3

Daniel jumped out of his sports car and stretched his legs. He’d practically raced from Montauk to Manhattan and was lucky not to have gotten any speeding tickets on the way.

The office building of the New York Times was located on Eighth Avenue in the center of Hell’s Kitchen. Daniel looked up at the glass wall that sported large black letters, spelling out the newspaper’s name in its trademark font. The sun reflected on the glass.

He straightened his tie and entered the building, heading straight for the security desk. The African American man in the impeccable dark suit looked at him.

“How may I help you, sir?” he said, his voice polite yet firm.

“I’d like to see Miss Claire Heart.”

He looked down at his computer screen, already typing something. “And your name, sir?”

“Daniel Sinclair.”

The man perused the screen for a few moments then looked up again. “I’m afraid I don’t have your appointment registered here. When—”

“I don’t have an appointment,” Daniel interrupted, leaning over the counter.

“I’m afraid I can only let you in if you have an appointment.”

“Miss Heart will want to speak to me. I assure you.”

“Be that as it may, the rules are the rules. Please come back when you have an appointment.”

Daniel pointed to the phone on his desk. “Call her. Now. She’s been looking for me to comment on her story, and she will be upset if you send me away. This is her only chance to get my comment,” he bluffed, underlining his words with a stoic expression that gave nothing away of the storm that still raged inside him. In fact, the storm had just hit hurricane strength.

For a moment, the security guard hesitated, clearly contemplating Daniel’s claim. Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Miss Heart, this is Barry from security downstairs. I’ve got a Mr. Sinclair here who wants to comment on one of your stories. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he claims—” Barry pulled back his shoulders, sitting up even straighter. “Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded. “Right away.” Then he put the phone down and looked down at his desk, writing something.

Impatiently, Daniel tapped his foot on the floor, when finally Barry looked up at him and handed him a visitor pass to pin to his jacket.

“Miss Heart is on the ninth floor. Please take elevator four.” He pointed to an elevator bank behind Daniel.

“Thank you.” Daniel pinned the visitor pass to the lapel of his jacket and walked to the elevator. It opened when he reached it, and he stepped inside.

He didn’t have to press the button for the ninth floor. It was already lit, and he knew that the security guard had programmed it so that Daniel could alight only on the ninth floor and not roam around anywhere else in the building. Most large office buildings had this security feature.

During the ride up, he tried to calm his mind. It would serve nobody if he yelled at the gossip columnist. He needed to get her onto his side, not alienate her.

The elevator doors opened on the ninth floor, and he stepped into the hallway.

“Mr. Sinclair,” a petite brunette greeted him. She was dressed in casual pants and a colorful blouse. Her hand was stretched toward him in greeting. “I’m Claire Heart.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Heart.” He shook her hand briefly. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I’m here about your article that ran in today’s paper.”

Claire nodded. “Oh, I know why you’re here. Let’s go to my office where we can talk in private.”

He followed her as she led him down a long corridor, surprised that she was so accommodating. Moments later, she entered a tiny office with stacks of papers, magazines and files lining the walls and littering the floor.

“Excuse the mess. I’ve just moved offices.” She walked around the surprisingly empty desk with only a date book and a telephone on it and sat down on the chair behind it, pointing to the only other chair in the room. “Please, Mr. Sinclair.”

He took a seat and waited for a few seconds, trying to read her facial expression. But she gave nothing away. If she was aware that the story she’d printed was a lie, she didn’t let on.

“I want you to issue a retraction of your story.”

Claire leaned forward slightly. “And why would I do that?”

“Because the story is a lie. My fiancée is not a call girl. And had you bothered to ask for comment from me before you published the story, I could have cleared all this up beforehand and saved us all a lot of trouble.”