Authors: Julie Garwood
She had a half hour before her appointment. Fortunately, her one-bedroom Lincoln Park condominium was just a couple of blocks from Cosmo’s, a fact she deliberately hadn’t mentioned to Harrington. Few people outside of law enforcement knew where she lived, or so she liked to believe, and she was determined to keep her private life just that: private.
Her father had given her the condo for her sixteenth birthday, and as soon as she was of age, he had transferred the title to her. With conditions. She couldn’t sell it, which to her meant she didn’t really own it. Still, there wasn’t a mortgage, and she was thankful for that. Her father had paid cash for it, and back when she was a teen, Sophie didn’t ask or care where his money came from. She had been too busy worrying about Social Services taking her away after his arrest, which she had thought was inevitable. At the time, there simply had not been room in her mind to think about cash problems or how her father, without any noticeable job, was able to live such an extravagant life. Back then, extravagant seemed ordinary. Sophie had never known anything different.
The morality of her situation didn’t register until after she had graduated from the university. Due to the prodding of her two closest friends, she finally stopped taking money from her father, and that meant drastically modifying her lifestyle. When her car was in need of costly repairs, she sold it and began to walk or take the El to get around the city. Her life had become more strenuous, but it was definitely simpler now, and she liked that. She was proud that she had become a strong, independent woman who could succeed on her own.
Today was her personal best, she decided. She had a history of being late, but she was making a real effort to change that bad habit. After a quick stop home, she reached the bar and grill five minutes early.
Cosmo’s drew a diverse crowd. There were always the junior executives networking while they sipped white wine or martinis, construction workers unwinding after a hard day’s work while they snacked on appetizers and drank icy cold beer, and couples and singles from the neighborhood stopping by for a cold one and catching up on the latest news.
The bar was known for its bottled beer served just two degrees above freezing. Cosmo, like his father before him, was a fanatic about the temperature. There was also a small but adequate selection of wine from the vineyards of California, and draft beer that was brewed right there in Chicago. The grill was popular for its jalapeño hamburgers that seemed to get hotter every year. There wasn’t anything pretentious about Cosmo’s, which was probably why Sophie liked it so much. It was comfortable and inviting, a place where all the locals could come dressed in evening attire or jeans and feel right at home.
The decor was as eclectic as the owner. The furniture was sleek and contemporary with polished chrome tables and chairs with thick, black, padded cushions. Booths with plush, tufted benches lined two walls. The ceiling was the eye-catcher, though. Cosmo
loved astronomy, and since he tended the bar nearly every night, he had decided to bring the sky inside. He had painted the arched ceiling a deep blue, dappled it with yellow circles that were supposed to look like planets, and strung tiny white Christmas lights along the beams. When the lights were on, the ceiling became his own dazzling, star-filled night.
Cosmo spotted Sophie the second she stepped through the door. He shouted her name to get her attention, blew her a kiss, then patted his chest a couple of times to indicate a heart beating wildly for her. He had developed a special fondness for her after she had written a rave review about his bar. Cosmo had been so pleased he’d had it blown up and framed. He kept it propped behind the bar where everyone could see it. She noticed a sign leaning next to her article tonight. In big bold letters Cosmo had printed “No more Kelly’s Root Beer.”
Sophie wound her way through the crowd looking for William Harrington. She found him in the back, sitting in a booth. He looked anxious.
“Mr. Harrington?”
He jumped to his feet and thrust his hand out. “You’re Sophie Summerfield?” he asked. He sounded shocked and looked astonished.
She couldn’t understand his reaction. “Yes, I am,” she answered. “You did say six-thirty.”
“Yes, yes, I did.” He continued to stand, looking perplexed.
“Shall we sit down and get started?” she suggested.
She slid into the booth, waited until he’d taken his seat across from her, then reached for her digital tape recorder. “This is the first time I’ve used this, so please be patient,” she said. Normally, such a small, sleek recorder would have been horribly expensive, but this particular model had been discontinued, so she had been able to buy it at a huge discount. Since it was a company expense, she was sure Mr. Bitterman would reimburse her. She checked the charge before placing the recorder on the table between them.
Harrington stared at her intently.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“I knew you were young,” he said. “I could tell from your voice over the phone, but I didn’t expect you to be so pretty.”
When she didn’t respond, he asked, “Were you surprised when you saw me?”
Did he expect her to return the compliment? “I saw your photos on your website,” she replied, “so no, I wasn’t surprised. I knew what you looked like. Why don’t we get started?”
“Wouldn’t you like something to drink first?”
He insisted she order, and so she asked for an iced tea. He ordered a sparkling water.
“I make it a rule never to drink alcohol or caffeine the night before a race. You know how long a 5K is, don’t you? It’s over three miles. I can’t be sluggish, or it will affect my time, which is why I stick to water.”
“Why don’t you tell me about your first race?”
She didn’t ask another question or say another word for the next hour. Once he started talking, he didn’t stop. He was agonizingly boring, but whether she liked it or not, he was determined to go through all twenty-four races, from start to finish—and he had them all memorized.
Had her recorder been the old-fashioned kind, she would have gone through at least two cassettes. A good reporter would cut him off and take control of the interview, she thought. Or at least might bother to listen to what he was saying. In her defense, she did try several times to interrupt him. And she also tried to pay attention, but his monotonous voice could put an insomniac to sleep. He was on his tenth race when she completely zoned out and started thinking about all the mundane errands she needed to do over the weekend.
Once she had organized her schedule in her mind, she began to daydream about traveling through Europe again. She’d gone once before, after she’d graduated from the university, but she had missed
some of Western Europe. Next time she’d love to see Spain and Portugal. A nice river cruise might be a relaxing way to see the beauty of these countries. She could certainly use a quiet vacation. Or perhaps she could book a stay in the posh spa she had read about in
Vogue
that had just opened on St. Barts …
Reality was quick to step in. At the moment she didn’t have enough money in her account to buy an airline ticket to anywhere, unless she decided she could go without food for a month or two.
“I’ve made it a tradition to wear bright red socks.”
Her attention bounced back to Harrington. “Yes, you mentioned that. Red socks, white shorts, and a red T-shirt.”
“Did I mention my socks are a special kind? Each one has a tiny white band around the top. Only one store carries them, and I’ve bought over a hundred pairs. I don’t dare run out,” he added. Then with a shrug he said, “I guess I’m superstitious. Are you getting all this?”
“Yes.” Sophie pointed to the recorder.
“Okay, good. Let’s take a minute to talk about blisters. Readers will probably want to know all about them. Some have been real bad. There was this one …”
I hate my job, at least right at this moment I do. And I really hate being poor. But who doesn’t hate being poor?
she asked herself. Maybe Gandhi and Mother Teresa hadn’t minded, but they were both considered saints, and Sophie certainly wasn’t a saint.
Harrington ended his dissertation on foot ointments and, without stopping for breath, said, “Let’s get back to the races, shall we? Now the morning of my eleventh race …”
Dear God, just kill me now.
Had she groaned out loud? Harrington either didn’t notice or care that her eyes had glazed over.
She took a deep cleansing breath and pretended that she was in her yoga class. She would remove all negative energy from her thoughts and think only positive thoughts. Tomorrow night she was having dinner with Regan Buchanan and Cordie Kane, her two best
friends since kindergarten. She couldn’t wait to see them. Regan had been traveling for business but was returning to Chicago late tonight. Cordie had been working on her thesis for a PhD in chemistry, and Sophie hadn’t seen her in over two weeks. She was wondering where they would eat when she realized that Harrington had stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly.
“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?