by Diana Palmer
She licked her lips nervously. She wasn’t usually intimidated this easily. Being attacked went with the job, and most of the time she handled it well, diplomatically. But it wasn’t easy to be diplomatic with a steamroller, and that was what Moreland brought to mind.
“It was the…” she began again.
“Why don’t you go back to journalism school and learn how to verify information?” he growled. “My God, children are taking over the world!” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’ll expect not only a retraction, but an apology.”
“Mr. Moreland, I’m really sorry….” she whispered unsteadily, feeling about two inches high.
He poured himself a drink—Scotch, she noticed—with incredibly steady hands, his face like granite, and she wondered idly if anything ever rattled him. He would have made a fantastic racing driver or doctor, she thought suddenly, with those steady hands and nerves.
“I didn’t go to Ed Hart this time,” he said, tossing the publisher’s name at her. He speared her with those demon eyes. “But if it ever happens again, I’ll have your job.”
He walked away without another word, and she wanted to stand there and cry. The party had been ruined for her. Being blamed for a mistake was fine, if it was hers. But to get stuck with somebody else’s, and not be given a chance to defend herself, now, that hurt.
She took a long sip of her drink and set it back on the bar, moving slowly, quietly, toward the ladies’ room. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she didn’t want the humiliation of shedding them in public.
She darted into the empty bathroom, locked the door, and leaned back against the wall, her eyes unseeing on the spacious, fully carpeted room with its lush champagne and gold decor. Tears ran silently down her cheeks. Why Moreland could affect her like that, she didn’t know. But he seemed to have some inexplicable power to reduce her to the level of a wounded child.
She wiped at the tears with an impatient hand. This was ridiculous, she told herself. She couldn’t afford to let people or things get to her like this. Hard knocks went with the job, and it was either get used to a little rough treatment or spend the rest of her life in tears. She’d have to toughen up. Her father had told her that at the beginning, the day she announced that she’d entered journalism school at the university.
She found a washcloth and tried to erase the telltale marks from her flushed young face. When she finished, her eyes were still red-rimmed, but all traces of tears were gone. She straightened her dress and ran a comb through her long, gently waving hair. Her pale green eyes surveyed the result coolly. It wasn’t a pretty face, but her eyes were big and arresting, and her face had a softly vulnerable look about it.
She turned, adjusting the V-neckline of her dress with cold, nervous hands. She’d rather have been shot than go through that door, but there was no way around it. Running away solved nothing. She’d learned that much, at least, in twenty-three years.
As she went back into the spacious living room, ironically, the first person she saw was Bryan Moreland. He stared over a shorter man’s head at her, and his narrow dark eyes caught hers at once. She raised her chin proudly and gave him her best south Georgia glare.
Amazingly, as she watched, a slow, faint smile turned up his chiseled lips as if that silent show of rebellion amused him.
Carla turned, purse in hand, and made her way through the crowd to Bill Peck and Blanche.
Peck’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully on her face. “He got you,” he said immediately.
“Uncanny insight, Mr. Peck,” she replied with a wan smile. “I didn’t get the chance to plead my case. He must be absolute hell in a courtroom.”
“You’d think so if you’d ever seen him in one,” the older reporter agreed. “I’ve seen prospective witnesses cringe when they saw him coming. Was it rough?”
She shrugged, pretending a calm she didn’t feel. “A little skin’s missing,” she said with a laugh.
“Sorry,” he said. “That was my hiding you took.”
“The rewrite man’s,” she corrected. “Don’t worry about it. It goes with the job, remember? That’s what everybody tells me.”
“Amen.”
“Well, I’ve gritted my teeth and made my appearance,” she added. “I’ve got my notes in my grubby little hand, and I’m getting out of here before His Honor takes another bite out of me. See you in the morning.”
“Don’t brood on it,” he cautioned.
“I won’t.” She smiled at the blonde. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Blanche smiled back. “Don’t sweat it, honey, we all get our lumps occasionally, deserved or not.”
“Sure,” she said.
She wound her way through the crowd to Senator White and thanked him for the invitation, then she turned and moved quickly to the door. Just as her hand touched the doorknob, a large, warm hand covered it, effectively stopping her, and before she turned, she recognized the black onyx ring on the tanned, masculine hand.
“Peck told me what happened when you darted out of the room,” Bryan Moreland said quietly, and she had to look up a long way to his face, despite her two-inch heels and her formidable five feet, seven inches of height. So that was why Bill had looked so unconcerned.
“Did he?” she asked wanly, meeting the darkness in his eyes with uneasiness.
“I like to place blame where it’s due,” he said in his deep, lazy voice. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t responsible for that story?”
Her eyes flickered down to his burgundy tie. “You didn’t give me much of a chance, Mr. Moreland,” she said.
“Mister?” His heavy eyebrows went up. “God, do I look that old?”
“No, sir.”
He sighed heavily. “Not going to forget it, are you?” he taunted.
She raised her eyes to his with a faint grin. “Not going to apologize, are you?” she returned.
