“Jesus, Kayla, get in here!”
Kayla moved a few steps closer to the house. “I gotta get home. My parents will kill me if they go to check my room and find me gone.”
The shadow moved again, looking so much like a dark, menacing human shape this time that Dawn opened her mouth to scream.
But before the sound escaped, there was a sudden, brighter pool of light flooding the back lawn, and the shadow vanished in its glow. A second later, Dawn realized the light was coming from her own house’s open back door when she heard her mother say, “You might as well come on in, Kayla.”
Kayla grimaced but hurried inside, seeming almost as relieved as she was upset at being caught. Dawn went downstairs to do damage control, telling herself all the way that she probably hadn’t seen a damn thing, other than maybe a stray deer or a nightbird. Her mother’s paranoid tendencies were finally starting to rub off on her.
* * *
Every person in the newsroom looked up when Julie burst in the next morning, ten minutes late.
Bryan, her assistant, who’d been on her heels from the front entrance all the way to the newsroom, talking all the way, finally managed to thrust the cup of coffee he was carrying into her hands.
“Rough night?” the news director, Allan Westcott asked.
“No sleep. Did you get my fax?”
“Yeah. It came in at 5:00 a.m.” Westcott shuffled the pages in front of him. “Your report says the body was discovered around midnight?”
She nodded.
“So why the delay?”
She had to say something, and admitting that she’d been out rifling through the dead man’s apartment in the wee hours was out of the question, nor were Dawn’s antics any of the man’s business. By the time she’d phoned the police about the party, called Kayla’s parents, lectured the girls while awaiting Mr. and Mrs. Matthewses’ arrival, seen Kayla safely off, double-checked the locks and gotten Dawn back into bed, it had been four-thirty. She’d barely had time to type up the details, reread them to be sure she hadn’t included anything she wasn’t supposed to know and fax the report to the station.
There’d been no point in trying to sleep by then.
“Julie?”
She blinked and sipped her coffee. Perfect, just enough cream and sugar. Bryan was learning fast. “Yes,” she finally answered. “Rough night. Long, rough, sleepless night. Have the police released the identity of the victim yet?” She took another sip, trying to hide her nerves as she hoped the cops hadn’t mentioned her missing car keys or her behavior at the crime scene to her boss.
“No. We’ve been checking every half hour. I, uh, I understand Sean MacKenzie was on the scene with you last night.”
Julie felt her eyes widen but hid her surprise behind a bright smile. “Which makes it even more vital that we stay on this. I couldn’t bear to have that snake in the grass scoop me.”
Westcott cleared his throat and glanced at the producer, who was chewing her lower lip. Other glances were being exchanged around the table.
“What?” Julie asked, looking from one face to the next. “What’s going on?”
No one looked her in the eye, until Allan shrugged and cleared his throat. “Sit down, Julie. Drink your coffee.”
Frowning, suddenly very worried, she sat. There was a folder in front of her customary chair. She pretended to look through it, while knowing, deep in her gut, that she was about to be fired. They knew about her walking into that crime scene last night. The cops had told—or more likely that rat bastard Sean MacKenzie…
…whose face was smiling up at her from an eight-by-ten glossy. It sat inside the folder, opposite his professional bio.
Lifting her head slowly, she speared Allan Westcott with a look that should have set his hair on fire. “You didn’t—you wouldn’t…”
The door opened, and a man walked in. She felt him before she even turned to look at him, standing there, looking fresh and handsome and smug. “Hope I’m not so late I get fired on my first day,” he said. Then he met her eyes. “Morning, partner.”
She rose slowly from her chair, not smiling, not speaking, not quite able to process anything she was seeing.
Allan Westcott cleared his throat. “Julie, meet your new coanchor.”
Sean, still smiling, extended a hand. She took it automatically, without even thinking, and he pulled her close, as if to give her a friendly embrace, and whispered close to her ear, “Breathe, Jones, before your head explodes.”
Then he released her. She turned around and sank into her chair, feeling as if someone had just hit her with a stun gun.
“Welcome to WSNY, Sean.” Allan had come around the table now and was pumping MacKenzie’s hand as if they were best friends.
“When did all this happen?” Julie asked. “I haven’t even tested with him. I thought we had another two weeks before we had to decide who would replace Jim.” She blinked and shot a glance at MacKenzie. “I didn’t even know you’d sent an audition tape.”
“Julie,” Westcott said, “I know this comes as a surprise, and I wanted more time to break it to you. The truth is, Sean’s the best man we’ve interviewed for the job. We’d planned to see a few more applicants before making any decisions, but since you and he were both on the scene of the murder last night, we thought it best to move fast.”
“I didn’t give them much of a choice, Jones,” MacKenzie said quickly. “If they hadn’t hired me, I’d have taken the story elsewhere.”
Bryan vacated his seat beside Julie, pulling it out for Sean and waving him into it. MacKenzie took it.
“You blackmailed yourself into a job,” she interpreted.
Sean shrugged. “At least now I won’t scoop you.”
She blinked at him. “They call you at the last minute with a job offer based solely on their desire to stop your show from scooping ours, and you accept?”
