Burning Bright

by Anne Stuart; Maggie Shayne; Judith Arnold

  “Can I ask a question?” Jeff spotted the trash can beside the back door and lugged it over to the table.

  “Sure.”

  “Your party isn’t until next week. Why are you making your latkes today?”

  “I’m going to freeze them. I won’t have time to make them fresh the day of the party. My grandmother’s recipe says they freeze well.” She skimmed the latke instructions in the loose-leaf binder one more time to make sure she hadn’t misread that detail.

  Nodding, he lowered himself onto one of the chairs, positioned the trash can between his legs and held out his hand. “Peeler?”

  She removed one from a drawer and passed it to him. His fingers closed around the utensil and grazed her palm. She ignored her instant reaction to his touch. He hadn’t kissed her when he’d had the chance last night. And he would be returning to Boston sooner or later, regardless of his uncle’s fate. Besides, at the moment he seemed more interested in her potatoes than in her.

  She watched him open the bag closest to him, remove a potato and attack it with the peeler. He wore a thick flannel shirt with a dark blue T-shirt under it, and softly faded jeans. He could almost pass for a Vermonter, she thought, ruggedly male yet undaunted by what some might consider a menial task. The peeler looked good in his hand. So did the potato.

  And her brain must have turned to latke batter if she could admire him for his prowess at stripping the skin off potatoes. She got busy cracking eggs into one of the bowls.

  “I have another question for you,” he said.

  “Fire away.”

  “What breed is Nellie? Or should I say, what breeds? I’m guessing she’s got some beagle in her.”

  “Probably,” Alana said. “But she doesn’t howl like a beagle. She’s probably part collie, too, because she’s very smart and she likes to herd squirrels. I adopted her from the pound. She didn’t come with papers.”

  “You think she’s smart?” He eyed Nellie, who sat patiently at his feet, peering beseechingly at him. “She’s begging for a potato peel. That doesn’t seem smart to me.”

  “She’s flirting with you,” Alana said. “She figures if she makes big goo-goo eyes at you now, you’ll come up with a real treat for her later.”

  “Oh, so she’s a flirt, huh.” He grinned at the dog, who flicked her tail back and forth. “Sweetheart, I’m not your species,” he told her.

  He’s my species, Alana almost blurted out. She was used to discussing things with Nellie, who was certainly smart enough to listen, whimper sympathetically and cuddle up to Alana when necessary. Once Jeff left for Boston, Alana was sure she and Nellie would have plenty to talk about.

  “Did you get Nellie up here in Vermont? Or did she come on board in Bridgeport?”

  “Bridgeport,” Alana answered. Poor Nellie had stood by Alana’s side through that whole mess. She’d done a lot of listening, whimpering and cuddling then.

  “So…” Jeff was already on his third potato. “You’re not willing to tell me the real reason you left Bridgeport, are you.”

  “I told you—”

  “The real reason.” He regarded the potato in his hand as though it was infinitely more important than anything Alana might reveal. “I’ve read some of the articles you wrote for the Bridgeport News. They’re available on-line. They were good. Well written and powerful. If you’d wanted to climb the ladder at the News, I’m sure you could have.”

  “No, I couldn’t have,” she snapped, then sighed, realizing she’d given herself away. He couldn’t have missed the resentment that underlined her words.

  He scrutinized her, obviously awaiting an explanation.

  What the hell. She wasn’t ashamed of what had occurred, and if she didn’t tell him, he’d probably assume something worse than the truth. “I became involved with my editor there,” she said.

  Jeff glanced at her, apparently surprised. “And the bastard broke your heart?”

