Ms. Simon Says
Copyright © 2004 by Mary Vogt Meyers
Excerpt from
Say It Again Sam
© 2004 by Mary Vogt Meyers
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover design by Diane Luger
Cover illustration by Mike Racz
Book design by Giorgetta Bell McRee
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First eBook Edition: March 2004
ISBN: 978-0-446-51076-9
Contents
A Preview of "Play It Again, Sam"
Praise for Mary McBride’s
My Hero
“McBride’s charming and sexy tale may well leave readers believing in heroes themselves.”
—Booklist on
My Hero
“Enjoyable…refreshing.…For a little trip over a rainbow to Texas, get carried away by My Hero.”
—Romantic Times
“A very touching, moving romance between a real hero and a woman who doesn’t believe in heroes… wonderful and satisfying…will keep readers turning the pages.”
—The Word on Romance
“Ms. McBride has excelled in this book…the pages will fly by and make you hate to turn the last page.”
—MyShelf.com
“Will make you believe in heroes.…Ms. McBride does a fine job of capturing small-town Southern charm…a heartwarming story.”
—Contemporary Romance Reviews
“McBride has scored a bull’s-eye with the sizzling chemistry between her two protagonists…a fun, flirty, and feel-good read.”
—Heartstrings
“A very enjoyable story…an exciting story line with exceptional characters.”
—The Romance Reader’s Connection
Praise for Mary McBride’s
Still Mr. & Mrs.
“Outrageously fun…thoroughly enjoyable.”
—Publishers Weekly
“McBride deftly spins the estranged lovers through the hoops of passion and danger.”
—Nora Roberts
“This lighthearted presidential adventure rings true with a compelling mix of comedy and heart-tugging emotion. McBride is an author to watch!”
—Christina Skye
“Mary McBride serves up a book that is both filled with action and packed with emotion…witty and invigorating reading.”
—Romantic Times
Also by Mary McBride
My Hero
Still Mr. & Mrs.
For Kasey Michaels and Leslie LaFoy
“Wit is the only wall
Between us and the dark.”
—Mark Van Doren
T
he first letter bomb exploded in the mailroom of the Hartford
Courier
at 8:06 A.M. The second bomb blew up at the Buffalo
Daily Express
at 8:18 A.M. By the time the third one went off ten minutes later at the Allentown
Scribe
, CNN was reporting a terrifying trend.
In Chicago, in her bedroom, a barely awake Shelby Simon grabbed the remote and turned up the volume of her TV several notches.
“. . . no reports of injuries as yet, Diane, but authorities here in Hartford are confirming that at least one person was taken to a local hospital. At this point, what we do know is that all three newspapers are part of the Helm-Harris Syndicate, whose flagship paper is the Chicago
Daily Mirror.”
“Uh-oh.” At the mention of her employer, Shelby clicked the volume up again and continued to stare at the screen.
The camera came back to the anchor desk, where the perfectly coiffed and glossy-mouthed Diane Delgado said, “We’re receiving a report that there’s been another incident . . .” She paused, frowning as she concentrated on a piece of paper just handed to her from offscreen. “Apparently there’s been a fourth letter bomb incident in the offices of the Columbus
Citizen
, another paper in the Helm-Harris Syndicate, if I’m not mistaken.” The attractive blonde blinked into the camera and managed a thin imitation of a smile. “We’ll be back with more details right after this break.”
Shelby turned the volume down, reached for the phone beside her bed, and punched in the number of the Chicago
Daily Mirror
. What was she doing, anyway, watching breaking news on television, when she could get it faster and firsthand from the wires at her very own office?
“Come on. Somebody answer,” she muttered after the fourth ring, just before the automatic system kicked in.
“You have reached the offices of the Chicago
Daily Mirror.
We are unable to take your call right now...”
While she listened to the smooth and efficient voice on the tape, Shelby glanced at the time on the TV screen. It was after eight. The auto answer at the paper should’ve been deactivated by now. They only used the system after regular business hours. By this time of the morning, at least half the staff would already be at work. She’d be there herself right now if the battery in her alarm clock hadn’t croaked sometime during the previous night.
“Please leave a message after the tone.”
“Shit.”
It was the only message Shelby could think of just then.
She showered and dressed in record time, choosing slacks over one of her usual tailored suits, donning sneakers rather than heels in order to get downtown fast. In the background, CNN was reporting on a fifth incident—or was it a sixth?—and lining up their terrorism experts just in case.
“Have there been any threats against the Helm-Harris papers?” the blond anchor asked her correspondent in the field.
“Not that I’m aware of, Diane. If you’ll recall, there was a walkout by the printers union last year, but that concluded in successful negotiations. Their contract won’t be up for another three years. We’re waiting right now for a briefing from postal inspectors here in Hartford.”
“Thank you, Eric. We’ll keep an eye on the monitor and get back to you as soon as that briefing begins. Now let’s go to Susan Carey in Buffalo. Susan?”
Shelby clicked off the TV, grabbed her handbag, and hustled toward the front door of her apartment. The instant she closed the door behind her, though, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake because her neighbor’s door immediately opened and Mo Pachinski, part-time mobster and full-time sexist pig, stepped into the hallway, blocking Shelby’s passage.
