Extreme Exposure

by Pamela Clare

  Moira and Ed Farnsworth read it over their morning coffee, called Dottie and Carl Perkins over, and spent most of the morning together discussing it. Moira set her china cup down daintily in its saucer. “Well, I think we should sue the bastards.”

  Miguel de la Peña read the story from inside his cell at the Denver County Jail and wept. He’d be going home today. Well, not really home. Because he’d turned state’s witness, he, Hilaria, and the kids were going to be placed in protective custody until the case was resolved. He only hoped his family and Reece would one day forgive him.

  Juan de la Peña read it shackled to his hospital bed, bleary from the anesthesia they’d given him when they wired his jaw back together. He got through the first paragraph before throwing it across the room. He forgot about his jaw, tried to shout, and ended up whimpering like a baby.

  Galen Prentice, having made bond late last night, read it in his lawyer’s office and swore he’d never known that any of this was going on. He slammed the paper on his lawyer’s desk. “I’m the victim here! Why doesn’t anyone understand that?”

  Drew Devlin hadn’t read it yet when the police knocked on his front door and asked if he’d be willing to come down to the station to answer a few questions. He got the chance to read it at his leisure while waiting in booking for his lawyer. “It’s lies. It’s all bullshit,” he told the toothless drunk sitting next to him.

  Mike Stanfield was unable to read it. Although doctors had successfully removed the S.W.A.T. team bullet from his liver, cement kiln dust had burned his corneas so severely that he wouldn’t be reading much of anything for a while if ever again.

  But thirty floors up, Kara and Reece slept in one another’s arms, oblivious.

  CHAPTER 30

  * * *

  KARA WAS lost in the most erotic dream. Reece was cupping her breasts, his thumbs drawing circles around her aching nipples, his lips on her throat. Then he entered her from behind as she lay on her side, his cock moving thick and hard inside her, his fingers busy between her thighs.

  She awoke to the sound of her own cry just as the climax washed through her, hot and sweet.

  He leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Good morning.”

  He was still inside her. And he was still hard.

  She smiled. “Good morning.”

  A half hour later, she lay with her head against his chest, her body still pulsing with pleasure. She ran her hand over the muscles of his chest and toyed with a flat brown nipple.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still feeling frisky after that.” His voice, still rough with sleep, rumbled in his chest.

  “Maybe.”

  He shifted, brought her closer, and stroked her hair. “Sorry, sweetheart. Unlike you, I have to reload.”

  “Actually, that’s probably a good thing, because I’m sore. Every muscle in my body aches.”

  He slid gently out from beneath her, sat up, and looked down at her through eyes dark with worry. “Stay here.”

  She couldn’t even think about getting up. Her legs ached. Her ribs ached. Her head ached. Her shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed her. Her skin stung in the places where the cement kiln dust had touched her. She was a wreck.

  He strode across the room, gloriously naked. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  In a moment he returned with a cup of steaming tea and a bottle. “Drink. Then lie down however you’re most comfortable.”

  She sat up slowly, wincing, took the tea, and stared at the bottle in his hands. It held an amber-colored liquid. “What’s that?”

  “Massage oil. I found it in the bathroom.” He grinned, sat beside her. “I figure the gold-medal winner in the Run from the Bad Guys Olympics deserves some TLC.”

  She laughed despite herself, sipped her tea, and then lay down on her back.

  His hands worked over her slowly, gently, massaging the almond-scented oil into her skin. Her muscles began gradually to loosen, the pain to lessen, and she found herself telling him in detail what had happened at the plant.

  How she’d tried to stall Stanfield with questions. How she’d demanded to know whether Reece was still alive. How her heart had nearly broken through her chest when she’d believed that he was dead. How, as they’d been about to throw her into the blaze, a strange clarity had come over her. How she’d escaped from Juan and run. How she’d tried to hide. How her last thoughts before she’d been hit on the head had been of him and Connor.

  He listened, his hands soothing her, forcing her to relax when she grew tense, easing the memory of fear and rage away.

  Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. “The worst of it was wondering how much you’d suffered and knowing I’d never have the chance to tell you I love you.”

  “It’s over. Stanfield can’t hurt you or anyone you care about again.” He bent over her, kissed her, and wiped away her tears. Then he stood and scooped her into his arms.

  “Wh-where—?”

  “After a massage, it’s time for a hot soak. My soccer coach used to do this for us.”

  She laughed. “Hopefully not exactly like this!”

  “Well, most of the time he made love to us after the massage and soak.”

  Her laughter was the most beautiful sound in the world to Reece. He filled the sunken tub with steaming water, helped her climb in, and then waited until room service had brought their breakfast—champagne, omelets, and fresh fruit—to join her.

  As they fed each other and sipped champagne in the soothing heat, he told her how enraged, desperate, and helpless he’d felt driving down the highway, counting every second, fearing he was already too late.

  “And when I saw you, watched them drop you on the ground as if you were garbage—good God, Kara! I could have killed every one of them with my bare hands and enjoyed it!”

