by Nancy Warren
“Thanks, Steve. Ah, this girlfriend, could you get me in touch with her?”
He pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Sorry. I never go back. Can’t even remember her last name.”
Were all men in the newspaper business like Mike? “Do you remember her first name?”
“Sure. It was Lenore…Lorraine…Laine…?” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter all that much. “Something with an L.”
“Like Loser,” she muttered under her breath as Steve continued on his way.
She had no idea what this latest piece of intelligence meant or, coming from Steve, if it would turn out to be correct. Still, it was the only lead she had, and he’d mentioned that the group operated out of the university. Even if the L-woman wasn’t around, perhaps someone on campus would know about the organization. She jumped up and grabbed her bag, telling Anton, “If anyone asks, I’m taking an early lunch.”
Bypassing the elevator she took the stairs at a trot.
This whole thing didn’t make any sense. Ty Cadman wouldn’t get involved in anything so earthy as wildlife conservation, and yet Harrison Peabody claimed he owned land near the river. Harrison’s mother certainly had land there. Tess rubbed the end of her nose. Should she start with the Peabodys or the university?
Once in her car, she hesitated then headed toward Pasqualie University.
An hour later she knew more about bald eagles than she ever wanted to know and was twenty-five bucks poorer, having done her bit to save the big birds’ diminishing habitat.
Fortunately, B.I.B. had an office in the basement of the student union building and she’d been able to talk to the student manning the desk.
“They breed near rivers, and development is destroying their breeding grounds,” the long-haired ascetic named Jeremy Dennis told her. “That area of Pasqualie River is a spawning ground for salmon and is surrounded by western red cedar, alders and mature cottonwood. Eagles love to perch in cottonwood in winter and they love pigging out on salmon at spawning time.”
“Oh, my. That must be something to see.”
He nodded. “Originally, Bald is Beautiful was set up to support the work of Eugene Butterworth.”
“The painter?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “That’s right, he lived around here.” And his art had become very collectible. Her father had a Butterworth hanging in his office—a doe and fawn drinking from a stream. She’d always loved that picture.
“He was a naturalist as well as a painter and wanted to preserve wildlife habitat. A professor here at the university started Bald is Beautiful while Butterworth was still alive. When he died, he left his paintings and papers to B.I.B. Now, we also operate a land trust. We raise money to buy up land along the Pasqualie.” He flipped a straggly brown braid over his shoulder. “Sometimes we luck out and the owners donate the land.”
Her nose felt as if it was smoking. If she could prove Ty Cadman was behind the numbered company that owned the chunk of land on the river, she had a really juicy developer versus the environment story on her hands. And if the legendary Eugene Butterworth was part of it, this could have national significance.
Trying to keep the excitement out of her voice, she said, “I notice your land borders a riverfront section owned by a numbered company. Do you know anything about that?”
Jeremy shifted in his seat, and offered her an apologetic, toothy grin. “Yeah, but I’m not allowed to tell. Sorry. I know you’re a member and everything now, but you’re also the press. You know.”
“Sure.” She smiled at him while her back molars ground together. “I understand. I’d love to do a feature article on the group sometime. Maybe we can raise awareness of the issues, get people behind the project.”
“Oh, yeah. That’d be great.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about that land?”
He fidgeted with his pen. “It’s okay. That land. The owners are on our side.”
She almost fell out of her chair. Could wildlife habitat preservation and Cadman possibly go together? It was worth investigating.
“Do you know Ty Cadman?”
Jeremy gazed at her with a puzzled frown. “I read about him in the papers sometimes. Sure.”
“I was just wondering if he was a B.I.B. benefactor?”
Jeremy’s protuberant blue gaze fixed on her face as though she was a few carob chips short of a full granola bar. “The developer? You think he’d support habitat conservation?”
“I know he’s a big philanthropist.” She shrugged. “If he’s not already contributing, I could talk to him.”
“Well, I guess we take anybody’s money. I’ll check the membership list.” He pulled a dog-eared sheaf of papers out of a desk drawer. “Computers are down,” he explained to Tess as he flipped through the document, while she scanned names from upside down.
“No.” Jeremy shook his head. “There’s no Cadman here.” He dug out a pen. “Might as well add your name while I have this in front of me.”
While he flipped from C to E on the list, she kept scanning names. Lots were handwritten, which made them tough to decipher. “Have the computers been down a long time?”
“One computer. Almost a week, I guess.”
She felt her brows pull together at the number of penned-and penciled-in names. “Did you get that many new members in a week?”
He flipped through the list. “Our secretary is a volunteer and only comes in when she gets time between classes. She was probably a week behind already. But, yeah. We’ve had a lot of new members in the last month.”
“Did you do some kind of membership drive?”
“No.” He shrugged. “These things come and go.”
She almost asked if the Peabodys were among the new members, but she didn’t want to push her luck. Besides, she was planning to visit with Margaret Peabody later; she’d ask her.
After thanking Jeremy for his time and promising to do a feature to help raise awareness of the organization she’d now joined, she left, excitement churning in her belly and her mind full of questions.