  “It wasn’t so much that,” she explained, touched that he automatically assumed her boss had been a bastard. “He just wouldn’t let me advance. He said people would accuse him of playing favorites if he promoted me, even though I deserved those promotions. I asked to be transferred out of his department, but he wouldn’t let me do that because he didn’t want to lose me as a reporter. The longer this went on, the more I felt he was taking advantage of me. He had me writing great stories for him, he wouldn’t put me in for raises, he steered plum assignments to other reporters—and he kept saying it was because he loved me. The whole thing seemed so manipulative.” She gathered the potatoes Jeff had peeled and sliced them into chunks for her food processor. “He never got along with Nellie, either,” she added. “And when my grandmother died, he was anything but comforting. He got bored when I talked about her, he refused to come to the funeral—he couldn’t be bothered. Nellie and my grandmother were a hell of a lot more important to me than he was, so…” She shrugged. “I left.”

  Jeff didn’t seem disgusted or appalled by her story. He simply accepted it, without judging. She appreciated that, even more than she appreciated his skills with the peeler.

  She ran the peeled potatoes through her food processor. Once the motor stopped whining, she said, “Now that you’ve heard my life story, I think you should tell me yours.”

  “Was that your life story?” He laughed.

  “My life-in-Bridgeport story. Come on—I’ve shared my biggest mistake with you. You’ve got to share your biggest mistake with me.”

  “I don’t make mistakes.”

  She tossed a plastic measuring spoon at his head. Laughing, he ducked, and the spoon bounced off his shoulder and onto the table. She joined his laughter as she stretched across the table, grabbed the spoon and tossed it into the sink behind her. “You made a big mistake by trying to intimidate me in Chet’s office.”

  “I wasn’t trying to intimidate you,” he said with exaggerated earnestness.

  “Of course you were. You used the word libel. Using the word libel in front of a reporter is like using the word water in front of the Wicked Witch of the West. It’s a threat.”

  “In other words, you’re the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  She reached into the sink to grab the measuring spoon, fully intending it hurl it at his head again, but his grin melted the icy silver from his eyes, turning them a warm, sweet gray. “So, you’ve never made a single mistake in your life,” she said, dumping the shredded potatoes from the food processor into the empty bowl and reaching for more peeled potatoes. “I ought to do a front-page story about you. Perfection is definitely a newsworthy quality, especially in a man.”

  He laughed again. “Okay. My mistakes. Let me think. I might remember something.” He struck a pose like the Rodin sculpture The Thinker, his chin resting against his fist and his brow furrowed from exertion.

  “Have you ever lost a case?”

  “Yeah, but not because I made mistakes.” Abandoning his pose, he picked another potato from the bag and scraped the peeler over it.

  “No romantic missteps?”

  “I’ve dated women and broken up with them, but I don’t consider any of those relationships mistakes. I did have a great rent-controlled apartment in law school. I had the option of buying it, but I didn’t have the money. After I moved out, it stopped being rent-controlled. I could have sold it for a huge profit. But I couldn’t afford it at the time, so I don’t think that counts as a mistake.”

  “I guess you’re perfect after all.”

  “And look at how perfectly I’m peeling these potatoes,” he added, holding the starchy white lump for her to admire. “Tell me these aren’t the most perfectly peeled potatoes you’ve ever seen.”

  She laughed. He tossed her the potato, and she cut it in half and ran it through the food processor.

  “Are they supposed to look like that?” he said, his smile fading as he studied the shredded potatoes in the clear plastic base of the processor. “I thought they were supposed to be more…I don’t know. Sm
ooth. Grated.”

  “I don’t have a grater attachment for the processor,” she admitted, then frowned. “How would you know? Have you ever made latkes?”

  “I used to hang out in my grandmother’s kitchen sometimes. If I helped her, she’d reward me with special treats. We’re not talking apricots, either. Rugelach, or a chunk of chocolate-covered halvah. The good stuff.”

  “The apricots and marshmallows taste delicious,” she argued.

  He made a face. “Thanks, but I’ll take my grandmother’s treats over yours any day.” He studied the potatoes in the bowl of the food processor and shook his head. “My grandmother used to hand-grate the potatoes when she made latkes. She always had a bandage on a finger because she’d rubbed it against the grater. She used to joke that blood added something special to the flavor.”

  “You’re kidding! My grandmother used to say that, too. She always had a knuckle bandaged, and she always made the joke about blood adding to the flavor.”

