by Pamela Clare
“Reece, oh, God!” She panted his name, wrapped her legs around him, and pulled him closer, deeper.
She heard his breath catch, felt his muscles tense, felt his control slip. In the span of a heartbeat he was driving into her with a rhythm that had her hurtling toward yet another peak. But this time, he soared with her over that sweet edge into a void that held nothing but shattering bliss, nothing but skin and breath and entwined limbs. Nothing but the two of them.
“BE SURE it’s room service before you open the door.” Reece watched Kara slip into her white silk bathrobe, the warm glow of lovemaking on her face, the scent of sex clinging to her skin like expensive perfume. “And try not to look like a woman who’s just—”
She put a hand over his mouth and smiled. “Shhh! You’re not supposed to be here, remember?” Then she left him in the dark.
He heard the door open and then a man’s voice mumbling. He’d have felt better if he’d been the one answering the door. He’d have felt better still if he had his pistol. Despite the precautions he’d taken to make certain he wasn’t being followed, it was stupid of him to have come here. And yet, after what they’d shared, he couldn’t truly regret his decision. He’d had plenty of great sex in his life, but never had he experienced anything like making love with Kara. Each time, it felt as if he’d died inside her, only to be reborn fresh and new and clean.
“You can just set it down here,” Kara told the man. “Wow. Did I really order all that? I guess I’m really hungry tonight. Thanks.”
Reece couldn’t help but smile at the nervous tone in her voice. She was a pathetic liar.
A few moments later, the door closed, and Kara reappeared and spoke with an exaggerated English accent. “Dinner is served.”
Reece slipped back into his boxers and followed her out to the main room, where three trays of food sat on the coffee table. As they shared a bottle of Chardonnay and feasted on clams on the half shell, fried calamari, shrimp, and a selection of antipasti, she gave him an overview of her investigation, starting with the whistleblower and ending with the documents she’d requested from members of the Legislative Audit Committee.
As he listened, he found himself fascinated by the way her mind worked—her sharp intelligence, her thoroughness, her ability to digest vast amounts of information and hold on to the details. He watched her shifting facial expression and saw there the passion she felt for her work, her thirst for justice, her determination to shine a light on the hidden wrongs of the world.
By the time she’d finished, the wine and the food were gone, and she had showed him what she believed were key documents, including the letter from someone on the audit committee ordering the state inspector to back off Northrup. Reece held the letter in his hand and stared at the blacked-out signature, anger and disgust rolling in his gut. Did the dark marker hide the name of a murderer?
She sat on the couch across from him and pointed to the document in his hands. “The biggest hole in my story is the identity of the person who signed that letter. Owens at the health department knows who it is, and I’ll bet the governor knows, too. But neither of them is going to tell me.”
“Probably not.” But if I apply the right pressure, they might tell me. “Can you run your story without knowing who signed it?”
“I could run the story and simply quote the letter, but if I do that, whoever signed it will scurry for cover like a cockroach. He or she will do everything possible to cover any tracks and make my job harder.”
“So where do we start?”
She stood, walked over to the piano, and picked up a stack of file folders. “Whoever signed that memo has some connection to Northrup, so we start with the Legislative Audit Committee. I’ve combed through these files, and so far the only person I’ve found with any tie to the company is you.”
She dropped the folders onto the coffee table.
“But you were looking for Northrup, not TexaMent.” Reece grabbed the folder on top and then got down to work.
An hour later, Kara was frustrated and fed up. She’d read through three files, complete with campaign finance records, and found nothing, not a single mention of TexaMent or Northrup. She placed the document she held back into its folder and found herself watching Reece.
He sat on the other sofa, frowning with concentration, the end of a pen between his obscenely delicious lips. Her gaze traveled from his feet, which rested on the coffee table—could feet truly be sexy?—up his long, muscular legs, over his navy silk boxers with their appealing bulge to his bare torso. What must it be like to live in that body, to have all that delicious muscle and velvety man-skin within reach all day every day? If Kara had his body, she’d be too busy touching herself to make it out of bed in the morning.
