never leaving his. “Five-card stud, Texas hold 'em, Omaha, five-card draw, you name it, I've played it.” Atlantic City with its casinos had been a favorite place for short, usually profitable vacations, when she'd had the time for them.

The smirk on his face was a thing of the past as Ryan regarded her with genuine interest.

Looks were obviously deceiving, he thought. At least in her case. He'd been away from his old world too long. Otherwise, this wouldn't have been a surprise to him.

“You're intriguing me, Max.” He cocked his head slightly, still making up his mind. “Or are you just lying to impress me?”

She rose from her chair, five foot seven of indignation in small, stacked black heels. “In the first place, I don't lie—”

Everyone lied. But she looked so sincere, he decided to play along. “Ever?”

“Ever,” she retorted with feeling. “And in the second place, I have absolutely no desire to impress you, Mr. Sutherland. The only thing I want from you is for you to reach your full potential as a writer.”

She was back to insulting him, and Ryan banked down a flare of annoyance. “I have.”

“No, you haven't.”

He blew out a breath, struggling to keep his cool.

“And those notes you scribbled down in the margins of my manuscript—‘take this a step further,' ‘what's he thinking at this point?' garbage like that—” it took effort to keep his language clean when he wanted to vent, but one thing he had schooled himself in was restricting his profanity to the company of men “—that's going to make me a better writer.” It wasn't so much a question as a jeer.

“In a word? Yes.”

Pacing around her office to let off steam, Ryan laughed at her. It was either that or breaking his word to himself about the use of profanity in mixed company.

His steps brought him back to her desk where he stood in silence and glared at her for a long moment. “Are you up for a little bet, Max?”

“I'm listening.”

“I'll bring you in on my poker game. I get together weekly in the city with a few of the men I used to work with.” Ryan could just hear some of the comments he was going to get for even suggesting the idea. But Murphy and Finn would understand. Conway would grumble, but he was a decent sort. This was going to be for a good cause. To teach this annoying female her place. “And if you hold your own there—” He congratulated himself on saying that with a straight face.

“You'll work with my edit?”

He wasn't about to go as far as to give her a blanket promise. “I won't ignore it.”

“What does that mean? Exactly?”

She was getting cold feet already, he thought. Good. Feeling magnanimous—and confident that she didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of holding her own—he said, “That if it doesn't completely turn my stomach, I'll take it the step further that you want.”

“Can't ask for more than that.”

“No,” he said pointedly, “you can't.”

She had no idea why she felt as if he was putting her on notice. After a beat, she put her hand in his, sealing the bargain.

A small part of her felt as if she'd just made a deal with the devil. But the cast-iron doors had just slammed shut behind her and there was no backing out. Not without seriously burning her posterior.

1:59 p.m.

E
lisha had lost track of how many times she had looked at her watch in the last half hour or so. Each time she did, it seemed as if the minute hand had gotten glued in place and that she was stuck in some endless science-fiction time loop that had doomed her to repeat the same action over and over again forever.

It was because of Sutherland. Sutherland and the damn poker game. It was on for tonight. Just thinking about it caused the adrenaline to rush through her veins.

Outside, the weather was teasing the windowpanes, alternately covering them with sheets of rain and then droplets. The sun had made a few futile attempts to break through, succeeded once for ten minutes and then surrendered to the inclement conditions. She stared at the rain as it came down, her mind elsewhere.

She was both looking forward to and dreading the poker game to which she had more or less challenged Sutherland. Dreading it because it had been a long time since she'd played those versions of the game she'd rattled off so easily. There was no doubt in her mind that she was rusty, and she hated making a fool of herself.

In order to practice, she'd tried to get just the barest of games going with Rocky. She'd won every hand she played against him, but her success didn't raise her confidence. The man's facial muscles were completely incompatible with the term “poker face.” She could almost see each hand Rocky held in his eyes.

She was looking forward to playing against Sutherland because it was going to be exciting in a nerve-racking sort of way and, try as she might, she couldn't remember the last time that she had done anything even remotely exciting.

Despite its hectic pace, her life had gotten far too predictable.

She glanced at her watch again.

2:00 p.m.

It was still a good four hours before she was supposed to show up at Sutherland's Tribeca apartment, where he and his poker cronies, or whatever he chose to call them, gathered for their weekly game. She sighed, slipping her sleeve back over her wrist.

The minutes were crawling by on the back of a sloth whose feet were stuck in molasses.

She needed something to get her mind off the pending game and the wager she'd somehow gotten into.

Right, Elisha laughed at herself. As if that were possible. Despite the load of work on her desk—no different than any other day at the office—she couldn't wrap her mind around anything else except the poker game.

“The meeting's starting, Ms. Reed.” Trina Wilcox, the administrative assistant, stuck her head into the office. Two perfect rows of teeth flashed in a smile as she delivered the reminder.

The second the words were out, Elisha remembered that Rocky had scheduled a staff meeting at two. It was right there, on her calendar, not to mention that she'd entered it into her BlackBerry and it was also on the electronic schedule she had on her computer. How could she have forgotten? Rocky had told her about it himself.

