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"I'm a good judge of character." She nuzzles my cheek. "There's clearly more to the story, so tell me the rest."
"Three days before I left for the Caribbean, I found out Danisha Davies had plagiarized her entire book. She stole the unpublished memoirs of another, lesser-known reality star who had been good friends with her."
"But you didn't know what Danisha had done."
"Doesn't matter." I cover my face with my palms, groaning again, then I lower my hands. "The other woman, Miriam Watkins, is suing Danisha Davies and Hunter Publishing for copyright infringement. This could destroy the company."
"How is it your fault she plagiarized stuff? If it was from an unpublished memoir, you had no way of knowing."
"We have a contract with Danisha, which means we are responsible for ensuring everything we publish meets all legal requirements. Every contract includes an indemnification clause, but she's claiming we committed secondary infringement because she told us where she got the material and we went along with it. We didn't do that, but she has forged emails that make it look like we're complicit."
"I hope you're fighting it."
"We're trying. But the legal costs involved in disproving her claims could be steep, and we can't be sure of a favorable judgment in court." My head falls back against the palm tree like it's become so heavy that my neck can't hold it up anymore. "The day I left for the Caribbean, our solicitors informed me that we should settle with Miriam Watkins and agree to her demands, which include monetary damages. For legal reasons, I can't share all the details. I started the process of removing the book from sale, but the lawsuit coupled with the failure of Helmut Beyer's book might bankrupt the company unless I inject my own money into the settlement deal. So yes, I have run my company into the ground. My father's legacy is in tatters, and I am a disgrace."
Chapter Nine
Maddie
"You are not a disgrace," I say. "Nobody could've guessed that author would turn out to be a plagiarist and a liar. I'm sure your dad will understand if you explain what happened. Have you told him yet? If not, you really should. Wondering how people will react is torture, so stop doing that to yourself and just talk to him."
He screws up his mouth but then sighs and bows his head. "I know you're right. I've known it since the day I found out what Danisha Davies had done, but I'm too much of a coward to tell my father. Then I'll have to inform the board of directors, and who knows what they'll do. My company's reputation will be destroyed, and I will probably be sacked."
"Will you be bankrupted, personally, if you use your money to pay the settlement?"
Rick twists his mouth up again, his face pinched. "No, I'll be all right. Not as well off as before, but hardly penniless. The scandal alone could destroy the company, though."
"I'm so sorry you're going through all of this."
"Don't feel sorry for me." He turns his eyes to look at me, his head still bowed. "I'm sure you've experienced much worse things."
"It's not a competition. But yeah, I've watched people die and been helpless to stop it. That's part of the reason I'm so burned out. After my last assignment, I felt emotionally wrung out and raw." I don't want to remember those events, but my mind disobeys my command and shows me a replay of the worst moments. "It's horrible to watch adults wither away, but it's the children who really tear your heart out. I cried every time a child succumbed. Ebola can be up to fifty percent fatal, which means there isn't much we can do. I still have nightmares about it."
He slings an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. "I wish I could do something to make you feel better. No one deserves a stress-free holiday more than you do."
"We both deserve that."
"May I ask a personal question?"
"Sure."
Rick hesitates for a moment, twining a lock of my hair around his finger, then letting it unravel. "Why don't you have a boyfriend or husband?"
"I've dated. Until a couple of months ago, I was involved with a virologist I met in Somalia last year. It didn't work out, though. We both work too much to keep a relationship going."
"Yes, I've had the same problem. Working sixteen-hour days might keep my company afloat, but it doesn't leave time for relationships." He braces his chin on top of my head. "I never married either. Most days, I eat al desko."
"Do you mean alfresco?"
"No, al desko. It's a British term that means I eat at my desk, alone."
"Yeah, me too."
He strokes my arm, gazing out across the serene blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. For a few minutes, we don't speak. He holds me, and I rest my cheek on his shoulder. I met this man yesterday, but somehow, he knows exactly what I need and when I need it. I can't believe I told him so much about myself, but he shared a lot of himself too. How can I feel an intimate connection with a virtual stranger?
Maybe I should stop worrying and let myself enjoy this.
"I have an idea," he says.
