Liar, Liar, Tabloid Writer

by Suzie Quint

  She’d learned early how generous he could be. Whether it was dinner at a swanky restaurant or a weekend trip to Bermuda, he was always willing to pay, not only for her but for anyone he invited along. As long as they didn’t expect him to. The second someone started taking it for granted, Martin started to grumble. If it continued, he’d find a way to stick them with a hefty tab someplace. If that didn’t cure the unappreciated freeloading, the invitations stopped coming.

  Cleo didn’t blame him for being sensitive. She would be, too, if she had more money than God’s next-door neighbor. But after a year together, shouldn’t he have understood she wasn’t one of those people?

  She killed the engine, got out, and waved before walking toward him. “Hello, Martin.”

  He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “We’ve got to hustle. Our tee time is in five minutes.”

  She got in the cart and off they went to the first hole.

  “Have you been playing?” he asked.

  “Not much.” Not at all, actually. It was an expensive sport and she was on a tight budget. She’d never even walked onto a golf course before she met Martin, but he was a true devotee. He’d even insisted on paying for private lessons with a pro, so she’d improve. He hadn’t gotten his money’s worth because she sliced like a crazy person.

  “You’ve got to play if you want to get better.”

  How did she tell him she’d never really cared? He could have played the pro circuit if he’d wanted to. She, on the other hand, was never going to be more than a talented novice—the expensive pro’s inflated opinion—because being good at golf required an investment of both time and money.

  As competitive as she normally was, she didn’t see the point of having her handicap engraved on her tombstone. She was there to enjoy the day, get a little exercise, and most importantly, to hear what Martin had to say about the possibility of returning to her old job.

  They were on the third hole when she couldn’t take it any longer. She waited until he’d teed off and they were in the golf cart, heading for her ball on the right side of the fairway.

  “This offer to come back to The Sun—is it real?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be real?”

  That wasn’t good. Martin didn’t answer questions with questions.

  “Have you talked to Jeff about it?”

  Jeff Welker, her editor at The Sun, hadn’t protested her resignation very convincingly. She’d suspected from the assignments he’d given her he thought she hadn’t paid her dues properly. Not that he was blatant about it. And she did understand. Sort of. She hadn’t spent time doing the grunt work reporters generally did in the beginning. Not that she wasn’t willing to do some of that, but she’d hoped to be fast tracked. After all, hadn’t she proved she could deliver? In their entire career, only a small percentage of reporters garnered a Pulitzer nomination.

  “I did,” Martin said.

  “And?”

  “Jeff seems to think you weren’t happy at The Sun.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Not happy? Of course, I was happy. I was ecstatic to get hired there.”

  He brought the cart to a halt, but didn’t get out. Instead, he twisted in his seat, his arm resting across the back, so he was facing her. “Yeah. In the beginning. But you quit. And I still don’t know why.”

  Having his full attention on her made her feel as if he was expecting a confession. “It wasn’t because I was unhappy. It was . . . a personal conflict.”

  “Financial problems.”

  She hesitated then nodded. “And that’s still an issue.”

  “I know I handled it badly when you came to me, but I can help you with that.”

  “I’m not sure it matters if Jeff doesn’t want me back.”

  “What you need to do is come back from a position of strength.” His bicep tightened as he held up a fist, illustrating his point. “You’ve proven yourself once. If you do it again, come back with another killer story, you can negotiate the position you really want.”

  She could do that. Maybe. Except it would take time to find a story, research, and write it, and by then, it would be too late. Her byline in The Word would be out there. No reputable paper would touch her.

  “This story about Koblect, for instance. This is going to be a big story.”

  “What? No.” Why was everyone so blind? Alec she could understand. He worked for a tabloid where creative fiction was a way of life. All he needed was the possibility of scandal. But Martin? She wouldn’t have expected his imagination to be so vivid. “There’s no story here. He got drunk and drowned in his tub.”

  “I have a source that says otherwise.”

  “What are you talking about?” Her voice roughened and dropped an octave.

  His smile said he knew he’d hooked her. “I thought that might interest you. The coroner found bruises on Koblect’s neck.” He laid his hands at the base of her throat. “Someone held him under.”

  In spite of the day’s heat, she went cold. Could Alec have been right all along? Was there something more to Sebastian’s death than she’d thought? After she’d been so adamant that the death was an accident, he’d never let her forget it if she was wrong. “You’ve seen the coroner’s report?”

  “No, but my source has.”

  She didn’t bother asking how he’d found that source or who it was. Like any good reporter, he would go to jail before he revealed a confidential source’s identity. That was why people sometimes confided things they shouldn’t to reporters. That, and maybe a little monetary gain if the reporter wanted the information badly enough. Maybe The Word wasn’t as out of step as she’d initially thought.

  “Your reporter’s instincts are good, and this is your home court,” Martin said. “Between us, we can write a story no one else can. And then, you walk back into The Sun and write your own ticket. No one will be able to say you were a one-hit wonder.”

  “A one-hit—is that what they said?” She’d never heard it, but it made sense. It explained why Jeff hadn’t put her on better stories.

  “Not anyone who counted,” he said. “But it’ll lay it to rest for good.”