His voice startled her. “If you keep looking at me like that we’re not going to get anything done tonight. And that would be a shame because I think I’ve found what we’re looking for.”
That had her on her feet. “Show me.”
He sat up and spread documents from Drew Devlin’s file across the table. “He’s been getting hefty contributions from TexaMent for years. Look.”
Kara read down the page and saw the entries on the campaign-finance reports that Reece had starred. “Who’s Mike Stanfield?”
“It says here he’s a businessman, but it doesn’t identify the business. I just happen to know he’s the CEO of TexaMent.”
“That’s it. It’s Devlin.” She felt her pulse pick up, felt that rush of adrenaline she always got when a story was finally coming together.
“It certainly seems so. Look at this.” Reece circled Stanfield’s reported address—a rural address with an Adams County zip code—then pointed to fifteen additional entries on last year’s report that had the exact same street address but different names. “Either Stanfield runs a boarding house for wayward donors, or he’s breaking the law.”
She leapt to her feet, dashed into the dining room, grabbed the folder that held the original inspection report, and flipped through its pages. And there it was. She let out a whoop of triumph and almost danced back to the couch. “That’s not Stanfield’s house. It’s Northrup.”
Breathless, she tossed the report into Reece’s lap and watched his face as he read through the first page. He stood, dropped the report on the table, and pulled her into his arms. “Ms. McMillan, I believe your story is in the bag.”
“Well, not quite yet. I still have to interview several people, including Devlin and this Stanfield guy. I doubt either of them is going to be particularly inclined to confess on the record. Crooks never do.”
“Just one of many reasons why bad guys suck.”
“I can’t believe I missed that.” Her euphoria dropped a few notches. “I’d read through the campaign-finance reports line by line, and I missed it.”
He kissed her hair. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. They went out of their way to hide what they were doing. I only caught it because I know the players. You’ve done one hell of a job with this investigation, Kara.”
But her mind was already on the next step. “I need to call Tom.”
“I’M GUESSING a good forty or fifty inches, perhaps twenty to thirty for the main story and a couple sidebars.”
While Kara spoke with her editor, Reece listened from inside the bedroom and made his own plans. He couldn’t prove anything, but he was certain Stanfield was behind both the attack on Kara and Alexis’s murder. The bastard certainly had money and arrogance enough to hire thugs to do that sort of dirty work. Based on his management of Northrup, he also didn’t seem to give a damn whether he was breaking the law or whether his company was hurting people or the environment.
But Stanfield’s winning streak was about to come to an end. Unless he got Reece locked behind bars or put a bullet through his skull in the next twelve hours, Reece was going to walk onto the Senate floor and kill his own bill. Then he planned to do a little interviewing of his own—first Devlin, then Owens, then Stanfield.
He was so lost in thought he didn’t realize Kara was off the phone until she came into the bedroom. “How’d it go?”
“Fine, I think. Except that I get a terrible feeling my editor wants to have sex with my mother. He kept prying for information.” She plopped down on the bed beside him, a look of revulsion on her face. “Tell me that’s illegal.”
He fought back a smile. “Strictly speaking, no.”
“My mom and my editor. Oh, God!”
“Your mom can handle him. Lily is a smart woman—much like her daughter.”
She glared at him. “She and I have next to nothing in common. She’s into all that New Age stuff and—”
“She’s incredibly intelligent. She cares about other people.” He sat up, slipped her bathrobe off her shoulder, punctuated his words with kisses down the soft skin of her back. “She’s sexy. She’s brave. She’s strong. And she loves her only child with every bit of her body and soul.”
He pulled Kara’s bathrobe aside, bared her luscious body, and then turned her so she leaned against him, her back to his chest. He cupped her breasts, teased their taut peaks with his thumbs, and watched them grow tighter still.
