Kill For Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

He was all right, I suppose. Until I met him, I mean…”
    "You met Jesse! Oh my God!" Beverly
turned to Chloe. "Did you hear that? She actually met him!”
    Across the desk Chloe was
smiling.
    "What was he like? What did
he say? Did you speak to him? Is he as dreamy close up...? Yes! Don’t answer
that. I know he is! Those eyes! Did you touch him? I mean, like, shake his
hand, or…what did he say?” Beverly
was almost giggling with excitement.
    Kate laughed. "I'll tell
you about it later. Now what about getting me some coffee?"
    "Anything for someone who
met Jesse..." And Beverly
hurried off to the canteen.
    Shaking her head, Kate turned
her attention to the pile of mail lying on her desk. Apart from a postcard from
Hetty, the foreign desk’s secretary who was honeymooning in Barbados, it consisted mainly of Press
releases from embassies, relief agencies and environmental movements. There was
also a fan letter. Usually letters from the public were either complaints,
questioning a detail in a report, or flattering, complimenting her on her
appearance. Now and then, however, a more personal preoccupation emerged, such
as today's invitation from a businessman with a tyre concession in Syria who
wanted her to telephone him to talk "about sex and associated matters to
our mutual pleasure and ultimate satisfaction".
    "Now that's friendly,"
she said, passing the letter to Ned Swann who'd lost his connection to Kandahar.
    Swann's wide nose sniffed at the
perfumed notepaper as he read it. "The bastard could at least have
suggested a collect call," he grumbled. "Syria isn't cheap. I'm not having
you giving phone sex on my budget."
    Amused, Kate examined a photograph
of the correspondent that had fallen from the envelope. In early middle age, the
guy wasn't bad looking, if a little heavy. "I must look desperate, because
he obviously thinks he'll be doing me a favour.”  
    "Well, you never know. It
could be a real live Road to Damascus
experience for you!" And Ned punched another phone number.
    “I never will know.” And
dropping the letter into a wastepaper basket, she turned on her computer. There
were over twenty messages waiting. Some were old and routine, which she
continued to ignore, along with an effusive one from Seb Browne thanking her
for her work at the Gadden concert and suggesting lunch some time. Immediately she
began to conjure up excuses. Browne chased girls. She didn't have time to waste
dodging him.
    The most recent message was the
most important. It was from the editor-in-chief's secretary, asking if she was
free for a meeting with him that afternoon.    
    "At last!" she
breathed.

    Neil Fraser put down his teacup
and smiled awkwardly over delicate half moon glasses, incongruous ornaments on
such a powerfully built man. "The trouble is, Kate, at the moment people
are nervous."    
    "Nervous?" She was
puzzled.
    Fraser nodded.
    "Why? I don't
understand." Kate hadn't touched her cup. The very offer of tea had
surprised her. Tea was never offered when good news was about to be imparted.
Tea came with sympathy.
    "Well, I suppose, after what
happened, the worry is that…sometimes you go further than is good for you or
your team."
    This was not the conversation
she'd anticipated. "I'm a reporter..." she began and then stopped in
surprise at herself. It had come out sounding like an excuse.  
    "And a very good one. But
you take risks."
    Kate stared at Fraser across his
wide desk. Once a celebrated rower, now, at 55, he looked as though his shirts were
too flimsy to contain his muscle bulk which was melting into sponge flesh.
"I don't get it. I thought WSN was supposed to be 'closer-to-the-edge'. If
we step back we become like all the others."
    Fraser's embarrassment faded. He
was a proud man and didn't enjoy having a marketing slogan thrown in his face.
"No one's talking about stepping back. But there's a difference between
taking acceptable risks to pursue a story, and being so…so over-eager