"So, now I'm back, and that's my desk you've buried with shit." He frowned at the overflowing ashtray, crumpled fast-food wrappers, and half a stationery store. "One."
The young man hesitated long enough to determine that Mr. Wells was sincere about removing him and started gathering up his garbage.
The five-count passed numerous times before the desk looked somewhat like it did before David had left five days ago. "You forgot this," David said as the squatter was making his exit. He picked up a plain white envelope.
"Oh, no. That came for you yesterday." He took off before Mr. Wells could ask his name.
David turned the envelope over and saw his name typed in capital letters on a label in the center. He used the envelope to brush the crumbs off his chair and desk before sitting down. He straightened the desk pad, lined up his calendar, pencil cup and memo pad, then adjusted the computer monitor a fraction of an inch. Good. It was his again.
It had been a long climb to having things of his own, like a desk and a chair, and the hunger hadn't dissipated yet. He had a toehold but he still needed to do a lot of fancy footwork to secure himself a place at the top of the hill.
With his teak-handled letter opener, he neatly sliced through the top edge of the envelope. Inside were several typed pages and some loose photographs, but no indication as to who had sent it.
One sheet of paper contained a brief synopsis of the meteoric rise to success of Jerry Frampton, publisher of Jock magazine. A copy of a clipping from what was probably a sensationalist tabloid was attached to that. It gave some facts about his life and the magazine, and emphasized the rumors of his wild lifestyle. It looked like it had been cut and pasted, as if a few lines had been eliminated between the parts about where he was born and how he put together the first issue of Jock.
The next photocopied sheets resembled reports prepared by professional investigators or law enforcement personnel, though any identifying marks had been carved out. David scanned the data that gave evidence of a connection between Jerry Frampton and convicted pornographer Mick D'Angelo. It was backed up with D'Angelo's criminal record and a copy of a form signed by Frampton when he once posted bail for D'Angelo.
The photographs had all been taken very recently, on the same day and at the same time, according to the digital imprint across the bottom. Frampton and D'Angelo were obviously involved in a heated discussion, and a typed cover note stated that the pictures were taken at Frampton's private estate in Boca Raton, Florida.
The final sheet contained two typed paragraphs. The first suggested that Frampton still had his fingers in D'Angelo's very dirty business. The other was an assurance to Wells that no other reporter had been given this information, but the reason for singling him out as the recipient had been omitted.
He reread the pages with a critical eye. What could the sender hope to gain? His first guess would be that he wanted to see Jerry Frampton hung out to dry. A disgruntled employee? A jilted lover? By giving the information specifically to a reporter as reputable as himself, that person had to be aware that he would check out the facts before maligning someone's character, particularly a well-known someone.
What if it was true? What if Jerry Frampton had a little help from the dark side in setting up his magazine? What if he was still involved in child pornography on the side? What if he, David Wells, was the investigative reporter to expose him?
The "what ifs" balanced out his hesitancy to automatically reject the evidence before him. He already had more projects going than he could juggle, however. He'd have to give this some thought before he took any action. He put everything back in the envelope and slipped it into his desk drawer.
Turning on his computer, he switched mental gears to his final article on his tour of the disaster area. His hands hovered over the keyboard for a fraction of a second before attacking. Halfway through, he reached for his phone, lifted the receiver, and replaced it again. He needed to verify a fact. All it would take was a call to Valerie, but it would also be a good excuse to call Holly. With a disgusted shake of his head, he picked up the receiver again, punched the interoffice code for research, and was put on hold.
He wasn't going to call Holly just yet, because more than anything else he wanted to hear her voice. That in itself was a bad sign. One of his personal rules was never to call a woman from the office or when he was out of town on business. In his mind that implied that he was thinking about her when he should be working, that there was a depth of affection he didn't feel.
He tried to always play it straight with women. He made sure they knew the only commitment they would hear from him was his commitment to remain a free-wheeling, uncommitted bachelor. For some reason he never understood but thoroughly enjoyed, that knowledge rarely turned a woman away.
As part of an investigation, however, Holly wasn't protected by his personal rules.
The sense of freedom he had expected to feel Monday night after Holly left hadn't come. During the next two days alone in the camper, he had thought about calling her to make sure she had returned safely and to firm up the bond they'd begun. The more often the thought occurred, the more determined he became not to call her until he got back. At any rate, it would be infinitely better for his plan if she started to worry whether he would get in touch with her again.
It would be even better if she called him first.
"Research. Sorry to keep you holding."
"Hey, Valerie. Did you miss me?" he asked with a smile in his voice.
"Oh, were you away?" she replied in the same tone.
"I guess you've been busy."
"Swamped. My husband is threatening to sue the paper if I don't start getting home before midnight."
"Well, as much as I hate to add to your troubles, I need a few statistics for my hurricane wrap-up."
"That's an easy one. I pulled together a whole folder of facts right after Brigitte hit. Come on down and see if it's what you need."
David was at Valerie's desk within a few minutes.
