by Karen Leabo
Ryan could only hope Gerald was occupied elsewhere and wouldn’t find them here.
“Can you tell me about Christine?” Connie asked. “Is she really all right? She sounds so...so strange on the phone, almost like a completely different person. This isn’t like her at all, you know. She’s never gone against the wishes of her father, though sometimes I wish she would.”
“She’s really fine,” Ryan reassured Connie, his heart going out to the older woman. From what Chrissy had told him, Connie had been like a grandmother to her, serving as her nanny from the time she was a newborn just home from the hospital. “Staying away from home right now is something she feels she has to do.”
“I understand. Ties that are too tight can strangle. I’ve tried to tell Senator Greenlow that many a time.”
“Then you feel like his control over her has been too tight?”
“Oh, much. They clung to each other after the missus passed on, and that was good. But while she recovered from her grief and got back on her feet, the senator never quite recovered. He continued to... to need Christine long after he should have encouraged her to live her own life. He never should have made her come home from college. She was thriving so during that brief time. She would come home for breaks from school looking so happy, singing like a bird, hugging everyone.”
She’d been in love, Ryan thought. Chrissy had told him about her brief, intense affair with somebody-named Doug. Someone Ryan despised sight unseen. The oaf probably hadn’t properly appreciated the gift he’d been given, not the way Ryan would if he and Chrissy—
There he went again, fantasizing about something he could never have. He’d missed Connie’s last few words, and she was possibly the best source he would talk to.
“She was so sad, like a little wet sparrow,” Connie was saying.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Just that she wasn’t the same after she came home from college for good. That’s when I knew things were wrong, but no one would listen to me, not His Majesty, not my princess, either. Who am I, after all? Just the maid.”
Princess, Ryan thought with a smile. So he and Fran weren’t the only ones to use that nickname. “Some people can’t learn things by having people tell them,” he said. “They have to discover things through experience, make their own mistakes. I think Chrissy—Christine—has figured things out now.”
“I hope so. But she’s so inexperienced. Being completely on her own for the first time ever will be so hard for her. Could she even get a job?”
“She said she would go to her cousin Michelle’s for help and support,” Ryan said, still trying to reassure the older woman.
“Oh, I should have known,” Connie said. “Of course Michelle would be the one to help her.” She smiled fondly. “You shoulda seen those two when they were little girls, as alike as two peas in a pod, though of course there are quite a few years’ difference in age.”
“Seven, I think Christine told me.”
“You must be close to her, then, if she told you about Michelle.”
He wanted to answer in the affirmative. But he could hardly call his and Chrissy’s relationship “close,” despite the fact that they’d spent the past two days together. He. was spending time with her out of professional necessity. She was spending time with him because she needed him temporarily.
It occurred to him then that perhaps Connie didn’t even know he was a reporter. She was being awfully forthcoming. A few days ago, he might have readily taken advantage of the situation. But now he thought of Chrissy, and what she would think when she read quotes from her maid, quotes acquired through deception.
“Connie, did you know I’m a reporter?”
Her eyebrows flew up. “Why, no. I figured if the senator was talking to you, you couldn’t be.”
“I am. I’ll consider your previous comments off the record. But if there’s anything you’d like to add...?” he asked hopefully.
She pursed her lips, folded her arms. “I’ve said too much already. But I will add one thing. What you people are putting on the news isn’t right. I might lose my job over this, and heaven knows what a woman my age would do out on the street, but Christine was kidnapped. I saw out the window—two men, putting a large object into their truck. I didn’t think much of it until later, when we all realized Christine was missing.” Connie covered her face. “Oh, now I’ve stepped in it. I can see why the senator doesn’t like us talking to reporters. Sometimes things just fly out of my mouth without any forethought.”
“I appreciate your candidness, Connie,” Ryan said, flipping off his recorder. He already knew that if he used Connie’s information, he would do it in such a way that she wouldn’t get into trouble.
