The Fiance Thief Read Free

so. “That’s the news business. Not much of a way to make a living. It just keeps food on our tables and gives Mick a hole into which to pour his money.” Alec peeked at her to see how she was taking his lecture.
    “Mick,” she said. “Did you ask Mick about my story? The one about how Carbine Industries is illegally dumping toxic waste in South Ridgeville?”
    In fact, he’d forgotten all about it, but before he had a chance to confess, she continued, “Harlan Edwards, a community activist—”
    “Harlan Edwards is a professional crank,” Alec interrupted. “And professional cranks make bad copy.”
    At that moment, the door to a small room off the side of the office opened and Mick Regan stumbled out. He walked past the group, saying a terse one word, “Lunch,” to them as he passed.
    “Alec was just quoting you,” Hank told him. “Your feelings on career scofflaws.”
    “One of my better ones,” Mick said, his hand on the door.
    “I was just telling Alec,” Claire said, her voice rising a bit to catch Mick’s attention, “I had an interview with Harlan Edwards earlier this morning.”
    “Was he sober?” Mick asked.
    Claire favored him with a slow smile. “That’s funny. People always ask me the same thing about you.”
    Alec sucked his breath in at that, as did Hank and Lissa, but Mick merely laughed and adjusted his hat. “Kid, you’ll get some spunk yet. But that doesn’t mean you’ll be able to build a story off what one crank tells you.”
    They watched him go out the door and board the elevator. Alec and Hank, both former students of his, looked after him admiringly. “He was a genius in his day,” Alec said.
    “And what a short twenty-four hours it was,” Claire countered, half under her breath. Alec grinned a little before he caught himself.
    “Claire, I’m surprised at you,” he said. He watched her stuff a paperback in her oversize purse and hoist the bag onto her shoulder. “Where are you going?”
    “Lunch.”
    He stood in front of her, blocking her way. “Not until you give me a decision on this Miranda Craig thing.”
    She ducked around him, whopping him in his midsection with her purse as she passed. “I gave you a decision,” she said. “My decision was no.”
    Alec, wincing from the hit, made sure he could speak in something lower than a soprano before he addressed Claire again. “Think it over at lunch,” he said, as she crossed the room to the stairwell.
    “I don’t have to,” she said. “I’m not changing my mind.”
    Alec had sent her to microwave oven demonstrations. Future Farmers of America meetings. A recital given by preschoolers who had not quite grasped the musical instruction provided to them. She had gone anywhere, without complaint. Now was a hell of a time to get a backbone.
    “Then maybe you shouldn’t come back from lunch,” he said. “Unless you’re ready to say yes to this story.”
    Hank and Lissa looked up, alarmed. “Alec,” Lissa said, glaring at him. “Claire, he doesn’t mean it. He used to give me ultimatums like that all the time. You just pretend not to hear them, and he’ll figure out they don’t work.”
    Alec turned to her, frowning. “Will you be quiet?” he rasped. When he turned back to the door, Claire was gone. The two reporters stared at him accusingly.
    “She’ll be back,” Alec told Lissa, who ignored him. “Trust me,” he told Hank, who clucked his tongue at Alec and resumed typing. “I know psychology,” he said to no one in particular.
    He walked to his own desk and took out a stack of current magazines and regional newspapers. “I’ve got all this reading to catch up on,” he told them. “So I’m just going to sit here and read, do a little trend-spotting, till Claire comes back.”
    Lissa flicked off her computer and stood. “I’ll leave a note for the cleaning service to dust you off when they come.”
    “Claire will be back,” he said. “She needs this job.” Even as he said it, he