“I’m sorry. Would you repeat that last—”
“I asked if you were seeing anyone.”
“Oh…no, I’m not,” she answered. And then, before he could ask another personal question, she dug through her purse, pulled out her notebook, and flipped it open. “On the phone you mentioned being invited to join some kind of exclusive project, and you also mentioned something about a trial. I believe you called it the Alpha Project. What exactly were you talking about?”
“I don’t remember saying anything about a project or a trial.” He looked down at the table when he answered, a sure sign that he wasn’t telling the truth.
She wasn’t interested enough to pursue it. “Okay then, I guess that’s it.”
She was putting her notebook away when he reached across the table and picked up her recorder.
“How do I turn this off?”
“I’ll do it.”
“No, here it is.” He pushed one button, then another. “There, now it’s not recording. I don’t want what I’m going to tell you on any kind of recorder. This is strictly ‘off the record.’ Isn’t that what reporters say?”
“Actually—” she began, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.
“I trust you won’t tell anyone. This is very hush-hush.” He leaned forward and in a near whisper said, “It’s like the Olympics. At least that’s how it was explained to me.”
She put her purse back on the seat beside her and gave him her full attention.
“What is like the Olympics?”
He nervously looked around to make certain no one was listening, then said, “I’m in excellent condition and that’s why I qualified.”
He was maddening. “Qualified for what?”
“The trial,” he explained. “Just like the Olympic trials…you know, the qualifications. The physical exam took three long days, and I swear they took half my blood to test. Oh, and I had a full body scan and an MRI, too. They didn’t tell me why all those tests were necessary, but I think they were making certain I didn’t have any big problems, like an aneurysm or a blockage, anything that might inhibit my peak performance or disqualify me.” He smiled as he added, “It’s really something to be invited to participate. Only a select few are chosen.”
His eyes swept the room as he took a quick drink of his water and said, “I hope I’m not giving you the wrong impression. I don’t want you to think I’m bragging, but you can see why I was chosen, can’t you? I mean, just look at me.”
She swore that if he flexed his biceps, she was going to get up and leave, story or no story. Fortunately, he didn’t.
“You were chosen for what, Mr. Harrington?”
“William,” he corrected. “Please, no formalities. I can already tell you and I are going to be close.”
Wanna bet? Sophie impatiently brushed her bangs out of her eyes and let her frustration sound in her voice when she repeated her question for what seemed like the umpteenth time. “You were chosen for what, William?”
Mr. Talkative suddenly became evasive. “I really shouldn’t be discussing this.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“I know I did, but I’m not supposed to talk about it. Not until it’s over.”
She decided not to press him. She checked the time instead. It was already close to nine o’clock. Harrington had been talking nonstop about himself and his twenty-four races and his blisters for over two hours, and now that the subject had become interesting, he turned reticent. It all sounded so bizarre, she thought he might be making it up to keep her there.
“I understand, William,” she said. “If you can’t talk about it—”
“It’s confidential,” he blurted.
She nodded. “Confidential. Then I guess we’re finished here. Thank you for the interview.”
“Would you like another drink?” he asked as he held up his hand to get the waiter’s attention.
“No, thank you.”
The poor waiter, his eyes shooting daggers, had been watching them for about an hour now. He looked hostile as he dropped their bill on the table. An iced tea and a sparkling water—not much of a tip there.
Sophie was hungry, but she didn’t want to eat with Harrington. She would wait until she got home and could kick off her shoes. She’d relax while she zapped a frozen dinner in the microwave.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “If you will go out to dinner with me tomorrow night, I’ll explain everything to you then. I guarantee you’ll be happy you did.”
“Happy I went to dinner with you, or happy I heard what you had to say?”
He smiled. “Hopefully, both. Interested?”
“I’m sorry. I already have dinner plans tomorrow night…and Sunday.”
“Monday night then?”
