Page 12 of Love Under the Microscope
Anyway, guess what?
Today’s your lucky day. I would love to be interviewed, but I am only available in exactly one hour. If you can be at Zentello by then, you’ll find a visitor’s pass for yourself at the counter in the lobby. Otherwise, I’m sure you can find someone at another company to interview.
Also, given my time constraints, there’s no need to send me your questions beforehand, though I reserve the right to say no comment. Oh, and no photographer, please. I’m camera shy. I’ll assume if I don’t see you in the next sixty minutes, something else came up.
Sincerely,
Zelda
Hoping desperation isn’t leading me down the wrong path, I click SEND. I pick up the office phone and call our legal department. Someone picks up after the first ring.
“Hey, it’s Zelda.” I grip the receiver to keep my trembling hand from dropping it. “I have a request from Nate and Mr. Z. I need an NDA on my desk in thirty minutes. There are a few specifics I need that I’ll email you shortly.”
I hang up and type what I need to have added to our boilerplate NDA. We use them with trial participants and employees, but this is for someone in the media, and I have a feeling our legal team might balk a bit.
That’s fine if I get what I need in time. My next call is to security to inform them about a possible visitor.
After twenty-nine minutes and three phone calls with the legal department, I have the requested NDA on my desk. Now all I need is for the reporter to show up.
Each passing second sends my anxiety spiraling. I bide my time by reading the information I have on Jack Parker. Two years ago, I hired a PI to do a background check on him when my own research couldn’t find more about him.
I pull out Mr. Parker’s photos with Ryan Matthews taken during Sam and Hildy’s “sting” operation. Christina Jenkins-Zimmer identified him as James Austen, one of the pseudonyms used at the magazine, but could he also be Ernie Hemingway?
I don’t believe in luck, but it could happen, right?
I study the photographs. There’s no denying the obvious.
Jack Parker might be a jerk, but in these photos, he’s hot. Unfortunately, he wears a cap so I can’t quite tell the color of his hair since not enough strands hang out. He’s seven years younger than me, worked at Medi-Lion for a brief time as a research associate, and then quit to become a journalist. An odd change of career, but he must have had a reason. A few years ago, an article by Johnny M. Barry on Medi-Lion’s diet pill shut down the project, led to lawsuits, and ruined the lead scientist. After comparing James Austen’s writing style to that piece, I believe they are the same person. I only wish I knew why Mr. Parker has it out for Zentello or is possibly working for someone who does.
My office phone rings, startling me. I take a moment to catch my breath and then answer. “Zelda.”
“It’s security,” a woman says. “Your visitor is here.”
“Please have him escorted up.”
No way in hell am I going to let a science journalist have free rein at Zentello as he makes his way to the twenty-second floor.
I watch on my security feed as two men approach my office. One I recognize—Earl, a security supervisor. He’s retired from the military and doesn’t need to work, but his wife made him get another job because he was bored at home and bugging her too much. The other guy is younger and wears sunglasses—odd that he wears them inside the building. I can’t really make out his features.
“Right this way, Mr. Hemingway,” Earl says loud enough for it to trickle into my office.
I keep my door open to stop people from sneaking past my office to see Nate even though his door won’t open if they aren’t on the schedule or if I don’t let them in. He doesn’t like to be bothered, so I became his gatekeeper, another one of my many duties here.
“Zelda is expecting you,” Earl adds.
“Thank you.” The male voice is pleasant enough, and he’s arrived before my deadline. Guess he’s serious about interviewing me, but I know that’s just a ruse. I assume he wants something else because there’s nothing newsworthy about being Nate’s assistant, and reporters can’t be trusted. The fact he’s a man only raises my level of distrust.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, a mix of emotions running through me.
As the door closes behind him, a tall, fit man struts in. Walk is too bland a definition for this guy. He acts as if he belongs on this floor with all the executive offices.
I shouldn’t be impressed because he’s nothing but a shady journalist, but I can’t help but let my gaze run the length of him, and my breath catches in my throat.
Not the reaction I expect or want.
His hair is ginger, and I don’t have to look twice to know this man is Jack Parker. The facial structure with high cheekbones and full lips is the same as in the photos I just looked at. That means Mr. Parker uses the pseudonyms of Johnny M. Barry, James Austen, and Ernie Hemingway.
Knowing I’ve answered one question loosens the knot in my stomach, but the way my blood warms is…bothersome.
