Private Passions

by Rochelle Alers

  Biting down on her lower lip, she inched along, then found herself standing outside the room. The door was ajar, the opening large enough for her to see a wall of drawn burgundy-colored drapes. Her gaze glazed over, the drapes suddenly resembling a waterfall of rushing blood. She hadn’t known why the thought of blood came to mind, but it did not take her long to realize why.

  Lying on her back, eyes closed, lips parted in a silent scream, was Bettina Gibson. She looked as if she could have been asleep, except for the blood pooling in her left ear, spilling onto the cream carpeting and staining her pale-colored hair. Within seconds of seeing Bettina, Emily’s shock turned to fear. What if the person who’d shot the magazine reporter was hiding in the room? Had he caught a glimpse of her through the narrow opening in the doorway? Even though the odor of cordite lingered in the room, it could not conceal the distinctive fragrance of a popular men’s cologne. Her trembling fingers searched for the small audio devices. Shifting, she glanced over her left shoulder, pressing her back to the wall. The hallway was still empty. Slowly, methodically, she withdrew her earpiece and microphone, slipping them into place.

  “Jimmy!” she hissed into the microphone. Oh, please let him be in the van, she prayed silently.

  “What’s up, Kirkland?”

  She was certain he heard her intense sigh of relief. “Trouble,” she whispered. “Big trouble. Someone shot Bettina Gibson.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind,” she snapped angrily.

  “Who shot her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Get out of there, Kirkland!”

  “Jimmy…”

  “Get the hell out of there now!”

  “Call the police. They’ll need medical backup.”

  “Get out of there or I’m coming in after you!”

  “I’m coming. And call the station and tell them we’re going to do a live hook-up.”

  “Get out…”

  Whatever James O’Brian was going to say was lost when she ripped the earpiece from her ear and the microphone from her bodice and pushed them between her breasts.

  She did not remember retracing her steps down the hallway or descending the winding staircase. No one seemed to notice her as she elbowed her way through hundreds of formally attired bodies to the lobby. Searching the depths of her small bag for the ticket for her jacket, she found it and slapped it on the counter of the coat check. If it hadn’t been the beginning of February, or if the temperatures weren’t just above freezing, she would’ve walked out without her jacket.

  An elderly woman gave her a questioning look. “Leaving so soon, Miss Kirkland?”

  “I’m on assignment tonight.” She did not intend to explain her early departure.

  “That’s too bad,” the woman mumbled, shaking her head. She turned and disappeared into the coat room to locate the pretty reporter’s garment.

  Emily felt a surge of adrenaline as she spied her jacket in the woman’s arms. She needed to get back to Jimmy and the van. She had to make certain he’d called an ambulance for Bettina. Please, please don’t let anything happen to her. The plea echoed over and over in her head as she placed a tip on the counter, pushed her bare arms into the sleeves of a matching quilted satin jacket, and raced out of the country club to the parking lot.

  Plumes of gray vapor from her parted lips disappeared into the blackness of the night as she quickened her pace. She saw Jimmy standing outside the van, his video camera cradled on one shoulder. Her eyes were unnaturally large as she rushed over to him.

  “Did you call for help?”

  “They’re on their way.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth the sound of sirens shattered the stillness of the night.

  “Did you call the station?”

  “They’re ready whenever we are.”

  James O’Brian waited for Emily to insert her earpiece, then he handed her a microphone. Within seconds he activated his camera, checked the audio and adjusted the light as he viewed the composed features of Emily Kirkland through the lens of the video recorder.

  Waiting for Jimmy’s signal, Emily stared directly at the camera. “This is KCNS Political Correspondent Emily Kirkland, bringing you a late-breaking event only minutes after it occurred here at the San Rafael Country Club. A young woman has been shot by an unknown assailant. She’s lying in a pool of blood on the carpet in a private room on the second floor of this very affluent social establishment. The police have just arrived, along with emergency medical assistance. We don’t know the woman’s identity, her medical condition or who is responsible for shooting her. What we do know is that she is one of hundreds who came here tonight for a fundraising event for gubernatorial hopeful William Savoy. We will bring you more information as soon as it is available. This is Emily Kirkland, KCNS-12, Metromedia News, reporting live from the Santa Fe San Rafael Country Club.”

  Jimmy gave her the signal, ending the taping, and she closed her eyes, swaying slightly. He was at her side, one arm going around her waist to steady her.

  She had lied to the viewing public. She did know who the woman was. And whoever had shot her wanted to kill her. You didn’t shoot someone in the head to wound or frighten them.

  Jimmy tightened his grip. “Are you all right?”

  Leaning against his shoulder, she nodded. The stubble on his chin scratched the tender skin on her forehead and she pulled back. “I’m okay now. I have to go back in.”

  The cameraman shook his head, a long graying ponytail sweeping over the worn wool fabric of his vintage pea coat. “Don’t you think you’ve seen enough?”

  “I’m a witness, Jimmy. Not an eyewitness, but I have to tell the police what I know.”

