The new Chicago Tribson office building shone in the early dawn light as the sun rose slowly above the city's skyline. Sian Fionnuala Greeley struggled through the lobby's mirrored doors, not even glancing at her image which conjured up pictures of ancient Celtic goddesses to any that looked upon her. The boxes in Sian's arms were filled with mementos from her old office at the dilapidated Chicago Sun building; now they would fill a cubicle at the united Chicago Tribune/Sun offices.
Sian struggled to press the button for the elevator, attempting to juggle the cartons of precious belongings at the same time. Suddenly a carton was knocked from her arms to the ground. Sian gasped as her Harvard Journalism Award shattered on the marble floor.
"I'm sorry," a haughty British voice said, but when he saw whom he'd run into, his tone became a snarl, "Oh, it's you."
There stood a tall, lanky Englishman, less than a foot away. Sian recognized him. It was her archrival, Giles Vaughan Stockholm. He was an award-winning reporter who had begun working at the Tribune after being transferred to Chicago from a newspaper in London, England.
Sian's Irish temper flared. "Do you know how hard I had to work to receive that award?" her green eyes flashed as she glared into his handsomely chiseled face. "And now you've destroyed it in one careless action."
His deep set brown eyes glared back at the slim redhead standing before him. Her usually full lips were drawn into a tight line of anger. Giles caught a glimmer of sadness flicker in her peridot green eyes. He felt his chest tighten at the expression, but he pushed the feeling aside, his natural competitiveness winning out over empathy.
"You had to work hard for it?" he asked snidely. "I rarely attended class when I received the London Journalism Award."
Sian bristled, a swift retort on the tip of her tongue, when her editor, John Malone, stopped to speak to her.
"Sian, could I see you in my office after you've finished settling in?" he asked, his dark eyes widening when he saw the shattered glass on the marble floor. "What happened?"
"It was an accident," Sian told him, not wanting to sound childish, "Giles knocked my arm and my Award fell." She glared at the Englishman from the corner of her eye.
"Purely accidental," Giles added smoothly. "I'll find someone to clean it up."
"Of course," John's havey, black eyebrows raised skeptically at the excuse. "Sian, don't forget to come see me." With that, he left the pair glaring at one another.
Sian felt her heart being to race. It must be exertion from holding these boxes for so long, she told herself, trying to ignore the flush creeping up her neck to her pixie-like face. She averted her eyes from Giles', that were the colour of liquid night. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going up to my office," Sian said, hoping she sounded nonchalant. She then walked past the Englishman into the elevator.
Giles looked down at the shattered glass of Sian's Award. He felt guilt creep up on him, generating heat in his cheeks as he blushed in embarassment. He regretted his snide comments. Why didn't I just apologize? he questioned himself. He wished his competitiveness hadn't won out over his empathy.
Giles shook his head, trying to erase the guilt. She's your archrival, your worse competition, he reminded himself. There isn't any reason for you to feel guilty over insulting her--God knows she's done the same to you more than one.
Giles' lanky figure strode towards the cubicle meant to be his new offic. He rounded the soft material walls to enter the box-like room. There, at the mahogony desk, sat the woman he had encountered only moments before, Sian Greeley.
She sat behind the desk with her legs crossed, legs that were so shapely and inviting that they commanded his gaze. Her skin was pale and as fine as Irish lace.
The objects of Giles' gaze quickly uncrossed and stood with the grace of the fog that rolled over the moors belonging to his homeland.
"What is it that you want now?" Sian asked, her voice sharp with contempt.
"This is my office," he replied, moving towards the desk. His eyes dropped to the name plate which read, not his name, but his rival's.
Sian raised her head and, in a bad impersonation of Giles' haughty English accent, replied, "I beg to differe."
The Englishman's temper was sparked by her mocking, his dark eyes turning darker like an ocean turning black as a storm rolls in. He glared at her, his eyes unwavering.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by John Malone's voice. "Sian, I thought that you..."His voice trailed off as he found the pair glaring at each other again. "Is something wrong?"