He shrugged. “Actually, I called them. They made an offer only an idiot would have turned down.”
She was certain her eyes must have been flashing fire by then. “What about your radio show?”
“I’ve been trying to land this job for a month, Jones. It’s not like I didn’t plan ahead, just in case hell froze over, and I got it.” MacKenzie smiled at her. “The radio station’s playing a taped show today. I’m under contract for ten more shows, which translates to another two weeks, but I can make arrangements to go in and tape the new stuff when I’m not busy here. Don’t worry, Jones, I’ll have plenty of time to work with you on this.”
She looked from him to Allan, who was still standing. The look he returned told her this was a done deal. Not to argue. So she didn’t, not right then, anyway. Allan returned to his seat and started with the daily briefing. She sat there, using the stoic face she had to put on when reading news that made her want to cry, barely hearing him, glad that Bryan was there rapidly taking notes so she could catch up later.
Finally the meeting ended, and she got up, went to her office, turned to close the door behind her—and bumped it against the body that stood there, blocking the way.
“We should probably talk,” MacKenzie said. He pushed the door wider, waltzed inside as if he owned the place and then closed it behind him. As he did, she saw a crowd of co-workers looking on curiously, but they all scattered as soon as they saw her looking.
Then the door was closed, and it was just the two of them.
“You have an office.” He sounded impressed. “I figured a cubicle in the newsroom.”
She shrugged. “You figured right, up until two months ago. This was Jim’s office. He was a legend, you know. There’s a street named after him. He’d been here twenty years. He rated an office of his own.”
“So…when he retired?”
“I asked for it and got it.” She shrugged. “I was as surprised as anyone when they said yes. You wanna take notes on this or…?”
“Photographic memory,” he said, tapping his skull with a forefinger. She would have preferred a sledge
hammer.
“So why are you in here?”
He pursed his lips. “Up until last night, I didn’t really think I had a chance in hell of landing this job. I’d have given you a heads-up when I first applied, if I had. Thought you ought to know that.”
She didn’t think a reply was called for, so she didn’t give one.
“Hell, I applied here ten years ago, as a photojournalist. That’s how I started, you know. Behind the camera. But then I got ambitious. You know I applied for your spot, three years ago, same time you did. I wasn’t ‘on air’ material, they said. Besides, they wanted a woman.” He pursed his lips. “Funny thing is, I haven’t changed a thing. Not my style, not my look. The only difference is that now my radio show is a hit. My name is known as well as yours is, and I’m your polar opposite. To be honest, I think we could be dynamite together.”
She blinked, not missing the double entendre. “On the air, you mean.”
“Of course. What else would I mean?” Then he smiled slowly. “Oh, that. Gee, Jones, you don’t waste any time, do you?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Don’t panic, Jones. I probably won’t last a week.”
“Why not?”
He smiled, holding his arms out to his sides. “Look at me. Your boss was right the first time. I’m not anchor material.”
She did look at him. He was wearing faded jeans that looked sinfully good on him, a khaki polo shirt with a Syracuse Orangemen logo patch on one side of the chest, a baseball cap and an olive drab jacket that looked like army surplus. He hadn’t shaved this morning, so there was a sexy whisper of prickly stubble on his face. He did look more like one of the photojournalists than an on-air reporter—and she had already known that was where he’d started, behind the camera, not in front of it.
He was right. He didn’t look like an anchor. What the hell could Allan have been thinking, hiring him for an on-air spot?
“I figured you’d blackball me if you could,” he said finally.
It made her realize that she’d been looking him over pretty thoroughly for several seconds now, and that he was fully aware of it. Maybe even enjoying it.
“I would have, if I’d had a clue they were even thinking of hiring you,” she said. Then she sighed and moved behind her desk, sinking into her chair, hugging her coffee mug between her hands, even though it was nearly empty. “Might still try it, though I think Allan’s mind is made up.”
He sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk, pulling it closer as he did. “Assuming they don’t fire me in short order, I meant what I said before. I think we could make this work for both of us.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And look, if it’s last night that has you worried, you can relax. I’m not going to say anything about your little snafu at that crime scene. I’m not out to get you fired.”
She lifted her brows. “Why not? Wouldn’t that give you the anchor seat all to yourself?”
He probed her eyes with his. “Don’t trust me as far as you can throw me, do you, Jones?”
“Less than that, even.”
His jaw tightened. “Okay, we’ll put this on terms you might believe. I want to succeed.”
“So?”
“So every marketing study out there shows that viewers prefer news shows with male-female coanchors. Your boss was right about that when he hired you as Jim’s partner three years ago. If I get you fired, they’ll just hire someone else. I already know you’re good. And for some inexplicable reason, you’re popular. The viewers love you. The fact that your ratings have dropped since Jim retired isn’t because of you, it’s because he’s gone. The other shows have coanchors, and they’re picking up your audience because of it.”
She lifted her chin. “My ratings haven’t dropped that much.”
“You were number one in Central N. Y. Now you’re number three.”
“The difference between one and three is only a few points.”
