Quick, Find a Ring!
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Jo Leigh
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Harlequin🌸 Clean & Wholesome
HarlequinPrologue
Mitch Slater quietly checked the area around his desk. Bob Gleeson sat hunched over his computer, his back so curved he looked like a gargoyle. Natch talked on the phone while he tried to look up Loreen Firestone’s skirt. Three or four copy boys scurried around the office like mice in a maze. Jerry’s editor screamed bloody murder about a typo.
It was a little on the quiet side, but all in all, just a typical morning at the Times. No one was paying any attention to him, so he quickly opened the Calendar section and read his horoscope.
Nothing to write home about. Just that he should take his Capricorn butt on a vacation, where, according to the stars, he would find true love. Like that was a possibility.
He folded the paper, checking once more to see if he’d been caught, but another day had begun with his secret vice intact. That alone should have made him happy, but it didn’t.
Darren Colker was too much on his mind. And of course, Bentley. Despite her protestations, he knew damn well she was trying to scoop him on the Colker interview. It was too juicy a piece for her to let it go. She was champing at the bit to get her hands on the most reclusive capitalist since Howard Hughes. His fortune had been estimated at over seventy bil-lion—with a capital B—and he hadn’t been seen in more than ten months. Many speculated that he was dead. Mitch didn’t buy it. Colker was alive. Just hiding. In Hawaii.
At least that was his guess. More than a guess. Just not a fact. If his luck continued to run, he’d get the true skinny in the next couple of days. A few well-placed phone calls and a little bribe dough would work the magic. Then he’d know for sure.
Right now, though, he had an expense report to file. He searched the chaos that was his desk, but no form appeared. He looked over at Bentley’s desk. Neat beyond the endurance of most sentient beings, she would have a form. He knew that without question. She would have twelve, one for each month. They would be in a separate file and they would each be marked with little white tabs. It gave him the willies.
Supposedly, she was running some personal errands. Yeah. Like she had to run her own errands. Her husband, the fabulous Carter DeHaven, made sure she didn’t want for anything. Maids, cars, golden credit cards. The woman had it made in the shade with Rich Boy. Of course she had time to dig around about Colker.
Mitch went over to her desk. He picked up the fancy little nameplate she was so fond of. Bentley DeHaven. The name sounded like something from a comic strip. Actually, she did sort of remind him of Brenda Starr, only with blond hair. Proportioned to kill, with those long Barbie legs. Just the kind of babe that would look great in his pajama tops. Pity he couldn’t stand her.
He leaned back against the side of the desk and slid the front drawer open. She’d warned him to stay away from her stuff. More than once. But surely even Bentley wouldn’t begrudge him a little form, would she? He opened the drawer wider.
When the coast was clear, he glanced down. Nothing, nothing. Wait. An airline ticket. Throwing caution to the wind, he turned and yanked the folded paper out, opening it so quickly the crease tore.
Hawaii.
He knew it. Damn it. She’d found Colker. Her flight was leaving tomorrow. Six days. Paradise Bay Honeymoon Hotel? Clever. Colker was hiding in a honeymoon hotel, the last place anyone would look. How had Bentley found him?
It didn’t matter. He picked up her phone and called the American Airlines 800 number.
“When’s your next flight to Hawaii?”
While the reservations clerk looked that up, Mitch glanced once more at the ticket, only then noticing the yellow paper inside the folder. Her itinerary no doubt. He pulled it loose. And read.
He stopped breathing. His pulse quickened. This was no itinerary. This was dynamite. Nitroglycerin. Better than his wildest dreams!
He folded the paper up, stuck it in place, then slipped the whole enchilada back into her desk.
Mrs. Bentley DeHaven was in for a little surprise.
No one got the best of Mitch Slater. Not even for a lei.
