Getting It Right This Time (14 page)

“Just a one-stop shop once I’ve finished with Underwood,” he murmured. “I can order his coffin and a nice bouquet of lilies in one fell swoop.”

Taking the keys from the ignition, Mark got out of the car and strode toward the Gazette’s front door. He walked in and the young girl sitting at the reception desk did a double take when she looked up

“Mr. Johnston.” It was more of a sigh than a greeting.

Mark’s gaze wandered around the room housing not only the reception, but also the desks of four reporters and a trestle table bearing tea, coffee and healthy snacks of biscuits, doughnuts and chocolate bars. Even though he couldn’t see Underwood, it didn’t mean the bastard wasn’t hiding out in the back somewhere.

“Mr. Johnston? Can I help you?”

Mark turned to face the receptionist. No older than twenty-one or two years old, her eyes were wide and her cheeks flushed. He forced himself to calm down, to at least soften the scowl he could feel etched on his face. He cleared his throat and smiled. “Good morning.”

She matched his smile, her color deepening. “Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”

She glanced toward the computer screen in front of her.

He splayed his hands on her desk, leaned forward and looked deep into her eyes. The flush spread from her face to her neck. “No, I’m looking for Mike Underwood. Would you happen to know where he is?”

The reddened skin of her neck shifted as she swallowed. “He’s…he’s…”

“Right behind you, Johnston.”

Mark’s heart picked up speed but he didn’t immediately turn. He didn’t act on the adrenaline that shot through his blood as though Underwood’s voice was the match and his blood the wick of the dynamite. Instead, he winked at the receptionist and eased himself upright. Tugging on the hem of his suit jacket, he slowly turned around.

68

Rachel Brimble

69

Tall and skinny with a goatee beard accentuating the chin of his pointed face, Underwood could easily play the part of the sly fox in
Pinocchio
. Mark’s mouth curved into a soft smile. Maybe he could find him a spot in the pantomime at the Theatre Royal come Christmas. From the state of the man’s stained jeans and frayed collar, he was clearly not making enough money through award-winning investigative journalism.

“What’s so funny, Johnston?”

Mark met his gaze. “You.”

The sounds of bums shifting on seats filled the room. Underwood’s colleagues tried and failed to hide their excitement at an impending eruption--and possibly tomorrow’s copy unfolding in front of them. The pretence of phones being picked up and papers filed only added to Mark’s enjoyment.

Underwood’s thin lips tightened until they were barely visible. Two or three seconds passed before he spoke again. “What do you want, Johnston? Your mystery woman boot you out early this morning, did she? Or didn’t you make it to the sack in the first place?”

The hairs on the back of Mark’s neck rose like the hackles of a Doberman and his hands curled into fists at his side as his smile remained frozen in place. “Why don’t we go grab a coffee, Underwood? I’ve got an exclusive for you.”

The darkening of Underwood’s eyes and the clenching of his jaw told Mark he’d struck his intended target with superb accuracy. Underwood raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Now I know you’re lying. You don’t give me exclusives if my memory serves me right.”

Mark grinned. “Well, you don’t want to miss an opportunity like this then, do you? You’ll kick yourself if you do.”

Another few seconds passed. “Maybe you’re right.” Underwood stepped to the side and threw out his arm. “Why don’t we go through to the interview room and you can tell me all about it.”

More shuffling of papers and clearing of throats punctuated the atmosphere like pin-holes through the taut skin of a drum. Mark’s smile widened. “Oh, no, not here. Let me treat you to a bit of lunch and a pint. What do you say?”

Underwood laughed. “Me and you sharing a pint and a sandwich? Christ, I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Johnston. Not for the fucking world. I’ll grab my coat.”

Mark watched him walk to his desk and whip his jacket from the back of his chair. His colleagues’ heads jerked from Underwood to Mark and back again like an audience at a tennis match. Mark concentrated on slowing his breathing, controlling the need to sprint across the office floor and slam his fist into Underwood’s gut. The reporter cum photographer shrugged into his jacket and raised his hand in a theatrical wave.

“See you later, girls and boys. I’m off to a spot of lunch with the great Mark Johnston. Don’t let tomorrow’s paper be signed off until I know what the big man has to stay, eh?”