She glanced at her watch on her way back to her car and decided she had time to drop in on Mrs. Peabody if she skipped lunch entirely.
When she looked up again, a very familiar figure was stalking down the sidewalk toward her, his black hair loose and sexy the way she liked it. His jeans sat low on his hips, boots clacking with purpose on the pavement. Her stomach plummeted faster than an eagle going after prey. Once could have been coincidence. Twice? Uh-uh. Damn, damn, damn. They were after the same story.
Mike Grundel caught sight of her and halted with a jerk, blue eyes narrowing on her face.
“Registering for your freshman year?” she asked sweetly, trying to ignore the hammering of her heart at the sight of all that rugged maleness. A breeze tossed strands of glossy hair against the open collar of his denim shirt.
“Trolling for chicks. You?”
She gestured to the massive stone library across University Boulevard. “Catching up on some light reading.”
His gaze softened, seemed to linger on her lips. If he really had come to troll for chicks, he was going about it the right way.
She smiled at him, trying to ignore the little sizzle he’d ignited in her belly. She had a mission and she couldn’t forget that. “And I might enroll in a cooking course. For exotic fowl.”
Those dangerously sexy eyes began to twinkle with reluctant amusement. He must realize, as she had, that they were following up the same lead. “The bald eagle is an endangered species.”
“As you’re about to discover, it’s been upgraded to threatened. Besides, I was thinking of cooking something common enough to appeal to you. Something black that goes caw.”
“You’ve got plenty of nerve, I’ll give you that.” He lifted his hand to her face and tucked a windblown lock of hair behind her ear, sending tingles shivering down her spine. “But this is my story.”
She tried to ignore the fluttering of her nerve endings as his fingers skim
med the top of her ear and seemed to pause at the pulse point just behind the lobe. Her voice emerged as breathless as the breeze. “And what story is that?”
Looking as baffled as she was beginning to feel, he muttered, “Damned if I know,” and headed through the door.
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT when Tess’s intercom buzzed. She rubbed her eyes, blurry from staring at a computer screen while her random notes stared back at her. She’d searched the Internet and found loads of information on bald eagles, noted the B.I.B. site could use some updating, and discovered nothing that helped with her current story. At least nothing that linked Cadman to any of it.
No one had been home at the Peabodys’ so that was another lead that had stalled.
Her buzzer sounded again and she rose. Probably a wrong number, she thought as she answered.
“Tess, it’s me. Mike.”
“Mike Grundel?” It wasn’t as if she was up to her armpits in guys called Mike, but she couldn’t imagine why her archrival was calling on her at midnight. Unless…
“Yeah. Can I come up?”
She glanced down at herself, decent enough in sweats, but hardly in the mood for sexy-as-sin gentleman callers. “Why?”
“I have a proposition.”
She chuckled, even as a rush of heat swept over her. “At least you’re honest.”
“Not that kind.” His voice crackled over the intercom. “I can’t tell you from here. Come on, let me up.”
It was a really bad idea. He was sexier than Clark Gable, sneakier than a calorie and about as resistible as Swiss chocolate.
She pushed the button to let him in.
5
Saw a flick last night where a dude in a monkey suit asked a woman if she liked her wine as dry as her conversation. Get real. What happened to, “Hey, babe. Let’s do the nasty.”
TOO IMPATIENT TO WAIT for the creaky old elevator, Mike bounded up the stairs and banged on Tess’s door, out of breath and stewing.
“Let’s make a deal,” he said the moment she opened the door.
“And good evening to you, too.”
How any woman managed to look cool and sophisticated in a pair of gray sweatpants and a University of Western Washington hoodie was beyond him, but Tess did. Nothing could disguise the air of culture, expensive education and moneyed background. In this dump of an apartment she looked like a fancy porcelain doll in a dime store.
She also looked tired and frustrated, which he could totally relate to, and so kissable he stuck his hands in his jeans’ pockets and stomped past her out of harm’s way.
She sent him one of her superior smirks. “Please, come right in.”
“Cut the finishing school crap. You want to do a deal or don’t you?”
The door shut with a snap. She gestured to her couch and turned on another lamp, as if maybe she didn’t want to be alone with him in the dark. Smart lady. “What kind of deal?”
He ignored the couch, too wired to sit. Instead he paced her small living room. He had a really bad feeling in his gut that he was losing perspective. That this was one of his worst ideas ever. And there were quite a few to choose from—kissing Tess the other night being the chart-topper.
He watched from under his brows as she headed for her kitchenette, distracted by the sway of her hips in the softly clinging sweats.
Once again, as he had too often this week, he recalled the way she’d felt on his bike with her arms and legs wrapped around him and her chest jammed against his back. Good didn’t even begin to describe it. She’d felt more than good, almost as though she belonged there. And that didn’t come close to the way she’d felt in his arms, which had his early warning system on full alert. He shook his head as though he could shake his stupidity right out his ears, so riled he could barely think straight.
He heard the sucking pull of a fridge door opening, a metallic clink and then she reappeared with two bottles of beer. She held them at chest height and after thinking about how good that beer would taste, he noticed the perky sway of her breasts under the cotton—he was certain there was nothing between the sweatshirt and her naked flesh.
