Heart in the Field Read online

  Heart in the Field

  By Jillian Dagg

  HEART IN THE FIELD

  Copyright © 2015 by Jillian Dagg

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way by any means without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Please note that if you have purchased this book without a cover or in any way marked as an advance reading copy, you have purchased a stolen item, and neither the author nor the publisher has been compensated for their work.

  Our books may be ordered through your local bookstore or by visiting the publisher:

  BlackLyonPublishing.com

  Black Lyon Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 567 Baker City, OR 97814

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, events, organizations and conversations in this novel are either the products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used in a fictitious way for the purposes of this story.

  ISBN-10: 1-934912-71-9

  ISBN-13: 978-1-934912-71-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015904556

  Published and printed in the United States of America.

  Black Lyon Contemporary Romance

  For Pauline and Don – 50 years.

  Chapter One

  That’s him! The man who sparked the idea for her new TV show.

  Memories of a girlfriend’s brother had provided Serena Brown with a story idea for Neon Nights. And this was him! Or at least someone who resembled the guitarist standing on the sidewalk. His thick black hair straggled to his shoulders from beneath a straw hat and he swayed his body to the rhythm of the music.

  “It’s a hot September afternoon in Toronto. Hot. Hot—”

  Serena punched the radio off. The last thing she needed, while trapped in traffic with dazzling sunshine beating down on the roof of her black Porsche, was a motor mouth deejay informing her that it was hot. She knew it was hot. She switched the air-conditioning to high and felt icy waves of air ruffle her hair and penetrate her navy blue linen suit.

  The man moved on, walking through the crowds with a slow gait. Serena had done a lot of research on the homeless for her new show. The first segment, beginning the following week, was City Streets. Excitement formed in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t wait for the new show to begin. It was a huge career move for her.

  Before she drove forward a few feet to the bus in front of her, she looked at the man again. He stopped to beg money from the people rushing from the subway entrance, and she felt guilty sitting here in her expensive air-conditioned car.

  Her cell phone secured on the car’s dash board rang. Recognizing the number of the caller, she connected the call. “Hi, Don.”

  “Where are you?” Don Steel asked.

  Serena tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. “Stuck in traffic half way between the new school addition mother just opened and the rear of a bus that happens to have your grinning mug on it.”

  “The new Steel Yourself for our News ad?”

  Don might be well into his fifties but he was such a kid. “Yes. The ‘Steel Yourself’ ad. You, wearing jeans and a yellow shirt covered in green elephants. Instead of silver, your hair is blond.”

  “That agency never gets it right. But does it look good?”

  Serena smiled. Don always said the same thing but he never changed ad agencies, his brother-in-law owned the one he used. The ad also made him appear younger than he was. “It looks fantastic.”

  “Great. Now, look. The reason I called you, Serena, did you hear the news?”

  “You know I never actually listen to the news.”

  “This time you will. It’s about you. Well, really it’s about John Duncan. But it affects you.”

  Serena’s stomach tightened and she tasted the salmon sandwich she’d eaten after the school opening ceremony. “What’s he done?”

  “You know he hasn’t been feeling good. It seems he’s got some sort of a syndrome. A fatigue thing.”

  “Poor John.”

  “I agree. Poor John. But Neon Nights starts next week and he has to rest and take it easy for at least six months.”

  “You mean he won’t be doing the show?” Serena heard the alarm in her voice. No show. No job.

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Hell! Damn!”

  “To put it mildly. But don’t panic yet. I have a plan. Have you ever heard of Nick Fraser?”

  Serena pictured a dark-haired man possessing a precise broadcasting accent. It was the accent she remembered the most because it made him sound like her famous journalist father, Stuart Redding Brown. “Yes. I’ve heard of him. I’ve seen a few of his news reports.”

  “Good. He came to me in April wondering if there was something for him at Steel this September. There was nothing for him then, but this might be his ticket. He’s a strong journalist who likes to get his teeth into controversial stories. So I called him in London, and wouldn’t you know it? He’s flying in today. Can you get here by six o’clock to meet him?”

  “I suppose I can.” Serena wasn’t at all certain she wanted Nick Fraser as a co-host. “Are you sure he’s the one?”

  “No. But he’s a start. We don’t have much time. If we think he’s going to work out, all we have to do is superimpose Nick over John in some of those promo spots. What do you think?”

  “I think field journalists like to stay in the field. Studio work bores the pants off them.” Serena spoke from experience with her father.

  “Nick doesn’t want to be in the field. He wants to be here. I’ll see you in Studio Three at six.”

  She heard Don hang up. He never argued once he’d made up his mind about something. She disconnected her own phone. The bus moved forward about three feet. She moved her car with it, figuring, at this rate, she might or might not make the appointment with Nick Fraser.

  •

  With his black leather jacket hooked over his shoulder, Nick strolled to the Steel TV Tower. The hot weather had brought out the shorts and T-shirt crowd, the skateboarders, and opened the patio restaurants. All this provided a holiday atmosphere in the city. And, even though Nick knew jet lag would catch up with him, right now he felt buoyant. He’d been expecting to return home to search for work and now he didn’t have to do any searching. He had a job.