“The difference between one and three is the difference between winning and being the second runner-up, kid. WSNY wants that number one slot. And now that I’m on board, we’re going to give it to them.”
She lowered her head, shook it. “Maybe I’ll just quit.”
He pursed his lips. “No, you won’t. That would be unprofessional, and you might be a whole lot of things, Jones, but you are not unprofessional.”
She pursed her lips.
“Why do you hate me so much, anyway?”
“I don’t hate you, MacKenzie. I couldn’t care less about you. Don’t flatter yourself by taking it personally. I’d feel the same way about anyone who was after my job.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Name one other journalist who went up against you for that anchor chair three years ago. Just one.”
She frowned, looking around the room as she searched her memory for names and found none. MacKenzie drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, glanced at his watch, whistled an uneven tune.
“Well?”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Proves one thing,” he said, getting to his feet. “Proves it is personal. Hell, Jones, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re working so hard to hate me just to hide what you really feel.”
“Oh, please. This I’ve gotta hear. What does your warped little imagination tell you I really feel?”
He smiled at her. “You want me.”
She stared at him for a long moment—at his smoky gray eyes and full lips. And she said, “You’re right. I do want you—in so many ways.”
“Yeah?” He looked surprised, and maybe a little bit turned on. “God, tell me more.”
She began counting on her fingers. “I want you drawn, quartered, gelded without anesthetic, beheaded and spit-roasted. But for now, I just want you out of my office.”
His smile didn’t disguise the look of relief that flooded him. “Damn, I’m gonna love working here,” he said, and he turned, whistling off-key, and walked with a spring in his step out of her office.
But not, she feared, out of her life.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Sean returned to the newsroom, he noticed three things. First, the early-morning bustle of the place had slowed to a hum. Reporters were making calls from their partition-separated desks, and several had already left to cover stories. Second, his office door was marked for him by the handful of foil balloons tied to the knob. It was just past the newsroom on the right. An office hadn’t been part of the initial offer, but he’d insisted on one as part of the deal, then been surprised that WSNY had agreed readily to that and everything else he’d asked for. Jones would probably be livid when she found out.
The third thing he noticed, after walking into his new digs, was the new suit hanging from a hook in the wall. A red tie, white shirt, navy jacket. They’d even included the pants. He pursed his lips and leaned back into the hallway, glancing toward the glass-enclosed office attached to the newsroom. The news director was inside at his desk, the phone to his ear. He gave Sean a smile and a thumbs-up.
Sean took two steps in that direction before his beeper went off. “Hell.” He took it out, glanced at it and read the text message. Then he sighed and hurried across the hall to Jones’s office, reminding himself that now that they were partners, scooping her was no longer the goal. Getting dirt on her would still be fun, but it would be purely for entertainment purposes. He walked in without knocking.
She looked up from her computer as if irritated. “What now?”
“Blackwood’s name is being released. We got the go. They’re holding a press conference in…” He glanced at his watch. “Forty minutes.”
“Call them, get the details and meet me in the studio.” She was already around the desk, pushing past him into the hall and running for the newsroom, shouting Allan’s name.
Five minutes later, Sean headed into the studio with a sheet of scribbled
notes.
Jones was at the anchor desk, a hand mirror propped in front of her, wielding a hairbrush with one hand and a makeup brush with the other. She dropped the brushes and dug in her bag. “Where the hell is my mascara?”
Amazing. A few minutes ago she’d looked scattered, sleep deprived and a little wild. Now she looked smooth, composed and flawless. She’d tamed her hair into a respectable bun and slapped on a coat of makeup so fast it made his head spin.
He handed her the sheet of notes and sat down in the chair next to her.
“Sean, you need to change!” called a fresh-faced kid he didn’t know, the one who’d given up his seat at that morning’s meeting and now stood nearby with the blue suit in his hand. “Just from the waist up. Hurry.”
From the control booth, a tinny voice announced, “Thirty seconds.”
Sean glanced at the kid, licked his lips. Might as well get fired now as later, he thought. “Look, you guys need to get used to this. I don’t do the suit thing. I’m not that kind of newsman.” As he spoke, he stuck a tiny microphone up underneath his shirt, out the neck and clipped it to his collar.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jones said, scowling at him. “You don’t need to be here at all.”
“Standby one.”
“I’m here, and I’m staying,” he said. “You just read the report and don’t sweat it.”
She frowned so hard he thought her face would break.
“Roll one!”
The transformation was instant and nothing less than amazing. Her frown vanished as she lifted her eyes to the camera in front of her. The monitor, which Sean could see off to the left, switched from a “News-Four Special Report” screen to her poised, elegant, no-nonsense face—a face that said “You can trust me” without a single word. She began to read almost without glancing down.
“This is a News-Channel Four Exclusive Special Report. Police have just confirmed the identity of the man found lying dead in an Armory Square hotel room last night as Harry Blackwood, brother of New York’s own Senator Martin Blackwood. The death is listed as suspicious and is under investigation. I was on the scene of this story last night,” she read, “with invaluable assistance from Team Four’s newest member, and my new partner, Sean MacKenzie. Sean?”
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