Molly walked slowly across the quad. The day was overcast, and the sky and the snow were a similar shade of dingy gray-white. Salt crystals crunched under her feet, and the air was sharp and cold. She felt as brittle as the thin layer of ice that coated the snowbanks.
You are unlikely to be offered a long-term position…
She hunched as she walked, tensing as the wind slipped inside her coat and chilled her. The fingers of her right hand were red and raw. In her haste that morning, she had forgotten her gloves, and she couldn't put her hand in her pocket because she was carrying the pile of newspapers from Dean Fowler's office. “Take them,” he had said, looking pained. “Please.”
On top of the pile was the
National Enquirer.
Coincidentally, the cover story was an interview with Skye Elliot. “I Told Jake to Get Lost Because I Knew He Was No Good,” screamed the headline. In the bookstore that morning, Molly had glanced at the story, which consisted of Skye explaining that she had broken up with Jake Berenger because she had sensed that he was in a personal and professional decline. The cover featured a photo of Jake next to Skye in happier times, now depicted with a jagged cartoon rip down the center of the picture.
For the first time in her life, Molly felt a kinship with Skye Elliot.
No good, indeed,
she thought darkly.
He did this.
It wasn't as if there were any other suspects. Carter would never betray her, and Molly had believed Elaine when she said that she was not the kind of person who deliberately ruined lives. Molly's agent, editor, and publisher had nothing to gain by suddenly shattering the Sandra myth, and that was the extent of the inner circle. Obviously, Jake had been the so-called anonymous source. He had exposed her secret to the papers. But why?
Sheer malice was one possibility—he was paying her back for her refusal to help him. But that didn't seem like Jake's style. He was calculating and shrewd, and if he had decided to destroy her life, it wouldn't be for fun, it would be for profit. His own profit. He knew—because she had told him—that she might lose her job if the truth about
Pirate Gold
became public. He must think that forcing her into a desperate position would make her reconsider his offer.
But why hadn't he bothered to threaten her first? If he had told her that he would expose her unless she went along with his plan, she would have had no choice but to agree. It would have been much simpler. This scorched-earth strategy did conceal Jake's identity as the villain, but it was also a big gamble. How could he be so sure that she would turn to him now?
It was a mystery, but Molly didn't care about the details. She would turn to Jake, all right. As he had obviously guessed, she didn't have anywhere else to go. She didn't want to stay at Belden, to be patronized and pitied for four months before she was officially kicked out of the club. And he had made sure that she had nothing left to lose by cooperating with his scheme. But the game was not over—in fact, it was only beginning. Just like the pregnant Mary Morgan, Molly Shaw had a secret trump card, and she intended to pull it out when Jake least expected it. She was going to make him very sorry that he had ever dared to interfere with her life.
Susan Horowitz buzzed Jake in the executive conference room at Berenger headquarters in Miami. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but I have Molly Shaw on line four, and you told me that if she ever called, I should—”
“Put her through,” Jake said, standing up. “I'll take the call at my desk.”
He excused himself from the meeting and walked through the connecting door into his private office. He had seen the news about Molly that morning, after Cora called to tell him about it. Sonny Carmichael had phoned her to ask if she'd had something to do with the leak. Cora, horrified, had denied any involvement, but Jake had heard the same question in his mother's voice.
“I didn't tell them,” Jake said. “You swore me to secrecy, remember? I wouldn't do that to you, or to Sonny.”
“I didn't think so,” Cora said. She sounded distressed. “But I'm not sure that Sonny is convinced, and I don't blame him for being suspicious. A week after he told me the secret, it's all over the news. It's very embarrassing, Jake. I feel terrible.”
“Why? It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong.”
“I know, but it's such strange timing. Molly Shaw must be very upset. I know all about that school of hers, and how snobbish they are. This won't go over well at a place like Belden.”
“How do you know that she didn't leak the news herself?” Jake asked. “Maybe she was tired of anonymity.”
“Only if she was also tired of her professorship,” Cora said. “And she didn't seem to be. Poor thing. I think she's probably having a very bad day.”
“Molly Shaw can take care of herself,” Jake said dryly. “Believe me, I know.”