"Your reporter seems to think this is her office," Giles snapped at the black Irishman. "Although, in reality, it is mine."
Christine Newel appeared in teh doorway, her blonde hair slightly tousled, allowing a few strands to fall into her sky blue eyes. Giles smiled at the editor of the Tribune, who returned it, greeting him in her breathy voice, "Hellow, Giles." Her voice was like an autumn wind blowing through the golden leaves of a weeping willow.
"There seems to be a problem with the office assignments," John told her, his voice revealing an exasperated edge from listening to the two reporters argue over such trivial matters.
"I know," Christine breathed. "That's why I'm here."
Sian and Giles' eyes fixed on the beauty. They both feared what she would say next.
"You will have to share an office with each other until we figure this mess out."
Sian sat behind her desk, pouting, as Giles moved his personal effects into her office. She had had to move the heavy wooden furniture to the far side of the office so he could fit his furniture in. Her jade coloured blouse, now soaked from sweat due to her endeavor, clung to her lithe body.
John Malone's dark head peered around the doorway, cautiously in case they were fighting once again, but only saw that they had finally settled into their office.
"Could you both come to my office, please?" he asked, unusually polite. "I'd like to speak with you."
Sian knew her editor was up to some rascality. John Malone had never been polite since she'd known him.
"Maybe he's found you another office," Giles looked down his nose at Sian, his voice rude.
Sian stood, raising herself to her full five fee and seven inches. "Maybe he's kicking your English butt back to London to work at the rag where you did before you transferred here."
Giles tensed at her cutting words. "You'll regret that remark," he said in a low and threatening tone, stepping close to Sian. He leaned down so his face was a mere inch from hers. Their eyes locked, Sian's flashing dangerously and Giles' heated with an angry passion.
"Will I?" she challenged.
Giles broke his gaze from here, turned on his heel, and left for his appointment with John. Sian followed him to the elevator.
"I have an assignment for you," John Malone said, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his mahogany desk.
"We have an assignment for you," Christine Newel corrected from her seat next to his. Her airy voice was slightly biting.
"For me?" Sian asked impatiently, "Or the English Prod?"
"Both of you," John said hastily, seeing Giles was ready with an even nastier retort.
"both of us?" Giles looked at the two editors piercingly.
"On the same assignment?" Sian asked incredulously, her jewel-coloured eyes wide.
"Yes," Christine's blue eyes narrowed, warning that she did not want to hear arguments from either reporter. "We want you both to go to Ten Downing Street to cover the Sinn Fein peace negotiations."
"Go to-" Sian began.
"England?" Giles completed her sentence.
They looked at each other, emerald and night dark eyes locking, not in competition, but in fear of having to travel and work together.
"Yes, the conference begins the second week of December-we want reporters there to cover it," Christine's sexy voice explained.
"Since you have been openly supportive of the Sinn Fein, Sian, you are a good candidate to go." John's black eyes flashed at her, then at Giles, "And you, Giles, have been openly against them and the IRA. Christine and I thought the conflicting view points would make for a provocative story."
"To be written by you both," Christine added.
"Here are your plane tickets," John said with finality, handing them each an envelope, "Your flight leaves at eight o'clock tonight."
"What about our office arrangements?" Giles asked feebly.
"They will be worked out while you're away," Christine dismissed both beleaguered reporters with a wave of her hand.
Sian and Giles walked from John Malone's office in silence. When they got into the elevator Sian turned to her unlikely companion. "One thing, Prod," she said, her voice hard. "I won't speak to you and you won't speak to me unless it concerns the assignment."
"Fine with me," Giles returned her fervent stare.
Sian could feel her heart begin its erratic beating once again, and Giles' face became flushed. Tension filled the confined space of the elevator, but neither were certain about what type of tension it was. Sian averted her eyes, believing it best to end the conversation there. Then both turned and stared at the door of the elevator, hoping that they would reach their floor soon.
Sian dreaded the trip, which would surely be filled with the same tension that had sent her heart racing and left her head spinning. This is going to be a long assigment, she thought, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
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