  “Oh, my God!” Looking shocked, Jeff leaped to his feet and pressed his hands dramatically to his chest. “Are you my long-lost cousin?”

  “Do you have a long-lost cousin?”

  “I’ve had a few cousins I wished I could lose,” he joked, moving around the table so he could study the shredded potatoes more closely. “Have you got one of those blade thingies? Maybe if you process the potatoes with the blade it’ll make them pastier.”

  “I don’t want them pastier. Shredded is fine,” she said with more conviction than she felt. As if she were any sort of expert when it came to making latkes.

  “Do you think we should add a little blood?” he asked.

  “For flavor. Of course.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Mine’s probably sweeter,” she teased.

  “You think so?”

  He was standing awfully close to her, close enough that the merest movement on her part would cause their shoulders to collide. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body filling the narrow space between them.

  Close enough that all he had to do was turn his face slightly and their lips were touching. It was a light kiss, a kiss sweeter than blood, sweeter than food, sweeter than anything she’d ever tasted.

  It barely lasted a second. He drew back and searched her face with his gaze.

  “What was that about?” she asked. Not the most romantic thing she could say under the circumstances, but this wasn’t exactly a romantic encounter. They were standing in her glaringly lit kitchen, with her dog wandering around the room now that Jeff had abandoned her, and bowls and utensils scattered about. They’d been discussing potatoes and blood and their grandmothers. Romantic? Hardly.

  Yet Alana felt light-headed and short of breath and—damn it—romantic. She wanted to grab Jeffrey Barrett by his broad, strong shoulders and haul him to her, and kiss him again. That notion was so scary she’d had to say something blunt and down-to-earth just to shoo it away.

  “That,” he answered, using his thumb to trace her lower lip, “was about the texture of the potatoes in the food processor. This—” he slid his hand along her jaw and under her hair, which she’d pulled back into a ponytail to keep it out of her way while she cooked “—is about kissing you.” He covered her mouth with his in a way that was anything but sweet. It was dark, aggressive, shamelessly erotic. His tongue took her mouth, his other hand slid around her waist and he drew her against him. Her hands alighted on his shoulders, just as they’d wanted to, and she held on tight—and kissed him back.

  Maybe his kiss wasn’t sweet, but the yearning that flooded through her was as luscious as warm syrup. She felt it in her fingertips, in her toes, her womb, her heart. It bathed her nerves, her cells, her soul. This was about blood after all—her blood pounding hot through her, demanding, thick with desire. From the moment she’d seen Jeff Barrett in Chet’s office and been staggered by how handsome he was…

  That was what this was about: Alana wanting Jeff Barrett.

  Who was a Boston lawyer. Who would be leaving town soon. Who never made mistakes—God, how obnoxious!—who implied that she should censor herself in her reporting about his uncle, and about whom she knew pathetically little. Wanting him wasn’t enough. Sometimes what a woman wanted was best left untouched.

  Reluctantly she leaned back, breaking the kiss. He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a long breath. She felt his arousal through his jeans and hers and realized she must have had as strong an effect on him as he’d had on her.

  “Bad idea?” he murmured, opening his eyes and gazing down at her.

  It was an irresistible idea. A spectacular idea. But also a bad one. She nodded.

  “Not a mistake, though.” His fingers tenderly stroked her nape, sending hot shivers down her back. “I don’t make mistakes.”

  “I do,” she said, a reminder to herself. Getting involved with this man was one mistake she had no intention of making.

  He opened his mouth, perhaps to argue his case like the lawyer he was, but before he could speak, a muted jingling filled the room. He released another breath. “My cell phone,” he said, his hands falling from her. “I left it in my coat.”

  It jingled a second time. “You’d better answer it,” she advised.

  He lifted his hand back to her face and caressed her cheek, then pivoted and strode out of the kitchen. The third jingle was interrupted by his voice: “Hello?… What’s up?… They did?”

  She inched toward the door to the hall. A good journalist knew when eavesdropping was appropriate, and the edge in his voice told her it was appropriate now.

