The Naked Truth. Shannon HollisЧитать онлайн книгу.
maternal grandmother, who had taken in a traumatized eleven-year-old after the death of her parents in a car accident, had still been working as a Realtor. Though they lived in Coral Gables in a tiny stucco house with an orange tree, money was tight and Eve had learned to be practical along with how to turn out a decent meal and do her own laundry.
Not that those were skills to scoff at. They’d stood her in good stead through university and during her move from Florida back to the city her father’s family had called home for generations. And during the early years, when getting the job as associate senior meteorologist—aka junior weathergirl—had seemed like the apex of her life, she’d discovered she not only had a knack for throwing dinner parties on the cheap, but for digging out and retaining all kinds of information about people.
A great skill to have in this business. But it didn’t help her with a dress for tonight.
With careful investments, she’d managed to save enough for a down payment on a little house in the Vinings district. Nana would be proud. It wasn’t very big—in fact, it had once been a carriage house on a much larger estate—but it certainly had a good address, and in Atlanta, that was half the battle. With the worst of the rush hour traffic clearing, she made it home in record time. Which, of course, left her lots of time to shower, do her hair and contemplate her closet.
She had all kinds of things to wear on the set, some courtesy of Jane’s wardrobe budget and some of her own. She had jeans and camis to wear on weekends. But a couple of black dresses and the green one could only go so far. Now that she was starting to make the society pages, maybe she should take Jane’s advice and run up her credit card on a couple of evening dresses. If what Cole predicted came true, she was going to be spending even more time in the spotlight. Thank goodness for the lottery—because she’d bet her winnings the station wouldn’t be picking up the tab for her updated wardrobe.
The green one would have to do. It fit like a glove—though she watched her weight like a predatory bird, her hourglass figure would pack on a pound in a heartbeat. And everyone knew the camera packed on twenty in less than that.
A final spritz of hair mist and her grandmother’s diamond chandelier earrings, and she was good to go.
The benefit for Atlanta Reads was being held at the Ashmere mansion. The property had recently been made the headquarters of the Ashmere Trust with the hopes that it could become a moneymaking venture while it retained its Old South beauty. As far as Eve could tell, they’d succeeded in a big way. She stepped out of the cab and the soft, warm evening air caressed her bare shoulders. She draped the green chiffon wrap over one arm and breathed in the scent of ferns and mulch and eucalyptus from the gardens.
Straightening her shoulders, she mounted the fan of steps and swam into the crowd, turning to greet society belles and financiers alike with the grace of a dancer and the confidence of three years in the spotlight.
“Eve. Glad you could make it.”
Eve turned to see Dan Phillips, owner of both the station and the production company that produced Just Between Us, at her elbow. “Hey, Dan. I had to come. Who wouldn’t want to support helping people learn to read?”
“People in television,” he said, so deadpan she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Which was par for the course. “My wife forced me into my tux and out the door at the point of a nail file.”
“Maya’s a smart cookie,” Eve told him. “You won’t regret it. I hear Ambience is catering.”
“Really?” He brightened. “Then I guess I should start schmoozing. I do like to hear people talking about you behind your back, anyway.”
Eve held up a hand. “Just don’t tell me if it’s negative.”
“It won’t be. Everyone in Atlanta loves you.” He paused. “And a few people up north, too, from what I hear.”
Eve didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I’m going to assume you spoke with Mitchell Hayes.”
“I did.”
“And?” She prodded when he took a sip of his martini and didn’t go into detail.
“And nothing. It’s not my decision, it’s yours. Though I made it clear that the show belongs to Driver Productions and if he managed to get you, it would be only at the end of your contract. The show stays here, though what it would do without its host is another headache.”
“You won’t have to worry about that. I told him no.”
Phillips looked her full in the face for the first time. “Did you, now?”
“Of course. We’re doing just fine right where we are. We have great facilities, happy advertisers, and we’re building the viewership in leaps and bounds. Why should I upset the applecart and risk everything on a young network that’s still trying to prove itself?”
“Because it might be the right thing for your career?”
Now it was Eve’s turn to stare at him. “Tell me I didn’t hear you say that.”
He shrugged. “I’ve known for at least a year that the big boys would come knocking. It’s what every regional host wants, Eve—a shot at the national level. CWB is handing you that on a platter. I wouldn’t blame you for jumping at it—though it might be best to wait for more of the networks to offer. Make the station an affiliate as part of the deal.”
Maybe he wouldn’t blame her, but how could she? They’d built a terrific team here, from Jane in makeup to Cole in production. If she agreed to go with any network, what would happen to all of them? They were practically family. The new organization would probably bring in all its own people and move her somewhere else. She’d get national exposure but she’d never see her friends again. She’d already experienced being the one who was left behind. No way would she do that to someone else if she could help it.
“You won’t have to worry about it, Dan,” she said. “I told Mr. Hayes no, and I meant it.”
“I’m sure you did.” His gaze caught on something over her shoulder. “But I think he means to make you change your mind.”
Something in his tone warned her, and she turned just in time to see Mitchell Hayes pause on the stairway. He had one hand casually on the polished banister, the other in his pocket, hitching up the jacket of his tux in a way that turned formality on its ear and made it sexy.
What in the world…?
He scanned the crowd lazily, and two seconds too late, she understood what he was doing.
He was looking for someone—and she had no doubt whatsoever who it was.
THE MOST DIFFICULT THING any of these people had to read was probably their bank statement.
Mitch knew he was being a reverse snob. His own paycheck was pretty generous, considering he hardly ever had time to spend any of it, but his annual salary was probably what some of these folks paid in income tax.
His gaze moved from one part of the vast marble foyer to the next, noting a thumb-sized emerald here, a designer suit there, a pair of skyscraper stilettos somewhere else. One thing was for sure—he needed to move to a room where the acoustics were better, or his head was going to split from the sound of high-pitched laughter and conversation shattering on the stone all around him.
He ducked into the nearest room, which turned out to be the location of the buffet, and exhaled in relief. There was no hurry. He didn’t even know if Eve Best was here yet, and he had nothing else to do except catch a movie on HBO back at the hotel. It had taken less than thirty seconds online at the local newspaper’s Web site to find the society listings, and from there to narrow down the field to the three that he’d define as a “benefit.” The other two were for sports and health care, so he’d gambled that a woman who made her living by communication would have a connection with people who communicated with words on a page—and those who were learning to.
He’d give this an hour. If he was wrong, at