Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Books by Saranne Dawson
Title Page
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Copyright
He still loved her.
A faint smile played across Sam’s wide mouth and a faraway look came to his blue eyes.
She knew instantly what he was thinking. Memories of their love still haunted the little cabin. By unspoken agreement, they’d never brought their work-related battles here.
And when he had taken her into his arms for the first time in three years, a part of Kate responded with a surge of triumph.
“This is a dangerous place,” he said with a crooked grin.
She nodded. “We were always happy here.”
So why weren’t we happy anywhere else?
Kate gave herself a mental shake. Sam was trying to butt in on her investigation. And she couldn’t let that happen no matter what his kisses did to her resolve.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Saranne Dawson is a voracious reader and has an avid interest in current events, which, she says, stems from “living in the middle of nowhere” in central Pennsylvania. With a master’s degree in public administration, she works as a human-services administrator. In her spare time, Saranne sews, bikes, plays tennis, gardens and tends three “hopelessly obnoxious and pampered cats.” She also visits her children on a regular basis.
Books by Saranne Dawson
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
286—IN SELF DEFENSE
307—HER OTHER HALF
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
180—INTIMATE STRANGERS
222—SUMMER’S WITNESS
364—A TALENT FOR LOVE
448—BETWITCHED
480—DECEPTION AND DESIRE
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Exposé
Saranne Dawson
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Kate Stevens—A reporter with two stories, one ex-husband and numerous death threats.
Sam Winters—A prize-winning journalist and Kate’s ex-husband. Just what she needed—someone nosing into the biggest story of her life and trying to win her back.
Representative Jack Newbury and Richard Armistead—Were this congressman and his chief of staff behind the threats?
James Crawford—A congressional intern who met an untimely and suspicious death.
Ted Snyder—Director of New Leaf, a juvenile detention center in Maryland. Is he involved with more than just everyday business?
Tony DiSalvo—A counselor at New Leaf who has questions of his own, until he disappears.
Charles Scofield—A one-time “student” of New Leaf who is kidnapped.
Prologue
Curiosity kills the Kat.
Frighteningly clear. Infuriatingly vague. The words were composed of letters cut from newspaper headlines. The sender hadn’t been concerned with neatness.
“Kat” was her nickname. But she knew that meant little. The sender could merely have been playing cute games, using the K because her name was Kate. Or he could have heard it somewhere; thousands of people could know it—or hundreds anyway.
The postmark on the standard white business envelope said Washington, D.C. There was no return address.
All in all, it was a stark message, meant to intimidate—to whisper of death lurking in every shadow. And in the nation’s capital, with the highest homicide rate in the country, that was no idle threat.
Chapter One
The man standing on her doorstep, just raising his hand to press the bell again, was the last person Kate had expected to see there. He was also the last person she wanted to see there. Or so she quickly told herself when her body began to suggest otherwise.
“Are you planning to invite me in?” Sam Winters asked, flashing that killer smile that had once melted her bones.
“That depends,” she said, mentally checking herself to see if her bones showed any signs of incipient meltdown.
“Depends on what?” he asked, now arching one dark brow and slightly wrinkling his deeply tanned forehead. The ghost of a smile still hovered about his wide mouth and in his electric blue eyes.
“On why you’re here.”
“If you invite me in, I’ll explain.”
“And if I don’t?”
He shrugged his wide shoulders. Had they become even broader, or was it just that he’d lost a few pounds from the rest of his six-foot-one frame?
“Then you’ll lay awake all night wondering why I came here.”
“ ‘Lie’ awake, not ‘lay’ awake. Your grammar hasn’t improved.”
“Neither has your tendency to nitpick.”
She moved aside. “I’ll give you ten minutes. It’s late and it’s been a long day.”
“It’s nice to be welcomed back so graciously,” he said, smiling, stepping through the door and closing it behind him.
He paused in the small foyer and glanced briefly around the living room, then headed straight for the big old rolltop desk where she kept the liquor supply and some glasses. He slid up the top and reached in the back for the bottle of single-malt Scotch. Why, she wondered, had she continued to stock it? She didn’t know anyone who drank it—except for Sam. Could it have been there for three years?
“The rug is new,” he observed as he sipped the Scotch.
“Not really. I bought it over a year ago,” she replied, proving his statement about her tendency to nitpick. “Why are you here, Sam?”
His gaze had drifted to the stairs and suddenly he grinned.
“Reject!”