But the Molly Shaw on line four sounded very different from the confident woman who had recently told him to take his engagement offer and get stuffed. Her voice was subdued, as if she had gathered her remaining strength just before she called him.
“You saw the news this morning?” she asked.
“Yes,” Jake said. “I didn't think that the photo looked much like you.”
To say the least.
Apparently, she had been telling the truth when she said that the dowdy professor character really was her. Or, had been her until recently. Jake couldn't imagine why a woman as attractive as Molly would want to hide behind such unflattering hair, clothes, and glasses, but she obviously had her reasons. He paused. She didn't sound good at all. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“No. This morning, the dean more or less told me that I wouldn't be offered tenure at Belden. I'm free to finish out the school year, but that's it for me.”
“I'm very sorry,” Jake said. “If my opinion matters, I think they should be proud of you. It's great publicity for the school.”
“They don't seem to agree.”
“Then they're a bunch of clueless snobs.” In Jake's opinion, any school that considered a best-selling novelist a liability was so far removed from the real world that it ought to wither up and die.
Molly was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Well, I know who did it. Who leaked the news, I mean.”
“Who?”
“One of my colleagues. She saw the book galleys sitting on my desk last year, and I'm sure that she's the one who told the newspapers. She's very competitive, and I guess she decided to get rid of me.”
“I wouldn't have guessed that people were so ruthless inside the ivory tower of Academia,” Jake said. “Sounds more like my world.”
“Does it? Well, you might be surprised to learn what we academics are capable of.”
“What are you going to do now?” Jake asked. “Finish the year?”
“They expect me to stay. A single semester at Belden is a lot better than nothing, and I suppose I should be grateful for it. Anyway, it wouldn't be very ethical of me to abandon them just before classes start. They would have to scramble to find someone to cover my teaching schedule.”
“So you're staying.”
“No,” Molly said. “I'm leaving. Let them scramble. I'm tired of being good, and I'm not going to hang on for four months, hoping to be redeemed. That's why I'm calling. I was wondering if your offer is still open.”
That was exactly what Jake had been hoping to hear. This news leak might be trouble for Molly, but it was a lucky break for him. “It's still open,” he said.
“Will my sudden…notoriety be a problem?”
“A
problem?”
he repeated. It was an amazing question, reflecting how utterly brainwashed she had been by her community. “No, your notoriety is an asset. Unlike your dean, I consider media interest to be a valuable tool. This adds a whole new dimension to the story. It's going to be very useful.”
“Of course,” Molly said slowly. “That makes sense.”
Jake thought that he heard a sudden chill in her voice, but a moment later it was gone, replaced with businesslike briskness.
“I want to make sure that my terms are clear. I won't do this unless you agree to sign a legal document stating that you'll turn the plantation into a museum.”
“If you find proof in three months.”
“Right. And the Mary Morgan Foundation? And my directorship?”
“We've already been through this. Proof first, then your museum and foundation. We'll draw up a legal document defining ‘proof in a way that's acceptable to both of us. I'm impressed to see that the change of circumstances hasn't weakened your spine, Professor.”
“I'm not desperate,” she said stiffly, having interpreted his tone as mockery. “I don't need money, so the circumstances don't matter. Either we do this my way or we don't do it.”
“That was meant as a compliment,” Jake said. “I really am impressed. You negotiate like a pro.” Would she also accept defeat like a pro if her proof never materialized? He wasn't so sure about that, but if luck stayed on his side, he would find out in three months.
He heard her take a breath, as if she were preparing to dive from the high board. “Okay,” she said. “We have a deal. I'm yours. What do you want me to do?”
“I think it would be best if you came back to Gold Bay. That way, we can control your media exposure. Unless you'd rather stay in my Miami condo and face the paparazzi every time you leave the building.”
“No,” Molly said immediately. “I don't know how to handle that kind of thing. You'll need to brief me on exactly what to say, how to say it, and when to say it. This is not familiar territory for me.”
“Don't worry,” Jake said. “I'm not going to send you out there alone or unprepared. Can you be ready to leave tomorrow?”
“I'm ready to leave anytime, starting now.”
