In the pale moonlight, the planes of his face seemed to harden and he looked ready to hurl a litany of curse words her way but as she tried to leave, he stopped her again.
“Listen, I need a favor,” he bit out, and she turned slowly, not quite sure she’d heard him correctly. Owen needed a favor from her? How deliciously fortuitous.
“What kind of favor?” she asked, more curious than anything else. “Nothing illegal I hope.”
“Don’t print this story,” he said.
“I don’t even know what the story is yet. Why don’t you tell me?”
He looked away, plainly wrestling with his desire to tell her to go screw herself and his need to play nice to gain a favor. Finally, he said in a low voice, “Okay. I don’t know what’s going on but my office manager seems to be missing. Her daughter—”
“The one in Mrs. Hamby’s class?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “She called me and said her mama’s boyfriend kicked her around a bit and then they took off.”
Ouch. Her demeanor softened when she imagined how scared the kid must’ve been to witness that kind of abuse, only to be left by herself in the middle of the night. Tragic. But a helluva story. And he wanted her to walk away? Impossible. “I have a job to do…I can’t just look the other way,” she said with a shrug.
“It must be nice to live in a world where nothing bad ever happens and you’ve never had to make a difficult choice in your life.”
Stung, she pulled back. “You don’t know my life, so I don’t see how you have the right to judge.”
“I know if you had an ounce of compassion gained from walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, you’d honor my request. There’s a scared little girl sitting in my truck, terrified that her mama is hurt or dead. All I’m asking is that you don’t make it worse for her by splashing her tragedy all over the front page of the local rag.”
“It’s not a rag. We’ve won several CNPA awards for coverage in our category,” she said stiffly, chafing silently at his angry rebuke. So she hadn’t suffered through an abominable childhood; it didn’t mean she couldn’t feel compassion. She chewed her lip, caught between the urge to get all the gritty details and forcing herself to walk away and proving him wrong about her. He didn’t realize what he was asking of her. Had Pulitzer-prize-winning New York Times investigative journalist David Barstow ever been asked to look the other way while a top story went untold? She shuddered under the weight of her indecision. She ought to tell him tough cookies but she couldn’t quite get the words to form. As much as she hated to admit it, she squirmed at the thought that he might actually despise her, which if he didn’t already he certainly would if she ran with this story. “It’s not really my choice,” she hedged, still searching for which way to turn. “I mean, the editor makes the determination of what will run or not…”
“Cut the crap. I know if you write this story, it’ll be splashed all over.”
“Yeah, and if I don’t splash it first, I’ll get scooped,” she muttered, hating the very idea. Top reporters didn’t allow themselves to get scooped. They were the ones who did the scooping and left everyone else panting after their sources. She glowered. “So what do I get if I allow this favor? And it’s a biggie, so don’t try and say something lame like your eternal gratitude.”
“I wouldn’t dream of assuming you would care about my gratitude,” he remarked dourly. “What do you want? And how do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“You’ll just have to trust me, I guess.”
“Fantastic.” He glanced back at the truck, where the little girl was watching the scene with wide eyes. Man, that would make a compelling picture. The headline could read Waiting for Mommy or Mommy Come Home. On autopilot, she started to reach for her camera until Owen made a sound in his throat that resembled a growl. A growl? Are you kidding me? It was ridiculous—and sexy. “Name your price and keep your trigger finger off that camera,” he instructed in a low voice.
She shivered but tried to put on a brave face, even scowling a bit. “Don’t make it sound so sordid. I’m not after your money or anything like that.” What did she want? Oh, that was easy, she realized with dizzying speed as the words tumbled out. “I want an interview—with you.”
AH, HELL. HE WANTED TO WALK away but the woman looked determined, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a little face time. It wouldn’t be so bad, he reasoned to himself, quickly weighing the pros and cons. She probably wanted to grill him about one of the projects she and her parents were opposing. “A half hour.”
“As long as it takes,” she countered.
He shook his head. “No open-ended deals. One hour.”
“Two.”
“Woman, what on earth could you possibly want to talk about for two damn hours?” he said, annoyance getting the better of him. “An hour and a half. Final offer. Take it or leave it. I gotta get Quinn out of here. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
“Deal.” She smiled. “And I get to pick the topic. And you have to cooperate.”
She drove a hard bargain. He didn’t really have a choice. He’d do anything to keep this story as quiet as possible. “Fine. But I better not hear one peep about this to anyone. You got me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Good. Now, get the hell out of here.”
She frowned and opened her mouth to protest but the dark look he sent her snapped it shut pretty quick. One thing was for sure, she wasn’t dumb. He figured that wasn’t a point in his favor. Whatever she was after, she was likely to get. He wondered if she approached relationships the same way. Heaven help the man caught in her crosshairs. He wouldn’t stand a chance.
He climbed into the truck and instructed Quinn to buckle up.
“Is Miss Sunday going to help find my mom?” Quinn asked, surprising him when she remembered the reporter’s name from class a few days ago.
“I doubt it, honey,” he answered truthfully, that heavy weight of worry returning to his chest. “But the police sure will. They’ve got everyone looking for her. She’ll turn up. In the meantime, you get to stay with me. You think that’s all right?”