Something kindled in his dark eyes, making them velvet soft, sensuous. A hint of a smile turned up a corner of his wide, firm mouth. She found herself blushing and hated the way she felt: young and gauche and very much outmatched.
“I haven’t had much practice at it,” he admitted.
“Always right, huh?” she asked.
“Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” he challenged.
“Nosey,” she countered, and he chuckled deeply.
“Well, good night,” she said, reaching again for the doorknob.
“Do you have a way home?” he asked unexpectedly.
All of a sudden, she wished with all her heart that she didn’t. She somehow felt warm and soft inside, and she wanted to know more about the big man.
“Yes,” she replied reluctantly.
“Good night, then.” He turned and left her at the door with her sudden, nagging disappointment.
She got down to the street where her car was parked just in time to be confronted with two tall, menacing boys. There were streetlights around the senator’s palatial home, but it was a little-traveled street, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. Carla started toward her car with sheer bravado, mentally cursing herself for coming out here alone.
“Ain’t she pretty,” one of the boys called with a long whistle, his voice slurred as if he’d been drinking.
“A looker, all right,” the other commented, and they moved quickly toward her.
She fumbled in her purse for her car key, frantically digging through makeup and pens and pads with fingers that trembled.
“Nice,” the older of the boys said, smiling at her from an unshaven face. “Where you going, baby? Me and John feel like a little company.”
She straightened jerkily, fighting to remember her brief class in karate, the right moves at the right time.
“I don’t want company,” she said quietly. “And if you don’t go away and leave me alone, I’m going to scream, very loud, so that those people in the house come out here.”
“I’m scared,” the one called John laughed drunkenly. “God, I’m scared! You think the old senator’s go
ing to come down here and save you?”
“He might not,” Bryan Moreland said from the shadows, “but I’ll be glad to oblige.”
“I ain’t scared of you, either,” the older boy said, moving forward to throw a midriff punch toward the big man.
Moreland hardly seemed to move, but the next minute, the boy was crumpled on the pavement. The big man looked at the one called John. “You’ve got two choices. One is pick up this litter from the street and carry it home. You don’t want to know what the second one is.”
John stared at him for a moment, as if measuring his youth and slenderness against the older man’s experience and pure athletic strength. He bent and helped his winded companion to his feet and they moved on down the sidewalk as quickly as they could.
Carla slumped against the small Beetle, her eyes closed as her heart shook her with its wild pounding. “That was close,” she murmured breathlessly, opening her eyes to find Moreland very close. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Sheer stupidity. I forgot how deserted it is out here.”
“You’ll remember next time, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said with a smile. “You’re very good with your fists. I didn’t even see you move.”
“I boxed for a while when I was younger,” he said.
“I didn’t know boxing was around on the Ark,” she commented seriously.
He chuckled. “That’s a hell of a way to say thank you.”
“You’re the one harping on your ancientness, not me,” she told him. “I just do my job and catch hell from bad-tempered public officials.”
“I’m not always bad-tempered.”
“Really?” she said unconvincingly.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow, and I’ll prove it.”
She stared at him as if she’d just been hit between the eyes with a block of ice. “What?”
“Have dinner with me. I’ll take you disco dancing.”
“You’re the mayor!” she burst out.
“Well, my God, it didn’t de-sex me,” he replied.
She blushed. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just…”
“You can’t maintain your objectivity, is that it? Honey, I don’t mix politics and pleasure,” he said quietly, “and right now I don’t give a damn about your objectivity.”
She felt the same way. Something strange and exciting was happening to her. Something she felt that he shared. It was almost frightening.
“I…I was going to do a series of articles on city officials,” she said, seizing on a chance to do some quiet investigating about the information in her anonymous phone calls. “I could start with you…if you wouldn’t mind,” she added.
He pulled a package of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered her one, lifting an eyebrow when she refused. He lit one and repocketed his lighter, smoking quietly while he studied her from his superior height.
“How deep into my life do you want to delve?” he asked finally, and she knew he was thinking about the accident.
“Into your political life,” she corrected. “I think privacy is a divine right as far as anyone’s personal life is concerned. I wouldn’t like mine in print.”
“Oh?” His dark eyes sketched her oval face in the light from the street lamp overhead. “You aren’t old enough to have skeletons in your closet.”
“I’m twenty-three,” she said.
“I’m thirty-nine,” he replied. His eyes narrowed. “Sixteen years, little one.”
“Fifteen,” she murmured breathlessly. “I’ll be twenty-four this month.”
He caught her eyes and held them for a long time, with the sounds of the night and the city fading into oblivion around them. Her heart swelled, nearly bursting with new, exciting emotions.
“I’ll let you do a story,” he said finally, “if I get to okay it before it goes into print.”
“All right,” she replied softly.
“We might as well start early. Are you free in the morning?”
Things were moving so fast she hardly had time to catch her breath, but it was a chance she couldn’t pass up. So, ignoring the county commission meeting she was supposed to go to with Bill Peck, she nodded.