Kate followed his gaze as he strode across to the stairs where her Manx cat stood warily, his long hind legs and tailless rump on one step and his front paws on the next one down, frozen in indecision.
The indecision didn’t last long. By the time Sam had reached the bottom of the stairs, Reject was headed toward him. He wasn’t a particularly friendly cat, so Kate was forced to the conclusion that he remembered Sam.
She was remembering, too—remembering when Sam had brought him home that cold, rainy night in the middle of the winter. The tiny, tiger-striped kitten was tucked into the front of his partially unzipped leather jacket. When Sam drew him out, she had gasped and asked what had happened to his tail. Sam had chuckled and called him a “factory reject.”
Now the silence in the house was broken by Reject’s loud purr as Sam picked him up and began to rub him behind his ears. Was it her imagination, or was the blasted cat purring louder than he’d ever purred when she did that?
“He’s what—five now?”
“Nearly. Your ten minutes are almost up.”
Sam shook his head, addressing himself to the cat. “Persistent, isn’t she?”
“That’s what makes me a good journalist.”
“A very good one,” Sam acknowledged. “I’ve read some of your stuff when I could get a copy of the Post.”
But not as good as you, she thought bitterly, unable as always to let herself accept his compliments. I still don’t have a Pulitzer.
“Isn’t t
here a war somewhere that you should be covering?” she demanded.
“I’ve resigned. After a while, the excitement of being shot at loses its appeal.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything more to say.
Somehow, she’d pictured him spending the rest of his life running around the world to cover carnage. In fact, it was hard to see him now without filling in the background with scenes of shelling and dead bodies and fleeing civilians.
“You’ve quit CNN completely?”
He nodded. “They even made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, but I did. It’s time for a change.”
“What sort of change?” she asked, already wondering why she’d thought he would be happy forever as a war correspondent. Safety in distance, she supposed.
He set Reject on the floor and picked up his glass again. “For now, I’m going to write a book. After that, I don’t know. Maybe a syndicated column.”
“You’re giving up TV?” she asked incredulously. He was very good. He had the right looks, the right kind of voice—the presence.
“Yeah. You were right. It’s no place for a serious journalist.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Are you putting me on, Sam? What about the money? You said that’s why you took the job in the first place.”
“I’ll do well enough if I go into syndication. There are things more important than money.”
“What? Now I know you’re putting me on. I wish I had a tape of what you said when—”
“Why don’t you just say I told you so and get it over with?”
“Is that why you came here—to inform me of this major life change? Are you having a mid-life crisis?”
“I haven’t reached mid-life quite yet. I’m taking a proactive strike to avoid the crisis part.”
“You’re nearly forty.”
“Thank you. If it weren’t for you, I’d have to check my passport.”
She sighed. “Why does this conversation sound just like every other conversation we’ve had?”
He shrugged. “Obviously, you’re still in practice. Who’ve you been sharpening your wits on these past three years?”
“Not on blondes, I can tell you that much.”
He leaned toward her, grinning. “Your eyes are getting greener. Is it possible that you’re jealous?”
“No, it isn’t. Sorry to disappoint you.” She wanted to back off, but she couldn’t. Fortunately, he did.
He stared at her silently for a moment. “Well, that has the ring of truth to it, so you must have found someone.”
“Could we rewind this conversation and get back to the original question? Your time was up at least five minutes ago.”
“Do you have the basement apartment rented out?”
“No. I did for a while, but I just didn’t like having anyone else here.” And as she spoke, she felt a sudden frisson. Surely he couldn’t mean that…
“Good. I thought I’d use it for a while—maybe a month or so until I decide where I’m going to live.”
“No!”
“I’m quiet and neat and I’ll even pay you rent.”
“No!”
He sighed dramatically. “I didn’t want to have to remind you, but I’m still half owner of this house.”
“No, you’re not! I’ve been making payments every month to your accountant.”
“Okay, so maybe I don’t own half of it anymore, but I must own at least a basement apartment’s worth.”
“Why do you want to stay here?” she asked, wondering just what his legal rights were. “You can certainly afford better than a basement apartment.”
“I said it would be just for a month or two. I really don’t know where I want to live.”
“I want to talk to my attorney about this.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you here.”
His gaze had strayed to the small pile of mail on the table in the foyer. Kate was far too slow in realizing what had caught his attention. Somehow, incredibly, she’d put it completely out of her mind the moment she’d seen him standing on her doorstep.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded, picking up the letter.
“It’s none of your business!” she stated firmly, making a grab for it.