  She felt almost lightheaded. What she needed was time to sort through it all, but she didn’t have that luxury. Still, she desperately wanted to keep this door open.

  “I really like your proposition, but”—she took a deep breath—“I should tell you . . .”

  “Tell me what?

  “I’m kind of already working on the story.”

  He smiled as though he expected nothing less. “Of course, you are. You’re a reporter. You’ve got ink in your veins.”

  He’d called her a reporter. Not an investigative journalist as Alec had. It didn’t mean anything, she told herself. She focused on what mattered—this story. A deep breath and, on the exhale, she said, “And I kind of already have a partner.”

  He flipped his golf club in his fingers as though it were a baton. “Are you locked in?”

  Was she? Morally, yes, she’d taken The Word’s money. They were paying her salary. It wouldn’t be ethical to jump ship, but this was the rest of her life they were talking about. A life that could be spent following important, worthwhile stories. She shoved away what Alec had said. The truth was, working at a tabloid, she’d waste her time and talent writing about Bigfoot and Elvis sightings.

  There had to be a way out. “It’s complicated.”

  “Is this about the money you wanted to borrow?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “If I loan you the money, would that solve the problem?”

  She opened her mouth to say yes, but the words stuck in her throat. If she took the loan, she’d be in debt to him. Maybe for a long time. It didn’t feel like a good place to be. Worse, it felt like taking two steps back. As repulsive as working at The Word was, she didn’t owe anyone anything. Yes, they’d bought her, and she resented it, but they’d get their money’s worth. She’d make sure of it. If she stayed.

  What w
as she thinking? Of course, she wasn’t going to stay at the tabloid if she didn’t have to.

  But there was still that pesky issue of her integrity. So instead of jumping on his offer, she said, “A loan might solve the problem, but I need to think it through.” She laid a hand on his forearm. “Don’t get me wrong. I really want to come back.”

  “I understand,” Martin said, and maybe he thought he did, but she doubted it. “We should keep this conversation between us,” he continued, “until we get a deal hammered out.”

  She couldn’t agree more. “Let’s finish our game.”

  But it wasn’t fun the way Alec said games should be, and she wanted to throttle him for making her aware of that.

  Chapter 20

  Alec examined the grouping of pictures on the living room wall. The mix was fairly balanced between Annaliese and Jada, several in their showgirl costumes.

  The upstairs door to the master bedroom opened. What would have been a quick glance toward the stairs turned into an appreciative gaze as Jada began to descend. She embodied a gracefulness he seldom saw in everyday life. Has to be the showgirl training. He wondered if Annaliese appreciated it the way a man would or if she took it for granted since she possessed it as well.

  “I’m surprised,” he said as she approached, “there aren’t any pictures of Cleo. Annaliese seems so fond of her.”

  Jada gave him a confused look then turned to the pictures. Her head cocked to one side. “That’s strange. There’s always pictures of Cleo here.”

  She turned and walked across the room. Alec trailed behind. She even walked like she was on stage.

  “Well, this one’s still here.” She’d stopped in front of the picture of Annaliese and Patty.

  “No, that’s Annaliese’s daughter.”

  Jada gave him a strange look, as though he were the simple-minded one. “Yes. That’s Annaliese and Cleo.”

  “No, it’s―” He stared at the picture.

  She lied to me.

  Of course, it was Cleo. And she’d gotten Annaliese to back up the lie, which led him to wonder why it mattered so much.

  Now there was a stupid question. If he couldn’t figure that one out, he wasn’t any kind of reporter at all.

  Annaliese embarrassed Cleo. And heck, he didn’t blame her one bit. Annaliese as a slightly out-of-the-box relative was one thing. Embarrassing? Sure. Annaliese as a mother? That was shudder-worthy.

  Not that he didn’t like Annaliese. He did. But mothers were supposed to keep you in line. They taught you wisdom and restraint and, as Annaliese herself had pointed out, gave you something to rebel against. How did you rebel against a woman who was as free spirited as Annaliese? A woman who connived to get you to share a bed with a guy you hadn’t even known a week?

  Was it any wonder Cleo had made a vow of chastity?

  Obviously, that hadn’t lasted—she had spent a year involved with that rich guy in Tucson—so she’d found her way back to normal. Or at least as normal as anyone else. But she was tentative and easily distracted as though her experience was limited.

  He’d bet she had lots of experience fighting guys off, though. With a body like hers, she had to. And yet, she’d let him seduce her. Not that he hadn’t had to work for it, but she hadn’t actually said a resounding no anywhere along the way either.

  For whatever reason, he figured he was one of a few select guys she’d slept with. So maybe he should start treating her more gently. Which he would. Right after he busted her chops for lying to him about her mother.

  Not long after his realization, Annaliese walked in laden with bags from the grocery store. She took him up on his offer to help, and after he made two trips to the car, he found a copy of the latest issue of The Inside Word on the counter as if waiting for him.

  He sat on one of the stools. “I didn’t realize you were our demographic.”

  “I’m not normally, but I thought I should support Cleo’s employer.”

  Cleo walked in as he was about to offer to help put away groceries.