The door flew open. Gerald stood there, almost snorting. “What are you still doing here? I thought the senator escorted you out.” His gaze narrowed when he saw the little maid, who was trying to make herself invisible. “Connie! You know better than to speak to—”
“Oh, pipe down, Gerald,” she said, straightening to her full four-foot-eleven or thereabouts. “This young man is trying to help our Christine get out of the pickle she’s in.”
“He’s trying to hang the senator!”
“Perhaps he can’t do one without the other,” Connie sniffed, slipping by an outraged Gerald.
And that, Ryan thought as he left the Greenlow residence, was the crux of the matter. No matter what he wrote, he would hurt Christine. He was almost tempted to give some other reporter the information he had, let some other schmuck make Greenlow look like a criminal. But the story was his. It had fallen into his lap. He almost felt like it was his solemn duty to follow through.
Christine awoke the next morning cranky and sore. An old recliner in Fran’s living room had served as her bed. Not only had she been hideously uncomfortable from the chair’s lumps and bumps and the odd spring poking out, but she’d had to deal with Ryan sleeping on the couch, not six feet from her. His every movement, his every sigh in his sleep, had made her keenly aware of his manly presence and the fact that she wanted, more than anything, to curl up next to him.
She might have, too, if it hadn’t been for the knowledge that Fran could walk in on them anytime. And maybe that was a good thing.
They’d opted for Fran’s living room instead of a hotel. It had just seemed easier, since Christine had been hiding out there during Ryan’s interview with her father, and it saved Ryan money, too. This story, he’d said, would end up costing him, instead of paying off, if he wasn’t careful.
At least she had her things. Bless Connie for packing up a bag for her. She had her toiletries, her purse and wallet, which contained her driver’s license, credit cards, and more than a hundred dollars in cash, several changes of clothes—separated with tissue paper in the old-fashioned way Connie liked to pack—and a modest white ruffled nightgown.
Ryan’s clothes had served their purpose, but Christine looked forward to returning them to him. Today her association with him would terminate. He would take her to Michelle’s and finish his story, and that would be that
Ryan was still sleeping. He’d stayed up late last night, polishing his story, making phone calls to double-check facts. He’d even gotten Lieutenant Brich on the line. Apparently she’d taken some heat for her cavalier treatment of Christine, and she was eager to tell her side of the story.
Fran had stayed up, also, reading copy, offering suggestions. The familiarity between them, the gentle teasing, had placed them in a club that Christine had felt excluded from. She’d gone to bed early.
Now she stretched and climbed out of the recliner, her gaze never leaving Ryan. He had a blanket thrown over him, but in his sleep he’d twisted it around until it didn’t cover much but his knees. He was wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of gym shorts. Christine stared, unabashedly drinking in the sight of his almost naked form.
She would miss him. She’d never known anyone quite like him. She remembered the way he’d faced that scumbag with the gun
to save her, and she grew warm all over. Of course, he’d done a few less honorable things, too—lied to her, manipulated her. But she couldn’t seem to hold a grudge against him. After all, she’d lied to him, too. Everybody lied once in a while—not maliciously, but to suit their own purposes.
She fervently hoped that would prove to be the case with her father. Ryan had been annoyingly tight-lipped last night, when he returned from the interview.
Apparently Fran wasn’t up yet, either, so Christine grabbed a shower. Since she had time to kill, she reveled in using her own things—lotions. powders, scent. She even put on a touch of makeup, then her favorite pair of faded jeans and a crisp long-sleeved cotton shirt with a pattern of pale roses on it. She dried her hair and curled the ends with the curling iron, feeling more feminine than she had in a long time.
Someone banged on the door. “Hurry up, Princess. There might be other people who need the bathroom.”
Christine refused to let Fran ruffle her feathers. She stuffed her things into her bag, taking her time, then opened the door. “If you needed to get in here earlier,” she said mildly to a bedraggled Fran, “you could have knocked. I thought everyone was still asleep.”
