“I need to talk to you, Callie.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. Might as well get this over with because her neighbors didn’t deserve the bellowing.
Crossing the room, she jerked open the door. “What?”
His eyes raked over her body and she refused to allow the tingle to creep through and spear her heart anymore.
“Where’s my stuff?” she asked, noting he held nothing and there was no luggage on the stoop.
“I want to take you somewhere,” he told her.
She folded her arms over her chest, as if that would keep more hurt from seeping in. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Just one hour, Callie. That’s all I’m asking for, and at the end of that hour if you don’t want to see me again, I’ll walk away.”
It was so tempting to slam the door in his face, but she couldn’t do it. As much as she hated liars and deceivers, she wanted to know what he had in store for her.
“One hour,” she told him. “No more.”
His shoulders relaxed as he blew out a breath. “Thank you.”
She grabbed her keys and her purse by the door and locked it behind her. By the time she was seated in his car, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. Now that she was in his presence, would she crumble and believe every word he said? She didn’t want to be that woman who believed liars and found excuses to take them back.
“You look beautiful,” he told her as he pulled out of her apartment complex.
“Don’t. I don’t need the pretty words.”
“That time we went to celebrate your role, and you were standing there holding those yellow tickets, I thought of you as the color yellow,” he went on as if she hadn’t said anything. “I know it sounds stupid, but you’re always so vibrant, so alive, and that smile you had on your face as you held that insane amount of tickets, I just thought if Callie were any color, it would be yellow.”
She glanced down to her yellow top and closed her eyes. “What do you want from me, Noah?”
“A fresh start?”
Callie glanced across the spacious SUV and stared at him. “What?”
“I called my real-estate agent and accepted that last offer on my house. I’m moving back into my old house.”
Her heart clenched as she fisted her hands in her lap to keep from reaching for him. “That’s great.”
“And I have a proposition for you, but you can take time to think about it.”
Intrigued, and angry at her crumbling defenses, she asked, “What is it?”
He spared her a glance as he came to a red light. “I want you to still model for me. I’ve made a decision on the new office I’m opening.”
Reaching across, he took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m going to make it a surgical center for victims who have been scarred or burned.”
Callie jerked her hand back, bringing it to her mouth in an attempt to hide her quivering chin. “Noah…”
He pulled ahead when the light changed and then turned into the pizza place where they’d “celebrated” weeks ago. Once the car was in Park, he faced her, taking both of her hands now.
“You’ve taught me so much, Callie. You can’t know how you’ve opened my eyes to what’s important.” His eyes filled with unshed tears. “After meeting your family, learning even more about you and knowing how hard you’ve fought for what you want, I know that you are the woman I want in my life. I want your drive, your determination…your love.”
Callie shook her head. “You don’t mean that. You just see me as another woman who left you.”
“You and Malinda may have similar appearances, but that’s where the similarities stop. You have my heart, Callie, in a way I don’t think she ever did. Yes, I’ll always have a piece of me that loves her, but what I feel for you is so big, so beyond anything I’ve ever known. I can’t give you up and I won’t let you give up on us. Not when we’re so close to perfection.”
Callie glanced to the restaurant, saw all the kids inside playing games, getting tickets and running around with smiles.
She wanted to believe every word he said. She firmly believed that if he didn’t truly love her, he wouldn’t have acted so fast after she left. He wouldn’t have sold his house, wouldn’t have shown up at her door ready to fight for what they had.
She glanced back to him. “What are we doing here, Noah?”
His smile widened. “Celebrating.”
“What are we celebrating?”
He reached behind her seat and pulled out the ugly monkey she’d won weeks ago. “It’s not a ring, but I’m hoping you’ll celebrate spending our lives together. Forever.”
Callie looked at the pathetic stuffed animal and smiled through tears. “God, that was so romantic and silly at the same time.” She laughed.
“What do you say we go in and win more ridiculous stuff to put in our house?”
She threw her arms around his neck and held tight. “I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.”
Noah eased back, framed her face and kissed her lips. “I love you, Callie Matthews.”
She saw the truth in his watery eyes. “I love you, too.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from A Conflict of Interest by Barbara Dunlop
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One
It was inauguration night in Washington, D.C., and Cara Cranshaw had to choose between her president and her lover. One strode triumphantly though the arches of the Worthington Hotel ballroom to the uplifting strains of “Hail to the Chief” and the cheers of eight hundred well-wishers. The other stared boldly at her from across the ballroom, a shock of unruly, dark hair curling across his forehead, his bow tie slightly askew and his eyes telegraphing the message that he wanted her naked.