Maybe she was slipping into the early stages of Alzheimer's. The very thought of Alzheimer's sent a very cold, very sharp shiver down her spine. Though, as far as she knew, no one in her family had ever experienced it, she had a very real fear of the mentally disabling disease. Coming down with it guaranteed that she would feel and be even more isolated than she already felt at times.

She frowned, glancing toward her reflection in the window, watching the rain wash over it on the other side. She was getting carried away again.

Alzheimer's. Why was she thinking the worst? That wasn't her style. It wasn't even
a
style. She didn't have Alzheimer's. What she had was brain overload and there really wasn't very much she could do about that, not with the kind of fast-paced life she led.

Until science found a way to take the mind and deliver it up to the next level, make it capable of doubling its size and functioning on a much greater plane, there was just so much that could be stuffed into a human brain. Right now, hers had the most recent articles on the treatment of pancreatic cancer that she'd downloaded and that was vying for space with the updated rules for Texas hold 'em.

Currently, her nine-to-five duties as an editor were coming in third. Staff meetings didn't even make it to the list.

Elisha suppressed a sigh. She hated slipping up and she knew that if the ever-even-tempered Trina was here to remind her about the meeting, Rocky must have sent the woman. So far, he had been more than understanding about her preoccupation. He'd even encouraged her to take some time off.

But she didn't want it to appear as if he was playing favorites. Which was exactly what people like Carole Chambers would do, noting it down and using it as ammunition for some perverse purpose. Like blackmailing Rocky in order for her to get an unmerited promotion.

It wasn't going to come to that, Elisha swore. She owed Rocky too much for him to be chewed out by his father because of her.

After closing the drawer she'd forgotten she'd opened sometime earlier, Elisha rose to her feet. She selected a notebook. Others used tape recorders to take down their notes for them; she still liked putting pencil to paper and jotting things down. The very act created tiny cells of thoughts in her head, thoughts she could later apply to the books she was editing.

She forced herself to smile at the woman. “Tell Mr. Randolph I'll be right there, Trina.”

Her cell phone cut into the latter part of her sentence. She immediately drew it out of her pocket. Ever since Henry had told her about his diagnosis, she'd taken to carrying the five-ounce silver camera phone somewhere on her person at all times. Except when she was in the shower and then it sat on the counter next to the stall, its ringer set on loud.

Dutifully, Trina remained in the doorway.

About to wave the younger woman on her way, Elisha opened the cell phone and placed it to her ear. To create some measure of privacy, she turned her back to Trina and the open doorway.

“Hello?”

There was a man on the other end of the line, a man whose voice she didn't recognize. “Ms. Reed?”

If this was some telemarketer, sneaking in under the banner of “out of area,” she was going to verbally vivisect him.

“Yes?” she asked impatiently.

“Ms. Elisha Reed?”

This time her response was testy.

“Yes?”

“This is Joshua Lambert. I'm one of the EMTs who responded to a call from your brother's house.”

Anger drained out of her instantly. Her head began to spin as every nerve ending in her body tightened in anticipation of something awful. In less time than it took to draw in a long breath, she'd slipped out of her world into some kind of frightening twilight zone.

“Why?” she wanted to know. “Why was my brother calling you?”

“He wasn't,” the man on the other end corrected politely. His cadence was slow, clear, as if he had all day to explain. “His daughter was. Andrea,” he clarified before she could ask. “Mr. Reed is at Walker Memorial Hospital.”

It was both good news and bad. She clung to the good. “Then he's alive.”

“Yes, ma'am, he's alive. He's the one who asked me to call you. I—”

“Thank you,” she cried, not letting the paramedic say anything else before she shut the phone.

Henry was alive, that was all she needed to know. Anything more might counterbalance that one precious piece of information.

Walker Memorial. Elisha rolled the name over in her head. She was vaguely aware of where the hospital was located. Somewhere on the tip of the island, just before the expressway threaded into the city.

A taxi driver would know exactly where it was, she thought. Her mind was scattering in a hundred different directions, like a box of beads that had been dropped on the floor.

She couldn't focus.

Elisha was aware that Trina was watching her as she moved first to the door, then back again. Not once but twice.

She had to double back to pick up her purse and then again to grab her raincoat. Each time she nearly walked right over Trina.

The small-boned woman sashayed first to one side and then the other, trying politely to get out of Elisha's way. “Can I…?”

But Elisha shook her head. Not in answer but in dismissal. She didn't have time to listen to a question. She had to get to the hospital. Now. Later held too many possibilities within its boundaries. Possibilities she refused to even attempt to explore.

On her third effort to get out of the office, Elisha finally flew by the assistant. “Tell Mr. Randolph I had to go to the hospital. Cancel anything that's on my calendar this afternoon.” She threw the latter over her shoulder as an afterthought.

Henry was all right, she silently insisted as she punched her index finger against the down button. A small light sprang up around the button in response. He was all right. The paramedic said that he had made the request, asking him to call. That meant he was all right.

Her mouth curved as she struggled to push back tears. How so like Henry. Making requests instead of demands. Anyone else would have made demands. She knew she would have.

She made one now as she got into the elevator.

You keep him alive, you hear me, God? You keep him alive.

It was half demand, half plea.