  He placed his fingers over his right ear, listening intently. “They want us back at the station. Governor Savoy just called Richard.”

  “I can’t. Tell Richard I’ll be in after I talk to the police.”

  Jimmy mumbled an expletive under his breath as she handed him the microphone. He watched the gentle sway of the hem of her gown as she made her way back to the entrance of the country club. Blue and white lights lit up the night as the wail of sirens screamed incessantly.

  It was going to be a long night for veteran cameraman James Francis O’Brian. A very, very long night.

  Chapter 23

  “Hey, Chris, come over and take a look at this.”

  Chris didn’t move as he studied the large map of New Mexico spread out on the conference table. Grant Carsons and one of the strategists stood in front of one of the many television monitors set up in the hotel suite that doubled as his principal campaign headquarters. Most of them were tuned to the major networks, each on mute.

  “What’s going on?” His voice was void of emotion. He had spent the past four hours with his campaign staff, scheduling his personal appearances for the next nine months. On average, he was expected to visit as many as ten cities each week. The mode of transportation varied: train, bus, private jet and car.

  Someone increased the sound on the monitor, and the distinctive contralto voice belonging to Emily Kirkland filled the space. It caught Chris’s attention immediately, and he moved away from the conference table to stand with the others in front of the television screen.

  “Holy…” Grant swallowed an expletive, turning and staring at Chris. “He’s toast.”

  Chris couldn’t pull his gaze away from the image of his wife as she reported that a young woman had been found shot in a private room at the country club where gubernatorial candidate William Savoy was holding a fundraiser. Emily appeared calm, but something in her eyes said differently.

  He’d slept with the woman, married her and had come to know her in the most
intimate way possible. He had also watched Emily report the news for years, memorizing her body language, her speech patterns and her inflection. Now, she spoke slowly, too slowly. It was as if she had to measure every word to make certain she didn’t say the wrong thing.

  Removing his glasses, Grant ran a large hand over his face. “Savoy doesn’t need anyone to screw up his campaign, he manages to do that all by himself.”

  “Who says he’s to blame for this one?” Chris asked.

  “Come on, Chris, don’t be so naive,” one of the strategists drawled sarcastically.

  “Who’s being naive?” he countered. “Billy Savoy’s morals may be suspect, but I don’t believe he’d become embroiled in a scandal that could derail his campaign before it actually begins.”

  His gaze was glued to the television monitor tuned to KCNS. He leaned closer. There was something in Emily’s eyes that registered an uneasiness that usually wasn’t there when she delivered the news. It was the same awkwardness that had lingered behind her stoic demeanor when he’d come to see her after she had been stalked by a man who sought to kill her because she hadn’t responded to his cyber-marriage proposal.

  He had known her all her life, yet not once had she ever shown him a modicum of fear. A slight shiver raced up his spine. How was she able to put on a mask of indifference, successfully concealing her emotions from him and the world? When had she become such an accomplished actress?

  Chris stared at her expressionless face as she summed up her report. She’s just like her father. It wasn’t the first time he’d realized that Emily Kirkland-Delgado was exactly like the man who’d challenged him about his association with his daughter. He had no doubt that if his stepfather hadn’t come between him and Joshua in the Cole library, the confrontation would have destroyed a friendship that spanned a generation, while also straining his own secret marriage.

  He had made a mistake. He thought he knew everything there was to know about his wife—but her impassive expression on the monitor said otherwise. The woman he’d married had become a stranger—a stranger who frightened him.

  Her image disappeared, replaced by Calvin Robinson’s. He updated her story, reporting that the woman had been flown to an Albuquerque hospital that specialized in head trauma cases.

  “What do you think?” Grant asked close to his ear.

  Without taking his gaze off the television screen, Chris shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. It looks ugly—very, very ugly.”

  Grant leaned closer. “I’m going to have my contact follow up on this. And don’t worry,” he added when his candidate turned to stare at him, “it’ll be discreet.” He knew Chris was adamant about running a campaign free of slander, libel or scandal. Reaching for the small cellular phone in his shirt pocket, he dialed a series of numbers. Turning his back, he spoke softly into the mouthpiece. “Max, see what you can come up with on the girl.” Pressing a button, he terminated a call that had lasted less than fifteen seconds. Placing a hand on Chris’s shoulder, he whispered, “You’re much too ethical for politics, my friend.”

  Giving his campaign manager a long, penetrating look, Chris forced a smile. “I don’t want to know anything about this.”

  He didn’t want to be privy to whatever Grant’s informant came up with on the woman and Savoy—if, indeed, there was a connection between them. What he had to do was finalize his campaign schedule, then go to Emily. He had promised her that they would not have any personal contact with each other until after the election; however, this time he would have to break his promise.

  Even though he had taken Salem Lassiter’s advice and contracted with a private agency to protect her, as her husband, it was his responsibility to protect her emotional well-being.

