But now he had risen. Hands on his hips, he was staring at her. He had been watching her.
Justin.
He walked up behind her and she felt a curious shiver dance down her spine. He was furious, and fighting to contain his fury. His jaw locked hard, he stared down at her with smoldering eyes.
And then he spoke at last.
“So you didn’t come for a story?” he demanded harshly. “It doesn’t interest you in the least?”
“I—”
“Don’t tell me—you just happened to run into these files, right?”
“If you would just—”
“Who were you out calling?” he demanded.
“What?” she cross-queried, wondering just what he knew. How he had found her here?
“Who did you call?”
“It’s none of your business!” she snapped. She was shaking. She didn’t need to shake, she assured herself. She had a right to do whatever she chose.
But he was standing right there in front of her. Despite herself, she could never forget just how close they had been. Just how his lips had felt against hers, just how provocative his touch could be.
He had a temper like wildfire, she reminded herself. And she was alone with him in this little library. She could see a murderous tic beating against his throat.
He reached down for her, and she swallowed back a scream.
He grabbed her hands and jerked her to her feet. “Just what the hell are you after?” he asked sharply.
“You’ve no right—”
“I’ve every right! And I want to know who you were calling out there?”
“Why are you spying on me?”
“Because you’re poking your nose into my life, and because I fell for your line once. Once was enough. Now I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“Nothing!”
“Let’s go,” he said suddenly. He pulled her along with such power she couldn’t begin to fight him.
“Wait, where—”
He spun back to her with such vehemence that she slammed against him hard. She looked up into his eyes and a flicker of fear did sweep through her, he was so very angry.
“My house.”
“No! Wait! I’m not going to your house! You haven’t begun to apologize—”
“Apologize!” he roared, looking from her to the microfiche viewer screen where details about Myra’s murder blazed away. She reddened.
“You don’t understand—”
“I sure as hell do!”
“Oh, you are impossible!”
“Damned right! And I’m going to get a lot more impossible before this is over.”
He saw her coat on the rear of her chair and swept it up, then grabbed her purse and thrust it into her hands.
“I’m not—”
“Coming with me? Yes, you are. You want a story, Ms. Kennedy. And I want to know who you called, and just what you think you’re going to accomplish. You’re going to come with me.” He paused, staring at her with his cold blue fury.
“We’re both going to get exactly what we want, Kristen. We’re both going to get exactly what we want.”
Chapter 9
Before Kristin knew it she was bundled back into her coat and headed out to the snow-covered landscape.
“I can’t just go with you,” she tried to tell Justin. “The librarian is bringing me tea.”
“No, Miss Petrie won’t be bringing you tea. I saw her on her way over to the inn, and I canceled your order.” His hand was on her elbow and he was hurrying her along as he spoke.
She stopped dead still. “You were spying on me!”
They came up to a big white Land Rover. His. He opened the passenger door. “I wasn’t spying. I live here, remember? Miss Petrie was kind enough to mention that there was a really beautiful young reporter in the library, dredging up the murder.”
“Well, your charming Miss Petrie was certainly glad enough to dredge it all up for me.”
“Miss Petrie believes in me. She knows you’re Roger’s cousin, and she’s certain you mean to deal gently with me. I refrained from telling her just how gently you’d already dealt with me.”
She wasn’t about to set foot inside his car. “And what does that mean?”
“It means you have one hell of a way of charming people. You want a story? Let’s go.”
“I am not going to your house. And I really have nothing to say to you. I told you—”
“Oh, yes, I’m supposed to crawl five miles through the snow to ask you to forgive me. For being suspicious that you might want to write a story about the murder of Myra Breckenridge.”
Kristin sighed slowly. “I didn’t come here to do a story on you!”
“But it seemed like such a juicy idea that you couldn’t let it go once the idea came up?”
She spun around, ready to leave. His hand landed on her arm, pulling her back. “Who were you calling on the phone?”
“My dear Aunt Lizzie in Tucson,” she said sweetly.
His eyes narrowed sharply. “You’re going to get hurt, Kristin. You can’t play with this.”
She didn’t know if he was concerned, or still too angry to be concerned. Or if he simply knew something he didn’t want her to discover. She looked around the town square. It was beautiful, still whitewashed in snow. The church with its high steeple stood on one side, the city hall on another. The old library was on a third, and the schoolhouse was on the fourth. The inn was just around the corner, and in the center of the square was a snow-covered green with a huge gazebo. In summer there would be fairs here, concerts, games. The scene was very peaceful.