Quinn’s eyes watered. “I want my mama.”
“I know you do. And as soon as we can we’ll get things figured out. But until then, you’re stuck with me, okay?”
“Okay,” she answered, her bottom lip quivering so much it nearly did him in. “Thanks, Owen, for coming to get me.”
“You bet, sweetheart. You can always count on me.”
She nodded and swallowed what was probably a lump of sadness and fear and he was struck by her bravery. This kid was something else.
But he had a bad feeling about Gretchen.
He hoped to God he was wrong.
CHAPTER SIX
PIPER’S MIND WHIRRED faster than a CD-ROM drive as one single thought ran through her head like a ticker-tape parade: she’d finally wrangled an interview with the elusive and extremely private Owen Garrett. She’d overlook the part where she’d used extortion to get it.
By the time she reached her house, she already had a list of questions zooming through her head. Piper grabbed a notepad—she always had extras lying around for when her brain kicked in and couldn’t wait—and jotted down her erratic and fevered thoughts.
How much did he remember from that day, she wondered. He’d been a kid. But sometimes a traumatic event seared itself into a person’s brain, clarifying and crystallizing the event until it was impossible to forget. She figured watching your father get gunned down in a hail of bullets was enough to traumatize an adult, let alone an eleven-year-old boy.
She tried to imagine Owen as a kid, a serious, tow-headed child with solemn eyes and a mischievous glint that flashed now and then when he thought no one would notice, and her mouth flirted with a smile. He’d probably been a damn cute little kid. Figures, because he’d grown into a pretty good-looking adult.
And why didn’t such an eligible bachelor have a missus attached to him? There
had to be something wrong with him, possibly something deep and dark and maybe, perverted.
She toyed with the idea. Owen a pervert? She supposed it was possible. But even as she bandied the idea about, testing the theory, she discarded it with distaste. No. He may be a lot of things but she didn’t get the pervie vibe from him.
No, she got a distinctly different vibe from him and it made her shudder and made her think of topics that were inappropriate—and highly unlikely—given their current relationship.
She wondered what he looked like without a shirt. He had the build of a man accustomed to hard work. Big, strong hands, roughened from handling axes, saws and power tools. She moistened her lips and noted her heart rate had kicked up a bit. Oh, goody. Attraction. She recognized it for what it was. She grew up with two professors of anthropology. Dissecting human emotion was something they used to do over dinner. So why did she feel warm and fuzzy and just a bit uncomfortable?
Because she was on the threshold of something big, she reasoned. Finally, she was going to sit down and pick his brain.
And she might just be able to find the clue she needed to bust the case wide-open like never before.
And yes, grandiose music played in the theater of her mind as she envisioned that particular dream.
She laughed, her mood lightened considerably, and she almost skipped to bed, eager for the morning.
IF PIPER DRIFTED TO SLEEP with a smile, Owen did the exact opposite.
Now he had two problems. By agreeing to talk with Piper, he was opening himself to a whole new world of grief. There was no telling as to her true agenda. She played a good game about hearing his side of things but he didn’t trust the way her eyes had glittered with barely contained excitement when he’d agreed. It’d put him on edge, worse than he already was. And if that weren’t bad enough, the situation with Gretchen had him in knots.
The cops still hadn’t located that worthless SOB, which meant Gretchen was still unaccounted for. He had a scared little girl camped out on his couch and there was nothing he could offer her for comfort aside from a cup of warm milk. Hell, he didn’t even have any chocolate powder he could mix in. His house wasn’t made for guests. It was a space where he washed his clothes, sometimes ate and, most times, crashed when he was too tired to keep his eyes open a minute longer.
He scrubbed his hand over his face, feeling each and every year of his life weighing down on him. That sick feeling in his stomach intensified when he thought of how much worse the situation could have been if Quinn had been taken, too.
That sick bastard. Who kicks a pregnant woman in the stomach, much less the woman carrying your child? He couldn’t even fathom. In the eyes of the law, his father was scum, not worth the price of the bullet that ended his life, but to him, he’d been a fabulous father and one of the things he’d always taught Owen was to treat women kindly.
“Son, you always got to watch out for the welfare of your woman. She’s the weaker sex and the Bible tells us we have to protect them,” his father had said one day when he’d gotten his tail chewed for throwing a rock in the general direction of an obnoxious little girl named Patty living on the compound with them.
“Even colored girls?” he’d asked, wiping at his nose and glowering in Patty’s direction because she’d started the fight and then run to her daddy when he’d fought back.
His father, leader of the Aryan Coalition, had straightened, glanced around before answering in a lowered voice so only Owen could hear. “Even colored girls, son. A man isn’t a man the minute he hits a woman. You got that?”
“Yessir,” he’d answered glumly, still angry but not about to go against his father. “Don’t seem fair that she started it, though,” he’d added, glancing up at his dad.
Ty Garrett had smiled. “Never is, son. It never is. Don’t change a thing.”
Owen roused himself from the memory. It was hard to reconcile that image of his father with the one everyone else harbored. He shook off his melancholy. No sense in crying over the past. Not right now, anyway. He had bigger problems.