  * * *

  Emily lay on the floor in her living room, her head resting on a mound of pillows, staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace. The subdued light complemented candles resting on several tables in the living and dining rooms. She’d pushed the thermostat up to eighty degrees, lit a fire, bundled herself in sweats and thick cotton socks, and yet she was still cold. It had taken hours for the shock of seeing Bettina lying in her own blood, her lips parted in a silent scream, to finally affect her.

  She and Jimmy had returned to the station after the police had taken her statement and she had been met with another shock. Governor Bruce Savoy was livid that the KCNS correspondent had reported the shooting without clearance from his son’s press secretary. Minutes after the governor’s call, a fax had been forwarded to the station stating that Emily Kirkland had been removed from the press corps list for William Savoy’s campaign.

  The wording of the fax was veiled, but it was obvious that Bruce Savoy believed that Emily Kirkland had deliberately sought to sabotage his son’s bid to become governor because of her personal association with his political rival.

  Richard had suggested she take a couple of days off to give him time to reassign her, then congratulated her for being the first to report the shocking news. Not once had he shown any concern for Bettina Gibson’s condition, or the fact that her own career was now in jeopardy. He was only concerned with ratings, while she knew she had made a powerful enemy in Governor Savoy.

  The popping sound of burning wood, followed by a shower of falling embers behind the decorative screen of the fireplace shattered the silence in the enormous space. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. It was one o’clock. Closing her eyes, Emily bit down hard on her lower lip and prayed that Bettina would make it through surgery successfully.

  The buzz of the intercom jolted her, and she sat up. The guard in the gatehouse was ringing her. Pushing to her feet, she walked over to a wall phone and picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Senator Delgado, Miss Kirkland.”

  “Let him in, Jack.”

  She hung up the phone, pressing her back to the wall. What was she going to say to the guard—Don’t allow my husband access, because I don’t want to compromise my position at the television station by interacting with William Savoy’s political rival? Well, she didn’t have to worry about compromising herself; she was off the Savoy campaign.

  She unlocked the front door, opened it and waited for Chris to pull into her driveway. A sweep of headlights came into view, then the outline of his Saab. A minute later she found herself in his arms as they moved from the foyer into the living room. She could feel his heart thudding against her own. His nearness was so overwhelmingly protective that she was able to temporarily forget the sound of angry voices, the explosion of a gunshot and Bettina’s scream of terror.

  Pulling back, Chris cradled her face between his hands, trying to see her expression in the wavering light. He inhaled the moistness of her breath when he lowered his head and drank deeply from her sweet mouth.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked as he placed soft, nibbling kisses at the corners of her mouth.

  Emily returned his kiss, her fingernails digging into the soft fibers of his sweater. “Hold me,” she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. “Just hold me.”

  One hand made soothing motions up and down the length of her straight spine. “It’s all right, baby. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Pressing closer, she buried her face against the side of his neck. “It was terrible, Chris. I saw her lying there, her hair stained with blood. It—”

  “You saw her?”

  Emily uttered a small cry of protest when Chris eased her back. The look on his face frightened her. “Yes.”

  He tightened his grip on her upper arms. “You witnessed the shooting?”

  Closing her eyes briefly, she shook her head. “No. But I heard someone arguing with her moments before she was shot.”

  His eyes blazed like burning coals as fear and anger formed a knot in his c
hest. “What were you doing there?”

  “I’d followed Bettina.”

  His fingers were like manacles around her arm as he pulled her over to the love seat. He sat, pulling her down with him. “Tell me about it, Emily. And you’d better not leave anything out.”

  She closed her eyes. She couldn’t fight with him now. The police interrogation and her meeting with Richard Adams had drained her. “Please don’t bark at me, Christopher.”

  “I’m not barking at you,” he retorted, his voice softening slightly. “I just need to know how involved you are.”

  “I am not involved.” Slowly, methodically, she related everything she had seen and heard from the moment she walked into the country club.

  “Did you see Billy Savoy go upstairs?”

  She shook her head. “No.” Vertical lines appeared between her eyes. “You don’t think William Savoy tried to kill Bettina?”

  Threading his fingers through her slender ones, Chris leaned closer and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. “It doesn’t matter what I think, baby.”

  Emily pulled her hand from his grip. “What matters is that some creep put a bullet in the head of a woman I went to graduate school with, a woman who shared field assignments with me, a woman who, if she survives, may live out her days in a vegetative state. Somebody’s going to pay for doing this to her, and I’m not going to stop until I uncover who did it.”

  Chris’s body stiffened in shock. “Let the police do their job.”

  “The police can conduct their own investigation. I’ll conduct mine.”

  “Why?” The single word exploded from his mouth. “Have you forgotten that you’re a political analyst, not an investigative reporter?”

  “Right now I’m neither,” she shot back. “I’m barred from covering the Savoy campaign because Governor Savoy complained to my boss about me not clearing my report with his son’s press secretary. He had the nerve to label an attempted murder as an incident. Why, Chris? Because they wanted time to concoct a cover-up to protect their candidate from negative publicity? Meanwhile, I’ve been ordered to stay home and wait for my next assignment.”