  Nick spotted the mirrored windows of the Steel TV building and crossed at the next lights. He remembered when the tower had been built by Don’s father, Robert Steel, who’d started one of the first news radio stations in Toronto. When Bob had died, Don had taken over Steel and ventured into news television.

  Nick entered through the swing doors. The high ceiling in the foyer was painted sky-blue and reflected down on to a white marble floor. The woman with cropped black hair and deep brown eyes at the reception desk asked him to fill out a temporary pass that Don had arranged for him. If all the women who work here look like her, this might be fun, Nick thought, pushing the elevator button. The light didn’t come on.

  “You have to jam your finger on the button,” a woman said.

  Nick did as she told him and the light popped on. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. This building is getting old, so is the equipment. The elevators are always sticking.”

  “Warning taken.” Nick stood aside to let her enter the elevator. He pushed three and then glanced at her to find out what floor she wanted.

  “Five. Please.”

  He selected the floor and took a more thorough look at her. She was, what a British friend of his would have called, his cup of tea. Golden hair, swept back from her forehead to fall in a smooth bell to her shoulders, emphasized high cheekbones and a delectab
le mouth. The navy blue suit with the short skirt and thin-heeled navy sandals made her appear model-slim.

  The elevator crunched and jerked to a halt. “I see what you mean,” he said.

  “Scary, isn’t it?”

  He grinned. “Yes. Have a safe trip.”

  Nick walked down the long corridor to Studio Three. Before he pushed open the door he thought about the woman in the elevator.

  Very nice.

  The few technicians lounging around the bank of equipment and screens turned to look at him when he entered. Don Steel was there as well, noticeable in an oversized black and pink shirt he wore with jeans.

  Don flashed his bright, toothy grin and came over with his rather springy walk to pump Nick’s hand with enthusiasm. “Hi, Nick. Thought you might have been Serena.”

  Nick tossed his jacket over the back of a chair. “Serena

  being …?”

  Don lifted one of his thick dark eyebrows, a dramatic contrast to his silver hair. “Your co-host, Serena Brown. Didn’t I tell you?”

  Nick shook his head. “You didn’t tell me much at all, past the salary.”

  Don smiled. “That was the main lure. Serena might be the second.”

  “I didn’t realize I was getting a co-host.”

  Don’s smile faded. “It won’t change our arrangement?”

  “No. It won’t change anything like that. It just hadn’t occurred to me that I might be, let’s say, sharing the limelight.”

  “You will be sharing with the best co-host I can provide. She’s Stuart Redding Brown’s daughter. You know who Redding Brown was?”

  “Yes. I do. You’re not kidding about this?”

  “No way. Redding Brown was her father. And her mother is Reeva Brown-Carstairs, a city councilor.” Don rubbed his hand around the back of his neck. “She doesn’t admit publicly to being his daughter. So don’t mention anything to her. She prefers to go on her own merit, of which she has plenty.”

  “I won’t say a word. All I want is a good vehicle for my work.” Nick prided himself on his own distinct, below-the-belt type of journalism. Short, clipped, entertainment news turned him off. He began to feel apprehensive about his new appointment at Steel. He’d free-lanced for the past few years and he was used to being number one. He envisioned there might be a battle on his hands with Don and Serena to remain number one.

  Don seemed to sense Nick’s indecision. “I promise you’ll get whatever you want. Don’t worry.”

  Nick shrugged. Maybe his anxiety was unnecessary. What did it matter if he had to share the fame or fight for his principles? He was home, where he needed to be. That was all that mattered.

  Don gave the door an impatient glance. “Where the hell is she? I told her six.”

  Nick eyed his gold watch. “She still has ten minutes.”

  “If she doesn’t get here soon I’ll call her again. She was stuck in traffic the last time I talked to her.”

  With obvious time to spare Nick let his glance wander around the studio to a set with all black and white props. Nick presumed this was the set for Neon Nights, and imagined himself sitting on the black leather sofa with a woman who was Redding Brown’s daughter. He realized that he might be putting himself into a situation that tapped into his own insecurity and nervousness. Redding Brown had been one of his journalistic idols. Before his death, Brown had published a book about his life as a war correspondent. Nick trusted Heart in the Field was still on his apartment bookshelf, because he knew he would want to read it again after he’d met Serena.

  In his more avid, learning-how-to-be-a-foreign-correspondent days, he’d had a brief affair with a seasoned female journalist who’d given Nick the book as a birthday gift. Brown had died when Nick was a kid, but the book had become a bible among the media crowd. Nick had understood why when he’d read it. Brown’s philosophy was close to what he wanted to be his own.

  Nick remembered a chapter of Redding Brown’s book on how he’d felt about leaving home. Nick had been surprised at his own reaction to the writing because it had filled him with unexpected emotion. After he’d finished the book he hadn’t forgotten those few paragraphs. He’d made a pact with himself never to put himself in the same painful position as the older journalist. No wife and family. No problems. It was easy enough to accomplish. He’d been trained not to feel much since the day his father had taken him to his first private boys’ school and left him alone with a mere handshake. Stephen Fraser had never returned until the year ended. Summer vacation had seen Nick go to a camp. His parents had driven him to a bus and left him with a horde of other abandoned children.