  She lifted herself and kissed him. “It’s over. Except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “What about Miguel?”

  A white-hot shard of pain sliced through his gut, and his words came out harsh and angry. “What about him?”

  “I can’t imagine how much it hurt to realize he’d betrayed you. He was your best friend, Reece, and he tried to kill you.”

  “I don’t think he was ever truly a threat to me, but he gave Stanfield everything he needed to hurt you.” He remembered Miguel’s sobbing as he poured out his story to the sergeant-at-arms, felt the seeds of pity, and ignored them. The anger was still too strong. “I’ve always admired him for being such a devoted family man. It’s strange to think his devotion nearly brought him down.”

  “I hope someday you’ll be able to forgive him.”

  “Forgive, probably. Trust? I doubt it.” He picked up the champagne and refilled their glasses. “I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about how much I love you.”

  A smile spread over her beautiful face, and she seemed to glow. “You finally said it!”

  “I’ve said it before.”

  She shook her head, still smiling. “No, you haven’t.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Okay, fine. Maybe I haven’t. But I do. I love you, Kara McMillan.”

  “Good.” Her gaze traveled down his body, and her pupils dilated. She bit her lip.

  He felt himself grow hard. “What are you thinking?”

  Her hands slid up his water-slick chest. “I’m thinking how if I had your body, I would never leave the house. I would stay in bed all day every day because I wouldn’t be able to stop playing with myself. Truly, I don’t know how you do it.”

  He set his champagne aside, leaned against the back of the tub, and stretched his arms out along its edge. “Well, sweetheart, don’t let the fact that you’re not in this body stop you. Go for it. Feel free to consider me your own personal playground.”

  BY THE time they were out of the tub and dressed it was almost two in the afternoon. The red message light on their ph
one blinked furiously. Kara brushed her wet hair and watched while Reece listened to the messages and took down the details on a pad of paper.

  When he was finished he turned to her. “There are five messages from Tom offering you a raise and two from your mother saying she’s heard the news and wants to know you’re safe. And let’s see: CNN, Fox News, CNN again, Larry King, the New York Times, the Columbia Journalism Rev—”

  “You’re kidding me!” She grabbed the list from him, read through it. “Jeez. And this story wasn’t even that well written. I was so rushed—”

  He snorted. “Oh, give me a break!”

  “And what’s this? Someone calling to find out if you want to run for Congress?” She felt her humor evaporate and looked up at him. “I guess we both have some choices to make, don’t we?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Maybe it was.

  Kara called Henry Marsh first and gave him the full story. “If you hadn’t stepped forward, Mike Stanfield would have gotten away with it. You truly are a hero, Mr. Marsh.”

  “Hell, I didn’t do anything. I sure am sorry for what you went through. If I had known what would happen, I’m not sure I’d do it again.”

  “Will you be moving back to Colorado now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of liking Tennessee, truth be told. We might try things here for a while. I got a good job at the hardware store, and my wife is happy. Don’t know what could be better than that.”

  Kara wished him well and then returned her long list of messages. She gave what seemed like a dozen interviews and set up half a dozen more, the whole time asking herself one question: what did she want?

  She thought she knew. No. She knew she knew. But could she just ask for it? Could it be that easy?

  For so many years now she’d had so few choices. She’d worked hard at her job, paid the bills, and made ends meet. She’d worked hard at being a good mother, too, and tried her best to give Connor the life he deserved. When it came to meeting her own needs, satisfying her own desires, she’d never had the time, the money, or space to worry about such things. Could she afford to do so now?

  “Love you, too, Mom. Can’t wait to see you. Bye-bye.” She hung up the phone and turned to see Reece reading through her article, his face grim.

  He looked up from the page. “How’s Connor?”

  “He loves the beach. Now he’s fascinated by pirate ships. I guess my aunt has been telling him pirate stories. They’ll be coming into DIA tomorrow at 12:57 on United.”

  “We’ll take your car. I don’t think the Jeep will fit all four of us plus luggage, and we’ll need Connor’s car seat.” He spoke the words as if there were no question that both of them would be going to get her son and mother, as if he were a part of her life, a part of her family.

  It was now or never.

  Kara took a deep breath and plunged in. “Reece, I know what I want to do, and I’m just going to come out and tell you. We’ve never had ‘the talk’—you know, the relationship talk?”

  He set the paper aside, “Someone always avoided it.”

  “Well, yes, but, whatever.” She gestured impatiently. “It comes down to this: I don’t want to be with a man who’s going to say he loves me one minute and gets sick of me the next. I don’t want to be with a man who will be sweet to Connor and then abandon him. I’d rather be alone than go through that.”

  He stood. “I—”

  She pressed her fingers to his lips and ignored her fears. “Shh! Let me finish. I don’t want to give up my career. And I don’t want Connor to be an only child. I want a husband, Reece, a mate for life. I want a man who really loves me, who will stick by me no matter what, even when he gets bored with me and thinks I’m old and ugly. I want babies—at least one more, probably two. And I want to work as a freelance journalist so I can stay home with them. I want a father for Connor, someone who will adopt him, become his legal parent.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I want a puppy. For Connor.” It felt good, once she got it all out. “Even though I love you, Reece, and can’t imagine a single day without you, I’d rather end it right now if you don’t want me in the same way, if you’re not comfortable with my—”

  “Demands?” Reece offered gravely.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, met her gaze, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She’d laid it on the line this time. Everything that mattered to her was on the line.