“Yeah, well, I’m awake. You might go in there and wake Prince Charming, if you two want to get on the road at any reasonable hour.” She brushed past Christine into the bathroom and slammed the door.
“Fran’s not a morning person,” Ryan explained. He was standing by the sofa, the blanket wrapped carelessly around him.
And he would know, wouldn’t he? “Oh, she doesn’t bother me,” Christine said breezily, determined not to let any petty jealousies spoil her mood. Today she was going to see Michelle. Her sister would help her through this mess. No matter what awful things Ryan decided to put in his story, Michelle wouldn’t judge Christine for it. She probably wouldn’t judge their father, either. She’d always been completely accepting of the fact that her biological father didn’t publicly claim her. She’d seemed to understand, and they’d always shared a cordial, if not a close, relationship.
Maybe Michelle would be able to help Christine forgive.
“I started some coffee,” Ryan said, “and the paper’s on the kitchen table, but I’ll warn you it’s not pretty.”
Ryan seemed to feel completely at home here, Christine thought, again battling her jealousy. It was irrational. She could not have Ryan Mulvaney, so jealousy was a useless emotion.
And why can’t you have him? a little voice inside her asked.
“Because,” she murmured. They had nothing in common other than raging physical attraction. He was a working-class reporter living on the edge, and she was an heiress. They had no possible use for one another once this article was finished.
chapter 13
“Did you say something?” Ryan asked.
“No,” she snapped, wondering why she suddenly felt so antagonistic, so irritated.
“Did I say something wrong?” He held out his arms in a helpless entreaty.
“No,” she repeated, her voice carefully modulated, as she went into the kitchen. She sat down at the table and searched the front page for the story she knew would be there. There: Greenlow Denies Kidnapping. Then, in the subhead: Police Can’t Confirm Daughter’s Hostage Claims.
She read the first few paragraphs, then shoved the paper away, unable to stomach the rest of the story. It wasn’t as if she’d expected anything more complimentary to surface in the Guardian.
“Don’t worry,” Ryan said as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “You’ll be vindicated.”
“And my father will be toast,” she said glumly. “What if I told you now that Dad was right? It was all a hoax?”
Ryan froze, and stared at her for long enough that she knew she’d startled him with an intriguing possibility. Then he relaxed. “I’d think you were trying to protect your old man. Noble, but in no way believable. I talked to Connie last night.”
“Connie? She actually spoke with you?”
“At length.”
“Oh, Ryan, you didn’t trick her into talking, did you? She can be so naive—”
“Relax. I told her exactly who I was. She wanted to talk, even if it meant jeopardizing her job. She cares for you a great deal, and she can’t stand the thought that everybody thinks you played a great big practical joke.”
“Oh, Ryan, you won’t quote her, will you? If Dad finds out she talked to you, he will fire her, never mind that she’s been on our payroll for almost sixty years.”
“I won’t get her fired,” he said, sounding absolutely certain. He sipped his coffee. “Mmm...good Colombian.”
Christine realized she’d unconsciously been waiting for someone to serve her. She got up, searched the cabinets until she found a mug with a film company logo on it and poured herself a cup. It was good.
She saw the lipstick prints she left on the cup and realized Ryan hadn’t even noticed the care she’d taken with her appearance this morning. Well, heck, what did men know, anyway? “How soon can we leave for Raleigh?”
He rubbed his face. “I’m going to fax my story this morning.”
“You mean you’re done?”
“Yeah.” He continued, but seemed reluctant. “I found the missing link last night, Chrissy. While you were asleep. I’d been fooling around with some Internet stuff yesterday. A guy e-mailed me ’cause he heard I was wanting information about NATURE. This guy is a member of the group—not one of your kidnappers, apparently, but he’d heard all about it. And he told me why you and your father were targets.”
She was afraid to ask, but she had to know. “Why?”
“The senator was taking kickbacks from chemical companies. NATURE had already tried blackmail to get money from him. When that didn’t work, they decided to up the ante.”