But he held it out of her reach, then picked up the envelope, as well. “What’s going on, Kate?”
“It came in the mail today. And I don’t have the vaguest idea what it’s all about.”
He stared at it in silence for a long time, then folded it and put it back into the envelope. She saw the muscles bunch along his square jawline as he set it down. “I’m going out to get my bags. If you won’t offer me the guest room, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
Kate shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. Her mouth opened to protest, then closed again. She raised her hands, running her fingers through her ash blond curls in an agitated fashion. Sam didn’t see any of this, however, since he’d already gone back outside.
Finally, she glared at the letter. Was there some sort of conspiracy here? Could he have sent it himself, so he could show up and play the role of protective male?
She shook her head. Sam wouldn’t do that. It was just an unfortunate combination of circumstances—a hitherto unknown corollary to Murphy’s Law. If you’re feeling frightened and vulnerable, then your ex-husband is bound to show up at your doorstep, ready to step right into the role of protector.
Kate watched from the doorway as Sam took his bags from the trunk of what must be a rental. He certainly wouldn’t own such a nondescript car. When she’d met him, he’d just bought the first of his Porsches.
As he walked back to the house, Kate studied him, seeing him through the eyes of someone who had once known him very well—or thought she had. What was it, apart from his obvious good looks, that had so attracted her to him from the very beginning?
It was, she thought, a question that desperately needed answering now, because whatever it was, it was still there. She could feel it in her body’s treacherous response to him, and she’d long since grown used to the way he looked.
It couldn’t be a simple case of absence making the heart grow fonder, either. He was on TV nearly every night, it seemed, reporting from the hot spot of the moment. And once, as she stood in line at the supermarket checkout, she’d spotted him on the cover of People magazine. She’d almost bought it—had actually put out her hand to snatch it from the rack before convincing herself that she didn’t want to read about him. And someone had told her that he even had a fan club.
Does he really have the right to stay here? she wondered. When they’d split up, she got a half interest in the pleasant house on the edge of Georgetown that he’d bought with an inheritance. At the time of their divorce, he’d just begun his new career with CNN and no longer needed the house. So the deal they’d worked out was that she would make monthly payments to buy out his half.
The problem was that she’d always felt guilty about the whole thing. She hadn’t asked for the half interest in the house, but when he made the offer, she hadn’t refused, either, because she really liked it and knew she couldn’t afford a place like it on her salary as a reporter with the Washington Post, where they’d met.
It’s only for a month or so, she told herself. I can handle that. I probably owe him that much.
And a little voice whispered that she really didn’t mind having a male presence in the house at the moment, either.
“You can use the guest room,” she told him. “The bed’s already made up.”
He set down his bags at the bottom of the stairs. “Tell me about that letter.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I have no idea who could have sent it. I got home only a few minutes before you showed up. I haven’t even had time to think about it.”
He took her arm and more or less pulled her down onto the sofa. “So think about it now. Do you want to call the police?”
She grimaced. “You’re out of touch with Washington these
days. They can just barely manage to respond to actual murders. Threats are way down on the list.”
“You’ve kept up the service on the alarm system, haven’t you?” he asked, his gaze shifting briefly to the closet near the door where the panel was hidden. He’d had it installed as what he’d called a “divorce present.”
“Yes, it’s fine and I always use it,” she added, anticipating his next question.
He settled back into the corner of the sofa, watching her. “So unless you’ve got a psychopathic ex-boyfriend lurking around somewhere, the obvious answer is that it has to do with something you’re working on.”
She was tempted to tell him that she didn’t have any ex-boyfriends, let alone a sicko. Men just hadn’t played much of a role in her life for these past three years. But since the same couldn’t be said for him and women, she remained silent.
“Well?” he prompted as she unwillingly conjured up that photo she’d seen of him with his supermodel blonde.
“There’s nothing I’m working on that could threaten anyone,” she stated with more assurance than she was beginning to feel.
“What are you working on?” he persisted.
“Nothing major, except for a series on the legislative process and I’ve really just started that.”
“What’s the thrust of the series?”
“It’s something I came up with on my own,” she said proudly. “But I’m not even sure yet that it’s going to work. Basically, I see it as an opportunity to show the general public just how Congress makes laws. Most people haven’t the foggiest notion of how the process really works.
“I’m hoping to follow one topic from subcommittee hearings all the way to the floor vote, with lobbyists and all the wheeling and dealing in the committees and on the floor. And I hope to highlight the roles of committee and personal staffs, too, because they really operate outside the public’s awareness.”
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