70

Getting It Right This Time

With his cheekbones aching from the pressure of keeping his straining smile in place, Mark turned on his heel and walked outside, uncertain he wouldn’t whack Underwood if he let him lead the way. Once outside, he walked a little way along the street before Underwood’s voice cut the air.

“Hey! Where you going? Your car’s right here.”

Mark turned and smiled. “Thought we’d go to The Anchor Hotel. What do you say?”

Underwood stopped in front of him, his green eyes shining with glee. “Whoa, The Anchor?

You’re certainly pushing the boat out. What’s your news, Johnston? You’ve won the lottery on top of every other lucky bastard thing that’s landed in your lap over the last five years?”

Ignoring the stab twisting his gut, Mark continued to smile. “Not quite. You look as though you haven’t eaten anything of quality since you left your mother’s tit so I thought I’d treat you.”

Underwood’s smile slipped, his eyes darkened. “Fuck…” But Mark was already walking away down the street. He slowed his pace, waiting for Underwood to catch up and when he did, the timing could not have been more perfect. The alley would be missed by a casual observer--a blink and it would seemingly emerge like Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter novels.

Quick as the snap of a Venus flytrap, Mark clamped his hands on Underwood’s scrawny shoulders and man-handled him into the alley. His curses and shouts were soon muffled when Mark shoved him beneath the crook of his arm in an effortless headlock. Writhing and squirming like a snake, Underwood struggled to escape Mark’s iron-clad grasp. But Mark held fast and waited for Underwood to admit defeat, all the while whistling the theme tune to
I’m Getting Married in
the Morning
.

At last the huffing and sweating halted and Underwood gave up. “All right, asshole,” he panted. “You’ve got my attention, let me the fuck go.”

Mark stopped whistling, his smile a distant memory as he cranked the crook of his elbow tighter around his nemesis’s neck. “If you want to walk out of here in one piece, you need to listen to me, Underwood,” he said, quietly.

The reporter fell silent for approximately two seconds before he let out an animalistic growl and attempted to fling his arms around Mark’s waist and bring him down to the ground. Quicker than a fox in a hen house, Mark pulled Underwood upright, his forearm still firmly locked around his neck. Using his other arm, he punched Underwood full-force in the stomach. He hit the asphalt like a lead weight.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut and shook out his fingers. Now that he’d resorted to violence, he was more pissed than ever. “Let’s start again, shall we?” he asked, opening his eyes and glaring at Underwood as he coughed and hacked against his forearm. “And for Christ’s sake knock off the playacting before I stick you on the stage next week.”

The coughing immediately stopped. Underwood glared at him as he pulled himself into a sitting position, his hand on his stomach. “I’ll press charges.”

Mark dropped to his haunches and Underwood flinched. “The hell you will.”

Rachel Brimble

71

For a long moment, the two of them locked gazes. Mark’s heart beat a tattoo in his chest, and rage burned painfully behind his eyes. At last, Underwood turned away. “What do you want?”

Mark clamped his fingers to Underwood’s chin, giving the weasel no choice but to look at him. “I want to know how you are managing to be wherever I am every time I step out the door with Kate Marshall?” He growled. “And I want to know why the bloody hell you can’t leave me alone and move on to someone else for once in your damn life? And most of all, I want to know why, having rejoiced in my father’s downfall, you are so bloody intent on instigating mine?” The reporter slapped at his hand and Mark released him. “Well?” he demanded.

Underwood sneered, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You are the reason I am still farting around in this small-time town, Johnston. And until I earn what I could have from the exclusive you promised me, I ain’t going leave you or yours alone. Never.”

Mark smiled, his blood pumping through his veins. “You think so, do you?”

Underwood matched his smile. “I know so.”

“First of all, you slimy piece of shit, I promised you nothing. Every interview you’ve wanted with me and my clients has been demanded. I don’t act on demands for anyone. I don’t even take demands from the clients who earn me money, so why the hell would I from you? You’re a bitter and twisted nobody who’s afraid of the hard work it takes to get somewhere in life.”

“You promised me Marcia Langton.”

Mark shook his head. “The hell I did.”

Another moment of silence. Mark looked directly into Underwood’s cold stare. After a second, he gripped the lapels of Underwood’s jacket and dragged him to his feet.