For the moment, it was investigative reporter Max Gray who held her attention. Despite her resolve to turn the page on their relationship, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his, nor could she stop her hand from reflexively moving to her abdomen. But Max was off-limits now that Ted Morrow had been sworn in as president.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the master of ceremonies above the music and enthusiastic clapping that was spreading like a wave across the hall. “The President of the United States.” His voice rang out from the microphone onstage at the opposite end of the massive, high-ceilinged room.
The cheers grew to a roar. The band’s volume increased. And the crowd shifted, separating to form a pathway in front of President Morrow. Cara automatically moved with them, but she still couldn’t tear her gaze from Max as he took a few steps backward on the other side of the divide.
She schooled her features, struggling to transmit her resolve. She couldn’t let him see the confusion and alarm she’d been feeling since her doctor’s visit that afternoon. Resolve, she ruthlessly reminded herself, not hesitation and definitely not fear.
“He’s running late.” Sandy Haniford’s shout sounded shrill in Cara’s ear.
Sandy was a junior staffer in the White House press office, where Cara worked as a public relations specialist. While Cara was moving from ball to ball tonight with the president’s entourage, Sandy was stationed here as liaison to the American News Service event.
“Only by a few minut
es,” Cara shouted back, her eyes still on Max.
Resolve, she repeated to herself. The unexpected pregnancy might have tipped her world on its axis, but it didn’t change her job tonight. And it didn’t alter her responsibility to the president.
“I was hoping the president would get here a little early,” Sandy continued, her voice still raised. “We have a last-minute addition to the speaker lineup.”
Cara twisted her head; Sandy’s words had instantly broken Max’s psychological hold on her. “Come again?”
“Another speaker.”
“You can’t do that.”
“It’s done,” said Sandy.
“Well, undo it.”
The speakers, especially those at the events hosted by organizations less than friendly to the president, had been vetted weeks in advance. American News Service was no friend of President Morrow, but the cable network’s ball was a tradition, so he’d had no choice but to show up.
It was a tightly scripted appearance, with only thirty minutes in the Worthington ballroom. He would arrive at ten forty-five—well, ten fifty-two as it turned out—then he was to leave at eleven-fifteen. The Military Inaugural Ball was next on the schedule, and the president had made it clear he wanted to be on time to greet the troops.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Sandy. “Should I tackle the guy when he steps up to the microphone?” Sarcasm came through her raised voice.
“You should have solved the problem before it came to that.” Cara lifted her phone to contact her boss, White House Press Secretary Lynn Larson.
“Don’t you think I tried?”
“Obviously not hard enough. How could you give them permission to add a new speaker?”
“They didn’t ask,” Sandy pointed out with a frown. “Graham Boyle himself put Mitch Davis on the agenda for a toast. Two minutes, they say, tops.”
Mitch Davis was a star reporter for ANS. Graham Boyle might be the billionaire owner of the network, and the sponsor of this ball, but even he didn’t get to dictate to the president.
Cara couldn’t help an errant glance at Max. As the most popular investigative reporter at ANS’s rival, National Cable News, he was a mover and shaker himself. He might have some insight into what was up. But Cara couldn’t ask him about this or anything else to do with her job, not now and not ever again.
Cara pressed a speed-dial button for her boss.
It rang but then went to voice mail.
She hung up and tried again.
She could see that the president had arrived at the head table, in front of and below the stage. He was accepting the congratulations of the smartly dressed guests. The men wore Savile Row tuxedos, while the woman were draped in designer fabrics that shimmered under the refracted light of several dozen crystal chandeliers.
The MC, popular ANS talk show host David Batten, returned to the microphone. He offered a brief but hearty welcome and congratulations to the president before handing the microphone over to Graham Boyle. According to the schedule, Graham had three minutes to speak. Then the president would have one dance with the female chair of a local hospital charity and a second with Shelley Michaels, another popular ANS celebrity. That was to be followed by seven minutes at his table with ANS board members before taking his leave.
Cara gave up on her cell phone and started making her way toward the stage. There was a staircase at either end, nothing up the middle. So she knew she had a fifty-fifty chance of stopping Mitch Davis before he made it to the microphone. Too bad she wasn’t a little larger, a little brawnier, maybe a little more male.
Once again, her thoughts turned to Max. The man dodged bullets in war-torn cities, scaled mountains to reach rebel camps and fought his way through crocodiles and hippos for stories on the struggles of indigenous people. If Max Gray didn’t want a person up onstage, that person was not getting up onstage. Too bad she couldn’t enlist his help and would have to rely on her own wits.
She chose the stairs at stage right, wending her way through the packed crowd.
Graham Boyle was waxing poetic about ANS’s role in the presidential election. He’d taken a couple of jabs at President Morrow’s alma mater and its unfortunate choice of mascot given current relations with Brazil. But that was all fair game.