  “No…listen, Aunt Marge. Don’t panic. Tell me, did they charge him, or was it…”

  Alana’s phone rang. Just as Jeff’s end of the conversation was getting juicy, too. Marjorie Willis had called him and she was panicked. Who else would have been charged but Robert Willis?

  Her phone rang again. She darted around the table and yanked the cordless off its base. “Hello?”

  “Alana? It’s Jason Farrar, down at the police station. I promised I’d keep you posted on the school funds investigation, and we’ve had a development.”

  “Thank you,” she said, glancing toward the empty doorway and wondering whether Jason would tell her something different from what Jeff’s Aunt Marge was telling him. “I appreciate your calling. What happened?”

  “We brought Bob Willis in for questioning,” he said. “We haven’t arrested him, but he’s been implicated.”

  “Really? Who implicated him?”

  “I can’t give you that, not yet. And we haven’t gotten a word out of him so far. We just brought him in a few minutes ago.”

  “I’ll be right there,” she said.

  “Look, I’m not at liberty to—”

  “I understand,” she cut him off. Jason couldn’t tell her anything yet. But by the time she got to the police station, things might have changed. Willis might be singing like an opera diva. Whoever had implicated him might be holding a press conference in front of the station house—although in Crescent Cove, a press conference would probably amount to the person giving the press conference and Alana, period. At least she’d get an exclusive. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said into the phone. “Thanks, Jason. I owe you.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said, then hung up.

  She set down her phone and turned to find Jeff entering her kitchen.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’m really sorry, Alana—”

  “I’ve got to go, too.” She emptied the shredded potatoes from her food processor into the bowl, covered it with a sheet of plastic wrap and slid it into the refrigerator. “Jason—Police Chief Farrar—just called me. I think Uncle Bob needs you.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “And Crescent Cove needs me,” she said rather grandly. But it was the truth. She was a reporter, and the citizens of Crescent Cove had a right to know what their school superintendent had done with their tax dollars.
/>   Chapter Five

  The taste of Alana’s kiss lingered on his tongue even as he entered the police station. He’d figured kissing her would be fun, hot, arousing—but he hadn’t expected to react on such an emotional level. They’d been joking around, hadn’t they? Talking about candles and latkes and his mocking boasts of perfection. And then he’d kissed her, and…whoa. Her kitchen could have disappeared. Her whole house. Her recipes. Her dog. The entire universe. And he wouldn’t even have noticed, because the moment his mouth fused with hers, his entire universe seemed to exist right there, within the kiss.

  Kissing a woman had never turned him into a poet before. What the hell had Alana done to him?

  Whatever she’d done was irrelevant once he stepped through the front door of the station house. She’d followed in her own car. Before they’d left her house, she’d refused to divulge what Chief Farrar had told her, which was reason enough for Jeff to forget the damn kiss and stay focused on reality which, in this case, was that his uncle was knee-deep in crap and Alana couldn’t wait to trumpet the news all over the front page of the Crescent Cove Chronicle.

  On a Sunday afternoon, he’d expected the police station to be subdued, and it was. This wasn’t Boston; folks around here apparently restricted their criminal activity to regular business hours. He strode to the counter, and the same clerk who’d sent him to Mort’s Diner yesterday rose from her desk to meet him. “I’m Jeffrey Barrett. Robert Willis’s attorney,” he identified himself, in case she didn’t remember him. “I’d like to see him.”

  He sensed disapproval in her as she eyed him up and down. Maybe he should have detoured to Aunt Marge’s house and changed into his suit, but he’d wanted to get here as soon as possible—before Uncle Bob started talking. Bob would have to tolerate an attorney in blue jeans, and so would this clerk.

  Alana swung through the door, her cheeks pink and her eyes glistening from the icy air outside. Her cheeks had flushed when he’d kissed her, too, and her eyes had glowed—from heat, rather than from cold. If Uncle Bob hadn’t chosen that moment to get jammed up, Jeff would have persuaded her to kiss him again, kiss him until she realized that the chemistry flaring between them wasn’t something a person ought to say no to.