“What do you think you’re doing, Senator?” Her eyes were closed, and he could feel her pulse quicken.
“Right now I’m getting you hot and bothered. In a minute, I’m going to go fill up that gigantic sunken bathtub. Then I’m going to climb into the water with you and make you scream.”
“Politicians and their promises.” Her words were breathy whispers.
“Sweetheart, this is one promise I’m going to keep.”
KARA BACKED away from the sliding glass door, heart slamming in her chest. She saw the gun, saw the flash of light when it fired. Then she was running.
Connor sat on the floor in the hallway playing with plastic dinosaurs.
“Hide, Connor! Under your bed!”
She called for him, screamed for him, but he didn’t seem to hear her.
Another gunshot. Behind her glass shattered.
“Connor, run!”
But Connor didn’t budge.
Then the man’s hands were on her, choking her. She fought him, fought to breathe, fought to live.
“Kara! It’s okay! Wake up, sweetheart. It’s just a dream.”
Shaking, feeling sick, her heart hammering in her chest, Kara found herself sitting up in bed, drenched with cold sweat and clinging to Reece, who held her close, stroked her hair, whispered reassurances in her ear. Gradually, her trembling subsided, leaving only nausea and the lingering taste of horror. It had seemed so real. Why did it always seem so real?
“Do you want room service to bring you some tea?”
“No. Just don’t let go of me.” She buried her face in the warm strength of his chest.
“I won’t.”
REECE ROSE before dawn and shared a small pot of tea with Kara. She’d seemed to sleep soundly once she’d fallen asleep again, but there were shadows in her eyes, and he knew the nightmare lingered with her. He told her of his suspicions about Stanfield and warned her to be careful. Then they showered together, and he amused her by using her razor and girl-scented shaving cream on his face.
“You smell like baby powder,” she said, sniffing him and laughing. “How pretty.”
Afterward, he reluctantly kissed her good-bye and left the way he’d come, testing the stairwell door behind him. He wanted to get out onto the street and into a cab before anyone recognized him. As his face had been all over the television yesterday and was surely plastered on the front of every newspaper this morning, that wasn’t going to be easy.
He made it almost all the way to the Capitol before the cabbie recognized him. The man stared at him in the rearview mirror. “Hey, you’re that guy who killed that woman, right?”
“I’m that guy, but I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Whatever you say, buddy. Who knows? Maybe she deserved it. My ex-wife, if I whacked her, she’d deserve it.”
Reece found himself feeling sorry for the man’s ex-wife as he was forced to endure a recitation of the cab driver’s marital woes. He was grateful when the gleaming gold dome of the Capitol came into view. He handed over the cab fare and walked straight up to his office, ignoring the stares, the whispers, and the small cadre of reporters that chased him up the stairs. He’d used Kara’s fax machine to make copies of the key documents implicating Devlin and wanted to do a bit more research before confronting him. Perhaps Devlin had sponsored other bills on behalf of TexaMent.
He opened the file of documents he’d copied and glanced through them while he waited for his computer to boot. He had an hour before he needed to be on the Senate floor. And then Stanfield would get just a small piece of what he had coming to him.
CHAPTER 26
* * *
“TELL MR. Owens I’ll call back every fifteen minutes until I hear from him. Thanks.” Kara hung up the phone. “Damn it!”
She’d gotten Devlin’s voicemail—not surprising, as the Senate was in session this morning. The governor was supposedly out of the office and couldn’t be reached until this afternoon. Owens was still in a meeting—a meeting that would probably last until her deadline had passed. Typical bureaucrat.
If she hadn’t been locked up in this hotel, she would have gone to the governor’s office and the health department and then camped out at the Capitol to wait for Devlin. She was a lot tougher to evade in person. But stuck at the top of a skyscraper, she could do little more than harass whoever answered the phone. The frustration made her want to scream.