The bottle was slick with condensation when he took it with a brief word of thanks. He drank deeply, giving himself an internal cold shower as he swallowed.
“You said something about a deal?” she prompted, perching on the chair at her desk. A small desk light was switched on, illuminating an open notebook. The computer was humming, but the screen was turned off.
“Working on a movie review?” he asked.
Her eyes flickered. “Not exactly.”
He tapped the bottle against his teeth. The hell with it. Stupidity hadn’t killed him yet. “Did you get in to see the Peabodys?”
She sent him a long, cool Grace Kelly look. “What kind of deal are we talking about?” Her voice was just as cool.
Frustration made him blurt, “The Peabodys wouldn’t talk to me.”
“They don’t know what they’re missing. All that charm and wit.”
“Yeah. I used so much charm, Peabody called Mel, my managing editor.”
She bit her plump lower lip and a crease appeared between her brows. Even she could figure out that complaints about him from Ty Cadman’s dear friends wouldn’t help his career. “Do you want me to talk to them?”
He was momentarily diverted. “Would you?”
She shrugged. “Yes.” Humor lit deep in her eyes like a candle in a winter window. “I can’t win the bet if you get fired.”
“Then you might want to speak to Mel. She tore so many strips off me…I felt like that peeling mummy in the horror flick last week.”
She laughed, showing glossy pearl-white teeth and just a hint of pink tongue.
He shuddered. He’d taken knockouts in the ring that weren’t as brutal as Mel’s verbal lashing. “If I so much as read the news section of the paper she’ll have my ass in a sling.”
“So you came here to tell me the bet’s off.”
“Hell, no. I’m still going to win. I want a side deal.”
“Ah, yes, which brought you to me at midnight. And that is?” She appeared wary but intrigued.
“The way I see it, we’re chasing the same story, but neither of us has a clue what it is. Am I right so far?”
She paused, then nodded.
He began to pace, ticking off points against his fingers. “Cadman’s supposedly building a wilderness retreat, but we don’t know where or when. He’s got to be involved in Bald is Beautiful. Why? He’s getting his snooty rich friends involved, too. Again, why? Those people won’t talk to me, but they will talk to you.”
“Yes.” She smiled sweetly. “They will talk to me.”
He kept his gaze level as he stopped pacing and turned to her. “But I have all the background and research on Cadman. Interviews, sources in the construction business, gossip, lots of little goodies I can’t confirm but could help us get to the bottom of this story.”
“Such as?”
“Such as this Nathan Macarthur who owns that numbered company. Who is he? A front for Cadman?”
Her eyes blinked wide. “You found out who owns the numbered company?”
Oh, man, was she green. “Didn’t they teach you how to do a numbered company search in journalism school?”
“Of course,” she muttered, fussing with the drawstring at her neck. “I just ran out of time.”
He held back his smirk and watched her face. “Name mean anything to you?”
“Nathan Macarthur?” She shook her head, slowly. “No.”
“Damn.” He’d been hoping she’d know. He was probably insane to pursue his deal with the rookie princess, but what other options did he have? He still believed her contacts would outweigh her lack of experience as his silent partner. He took a breath. “So?”
“So?” She crossed her arms under her breasts and he wished she wouldn’t do that. It was like offering a starving man his favorite meal on a silver platter.
He forced himself to glance away
. “So, I know Cadman had inside information on the bidding process on the opera house. I have so much dirt on that crook I need a backhoe to move my files. He’s trying to pull another fast scam and this time I’m going to nail him. My deal is this—we share information. I’ll give you access to all my research and files on Cadman. I’ve got sources it’s taken me years to cultivate. You share all your notes and transcripts from interviews, anything you uncover that relates to this story.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, and he knew she was working out the pros and cons in her head, as he had before approaching her.
He settled back to wait, knowing she’d agree if she was anywhere near the serious journalist she pretended to be. They worked together or gave up on the story. It was as simple as that.
“What about our bet?”
“The bet stands. This is only about sharing information.”
“You mean—”
“Front-page story. The first to get one wins.”
“But what if the Cadman story is our only chance at the front page?” She sounded a little nervous.
“We agree not to go public until we have a solid story.”
She nodded.
“Then it’s up to whichever one of us can sell the story to our editor first.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean you’d scoop me?”
He grinned at her naiveté. “Scoop or be scooped, babe. That’s how the game is played.”
She let out her breath in a huff and he thought he’d lost her. Then she seemed to straighten her spine. “All right,” she said slowly, her gaze caught by something across the room.
He followed the direction of her gaze to a silver-framed picture of her father. There was another of her mother beside it, but it was her father she stared at as she took up his challenge.
So she wanted to show dear old dad, did she? Interesting. An expression both vulnerable and sweet swept her face, giving him a rare glimpse beneath her cool facade. It made him want to cross the room and take her into his arms. Which scared him so much he put his half-empty long-neck down on her desk with a thunk. She was royalty and he was the poor slob who emptied the chamber pots of her world. He had to remember that.