"Have fun," she said, handing him the thick folder. "I can't let you take it away but you can copy whatever you need on my machine."
He found what he needed and, while making the copies, he duplicated a sheet of paper he'd brought with him—the tabloid write-up on Frampton. Returning the file to her desk, he showed the paper to her. "It looks like something was cut out and it might be important to a piece I'm working on. Could you track the original article down for me?"
She smiled. "The database should have a listing of all articles printed about him. But it may take me a while to get to this. I have a long list of top priority questions to work through first."
"No problem. It's on my back burner for the moment. Still no progress with the Dominion rosters?"
Valerie shook her head. "Sorry. With all my calls, I've gotten chummy with a woman in the registrar's office and she said that the FBI has ordered all the old files temporarily sealed."
David let out a whistle. "That's a little telling, wouldn't you say?"
She gave him a shrug. "I just do research, not analysis. And by the way, I even put up a post on Craig's List offering to buy a yearbook but no takers on that yet either."
David grinned and started to walk away when an idea occurred. "Do you think you could get your new friend to verify if a specific person attended Dominion the same year as Erica Donner?"
She shrugged. "I can try."
"The names are Rachel Greenley and Holly Kaufman. They might have been freshmen or sophomores. I need you to put this one on your top priority list."
Valerie smirked at him and he blew her a kiss on his way out the door.
Satisfied that he was doing something toward the story that he was still certain was hiding just around the corner, he got back to his article on the hurricane.
Why had Holly left without a word or note of goodbye?
He cut off his train of thought. Images from their last afternoon together were not conducive to productivity and he had to get th
is piece finished in less than two hours.
Would she ever think to give him a call? Of course not. She was more stubborn than anyone he had ever known. Why couldn't she just have admitted that she wanted him the same way he wanted her? Why did she have to leave him feeling like the big, bad wolf all the time? Why did she have to turn out to be such an innocent?
He still had the outfit she'd left on the floor of the shower stall, but he could have a runner return her things to her office for him—when he had a free moment to take care of that detail.
The fact that he couldn't keep her out of his head was a sign that discovering her secrets could be seriously hazardous to his mental health. He might be better off putting the whole story idea aside until he came up with another way to investigate it. Of course, if he found out she was lying about where she went to college, then he'd have an excuse to confront her without desire getting in the way.
That excuse was taken away when Valerie called him back that afternoon. Rachel Greenley was definitely a freshman at Dominion the same year as Donner, but Holly Kaufman was neither a freshman nor sophomore that year.
On the one hand David was disappointed that he still didn't have the full picture. On the other hand, he had one puzzle piece more than he had yesterday, which was enough to convince him to keep digging. The only thing to do was follow through on his original plan to seduce Holly into telling him her secrets. His nose told him it was a risk he was going to have to take. His body laughed at his excuse to get inside her again.
It was too bad Harry had chosen this time to take off around the world. The old guy would have known just the right thing to say to keep him on track.
The next morning he took a walk by the front of her building, timed to what he assumed should have been her arrival. It would have been an accidental meeting, where neither had to be the one to give in.
When she didn't show, he went up to her office and visited with Evelyn. He quickly discovered that she was anxious for Holly to "form new friendships, particularly with nice young men." Hinting at a possible romance in the wings, he convinced the normally protective assistant to let him wait in her boss's office as a surprise.
Once ensconced there, his natural curiosity took control of his better judgment. At first he only leafed through the files on her desk, but the more time passed without her appearing, the more daring he became. Her desk drawers were neat and tidy, no excess clutter, nothing out of control, nothing that could be construed as purely personal.
Until he opened the bottom left-hand drawer, removed a lined pad, and saw his face. He hadn't realized she had taken his picture that day on the beach. Not only had she taken one, she had kept it... hidden.
* * *
Holly rushed breathlessly through the lobby and into the elevator. Why did her car pick today to go on strike? A full day of paperwork and phone calls awaited and Philip was tied up at the Senate. She spoke to Evelyn as she breezed by, knowing from previous experience the woman would follow her into her office for instructions. "Good morning. My car battery died. Were there any calls? I think you'd better—"
Her voice, and the rest of her body, came to an abrupt halt in the doorway to her office. David was leaning back in the chair behind her desk with his feet propped up. She turned back to ask Evelyn how he got there, but the woman had wisely disappeared.
"I'd better do what?" he asked in the tone of voice that let her know it didn't matter what she answered, he'd have a wisecrack ready.
"Get your shoes off my desk." He didn't. He just sat there, or rather, reclined there, watching her with those eyes that said all sorts of things he shouldn't, the sort of things she didn't have time to think about this morning. "How did you get in here?"
"Evelyn has a romantic soul."
Her eyes widened apprehensively. "You didn't—"
"No, I didn't. But it was worth seeing you blush to let you think I did."
She shook her head and sighed. "You're impossible."
"Hmmm." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he drew himself to his feet. "Let's see, so far you've described me as an inconsiderate womanizer, told me I'm crude, I'm incorrigible, and now I'm impossible. Not much to feed my overblown ego, is it?"