Cara wished she was taller. At five foot five, she couldn’t see the stairs to know if Mitch was waiting to go up on the right-hand side. She regretted having gone for the comfortable two-inch heels instead of the flashy four-inch spikes that her sister, Gillian, had given her for Christmas. She could have used the height.
“Where are you going?” It was Max’s voice in her ear.
“None of your business,” she retorted, attempting to speed up and put some distance between them.
“You have that determined look in your eyes.”
“Go away.”
He tucked in close beside her. “Maybe I can help.”
“Not now, Max.” She was working. Why did he have to do this to her?
“Your destination can’t possibly be a state secret.”
She relented. “I’m trying to get to the stage. Okay? Are you happy?”
“Follow me.” He stepped in front of her.
His six-foot-two-inch height and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure. She supposed it didn’t hurt any that he was famous, either. Last month, he’d been voted one of the ten hottest men in D.C. The upshot was he could move through a crowd far faster than she could. Resigned, she stuck to his coattails.
Even with Max clearing the way, they eventually got stuck behind a crowd of people.
“Why do you want to get to the stage?” He turned to ask her.
“For the record,” she responded, “I don’t know any state secrets. I don’t have that kind of job.”
“And since I’m not a foreign spy, we should be able to carry on a conversation without compromising national security.”
An unmistakable voice came over the sound system. “Good evening, Mr. President,” drawled Mitch Davis.
A murmur of surprise moved across the room, since Mitch was a known detractor of President Morrow. Cara rocked back on her heels. She’d failed to stop him.
“First, let me say, on behalf of American News Service, congratulations, sir, on your election as President of the United States.”
The applause came up on cue, though perhaps not as strong as usual.
“Your friends,” Mitch continued with a hearty game-show-host smile, “your supporters and your mother and father must all be very proud.”
Cara strained to catch the president’s expression, wondering if he would be angry or merely annoyed by the deviation from the program. But there was no way to see through the dense crowd.
“The president is smiling,” Max offered, obviously guessing her concern. “It looks a little strained though.”
“Davis is not on the program,” Cara ground out.
“No kidding,” Max returned, as if only an idiot would think otherwise.
She glared at him, then elbowed her way past, maneuvering through the crowd toward the president’s table below the stage. Lynn Larson was going to be furious. It wasn’t exactly Cara’s responsibility to ensure that this specific ball went smoothly, but she had been working closely with the staffers coordinating each one. She was partly to blame for this.
Thankfully, Max didn’t follow her.
“I expect nobody is prouder than your daughter,” said Mitch, just as Cara reached a place where she could see Mitch on stage.
There was a confused silence in the room, because the president was single and didn’t have any children. Confused herself, Cara rocked to a halt a few feet from Lynn at the president’s table. Lynn glanced toward the stairs at the end of the stage, as if she was gauging how long it would take her to get there.
Mitch waited a beat, microphone in one hand, glass of champagne in the other. “Your long-lost daughter, Ariella Winthrop, who is with us here tonight to celebrate.”
It took
half a second for the crowd to react. Maybe they were trying to figure out if it was a sick joke. Cara certainly was.
But she quickly realized it was something far more sinister than a joke, and her gaze flew to the corner of the stage, where she’d glimpsed her friend Ariella, whose event-planning company had been hired to throw the ANS ball. When Cara focused on Ariella, her stomach sank like a stone. As soon as it was pointed out, the resemblance between Ariella and the president was quite striking. And Cara had known for years that Ariella was adopted. Ariella didn’t know her birth parents.
The crowd’s murmurs rose in volume, everyone asking each other what they knew, had heard, had thought or had speculated. Cara could only imagine at least a thousand text messages had gone out already.
She took a half step toward Ariella, but the woman turned on her heel, disappearing behind the stage. There were at least a dozen doorways back there, most cordoned off from the guests by security. Hopefully, Ariella would make a quick getaway.
Mitch raised his glass. “To the president.”
Everyone ignored him.
Cara moved toward Lynn as the crowd’s questions turned to shouts and the press descended on the table.
“If you would direct your questions to me,” Lynn called, standing up from her chair and drawing, at least for a moment, the attention of the reporters away from President Morrow.
The man looked shell-shocked.
“We obviously take any accusation of this nature very seriously,” Lynn began. She looked to Cara, subtly jerking her head toward the stage.
Cara reacted immediately, skirting around the impromptu press conference to get to the microphone onstage. Damage Control 101—get ahead of the story.
She quickly noted that the security detail had surrounded the president, moving him toward the nearest exit. She knew the drill. The limos would be waiting at the curb before the president even got out the door.
She had no idea if the accusation was true or if Mitch Davis had simply exploited the resemblance between Ariella and the president. But it didn’t matter. The texts, tweets and blogs had likely made it to California and Seattle, probably all the way across the Atlantic by now.
Hollywood House Call Page 17