“Has Marcia got something to do with this? Something to do with you deciding you’re going to make sure Kate Marshall gives up on a future with me before it’s even started?”

The man paled beneath his eyes. His thin face became thinner when his skeletal jaw clenched.

“What are you talking about?”

Mark shook him. “Is it Marcia telling you where I am all the damn time?”

The other man laughed. “No. My wanting to pin your ass to the wall has nothing to do with her. That would be all me. And you can rough me up, threaten me, whatever. I ain’t gonna leave you alone until I hit the big time like you.”

“You’re lying.”

“About Langton?” He grinned. “Bloody hell, you are one paranoid son of a bitch. If you think your biggest paycheck will stab you in the back, you must have one hell of a guilty conscience about something.”

Doubt filtered into Mark’s blood like liquid poison. What if Underwood was right and his instinct was completely wrong? Why would Marcia do that to him? She was ambitious, yes, but not vindictive. Was his need to be with Kate taking over every ounce of his rationale?

72

Getting It Right This Time

Blinking, he refocused on the vermin in hand. He tightened his grip on Underwood’s jacket and gave him a final shove. “If I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll come after you. If you don’t stay away from Kate, I’ll kill you. Now get the fuck out of here.”

He spun Underwood around and shoved him hard toward the entrance of the alley.

Underwood stumbled, flung his hand against the wall to stop himself falling before turning around and grinning wolfishly. He brushed down his jacket like he wore Armani rather than catalogue.

“Like father, like son, eh, Johnston? Your dad was a spineless loser when push came to shove too. He barely held onto your mum either. No guesses for how this one’s going to pan out.”

Rage simmered and lit in Mark’s stomach. “Get out of here. Now.”

Underwood walked backward out of the alley, goading words continuing to spill from his lips. “You’re going after your dead mate’s widow, Johnston, and you’ve got the gall to call me an asshole. Don’t think you can get more low and desperate than trying to stick your dick in your ex-mate’s missus, do you?”

Mark took a step forward. Underwood turned on his heel and sprinted from the alley like his backside was on fire. Mark stared after him, his hands curling into fists at his sides as his eyes burned. He loved Kate. He’d always loved her.

“But she was James’s. James loved her from the minute he saw her. Just as I did.”

Mark’s whispered words echoed around him, bounced from the walls and permeated the shield he’d built around his conscience he’d stupidly thought unshakeable. Tipping his head back, Mark closed his eyes and asked his friend for forgiveness.

* * * *

Relieved she didn’t have to get up and rush into work, she smiled. Being on her feet all day and serving customers had taken its toll this week after having to deal with the ever changing aspects of her personal life. Keeping her mind focused on her client’s relaxation, especially after she and Mark had made love, was hard. No, not hard. Practically impossible. Mark, and more specifically what she done with him, bombarded her thoughts with the regularity of a hammer hitting a very stubborn nail. Guilt mixed with justification and fear mixed with determination had fought against each other for the last three days.

The conflicting emotions, the worry and ensuing joy had so unnerved her, Kate applied a Chamomile face mask to a client’s leg instead of hot wax the day before. The memory of the poor woman having to endure a gel setting like concrete, being plied from her centimeter of hair growth without anesthetic….

Kate pulled the covers over her head. The shame was unbearable.

Rachel Brimble

73

After five minutes of wondering whether or not she was capable of wooing the customer in question back to the salon, she decided to leave it up to the gods and grab a cup of coffee alone at the kitchen table before Jess woke up. After Jess got out of bed during the night, Kate didn’t manage to settle her again until five AM so it was likely Kate had another half an hour before Jess re-emerged. Throwing back the covers, she quickly got out of bed and went downstairs.

Once in the kitchen, she filled the kettle as her mind wandered once more to Mark. When he’d left after their impromptu and rather fantastic lovemaking, she’d poured herself a glass of wine and settled onto the sofa in a dream-like state. Any chance of sleep completely demolished for the next hour or so at least. Her mind flitted from complete euphoria to one of utter panic. When she focused on her and Mark making love and feeling his arms around her, she knew there was no turning back. And then huge waves of guilt crashed through her veins at the thought of Jess sleeping upstairs while her mother indulged in a little ‘me-time’.