Sophie weighed the bad against the possible good. On the one hand, she’d have to suffer through another night listening to him drone on and on about himself, but on the other hand, what if he was telling her the truth? What if there was some kind of a secret club that only a select few were invited to join? What would be the purpose of such a club? And if they all had to be super athletes, was it some kind of a superman club? What would be the point?
Crazy. It had to be crazy. Still…
“Yes, all right, I’ll have dinner with you, but…”
“Yes?” he asked eagerly.
“We’ll have dinner here at Cosmo’s. Seven-thirty, Monday night.”
“No, no, I don’t want to eat here. I want to take you to a five-star restaurant. Perhaps Nuvay or J’Adore. They’re both excellent. Give me your address and I’ll have a driver pick you up at seven. Don’t you worry,” he added with a wave of his finger, “I can afford to take you to dinner anywhere in the world.”
She remained unimpressed. “As enticing as that sounds, I still prefer eating here at seven-thirty or not at all, William. Take it or leave it.”
“I don’t like bar food,” he pouted.
While Sophie would have loved to dine in a great restaurant, she felt safe at Cosmo’s, and she didn’t know much about William Harrington except that he seemed totally into himself.
He must have figured from her silence that she wasn’t going to budge.
“Oh, all right. We’ll eat here,” he conceded. “If you weren’t so pretty, I wouldn’t bother with you, but I’m a sucker for curvy blondes, and those gorgeous blue eyes of yours…” He looked away as he said almost offhandedly, “You’re stunning.” He shrugged. “I guess you’ve heard that before.” His glance shifted to her feet and slowly moved up her body. “You know, Sophie, women don’t usually play hard to get with me.”
She decided to ignore his lascivious smirk. “Where would you like to meet tomorrow before the race?” she asked impatiently.
It took another ten minutes for him to settle on a time and place, and then she was finally free to head home. He stood and offered his hand as she slipped out of the booth.
“Until tomorrow then,” he said.
She shook his hand. “Good night.”
Glancing at her watch, she walked toward the door. Almost three hours now. Unbelievable, she thought. If there wasn’t the possibility of another story here, there was no way she would spend another second with this man. He was insufferable. And what did he mean by “curvy”? Was he telling her he thought she looked healthy? Wholesome? Chubby? Or overly endowed? He’d been glancing at her chest every other minute since they’d sat down. And the comment that he wouldn’t bother with her if he didn’t think she was pretty? Was that supposed to be a compliment? The man was unbelievably rude, and his ego was somewhere in the stratosphere.
Sophie had calmed down by the time she’d reached home and was bolting the door behind her. It was rare for her to be home on a Friday night. The truth was, she couldn’t remember the last time she had stayed in, and she planned to take advantage of her down time. She would catch up on her e-mails and go to bed early.
But time always seemed to get away from Sophie, and tonight was no exception. She didn’t get to bed until well after one a.m., which would have been fine if she didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn for her second round with William Harrington.
JOURNAL ENTRY 22
ARCTIC CAMP
Brandon and I headed out again. It was a bitterly cold day, but we took every precaution against frostbite. Last week, Eric and Kirk had spotted a pack of wolves crossing this plateau, and they tracked them to see where they would settle. Brandon and I won’t set up our monitoring equipment until we are certain we have found a stable sampling.
FOUR
HARRINGTON HAD BEEN INSISTENT THAT THEY MEET TWO hours before the race. He was waiting for her at the designated spot in front of a fountain that was one of Sophie’s favorites. It was shaped like a weeping willow with water gently cascading down from the top branches.
He was doing stretching exercises as she approached. True to his word, he wore his uniform: white running shorts, which she thought were a little too form-fitting; a red T-shirt; black running shoes; and red socks with a thin white band around the top. She snapped quite a few photos while he chatted away and made suggestions for poses. Sophie wasn’t much of a morning person, but Mr. Self-Involved seemed not to notice or care that she wasn’t saying much. How could he possibly notice? He never stopped talking…or giving directions.
