Drive Me Wild. Gwynne Forster

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      Justin Lyle Whitehead braced his lithe frame against the March wind and headed up Madison Avenue on the short walk to the Yale Club to keep a luncheon date with his editor-in-chief.

      “Well, how’d it go?” Mel Scott asked him when they met at the elevator.

      “Great. She’s a down-to-earth, intelligent woman, and her inheritance won’t change that.”

      Mel bunched his thick shoulders and leaned against the wall of the elevator. “I see she impressed you.”

      “She did, but mainly with her honesty and her desire to be fair and accommodating.”

      “Just don’t let your sympathy for her get in the way of your story,” Mel said.

      Justin stared down at the little man, his face devoid of even a hint of friendliness. “I’m a reporter. Remember?”

      “Sorry man. I didn’t mean to ring your bell. Is she the old lady’s illegitimate child?”

      Mel Scott was a good editor, but there were times—like right now—when he’d like to wipe the floor with the man. “Mel, you’re way off. You only have to look at Gina Harkness to know that neither of her parents is white.”

      Mel shrugged as they seated themselves in the dining room. Mel loved to dine at the Yale Club, because it made him feel important. Justin perused the menu, certain that his companion would order the most expensive entrée, and he did.

      “I’ll have a hamburger on a whole-wheat bun,” Justin told the waiter.

      “Man, you can’t order a hamburger in the Yale Club,” Mel said.

      Justin leaned back and eyed the other man with amusement. “I can order anything that they serve here,” he said pointedly. “I do not eat a big lunch, and I do not drink midday, because I have to work after I eat.” The hamburger arrived, and he realized he’d forgotten to order French fries.

      Mel regarded Justin with slightly narrowed eyes. “If you weren’t such a good journalist, you’d be somewhere eating dirt.” He savored the lobster bisque. “You coulda had this, and it wouldna cost you a cent. As I was saying, your attitude could use some fixing.”

      “Probably could, depending on whose company I’m in. What about the six months’ leave? Do I get it or not? I promise to send you an occasional piece, but this job and this story will take up most of my time.”

      “All right. I’ll expect you back full-time October first.”

      “Thanks,” Justin said, and handed Mel a statement authorizing his leave of absence. “Would you sign this, please? I’ve learned to have anything important in writing.”

      “Yeah. I see you typed it on the paper’s letterhead.” Mel signed and dated the document and handed it back to Justin. “If you let any other reporter on the staff know about this, I’m through with you. Get it?”

      Justin folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket. “Fair enough. I’ll keep in touch.”

      Justin said goodbye to Mel Scott and walked to his apartment on West End Avenue. He wondered if Gina Harkness had noticed his upscale address. Would she have hired him for the job if she had? Was she familiar enough with New York neighborhoods?

      What a woman! He had expected an older woman and not one so solidly in control of her life. And he certainly had not expected to see a woman who took his breath away. She wasn’t as beautiful as she was perfect. When she smiled and stood to greet him, tremors had streaked through him. He knew he was looking at a warm, loving woman who liked what she saw when she looked at him.

      Justin was used to having women take a second and then a third look at him, not that it fazed him one bit. He considered female admiration as much a nuisance as anything.

      He flagged a taxi and got in it seconds before a heavy rain shower would have drenched him. When the car reached the building in which he lived, he paid the driver. Although he sprinted to the door, he still got soaked. Upstairs in his apartment, he stripped, hung up his wet clothing, sat on the side of his bed and phoned a close friend in the Department of Transportation.

      “Hi, Jake, this is Justin. I have a difficult assignment, and I need a chauffeur’s license today. Can you manage it?”

      “Sure thing, man. E-mail me a photo and fax me a copy of your driver’s license. It’ll be ready in an hour. You’ll have to come for it because you have to sign it.”

      “Thanks, buddy. I owe you one.”

      “Gotcha.”