What did the guy do? Wait with his hand on the knob and his eye on the peephole every morning? He’d been driving her nuts for months, ever since he moved in, accosting her in the hall this way, until she’d learned to outfox him by closing her door soundlessly and ducking past Apartment 12C. But this morning she’d been off her game, befuddled by oversleeping and then distracted by the news.
“Hiya, Doll.”
Mo was wearing a gorilla-sized electric blue warm-up suit, its velour jacket unzipped a few calculated inches in order to display the gold chains nestled in the dark forest of his chest hair. As always, Old Spice radiated from his muscle-bound body like a toxic cloud, fairly knocking Shelby off her feet.
“Runnin’ a little late this morning, huh, Doll?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
She tried to sound rushed rather than impatient, polite rather than pissed, not wanting to offend him because she suspected, if he wasn’t exactly
in
the Mob, he was at least connected to it. She’d asked him once what he did for a living, and his answer was a rather vague and smirky
I consult.
Mobbed up or not, Mo had problems with the women in his life. There seemed to be a
lot
of women in his life, so the man had a
lot
of problems. And because Shelby was an advice columnist, Mo was constantly asking her for just that—advice. Should he send roses? Was four dozen too much? Or not enough? Red ones or pink? What about diamonds? What about your lesser jewels? What did Shelby think?
In the beginning, Shelby considered him a challenge. Now he was just a pest, especially this morning when the newspapers in which her column appeared seemed to be exploding all across the country.
“Could we talk later, Mo?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Okay.” He shrugged and stepped aside just enough to let her pass through his aura of aftershave. “Later’s okay,” he grumbled. “When exactly?”
“Oh . . .” Shelby called over her shoulder as she sprinted for the elevator. “Just later.”
“Like tonight?”
“Well . . .” She smiled sweetly, hit the DOWN button, and said, “We’ll see,” as the elevator doors slid closed.
Shelby jumped on the bus headed south on State Street, and wasn’t at all surprised when the driver, a man she’d never seen before in her life, greeted her.
“Hey, Ms. Simon. How’s it goin’?”
After all, how surprising was it that he recognized her when her face was plastered on both sides of his vehicle on five-foot-long banners that proclaimed “Ms. Simon Says... Read the
Daily Mirror
!”
Her picture had been running alongside her column for years, so she wasn’t exactly unknown, but this latest ad campaign had suddenly vaulted Ms. Shelby Simon from minor, ho-hum celebrity to a kind of local stardom. People used to stop her in the street with “Oh, you look so familiar.” Now it was “Hey, Ms. Simon. How’s it goin’?” and “Yo, Shelby.” She still wasn’t sure exactly how she felt about the notoriety. What had been a real kick at first was now beginning to cloy, and even to annoy.
She hadn’t become an advice columnist in order to be famous. In fact, she hadn’t wanted to be one at all. It had never occurred to her. Well, whoever grew up wanting to be an advice columnist, for heaven’s sake? Kids dreamed of being astronauts, great athletes, rock stars, and Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative journalists. Which was what Shelby had every intention of being after she graduated from the journalism school at Northwestern.
Unfortunately, the day she interviewed at the
Daily Mirror
just happened to be the same day that the venerable and much beloved and hugely syndicated Dear Gabby passed away. Hal Stabler was the managing editor at the time, and he’d already asked better than half his staff who’d like to take over the paper’s advice column, and had been met with everything from grim silence to polite demurrals to outright guffaws. The poor man had been desperate.
“Want to give it a whirl?” he’d asked his interviewee. “Sure. Why not?” Shelby had replied.
The rest, as they say, was history. And now, twelve years later, that history included a certain high visibility she wasn’t entirely comfortable with.
Still, she had a lot more to worry about this morning than her dubious fame. What in the world was going on with these letter bombs at the Helm-Harris papers? Was it the unions or some disgruntled ex-employee? Or could it really be some sort of terrorist attack as they had speculated on TV? How many people had been injured? Oh, God.
She jumped off the bus at Wacker Drive, then trotted the two blocks to the
Daily Mirror
, her anxiety increasing with every step, not to mention her blood pressure, as she saw the fire trucks and ambulances and squad cars in front of the building, and—God Almighty!—a big black box of a truck prominently labeled “Bomb Squad Disposal Unit.”
A little moan of relief broke from her lips when she spotted Derek McKay sitting on one of the huge cement flowerpots that decorated the courtyard of the
Daily Mirror
. Since it was October, the pots were brimming with chrysanthemums in shades of yellow and bronze, and the darker hues were a perfect complement to Derek’s bushy auburn mustache and chronically tousled hair.
“Welcome to pandemonium,” he said as she approached. “You’re late this morning.”
“I overslept.” Shelby perched beside him. “What’s going on?”
If anybody knew, it would be Derek, ace investigative reporter, winner of numerous awards, not the least of which was a Pulitzer. He and Shelby had had a pretty torrid affair right after she started working at the paper. It was, she later learned, sort of an initiation rite. Derek had affairs with all the bright young things who crossed the
Daily Mirror
’s threshold. Amazingly, they all forgave him. At least Shelby had.
Before he could answer her, she pointed to the tall paper cup in his hand. “I’d kill for a sip of coffee,” she said.