“Be in my office at nine a.m. and we’ll get started.”
“I’ll be there.” She unlocked her car and got in. “Thanks again for saving me.”
“My pleasure,” he replied. “Good night.”
“Good night.” She started the small car and put it in gear. Bryan Moreland was still standing on the sidewalk smoking his cigarette when she rounded the corner.
CHAPTER THREE
The excitement was still with her the next morning, when she grabbed her thirty-five millimeter camera and her pad, quickly checking her desk calendar before she started out the door in her usual mad rush. She was neatly dressed in a tweed jacket with a burgundy plaid wool skirt and matching vest, and her small feet were encased in brown suede boots. Bill Peck took in her appearance with a critical eye, and grinned.
“Who are you dressed up for?” he asked pleasantly.
She blushed, hating the color that rushed into her cheeks. “I’m going to interview the mayor,” she confessed.
“Oh?” He threw her a questioning glance.
“Well, I do need to do some snooping on the tip I got,” she defended, “and I can’t help but turn up something if I comb through all the city departments.”
“You’ll be an old woman by then,” he commented. “It’s a big city.”
“There are only five commissioners over all those departments,” she reminded him, “plus a handful of lesser commission posts, like planning and—”
“I know, I know,” he said with mock weariness, “don’t forget that I had to cover all those groups before you came along to save me.”
“Am I saving you?” she asked.
He only shook his head, perching himself on the corner of her desk while around him telephones were ringing off the hook. “I thought the mayor took several bites out of you last night,” he remarked.
“Only a small one, thanks to you,” she said dryly.
He shrugged. “I don’t like anyone else taking my lumps.”
“Sure.” She smiled. “Anyway, he saved me from a pretty scary gang of toughs last night—two anyway,” she amended, shivering at the memory. “For a man his age, he packs a pretty hefty punch.”
His eyes bulged. “The mayor popped a tough, and you didn’t get the story? My God, haven’t I taught you anything?”
She glared at him. “That comes under the heading of my personal business,” she told him tightly, “not news.”
“But, Carla…he’s the mayor, baby, anything he does is news! Think of it like this—Mayor saves reporter in distress!”
“No. Period,” she added tightly when he pursued it.
He sighed angrily. “You’ll never make a reporter unless you harden up a little.”
“If I have to harden up that much, maybe I’ll hire on as a hit person for the mob,” she said coldly, picking up her camera as she turned to go.
“Wait, Carla,” he said quietly and rose to tower over her. “Don’t be like that. I was only kidding.”
“It didn’t sound like it,” she replied, casting an accusing glance up at him.
He shrugged, his pale hair catching the light to gleam gold. “I’ve been at this a long time. I forget sometimes how it is when you’re a beginner. Okay, I’ll buy that you’re trying to get in with His Nibs, and this wouldn’t help you break the ice. But,” he added darkly, “that’s the only reason I’m not doing anything about it. It’s news. And news comes before personal privilege. Don’t forget it again.”
She started to fire back at him, but his face was like stone, and she knew it wouldn’t do the slightest bit of good. She turned and walked out without another word.
She stuck her head in the city editor’s office, grinning as he looked up from the pile of paper on his desk
over the rim of his glasses.
“I’m going to interview the mayor and stop by the financial section to do a little checking, okay?”
“On what we talked about earlier?” Jim Edwards asked with a nod. “Okay. Don’t forget that interview with the new city clerk—and get a pix. And see if you can get anything out of Moreland about negotiations on the sanitation strike.”
“I ought to ask Green for that,” she said with a wry smile.
“When he doesn’t even take office until the first?” he laughed.
“He’s officially Public Works Commissioner right now,” she reminded him, “regardless of when the next commission meeting is.”
“Touché. He’s not a bad man, you know,” he added quietly. “Just dedicated.”
“I know. Anything else you want me to check on while I’m there?”
He consulted his sheet. “Not that I know of. If anything comes up, I’ll track you down.”
She knew that already. Edwards had a knack for tracking down his reporters that was nothing short of legendary.
“I’ll check back in before I go home,” she said.
He nodded, already buried in his copy again.
* * *
She only had to wait ten minutes before Bryan Moreland’s middle-aged secretary motioned her into his office. He was sitting behind a massive oak desk, his dark eyes stormy, his jaw clenched, when she walked in and sat down, eyeing him cautiously. His big hand was still on the telephone receiver, as if he’d only just finished a telephone call that didn’t agree with him.
“Would you rather I come back later?” she asked gently. “Say, in two or three years?”
He took a deep breath, leaned back in the leather-padded executive chair with his hands behind his leonine head, and studied her down his straight nose. “I don’t like reporters,” he said without preamble.
She grinned. “Neither do I. See, already we’ve got something in common!”
His hard face relaxed a little. “That was Graham—Dan Graham of the Sun, on my neck again for the federal grant for the landfill experiment.” He sighed angrily. “If only I could plead justifiable mayhem….”
“Graham thrives on bruises and contusions,” she laughed.