Single Mama Drama. Kayla PerrinЧитать онлайн книгу.
look more desperate for having been with him.
Was it really the public’s opinion I was worried about, or my own sister’s? Nikki had told me that I was blind where Eli was concerned—in fact, blind where most men were concerned—and that she knew my relationship with Eli would fail.
Now it had.
And the last thing I wanted to do was publicize my shame and humiliation to the entire world.
Yes, I sucked at being able to choose the right man. But it wasn’t like I was the only woman in the world with that problem.
Slowly, I started to drive out of the indoor parking lot. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my chest began to hurt. I let the air out of my lungs in a rush, then gulped in more as my car rolled outside.
Every member of the media surrounding the garage entrance came alive. It didn’t take more than a second for all of them to rush the car. Clearly, they’d done their homework. Probably had gotten my records from the DMV so they knew what I was driving. They swarmed my car like ants, and my heart lurched with fear. Then adrenaline took over, and I pushed my foot down on the gas. The car surged ahead, and I screamed when a Fox News cameraman had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” My car hit the asphalt of the street, and still people converged on me. My hands shook, but I tried to control the steering wheel as best I could. I didn’t let up on the gas, though, determined to get away as fast as possible.
I drove right through the stop sign, nearly colliding with a Mercedes. Screaming, I jammed both feet on the brake. The driver swerved to avoid me, tires squealing in protest as he did. The man hit his horn and gave me the finger out the window.
For a moment, I was so terrified I thought my heart would implode. And I was suddenly wondering if I was up for the drive into downtown Miami. A quick look in the rearview mirror told me I had no choice, when I saw all the video and still cameras pointed my way, reporters racing down the street after me as if I were a fleeing felon.
Absently, I turned right on the first street I came to, my thoughts on what was happening rather than where I was heading.
“Good Lord, what is going on?” I asked aloud. Fine, Eli had been murdered. Yes, he had been murdered in a very lurid and juicy fashion. But why the heck were these reporters so interested in me?
Wasn’t the story intriguing enough with Eli’s background as a sports star? What did I, the clueless and unfamous fiancée, really have to add to make it more interesting?
chapter seven
As I hurried toward my office building from the parking garage, I realized that my nightmare was only beginning.
Either the camera crews had hightailed it to my Miami office, or secondary crews had been there bright and early, hoping to cover all possible grounds to ensure that they’d get to me.
Damn, I should have stayed at home. Better yet, I should have headed to the airport with Rayna in the middle of the night and gotten on a plane to Timbuktu.
My only hope, of course, was that no one would recognize me. Which was a ludicrous thought if ever there was one. Still, I strode forward purposefully, trying my best to act unfazed. Of course, the colorful scarf on my head was not helping me look inconspicuous.
A man holding a microphone with CNN’s widely recognized logo was the first to rush toward me as I neared the doors to my office building.
“Vanessa Cain? I’m Dean Musselman from CNN.”
I sidestepped him and picked up my pace.
“Ms. Cain, the world wants to hear your story. Tell us how you felt when you heard the gruesome news.”
From everywhere, reporters stuck microphones in my face.
“I have nothing to say!” I yelled, then grabbed the heavy door and scurried inside the building.
My sigh of relief died in my throat when I saw the reporter from the Miami Herald standing in the lobby. Cynthia Martin had a book in her hand, as if she was simply hanging out reading, but the moment she saw me, she started in my direction.
I broke into a run, quickly flashing my pass to Edgar, the Hispanic security guard, who knew me well. Then I sprinted past him to the bank of elevators.
“Ms. Cain, why won’t you talk to me?” Cynthia Martin asked from behind the turnstile. “People want to hear your story. Especially now.”
There was a FedEx man standing at the bank of elevators, and at Cynthia’s comment, he looked at me quizzically. Thankfully, an elevator opened a moment later and I hurried inside.
The FedEx guy didn’t ask the obvious question, but I was certain he knew who I was. I hadn’t watched any of the late-night newscasts, but my picture had likely been broadcast alongside Eli’s. For all I knew, my face might be on the front page of the Miami Herald right now, with a caption I didn’t even want to imagine.
Which was the very reason I had avoided turning on my television last night. I didn’t want to hear what was being said about Eli, or even me. I needed to deal with my fiancé’s death in my own private way, not with the slant of public opinion.
When I stepped off the elevator onto my floor, my shoulders sagged with relief. “Holy crap,” I muttered, leaning against the wall to collect myself. “Is it really that slow of a news week?”
If I was lucky, some young starlet would check herself into rehab in the next few hours and save me from this madness.
About a minute later, my breathing had returned to normal, and I was ready to get to work. I walked through the doors to the agency and said hello to Alaina, who returned my greeting with wide-eyed shock.
“Vanessa?”
“Yes, it’s me,” I chirped. I pulled my scarf off my head so she would be one hundred percent sure.
“But—why are you here?”
“I work here,” I snapped. My tone was unnecessarily harsh, but I wasn’t upset with her. I was upset with the sudden drama plaguing my life. Eli hadn’t been hounded by the press when he was alive. What was with all the hoopla now?
The reception phone rang, preventing Alaina from asking me the next question on her tongue. She answered the phone with her standard greeting, and I took that moment to scoot past her to my office. I saw her hold up a finger in hopes of halting me, but I pretended not to notice.
Seconds later, I was stepping into my office when I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks.
A woman was sitting behind my desk.
“Good morning.” The greeting in a British accent threw me off. The woman had grayish-blond hair and appeared to be in her early fifties. She smiled warmly at me.
I took a quick glance around the room to make sure I was indeed in my office.
“Uh,” I began, walking forward cautiously, “who are you?”
“I’m Bonnie Bluegrass, dear.”
“Bonnie Bluegrass,” I repeated, the name sounding a little too…stagelike. Perhaps I was still at home in bed, dreaming about some British television show.
“Office manager,” she added, her tone far too chipper. “May I help you with something?”
At once, I understood what was going on. Someone—likely Debbie or her assistant—had called in a temp to replace me.
“Why did they do this?” I mumbled.
“Pardon me, dear?”
“Sorry—not you. I’m thinking out loud.” I moved farther into the room and placed my belongings on the floor beside my desk. “I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.”
“Oh?”
I