No Holding Back. Isabel Sharpe

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СКАЧАТЬ Should she test her slinky red-sequined minidress out on him and see if he—

      Argh! What was she, some kind of addict? Ten seconds and she’d already forgotten her resolution. Men bad, Hannah. Alone good. Alone safe.

      Alone, boring and predictable.

      “Let’s try this way.”

      Hannah dug in her feet before Daphne could continue bulldozing. “Would you mind telling me what is so thrilling about this person?”

      “Oh. Right. Duh.” Daphne thwacked her forehead, making her fabulous brown curls bounce. “She’s close to Jack Brattle.”

      Zip. Hannah’s gaze left Rory’s tall form at light speed and fixed on her friend. “Jack Brattle?”

      “Knew that’d get your attention.”

      “Where is she?” Hannah grabbed Daphne’s rock-muscled arm, not even indulging her usual envy for Daphne’s discipline in the gym. “Find her. An interview with Jack Brattle could get me—”

      “I know, I know, world renown and riches galore. Why do you think I wanted you to meet her?” Daphne pulled Hannah—or was Hannah now pulling Daphne?—toward the house’s huge foyer into which spilled a staircase worthy of Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara. And at this staircase, oh happy day, Daphne proceeded to point. “There she is.”

      And there she was, a little-black-dress-clad platinum-blond bombshell cliché, sauntering down the steps on requisite spike heels. A perfect candidate for Lester’s “Rack of Glam” article.

      “I’m sorry, is there a Pamela Anderson look-alike contest tonight?”

      “Shh.” Daphne positioned herself at the bottom of the staircase. “Hi, Dee-Dee.”

      “Hey.” Dee-Dee reached them, shook back her mane of peroxide and flicked a glance at Hannah. “Cool dress.”

      “Thanks. Thank you.” Hannah gave her best ingratiating grin. “I love yours, too.”

      “This is Hannah O’Reilly. She works with me at the Sentinel.”

      “Yeah?” Another shake of overcooked hair.

      “She writes the Lowbrow column.”

      “Oh!” Something approaching life quivered in her too-taut face. “I love your column! You’re always fighting with that guy who writes the Highbrow column, D. G. Jackson. Too funny!”

      “Yes!” Hannah gritted her teeth. Way too funny. Mr. Jackson took malicious delight in thumbing his nose at her column, which extolled the virtues of inexpensive food and entertainment around the city of brotherly love, while his dwelt on places and things no normal person could afford and no sane person would waste that much money on. She’d responded to one particularly degrading remark by sending him a case of Grey Poupon and blogging about it. He’d reciprocated with cans of spray-cheese. Word got out, and now both their editors were fanning the flames…all in the name of circulation and buzz.

      Circulation and buzz. Yeah, superdeedooper. What about the news? She wanted to write news.

      “So…what does this D.G. guy look like?” Dee-Dee tipped her head and started playing girlishly with a fried strand, making Hannah want to tell her D.G. could be Liberace’s surviving twin. “His articles are so charming and funny and classy all at the same time.”

      “I’ve actually never met him.” Hannah smiled, aching to change the subject to Jack Brattle—where was he, how soon could she meet him? “But maybe I can arrange to set you up sometime for lunch.”

      “Oooh, I’d love that. I have this feeling about him…” She giggled. “Would you really do that for me?”

      “Sure, no problem.” Hannah hadn’t been serious, but it didn’t hurt to promise one favor right before she asked for another. And maybe she could work a date with the grievously tacky Dee-Dee into another joke on Mr. Highbrow. “So…Daphne tells me you’re best buddies with Jack Brattle.”

      “Oh.” Blink-blink of false eyelashes. “I don’t know about best buddies. I shouldn’t even have told—”

      “Friends, though?”

      “Well.” She looked uneasily between Hannah and Daphne. “I’ve…met him.”

      Hannah sent Daphne a sidelong glance. Met was a far cry from close to. “When was this?”

      “Oh, a while back.” She gestured vaguely. “I’m really not supposed to tell. It just sort of slipped out.”

      And thank God for that. Jack Brattle had kept himself out of the public eye as effectively as his late gazillionaire father had kept himself in it, which meant the absence of a Brattle in the news left that much bigger a hole.

      An interview with Harold Brattle’s son and heir…Or, given that Dee-Dee was full of hot air as well as silicone, even snippets of inside information on Jack’s whereabouts, his habits, tastes, sexual preference…Any reporter would give up major organs for that scoop.

      Many had tried, none had succeeded. Not since the disappearance of Howard Hughes had a missing person generated this much mystery and excitement. Yet by all accounts Jack Brattle continued to run his father’s empire while remaining invisible. From time to time people claimed to have encountered him—like people kept seeing Elvis—but the sightings always turned out to be hoaxes or misidentification.

      “Whatever you can tell me would be great. I’ll handle it all very discreetly. No one will ever be able to trace anything back to you.”

      “Oh gosh. I’m so not supposed to.”

      “I know.” She laid a sympathetic hand on Dee-Dee’s soft arm, wanting to pinch her. “I completely understand. I’ve put you in a really tough position.”

      “Well…” Dee-Dee bit her bee-stung lip. “I do know where he lives. A guy I met once took me by his house. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you that.”

      “Really?” Hannah’s droopy spirits perked up. Rumors had been flying that Jack owned property in the area, but his cover had been scrupulously complete. Or at least he hadn’t walked down any local streets with a giant name tag on. “You are amazing, wow.”

      “In West Chester.” Apparently now that Dee-Dee had started, the confession had gotten easier. “My friend said he’s abroad until spring, but the house is not that far from here.”

      Hannah’s reporter lust started rising. Around them the chatter intensified as enormous flat-screen TVs in several rooms flickered on, and crowds gathered to watch midnight approach.

      “Can you tell me how to get there?”

      “Well…yeah. I could. But he’s away. And I’m really not supposed to.”

      “Simple curiosity on my part. I wouldn’t try to go in or bother anyone. Just drive past. No one would ever know I’d been by.” She smiled her most innocent smile, shrugging as if it didn’t matter all that much if Dee-Dee spilled or not. Please. Please. Please.

      “Well…okay. СКАЧАТЬ