"Let's assume for the moment that you know all you think you need to know about me," he said, ignoring the subtle dig about unpublicized talents. "What about you?"

She froze. Elvis, sensing her distress, left his coffee and skittered across the desk. He jumped down onto her knee and then bounded up her arm to sit on her shoulder. She reached up and touched him in a reassuring manner.

Fontana could not possibly know about her own talent, she told herself. He was fishing in the dark, trying to provoke her the same way she had tried to prod him. They were after each other's secrets.

"I'm a reporter, Mr. Fontana," she said coldly. "Whatever talents I have are in the realm of journalism."

He gave her a slow, knowing, shatteringly intimate smile. "I'm not buying that, not for a minute. I know power when I sense it, Miss McIntyre."

"I did not come here to talk about myself. This was supposed to be an interview with you." She closed her notebook and slipped it into her purse. "But it appears that isn't going to happen, so I might as well be on my way."

"You surprise me. I didn't think you'd give up so easily."

She got to her feet. "I don't mind wasting your time, but I'm not real keen on wasting my own."

"Sit down, Miss McIntyre."

"Why?"

"Because I am, as the old saying goes, about to make you an offer you can't refuse."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I hope you won't take it that way."

"And if I refuse?"

He smiled. "You won't."

"Why won't I?"

"Because I'm going to give you a shot at a real exclusive, the biggest story of your career."

"Sure."

"You don't trust me, do you?"

"No farther than I could throw you."

He watched her with a steady, unwavering look. "I'm dead serious."