"What do you do, record our conversations?"
He tapped his temple. "The memory I told you about."
She set her briefcase beside her desk. When he moved out of the way and headed toward the door without touching her, she relaxed a little. Instead of walking out the door, however, he closed it.
With a calm she didn't feel, she sat down at her desk and opened a file. "Please reopen that door then walk through it. I have a lot to do today, and exchanging witticisms with you is not on my agenda."
"Would you rather exchange kisses?" He sauntered around her desk then perched on the corner next to her. "Hmmm?"
She wished she could answer as casually as he had asked the question, but since she couldn't, she simply ignored him.
"Still trying to convince me you're not interested?"
"I'm not."
"Then why'd you keep this?" He pulled open the bottom drawer where he had tossed the photo when he heard her voice in the hall. Her gasp told him what she refused to admit. "I've got better ones at home, but you'll have to ask real nice." She groaned, but still didn't lift her eyes from her file. He took a breath then asked her the question he swore he wouldn't. "Why did you leave without saying goodbye?"
His words were softened by a sincerity that sounded alien coming from him. It was enough to make her look up and give an answer. "I thought you needed the sleep."
He slid off the desk and swiveled her chair toward him. Grasping each of the padded arms, he leaned forward so that she was caged by his body. "Try again."
Tilting her head back, her gaze moved from his eyes to his mouth and back up. This was no time to be thinking about his mouth. "I thought we both said goodbye very eloquently."
His head dipped down until his nose rubbed hers. "I like the fact that you can't say something like that without blushing. But it's still not the truth. Try again."
With him this close, it was impossible not to think about his mouth, and his hands, and every other body part he had. "I didn't want to say goodbye. I wanted to stay. If I had awakened you, I wouldn't have gone, and I had to."
"Much better," he whispered against her mouth. "For that the pretty lady wins the prize." He ran his tongue over her lips and waited. When he did it again, she extended her tongue to caress his with the same leisure. He caught hers between his teeth and sucked as his mouth pressed forward.
As soon as she was kissing him back he stopped and murmured against her mouth. "Meet me for lunch today."
She took a deep breath and cleared her fuzzy brain. "I can't. I'm really backed up."
Moving his mouth to her ear, he whispered, "I have a bag of your clothes in my car. Do you remember why you left them behind? I want you to think about what happened the last time you wore them. Now, if you don't promise to meet me, I'll get back to kissing you senseless then take you right here on your desk." To prove his point, he dove into an eating kiss that had her clinging to the front of his shirt. He eased away an inch and whispered, "The correct answer is 'Yes, David.' Say it."
Raising her eyelashes, she offered him a reminder of how she looked the afternoon they had made love. "Yes, David."
They figured out a time and place that was most convenient for them both. He gave her one quick kiss, started to leave and returned for two more before he left for good.
Holly heard him whistling as he departed and allowed herself a satisfied smile. Yesterday she had begun to worry that he wouldn't recontact her. Now she was certain everything was going to work out just fine. The pleasure she had discovered in his arms was an unexpected bonus to her plan and harmless enough as long as she remembered it was only temporary.
She made a point to be precisely five minutes late to lunch—late enough for him to wonder if she would come as commanded but not so late that
he would be annoyed. Her scheme did not take into account that he would not be there when she arrived. He had made reservations, however, and the hostess seated her immediately.
After five more minutes passed, she ordered lunch. When he arrived, he would see that she had not sat waiting docilely for him to make an appearance. He finally showed up at the same time as her meal. Barely sparing him a glance, she started on her chef's salad.
"Sorry I'm late." Without looking at a menu, he asked the waitress to bring him a lunch steak, medium rare, fries and coffee. "It couldn't be helped," he told Holly as he watched her fork a tomato and place it in her mouth. "I'm glad you didn't wait to order." He winced when he watched her stab an artichoke heart with much more force than necessary. "All right. I confess. I was in the middle of an article and I lost track of time. I figured in the time it would take me to call, I could be here."
She rewarded his honesty with a smile. "You know, I bet with a little practice, we could get pretty good at this truth business."
He returned her smile and added a wink. "But why is it that I have to pry it out of you, and all you have to do is ignore me?"
"Probably has something to do with your basic insecurities as a man."
"If I am so insecure, what am I doing having lunch with a woman known throughout the city for her ability to render a man impotent with no more than a look of disgust?"
Her smile remained in place. "The average, intelligent man stays away when he is told point blank that the woman is not interested. What does that make you?"
His laugh made several people turn in their direction. "A sucker for a challenge, I guess." He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "I missed you, Holly."
She tensed from the unexpected touch, but relaxed the next instant. "I think I missed you, too."
"You think?" It was the first time he could recall admitting that he missed a woman and her response was hardly flattering.
"Well, since you seem to like the truth, I'm not entirely sure. The jury's still out."
"Fair enough. Could I try influencing the outcome by taking you to the symphony tomorrow night?"
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