That’s not how her day had started. She’d awoken feeling warm and contented, Reece’s arms around her, his lips pressing kisses against her temple. They’d shared the shower and a cup of tea. Then he’d grown serious and told her he believed Mike Stanfield was somehow behind not only the threats and the attack on her life but also the lobbyist’s murder. He’d warned her to be careful, then he’d given her one last lingering kiss and headed off to the Capitol to kill his bill.
And that warm contentment had too quickly been replaced by worries—for Reece, for herself, for Connor, whom she missed horribly. She wanted Reece to have his name cleared. She wanted her life back. She wanted her son and mother to come home. She wanted to be able to figure out where her relationship with Reece was going without violence, nightmares, and threats hanging over both of their heads.
God, she loved him. She hadn’t told him yet, as if not speaking the words would somehow keep her feelings from becoming too real. She hadn’t meant for things to turn out like this. She’d never intended to lose herself over a man again. She’d always imagined that if and when she fell in love again, she would be very grown-up about it—no crazy pounding of the heart, no screaming sex in a sunken tub at midnight, nothing to interfere with her career or complicate her already complicated life.
She’d been wrong. Reece had brought all those things with him—pounding hearts, screaming sex, and a world of complications. But he’d also respected her, stood up for her, and gone out of his way to be thoughtful to both her and Connor. She’d never experienced that kind of easy connection with a man before. With Galen, she’d always felt there was something else she had to do to win his approval—be more sophisticated around his friends, who were so much older and more established than she; be better in bed; make fewer emotional demands. Her relationship with Tom, though it wasn’t sexual, wasn’t much different, as she’d struggled constantly to prove herself to him.
But with Reece, all she had to do was be. He’d accepted her as she was from the night they’d met. Getting lost in him felt an awful lot like . . . finding herself.
She got up from her desk, crossed the room to make herself another cup of tea, and pushed thoughts of him from her mind. She needed to get focused and put these interviews behind her so she could pound out this story. She’d already spoken to a cement-industry expert, who had viewed copies of the videotapes Tom had overnighted to him. The man had sputtered with o
utrage at the images he’d seen—piles of cement-kiln dust, pools of leaked oil, machinery held together with rags and duct tape.
“So what you saw in the videos is not within industry standards?” she’d asked him.
“Are you kidding me? If I were still doing worker-safety inspections, I’d shut that place down. I can’t imagine what the workers are breathing every day. Ten years from now their lungs are gonna be nothing but scar tissue.”
“Is there any chance whatsoever that the individual who made these tapes might have staged the conditions you viewed?”
“How could anyone do that? There’s dust piled up on the ceiling beams. No way could anyone have set that up. What you’re seeing is the result of negligence on the part of management. They’re not putting the necessary time and money into maintaining their equipment, and it’s causing dust and oil leaks. My guess is they’ve either cut back on their cleaning crew or that the cleaning crew flat out can’t keep up with it.”
“Why would management fail to maintain the equipment? Wouldn’t that hurt the company in the long run?”
“Who cares what’s gonna happen in ten or twenty years when you can turn a profit this year? Besides, the rock beds Northrup is mining are expected to play out in the next ten years. Why spend millions on upkeep for a plant you’re gonna be shutting down?”
That information had taken her by surprise, and another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. It was one thing for a company to let its equipment fall apart if that company planned on staying in business. Neglect would eventually impact the company’s bottom line. It was a different situation entirely for a facility only years away from closing its doors forever. Like someone pushing to get that last five thousand miles out of an old car, the bigwigs at TexaMent would save millions if they could just hold the plant together with duct tape until it was time to shut down operations.
The lust for profit. It was the motivation behind all of this. From dumping solvents into the drainage ditch to squelching the results of state inspections to failing to maintain equipment, it all came together in millions at the bank. Even the tire-burning bill had its foundation in the desire for profit, as the company would be getting paid to burn tires rather than paying to burn coal.