  “It’s all for your own good,” his mother had told him. “You need to be with young people.”

  But behind closed doors he’d heard his mother complain once to his father: “I was too old to have that baby.”

  Don stood over him. “What do you think of the set, Nick?”

  Nick forced his mind back to the less painful present. “Great.”

  “Yes indeed. Black and white. The programs will be in color. Should be powerful.”

  Power, Nick decided, was what he’d given himself by leaving home and forging a career for himself. Was he going to lose some of that power here at Steel, where Don seemed to have complete control and his co-host was to be the daughter of a famous journalist? Had he made the right decision to leave the field? Time would tell, he supposed. Besides, he was only here for one season, six to eight months, long enough to deal with his personal situation. After that he could return overseas and continue to pursue a career dear to his heart, which was the same way Redding Brown had felt.

  •

  Serena pushed open the studio door, turning her wrist to see that her watch read six o’clock. She had made it on time.

  Don waved at her. “Hey. That suit looks good. Nice short skirt. Nice long legs.”

  Serena grimaced. “Stop it. We’re selling news, not sex.”

  “Sex sells news.”

  “Sex sells anything,” an amused voice added.

  Serena’s gaze moved to Don’s companion. It was the man from the elevator. As she’d gone upstairs to freshen up, she hadn’t stopped thinking about him. He’d added a tension in the elevator ride that she wasn’t used to feeling with most of the men she knew and worked with.

  “This is Nick Fraser,” Don said. “Nick, Serena Brown.”

  She should have known who he was, she thought as she reached for a smile out of the heavy feeling of trepidation she’d been experiencing ever since Don’s phone call. “Hi, Nick. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  His hand clasped hers. “Serena.”

  The way he spoke her name was like a spring breeze after a long winter. Even so, Nick’s voice retained the broadcast smoothness off the screen, a clue to his identity that she’d missed earlier. She now took a good look at him. With his black, vibrant thick straight hair and a distinctive masculine angled face, Nick was almost more handsome than she could bear. Even the faint lesion climbing his cheekbone added a heroic battle scar. He wore not the required black suit, white shirt and black tie John would have worn, but a pair of scuffed sneakers, faded jeans and a burgundy flannel shirt. The clothes fitted his body to show off a taut, physical power without outlining his muscles in a vulgar way. Not only was his voice like her father’s, but his eyes were also the same shade of steel-gray that showed little emotion or expression.

  Don twisted with a brisk squeal of his rubber soles. “Try the couch on the set with Serena, Nick. Let’s see how you work out.”

  Serena withdrew her hand from Nick’s hoping he didn’t work out. After all, Nick was what her father would have called a true blue journalist from the trenches. Why would he subject himself to tedious, controlled studio work?

  Nick said, “Go ahead.”

  Serena sat on the couch, her palm sliding against the puckered leather. Then Nick lowered his body beside her, his hip nudging hers. The line of his muscular thigh was inches from her own, his encased in fa
ded denim, hers in sheer hose. She wanted to fidget, but TV didn’t allow for fidgeting. Instead, she turned to look at Nick with a smile pasted on her face. He also smiled, and their eyes locked for a second. Tension rose inside her. Sexual tension? She hoped not.

  Don had hijacked a camera and was peering through the lens. He waved his arm. “Shift a little to your left, Serena. Turn your head toward Nick a little more. I like that smile. Nick, angle to your right. Acknowledge Serena. Great. Serena, tuck your legs aside. Wow, I’ll say it again, I’ll say it forever, you’ve got great pins.”

  “Cut the crap,” Serena mouthed, still smiling, and she heard Nick chuckle. Their eyes met for longer this time, Nick displaying a grin that could disarm anyone who wasn’t strong. She realized that she didn’t feel very strong this evening. Rather like a lone tall flower in a gale.

  “Okay.” Don came over to them. “There is an introductory lead-in on the monitor. Let’s have a run through to see how it looks.”

  Don returned the camera to the orphaned cameraman. He talked to the technicians, instructing them on what he wanted. A young girl with fluffy blond hair, wearing jeans and a blue denim shirt, added makeup and clipped on their microphones. Serena noticed that Nick’s casual pleasant manner made the girl’s face flush a solid red. So he flustered all women the same way, Serena thought. Good. That meant she would soon get over this strained awkwardness with him.

  Or would she? Serena felt the glow from the studio lights sprinkle perspiration on to her brow. Nick’s subtle aftershave or cologne drifted on the air. He showed no nervousness. Serena’s stomach muscles tensed even more. She had to remind herself of her over-abundance of studio experience compared to his, although Nick seemed as much at home here as he would in a news report from the middle of a desert.

  Nick shifted his body beside her. “Relax.”

  “I am.”

  She ignored his raised eyebrow, gritted her teeth, and responded to the floor direction. A bearded technician cued them up. “Three, two, one. On air.”

  Serena spoke her lines, smiled, and tossed the cue to Nick, who also knew how to act. He was expert behind the camera.