Ryan hated what he’d just done. But better that she hear it from him, someone who cared for her, than from some newspaper or on television.
Chrissy looked utterly crushed. “Are you sure about this? I mean, he accepts PAC money from big-business interests, and they’re often antienvironmental, but—”
“This was a lot of money, Chrissy. And it was from one chemical company in particular, not a PAC. It’s no wonder he didn’t want to advertise that NATURE had kidnapped you. He couldn’t afford for anyone to look too closely into his campaign accounting.”
“Have you verified this information?” Chrissy asked. “I mean, let’s face it, these NATURE guys aren’t exactly the souls of honesty, not from my experience.”
“I’ll be making some phone calls this morning,” he said. But he knew in his gut what he would find out. The story had the ring of truth about it. It was the last detail that made sense of everything else. So simple he should have guessed it.
Kickbacks. Blackmail:
“Chrissy,” he said, standing behind her, with both hands on her shoulders, “there’s nothing you can do to save him. All you can do is save yourself.”
“I should be with him,” she said. “No matter what he’s done, I still love him.”
“Of course you do.” No one should expect Chrissy to forever turn her back on the man who’d raised her, who’d given her everything, made her what she was. But it nauseated him to think of a man like Greenlow being the recipient of Chrissy’s continued moral support, her unconditional love. He didn’t deserve that, not after he tried to sacrifice her in the name of saving his political career.
“I’ll take you back to him, anytime you want,” he said, praying she wouldn’t accept his offer. She ought to go to her sister’s and chill out, at least until she’d had time to assimilate all that had happened.
Her face turned hard. “Oh, sure. Our reunion would make a touching epilogue to your story.”
Her unfounded suspicions cut him to the heart. He hadn’t even been thinking about his story. He had enough to win him a goddamn Pulitzer without milking Christine for any more emotional punch. “Call a cab, then,” he said bitterly. “I’ll even pay for it.”<
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Silence. Then: “No, I think not. I’ll stick to our original agreement. That is, unless you’ve decided to welsh.”
“No, I’ll do my part.” He ground out the words, dumping the rest of his coffee down the sink. It had lost its appeal. “I have to make my calls first, though. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go out and buy us some bagels? There’s a bakery around the corner.”
Chrissy stared at him like a wounded fawn. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” He was feeling the first prickles of guilt over his treatment of her.
“I’m afraid.” She barely mumbled the words. Then she looked up at him, her eyes blazing. “Look, I know we haven’t seen Denny in a while, but he’s still out there somewhere. What if someone from NATURE was watching my dad’s house? They could have followed you, and now they’re just waiting for a chance to—”
“Oh, Chrissy.” How could he have forgotten the danger? Before he knew what he was doing, he’d tugged her out of her chair and into his arms. “I wouldn’t purposely put you at risk, ever. I’m sorry. I’d forgotten about Denny. Of course you can’t go out alone, not till those bastards are behind bars.”
He hugged her to him. She was stiff and unyielding at first, but her wiggles of attempted escape only made him hold on to her more tightly. He wasn’t letting her go until she believed him. He did care for her. He didn’t want to hurt her.
Eventually she stopped struggling and relaxed.
“There, that’s better,” he said. “I...I don’t want anything to happen to you, ever.” Lord, she smelled good this morning, like freshly cut roses and rain. Her skin, her hair, even her breath—
No, he wouldn’t kiss her again. Hadn’t he used her enough?
Apparently he wasn’t getting through to her. “You can let me go now, Ryan. Please.”
He did, though reluctantly.
She reclaimed her chair, straightened her blouse, took a sip of her coffee, all without looking at him. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Ryan. You’re performing a job. You’ve treated me very decently, even kindly most of the time, and for that I’m grateful. I don’t know what would have become of me if you hadn’t interceded. But I don’t kid myself that you actually like me. People like you and Fran, you laugh at people like me, and maybe rightly so. I can see now that it was probably silly of me to get all gussied up with makeup and perfume, when I have no place to go, nobody to impress.”