“Good. I'll send my plane for you. Are you close to an airport?”
“Yes, but I have one more request.”
Christ,
Jake thought, annoyed. The woman wouldn't quit. He hoped that she wasn't about to throw in a deal-killer at the last minute. “What?”
“I'd like you to send a helicopter to bring me to the airport.”
That was all she wanted? He shrugged. “Sure.”
“Thank you. There should be enough room to land it on the Belden College quad.”
“What?” Jake said, surprised. “On the quad? Are you serious?”
“Very serious. Can you do it?”
He began to laugh. Now he understood what she wanted, and why. “It would be my pleasure, Professor,” he said. “It won't be easy, but I think I can talk my pilots into it. A very large, very loud Berenger corporate helicopter will come up from Chicago and meet you tomorrow in the middle of the Belden College quad. I guarantee that your departure will not go unnoticed. Does noon sound good to you?”
“Yes,” Molly said. “Noon would be perfect.”
T
he heat from the studio lamps was making Molly perspire. She was sitting on a beige couch next to the interviewer, and everything immediately surrounding her was drenched, almost drowned, in relentless incandescence. Just beyond the lights was the man with the television camera. Molly had been instructed to look at the interviewer, not at the camera, but her peripheral vision caught the glassy shine of the lens. If you looked into the lens, you could see a dot of darkness in the center of it, like a blood vessel channeling away your recorded image. It was no wonder, Molly thought, that some primitive tribes still believed that a camera could steal your soul. Her own was feeling very loosely attached these days.
“Now tell me,” said the interviewer, “was it love at first sight?”
“Yes,” Molly said. “The moment I laid eyes on Jake, I knew he was the one.”
The interviewer exhaled impatiently. “No, you didn't,” he said.
She blinked. “But—”
“Ken, stop the tape. Molly, remember the message. You need to stay on message. Don't improvise. I gave you the answer to that exact question forty-five minutes ago.”
“You did? Oh. I don't—”
“You fell in love with Jake
after
you got to know him. The real Jake Berenger is very different from the public image. You fell in love with the real man, the family man underneath the playboy image. You look blank, babe. Is this ringing any bells?”
Molly nodded. “I remember now. Sorry. May I have a glass of water? It's very hot in here.”
The interviewer assessed her condition with a glance. “Kill the lights, folks,” he said briskly. “We're going to take a break. Somebody get our girl a drink—she's fading.”
The spotlights went out with a startling pop, plunging them momentarily into darkness, until someone opened the curtains and natural sunlight flooded the room again. They were at Gold Bay, in the basement of Cora Berenger's villa, which normally served as a screening room. But the comfortable armchairs had been moved out and audio/video equipment moved in to create a makeshift television studio for the purpose of giving Molly a crash course in media performance. The camera was recording onto videotape, which Molly would soon be studying together with her new coach, Tom Amadeo, the man who had just been posing as a talk-show interviewer. He was in his early fifties; tall, burly and intense, with a clipped black beard speckled with gray, and piercing green eyes set under bushy brows. A former television producer, he had started his own PR firm at about the same time that Jake had started Berenger. Cora had explained to Molly that as a longtime friend, Tom had been the logical choice to run the unconventional campaign that he had immediately dubbed “Operation Family Man.”
Someone handed her a glass of ice water. She took it, drank it straight down, and asked for another. She had been at Gold Bay for four days, and had been doing this kind of training for two of them. She didn't mind—she was grateful to have a distraction to keep her from thinking about what had happened in Belden. She didn't like to think about it, because when she did, she felt a strange numbness that disturbed her. She knew that she should be angry, but she wasn't. She was just numb, as if she didn't care.
“Feeling better?” asked Tom Amadeo. “Ready to get back to work?”
He had a boundless energy that made Molly feel feeble by comparison, and his goal was to arm her with a ready answer to any question that she might be asked “on the record.” The news of the engagement had already been released to the press, right on the heels of the outing of Sandra St. Claire, and the size and tone of the resulting headlines had pleased Jake, Tom, and Cora very much. Skye Elliot was refusing to comment, her sudden silence an indicator that she was “busted and disgusted,” as Tom put it.