London, 1975
With his trenchcoat in hand, Jonathan Hart slipped down the back stairs of the Ritz, all hopes of a fortifying nap lost to the specter of Jennifer Edwards.
He was exhausted, frustrated and hounded by reporters. At the rate he was going there wouldn't be much of a chance to rest before his meeting the next day and that putt the entire Kingsford Motors deal in jeopardy. With the innovations at Hart Industries to propel both companies forward, the partnership would mean record profits for both companies and would prevent Kingsford from having to do massive layoffs. Profound jet lag and irritation didn't bode well for such an important negotiation. He needed sleep and more than that, he needed the reporters dogging him to lay off for a few hours.
Max was pretty good at running interference for him, but even he seemed to be outmatched by Ms. Edwards.
Jennifer Edwards. Mistress of the con and a pain planted firmly in his ass.
Jonathan grimaced and took the stairs two at a time. He could just picture her, a chain-smoking, love-starved matron whose sole joy in life was taking down others. There were too many jobs - too many livelihoods - on the line . He couldn't risk being bested by anybody, and certainly not by a snooping journalist.
The lobby was bright and teeming with people checking in and out. Nattily dressed bellhops buzzed around the guests, some toting luggage and others large rolling racks. Directly across the wide carpeted space was the entrance to the bar and Jonathan's final destination.
One drink, he thought. One drink to settle his nerves and maybe he'd be able to sleep.
"Damn." Jennifer Edwards fairly stomped away from the suite of rooms belonging to Jonathan Hart. She'd been so sure her ploy had worked only to be turned away at the last minute. She trudged back to the elevator bank. She was contracted for one more story and the rumored merger between Jonathan Hart Industries and Kingsford Motors would be a fantastic way to end her freelance gig.
If only she could corner the man for five minutes and prove to him that her motives were genuine. Sure she was a reporter, but she liked to believe she was a writer with heart and an honest perspective.
She stepped into the elevator and jabbed at the button for the ground floor. She needed a martini and a little time to think. She would be heading back to the states in less than a week and if this story didn't pan out, she wasn't sure what her next move would be.
The elevator dinged and released her into the busy lobby. Jennifer weaved among the travelers and narrowly avoided a man hustling in the other direction.
"Excuse me." She mumbled sarcastically before slipping into the relative quiet of the hotel bar.
Hitching herself onto the barstool, Jennifer ordered a double martini and buried her head in her hands.
Jonathan stood in the entrance to the bar for a few seconds before deciding against it. If he were a thwarted reporter, the bar would be his first stop. There was a decent pub a few blocks down and his stomach was starting to realize it had been nearly 12 hours since breakfast.
Fish and chips and a nice stout would make him feel worlds better and hopefully by the time he was done he would be able to sneak back into his room for a good night's sleep.
He was halfway across the lobby when he nearly careened with a red headed woman, her brow furrowed as she spun out of his way. Her eyes flashed briefly, full of irritation, and her lovely lips pursed.
"Excuse me," he heard her grumble and he turned back to watch her disappear into the bar. Jonathan weighed the option of following her and shooting his shot. He was certain that an evening with a lovely, engaging woman would put him in a much better mood.
But then his stomach growled and he changed course yet again, out into the weak London sunlight.
Good riddance to Jennifer Edwards, he thought, and made plans to find the enchanting redhead when his business was concluded.
His mood was considerably lifted.
"Rough day?" The man beside Jennifer turned to eye her, and she could feel the exact moment when his mild concern shifted to interest. On another day, when not so absolutely frustrated by her as-of-yet unsuccessful interview of bloody Jonathan Hart, she might have entertained the notion of flirting. But she was in no mood and she just nodded in response.
He attempted a few more openers but her stony disinterest eventually won out and he wandered away to try his luck elsewhere.
Jennifer couldn't shake the feeling that it was this moment, this story, that would change everything. But it was slipping through her fingers and an unwelcome anxiety gnawed at her belly.
The martini, it seemed, hadn't been such a great idea after all.
Damn Jonathan Hart.
And what was she going to tell Brooks?