  “In that case, I guess there’s only one thing I can say.”

  Her pulse tripping, she waited.

  He tucked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face toward his. “Kara McMillan, will you marry me?”

  EPILOGUE

  * * *

  Eighteen months later

  Kara glanced at the clock. It was four-fifteen. She needed to start supper soon, but she could probably squeeze out a few more paragraphs first. Her book deadline was still six weeks away, but given how little writing time she got with a new baby, she wanted to take full advantage of every moment of peace and quiet.

  She’d been offered the book contract while she and Reece were in Costa Rica on their honeymoon. Penguin had offered her an ungodly sum to write a nonfiction account of the TexaMent investigation and its aftermath, and she’d gone almost overnight from being a newly unemployed journalist trying to build a freelance career to being an author with more than a year’s salary in the bank.

  She’d never written a book before and, at first, it had seemed like an overwhelming task. But she’d gotten to work on it and discovered that writing a book wasn’t all that different from writing a news article—a book was just a lot longer. The hardest part had been the emotional toll of reliving it all again.

  After she’d written the chapter in which John Weaver tried to rape and kill her, she’d begun having nightmares again. Those nightmares had gotten so bad at one point that she’d become afraid to go to sleep, sure that in her dreams she’d be running and running and running, only to find herself staring into Stanfield’s face and the unbearable heat of the kiln. Reece, afraid that the dreams were exacting too high a cost on her and their unborn baby, had asked her to put it aside for a time. She hadn’t, and despite his frustration with her, in the end he’d seemed to understand.

  But the nightmares had passed. She was almost finished writing about the trial and other events that had followed. As a result of his brother’s heartbreaking and tearful testimony, Juan de la Peña had been sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. He’d been killed a few months later in a prison fight.

  For testifying against Stanfield and his own brother, Miguel had received a suspended sentence. His dignity and self-respect recovered, but his Senate seat lost, he’d thrown himself into building a support program for family members of convicted felons. Sophie had written an article about it that had garnered attention from across the nation. And in a gesture that had brought a lump to Kara’s throat, Reece had sponsored a bill that allowed Coloradans to donate a portion of their income tax refunds to the organization.

  Galen had avoided a trial by pleading guilty to a watered-down conspiracy charge. In return, he’d gotten a year’s probation, a sentence that had outraged Reece. Galen had also been disbarred and was now unemployed and living with his seventy-year-old mother.

  Devlin had claimed to the end that he’d never known anything about murder plots or threatening phone calls or fraudulent campaign donations, and the jury had believed him.

  Stanfield, despite a legal team that included five glitzy criminal attorneys, had been convicted of first-degree murder, two counts of conspiracy to commit murder, two counts of attempted murder, several accounts of assault, and numerous environmental crimes, for which he’d been sentenced to a total of one-hundred-twenty-five years in prison. Then he’d had to face a long civil trial for mismanagement at the hands of TexaMent’s shareholders. Kara found it somehow fitting that he was now using all the money he’d made trying in vain to
appeal his way out of prison.

  TexaMent had faced a trial of its own. Its executives had claimed not to know what was happening at their Northrup plant, which the feds had shut down within days of Kara’s article being published. The company had settled out of court with its neighbors and been slapped with a few million in fines—which they were now trying to collect from Stanfield.

  Kara had debated adding a couple chapters to describe what she jokingly referred to as the “Harrowing of the Senate,” but that was really Reece’s story to tell, not hers. He’d chaired the ethics committee hearings that had taken more than a year to complete and spent countless nights going over testimony and reading through records and transcripts. In the end, the governor had resigned in disgrace and more than a few lawmakers had found themselves paying restitution for expenses improperly charged to the taxpayers. Few of them were even bothering to run for re-election. Devlin was one of the stubborn ones—but polls showed him losing in a landslide.

  The whole ordeal had put Reece in the spotlight, loved as a hero by some, loathed by others. His re-election campaign was going well, and he was expected to win with about 80 percent of the vote in his district. If members of his party had their way, he’d be running for Congress in two years. But they didn’t know her husband the way she did. Though he never complained, she knew he wanted nothing more than to return to teaching.

  “If we teach kids ethics and we teach them how their government is supposed to function, this sort of thing will be less likely to happen,” he’d said more than once.

  Her idealist. God, how she loved him! Not a day went by where she wasn’t grateful for those three margaritas and Holly’s inept meddling.

  Whatever he decided to do, Kara would support him, just as he’d supported her in her career decisions.

  Over the nursery monitor came a whimper that, Kara knew, would quickly develop into a lusty cry. She hit save, closed her document file, and left her desk to get Caitlyn from her crib.