Reckless Seduction. Gwynne Forster

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       “Hello, Ian, Jon Ecklund, here. You’ve been difficult to reach. Any problems?”

       “Morning, Jon, I’ve been over in Sortundi. There are problems, yes, but not the kind you have in mind. Half of the developed countries in the world are sending food and medicine to the sick and hungry in northeastern Africa, but most of it isn’t getting through.”

       “Why not?”

       “Well, as far as I can judge, there’s politics, bureaucratic bungling, indifference on the part of officials, plain incompetence and just about any other obstacle you care to name. My preference is for a story about that rather than about the people who are suffering. That’s hardly news.”

       “It’s your story. Get it. If you take pictures, be careful. It could be dangerous. In any case, you’ve got my support. If you need something, give me a call.” As he hung up, it occurred to him that an investigative report of that sort might cause a slackening off of help to that region. Well, needy people weren’t getting the help that was being sent anyway. It was his responsibility to see that that fact was known.

       He went up to the canteen, put a dollar into the machine and got a cup of dreadful coffee. He sipped it on the way back to his office. Summoning as much discipline as he could muster, he got down to work. By the time Maxine, his secretary, arrived at nine o’clock, Jon had done a day’s work. The aroma of good coffee wafting in from her office told him that she had arrived.

       He punched the intercom. “Good morning, Maxine. I want to dictate some letters as soon as you get straightened out.”

       “Morning, Jon. Be right there.” She walked in, swaying seductively and bringing him the long-awaited coffee.

       “Thanks. You make the best coffee, Maxine.”

       “You must have been working for hours. Couldn’t you sleep last night? There’s a cure for that.”

       “Maxine, you’re an excellent secretary, but you’ve been getting a bit too personal with me lately, and I don’t like it.” He knew she wanted him, and he was getting tired of her innuendos and less and less subtle pressure. “Now, let’s get to work.” He ignored her pouting and made a mental note to put her in another department, away from him. Any involvement with her would be ruinous to him, not that he was tempted. He wasn’t. Only Haley Feldon had interested him in any way in the past five years. He wouldn’t think about her, dammit. He had work to do.

       Jon sat alone in his office at eight o’clock in the evening. He’d been there over sixteen hours. There was no crisis, no pressing problem that required an urgent solution. So why didn’t he leave? He didn’t leave because there was only one place that he wanted to be, and he was increasingly ambivalent about giving free rein to his growing feelings for Haley. Since his divorce, work had been his life. He had buried himself in it, had built EIS into a powerful concern. He, his father and their staff could get interviews with heads of state, with the most reclusive celebrity, where other news organizations tried and failed. He had worked hard to build a reputation for honesty, thoroughness and fairness in reporting. His movies and videos were entertaining without relying on violence or graphic sex. He had won several awards. His record, his achievements had been a source of comfort to him, and he had been content with his life.

       He realized that he was depressed, a rare occurrence in recent years, and knew that he had to eliminate the source of his dissatisfaction. He left the office and headed home, walking briskly over to Sutton Place. Who was he kidding? His real problem was that he wanted Haley, needed her, but that he hadn’t been willing to take the chance. But hadn’t he asked for and received her promise to give their relationship a try? Hell, he wasn’t a coward. He’d have to risk it. But first he wanted to know what his chances were, what he was up against.

       Jon’s call so soon after their first date surprised her. She told herself not to act as if his call was unusual.

       “Hello, Jon. It’s nice to hear from you.”

       “I take it you mean that, so I’m going to ask if we can spend the afternoon together. Can you ride a bicycle?”

       “Why yes, but I’d like a rain check on that. Can we do something else? You know…walk along Riverside Drive or take a radio and soak up the sun in Central Park. I love being outdoors on a summer Sunday.”

       “Okay. I’ll stop at Grace’s Market Place and get a picnic basket, and I should have a bottle of wine here. I’ll let you bring the music?”

       “What time will you be here?”

       “Shortly after twelve. Where do you want to meet?”

       “You choose.”

       He arrived at twelve thirty, minutes after she pressed a pair of white cotton cropped pants, jumped into them and pulled a red T-shirt over her head. “Have you been running?” he asked, having observed her short intakes of breath.

       “No, but it took me an hour to find a pair of summer pants, and then I had to iron them.”

       He raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me you don’t like casual dress?”

       “No, I’m not. Everything in its place. I had already stored my summer casuals, thinking that I wouldn’t have time to wear them again this summer.”

       “I’m glad you reconsidered. You look great.”

       She took the portable CD player and a dozen CDs from the table in the foyer and put them in a shopping bag. He stared at her. “What’s the matter?” she asked him.

       “I’m enchanted with you. You don’t look a bit like the woman I saw all those weeks from afar. You’re so much warmer, and you’re…approachable. Damn, I want to hug you.”

       “Okay, but none of your heavy duty stuff.” She opened her arms, and he walked into them.

       “I could definitely get used to this,” he said and released her. “Let’s go while I can still hold my head up.”

       “It would be a pity if you got yourself into a situation where your head bobbled around on your neck. Of course, that would merely be a visitation upon you of the sins of your Viking ancestors.”

       “They got here before Columbus.”

       “I know. If you want an argument, pick another subject. You have every right to be proud of your heritage.”

       “You and I have a common heritage. My mother was born in Philadelphia of African American parents, and her skin is just a tiny bit lighter than yours. She straightens her hair or it would be kinkier than mine. She’s very beautiful.”

       “Do you look like her?”

       He shook his head, and his eyes twinkled as if he mused over a private joke. “Not one bit. It’s accepted that I’m the spitting image of my dad. Svend, my brother, looks just like our mother, except that he’s white. He even has black hair. Sometimes we look at each other and laugh about it.”

       He found a parking space on Eighty-Sixth Street half a block west of Central Park West, got the picnic basket and a cotton blanket from the trunk of his car, took her hand and followed dozens of other New Yorkers into the park.

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