“Gretchen…” he muttered to himself, checking one last time on Quinn, who was fast asleep. “If you manage to make it through the night, you’d better promise me you’ll break up with this bastard.”
He turned off the lights and resigned himself to a restless night.
OWEN GOT THE CALL AT 3:00 A.M. that Gretchen had been found alongside the road, bruised and bloody, unconscious from a vicious blow to the head.
But she was alive.
He listened as the police officer gave him as much information as he knew, which wasn’t a lot aside from the fact that she’d been beaten and left for dead like roadkill.
“Danny Mathers did this,” he said in a low tone so as not to wake Quinn.
“We’ll find him,” the officer assured him. “You can see her tomorrow if the doctor thinks she can have visitors. Is her daughter all right with you for a few days?”
He glanced over at Quinn, a small bundle curled on his lumpy sofa, and he nodded. “Yeah. No problem.”
“Good. If you change your mind, we can call social services but since you’re her emergency contact, we figured the girl was safe with you for the time being.”
“What about the baby?” he asked, his throat tight, almost afraid to know.
There was a long pause and then the officer said, “It doesn’t look good.” He rattled off a case number for reference in case Owen needed it later and hung up.
Returning to his bedroom, he fell back into bed and wondered how the hell he was going to run a business without Gretchen at the office and with Quinn at his heels.
Ah, hell, he thought just as his eyes fluttered shut.
That reporter was coming tomorrow.
Shit. The day had just officially gone from bad to worse.
PIPER TOOK GREAT CARE in choosing her wardrobe that morning. She’d bounced from bed five minutes before the alarm went off, the spring in her step mirroring her excitement, and after enjoying a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon—God, how she loved bacon—she showered and donned her most professional attire. She wanted her outfit to reflect her drive and ambition and she wanted to appear confident and smart, a sharp-witted shark accustomed to swimming in a pool filled with other maneaters. Except, it took her five outfits to achieve that look and even as she stood before the mirror, she wasn’t sure if another change was in order.
She twisted to stare at her backside, fretting that the powder-blue pencil skirt wasn’t aggressive enough of a color and it made her butt look enormous. But it had a matching jacket, she lamented to herself even as she prepared to shrug out of it. Black, she thought, seizing her favorite slacks and blazer. Too austere? She didn’t want to seem as if she were going to a funeral. Piper blew hair from her eyes and stared at herself, standing in matching pink bra and panties. Well, at least her undergarments were sharp.
Finally, she was dressed—hopefully for success—and ready to leave. She grabbed her extra notebook and her camera and left for Big Trees Logging administrative offices.
But when she arrived, she was disappointed by Owen’s absence. The office was locked up tight and there was no one around to even question. She frowned and muttered something that would make a sailor proud and contemplated her next move. A deal was a deal, she groused, glancing around the deserted office. Well, if he wasn’t going to meet her, she’d meet him. She just happened to know his home address. The internet was a beautiful thing, particularly when one knew what to look for. She smiled and climbed back into her car. Owen was going to learn that she didn’t give up easily.
OWEN HAD JUST CLOSED HIS front door, harried and worried that Quinn was going to be late to school, when he turned and found Piper striding down his front walk, a determined expression on her face.
“Did you forget something?” she queried, seeming to miss the sack lunch clutched in his hand and the little girl trailing behind him as they made their way to his truck.
“I didn’t
forget. Just a little busy at the moment,” he said curtly, adding over his shoulder. “No need to chase me down like the damn paparazzi.”
She scowled, obviously taking offense at the term, but she also had the grace to notice Quinn. Her frown eased and something akin to guilt flushed her face. “I didn’t know you’d still have…um…”
“Her name is Quinn,” he answered, reaching down to lift the girl into the truck. “And we’re late for school. We’ll have to table this until later.”
“Later when?” she asked, concerned. “I’m ready now.”
“Well, I’m not.” The engine of his diesel truck rumbled to life and she scrunched her nose at the sound. He glanced at her ride—a hybrid of some sort—and he resisted the urge to smirk. She probably didn’t think too highly of his truck. “Later.”
“No, wait,” she exclaimed, running after the vehicle as he slowly pulled away. “When? I need a date and time. A commitment! Owen! I swear to God I’ll run that story with all the gory details if you don’t stop this instant and talk to me instead of running off with some lame excuse.”
The truck growled to a stop and idled loudly. Owen’s brows pulled together in a harsh line. “We had a deal,” he reminded her.
How was it that he got more handsome when he looked ready to tear someone’s head off? Mainly hers as of late? She pushed that annoying thought aside and took a step his way, going so far as to stand on the running board and to get right into his face. “That’s right. We did. So honor it.”
A tense moment passed between them and she half wondered if she hadn’t pushed too far and she was a heartbeat away from getting tossed as he peeled away. Just when she thought she might have to back down, he jerked his head toward the passenger seat and instructed her to “Get in or get off.”
She jumped down and scrambled to the passenger side and climbed in beside Quinn with a sense of triumph.
Secrets in a Small Town Page 5