  “How was your brunch?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said without looking at him. She grabbed one of the grocery bags and started unloading it.

  If Annaliese hadn’t been there, he would have succumbed to his first instinct and let her know the cat was out of the bag. It’s what he would have done if he’d caught one of his buddies in a lie of that magnitude.

  The enforced delay was really a blessing. It would be a lot more fun later, when they were alone, to lead Cleo into a conversation about mothers in general. He wanted to see her bending over backward to cover her ass.

  He spent a few minutes setting it up in his mind then imagining it play out. When she’d dug herself a deep enough hole, he’d reveal he knew her big secret. And then she’d bust his chops right back.

  Or he could play with the secret for a while. Really make her worry. Then he caught himself. What he’d just been considering was a seriously dangerous route. Cleo was a woman after all, and women could be unpredictable if they thought you were toying with them. He rubbed his chin as he tried to assess the risk.

  She caught the movement. “You don’t agree?”

  He had no idea what the women had been talking about while they worked. “Sorry. I was thinking about something else.”

  She tilted an eyebrow as though questioning his ability to achieve independent thought then bent over to put a bag of lettuce in the crisper. The view of her heart-shaped ass in those snug-fitting jeans put an exclamation point on the fact of her womanhood.

  Yup, definitely a risk. How had he overlooked that even for a second?

  She said something to Annaliese as she closed the refrigerator door then shot him a look that invited him to wade into their discussion with some idiotic male opinion.

  He’d nearly forgotten his little joke could go south on him. Because in spite of the killer body that threatened to turn his brain to mush, she never asked for quarter. She had a sharp mind, a smart mouth, and the instincts of a born reporter. When he gave her a hard time, she turned around and gave it right back.

  In just over a week, she’d earned his respect and become his equal. His partner.

  So his go-to response had been to treat her the way he’d have treated Jackson if he’d caught his buddy in a monumental lie. Giving each other grief was what men did. No sympathy, no commiseration. Those were things that embarrassed a guy because they implied he needed sympathy.

  Women were different. Yeah, that was the understatement of the century.

  How did he get this lie out in the open without risking Armageddon?

  He was still mulling it over when the doorbell rang. When Jada answered it, a male voice drifted to his ears.

  Alec turned on his stool as Jada entered the kitchen. “Annaliese?” Her voice trembled.

  The three of them followed Annaliese to the front door, where a man and woman—two of Las Vegas’s finest—waited. Annaliese’s step hitched briefly in the entry, but then she moved forward with confidence.

  “Are you Annaliese Carson?” the male cop asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If you’d please accompany us, we’d like you to come down the station to answer a few questions.”

  “I answered questions a few days ago.”

  “Detective McMahon has a few more for you.”

  Alec and Cleo exchanged concerned looks as Annaliese went to get her purse. Cleo took Jada’s hand in that I’m-here-for-you way women thought was so important.

  Not wanting to get caught up in that, Alec tried to get the cops to talk to him, but their responses were noncommittal. He didn’t really expect them to know anything. Picking up Annaliese was an assignment for them. Detective McMahon was the man who had the answers to his questions. It probably wasn’t anything to worry about, anyway. Cops often interviewed witnesses more than once, checking statements from one person against another.

  Annaliese stopped on her way out, placed a hand on Jada’s cheek, and looked i
nto her eyes. “Don’t worry, honey. Everything’s okay.” Her gaze flickered to where Cleo stood behind Jada. “Cleo will take you to practice today, okay?” she said to Jada.

  Jada nodded, but she looked worried.

  Still looking into Jada’s eyes, Annaliese said, “Trust me. This will all work out.” Then she walked out the door like the queen of Sheba. When she reached the car, the male cop opened the back door for her as though it were a limousine instead of a black-and-white unit. She got in gracefully.

  Alec shook his head. “Whatever anyone says about her, that woman has class.”

  When Cleo snorted, he realized she’d come to stand beside him.

  They watched as the patrol car pulled away. “Why do you think they want to talk to her again?” Cleo asked.

  He figured it was a rhetorical question, so he just shook his head.

  “Do you suppose it has anything to do with the autopsy report?” she asked with more worry in her tone than made sense.

  He shrugged. “They wouldn’t have that back yet unless they put a rush on it.”

  She drew a long breath. “Trust me,” she said grimly. “They put a rush on it.”

  Sebastian had been an important man in town, so she was probably right. He shut the door behind them as they retreated inside. “What do you think she meant by ‘this will all work out’?”

  Cleo flashed him an annoyed look that clearly said what is wrong with you? And he kicked himself when he saw Jada waiting at the kitchen end of the hall, a flash of panic in her eyes.

  “I’m sure she meant she’ll be home soon,” Cleo said in a soothing voice. She stroked Jada’s arm as though trying to calm a half-feral cat. “Why don’t you get ready for rehearsal?”

  Jada nodded, but her lips were tight as if she wasn’t sure she could trust Cleo’s reassurances.

  “I hope the rehearsal keeps her mind busy until Annaliese is done at the police station,” Cleo said as they watched Jada climb the stairs.

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, so we might as well get on with business as usual.”