“Are you sure you’ll have your camera ready at the finish line? Do you know where you’ll wait? I think the steps across the street from the finish line would be the best spot. It’s important that you get a good picture, don’t you think? Especially since it’s going to be on the front page.” His tone sharpened as he asked, “It is, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to check—”
He interrupted. “I was promised the front page.”
“You were? Then I guess—”
Again he interrupted. “It was implied.”
“I see.” She didn’t, but it was all she could think to say. Oddly enough, her response seemed to placate him.
“Now about the photos,” he began. “You have to be ready. A professional photographer would know that. I honestly don’t understand why you’re taking the pictures. You should have brought one of the photographers from the paper with you. Do you even know what you’re doing? Be sure to snap at least one of me at the starting line, and you have to get just the right angle with the sun behind me when I cross the finish line. Not exactly right behind me, mind you, or you’ll get a glare, and we don’t want that, do we? But you need to be ready or you’ll miss the shot.”
She swore that if he told her she needed to be ready one more time, she was going to start screaming. “Yes, you mentioned that.” About twenty times now, she silently added. “And I assure you, I’ll be ready.”
He acted as though she hadn’t spoken. “I know what we can do. Do you have any of your business cards with you?”
She found one in the bottom of her purse and handed it to him. She didn’t have a logo or a business address on her cards, just her name and her cell phone number. She’d had them printed after she had left her old job. Trying to stretch every dollar, she was determined to use all of them before she had more made.
Harrington unzipped a pocket in the back of his running shorts and pulled out a thin leather wallet. He opened it to slip her card in but stopped as though he’d just had a second thought. Stuffing the wallet back into his pocket, he said, “I think I’ll give this to someone on the film crew.” He knelt down on one knee and tucked her card in his right sock. “He can call you when I get close to the last hill. You know, so you can be ready.”
Ready for what? She was dying to ask that question just to see how he would react. Not well, she guessed. He didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, and normally this early in the morning, neither did she.
He stretched his arms over his head, rolled his shoulders as though he were trying to get rid of a crick in his neck, then said, “Okay, I’d better get going. I like to be the first to sign in, and I’ll need to limber up even more. I allow thirty minutes for stretching.”
“Exactly thirty minutes?”
“Yes, of course. I don’t like to be surprised, so I plan down to the last detail. I believe it’s important to be precise. You might want to mention that in your article about me.”
“You’d better get going then…if you want to keep on schedule.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
He was jogging down the path when she called out, “Good luck.”
He glanced back at her. “I don’t need luck. See you soon.”
Sophie was happy to be rid of him for a little while. She backtracked to a coffee shop three short blocks away, drank two cups of hot tea, and, feeling human again, headed to the starting line to watch the race.
Runners were milling around the street with numbers safety-pinned to their shirts. She had her camera ready to take the photo of Harrington as he started out, assuming that he would be in the front of the pack, but she couldn’t find him anywhere. She circled to the other side of the starting line, found an empty park bench, and stepped up on it, craning her neck to find Harrington in the throng. Still no sign of him. His red T-shirt should have made it easier for her to pick him out of the crowd, but who knew that so many people would be wearing red today?
The loud pop of the starting gun sent the runners scurrying for position. A sea of faces streamed before her, but none of them belonged to William Harrington. She had missed him.
Irritated, Sophie slumped down on the bench with her camera in her lap. If Harrington was so adamant that she get a shot of him at the beginning of the race, why wasn’t he in front? He had been one of the first runners to arrive at the park, even before the organizers had set up their tables, so he’d had ample time to get a good spot. Why would he let others take off ahead of him? With thousands of runners swarming down the street like some massive colony of ants, there was no way for her to see every one.
She looked around the crowd of spectators for some sign of a film crew and couldn’t see any.
There was nothing to do now but wait. The course of the race wound through the streets and ended half a block from where she was standing. She made her way to the finish line to watch for the winner to appear.