What could happen to anyone here?
Myra Breckenridge had been murdered.
She stared at Justin. His eyes were still piercing into her. Brilliant, bitter.
“I’m not playing with anything,” she told him.
“Then what do you think you’re doing?” He leaned toward her. “Who did you call?”
“You said you could tell me a worthwhile story for that information!” she challenged him.
He looked so fierce that she almost cringed away from him when he suddenly reached for her and set her firmly into his Land Rover. The door slammed and his feet crunched on the pavement while he walked around the rear of the vehicle.
He crawled into the driver’s seat and she looked at him with alarm. “I’m not going to your house—”
“I’ll take you to lunch, Ms. Kennedy.”
She fell silent as the vehicle jerked and pulled out onto the road. The landscape rolled by them faster and faster as the vehicle picked up speed.
Kristin leaned back against the seat. Justin wasn’t in a talkative mood. He turned on the radio, and stared at the road ahead.
Twenty minutes later, he was still driving. He slowed down as they passed through Petersham with its multitude of elegant Victorian houses. It was a magical place, covered with ice and snow. No one stirred on the streets.
“Where are we going?” Kristin persisted.
“Into the town of Barre,” he said. Within ten minutes he stopped in another town square beside an old hotel with a huge porch that extended around the corner. Justin walked around and opened the door for her.
She gazed at him. “We’re having lunch?”
His lashes didn’t flicker. “Did you have something else in mind?”
“Of course not! I was just wondering if we could be civil through a full lunch.”
“I can be very civil. I’m just not about to ‘crawl’ through five miles of snow to beg your forgiveness. Especially since you are writing a story.”
“I wasn’t—” Kristin began. “Oh, never mind!” she said crossly.
He reached for her hand to help her out of the car. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and neither was she. A warmth, electric, shocking, seemed to leap from his hand to hers as he touched her. She met his eyes. So much was still alive and turbulent in them.
“Shall we?” His hand fell to the small of he
r back. Despite her coat, she could feel his touch. All the way to the bone.
They walked across the street and up the steps to the hotel. In a matter of minutes they were in a warm and elegant dining room with windows that looked out onto the square.
Justin took her coat, seated her and politely asked her consent before ordering a white burgundy. He folded his hands before him, watching her, while they waited for their waitress to bring the wine.
“Civil enough?”
“Very polite.”
She looked at him. He was wearing a tweed sweater. It accented the breadth of his shoulders and chest. His hair was crisply dark against it, his cheeks were ruddy from the cold. She bit into her lower lip, resisting the temptation to reach out across the table and touch his fingers with her own.
“It’s a pity you can’t apologize,” she said.
“You owe me the apology.”
“I never insinuated horrible things about you.”
“I never insinuate anything. I say it outright.”
She started to rise.
His hands fell over hers. “Where are you going to go? We’re a good half hour from home. You’re trapped with me.”
“I’m never trapped,” she promised him sweetly. Then she broke off and remained seated because their waitress had brought the wine and she didn’t feel like creating a scene.
Justin recommended the deep dish turkey pie. She realized she didn’t want to leave, but she wanted to order something else just because he had suggested turkey pie. But it really did sound good, and she agreed with his choice. The waitress left them again.
He leaned across the table to her.
“Who were you calling?”
“Maybe it’s none of your business. Maybe I have a date this evening.”
“Maybe—but you don’t.”
“And why not?”
He leaned closer. His voice was husky. “Because I don’t believe that you could have slept with me the way you did and run out to see someone else.”
“Why not? After all, I was only sleeping with you to write a phenomenal story, right?”
“Was I really phenomenal?” he asked her.
She kicked him beneath the table. He laughed, drawing his leg beneath him. She leaned toward him, feeling her temper soar. “You were indeed phenomenal, Mr. Magnasun. Both in rudeness and ego!”
“Kristin—”
“No! Go on, tell me. Why are you so convinced that I don’t have a date tonight? I mean, a woman—no, no, a female reporter, like myself—with no morals whatsoever.”
He gritted his teeth, staring at her. “Damn you, Kristin—”
She started to rise again.
His hand fell on hers. “Damn it, will you give me a break? I’ve been given a pretty rough time by reporters. For the Lord’s sake, Kristin, they called me a murderer from the moment the news broke.” He inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry.”
She took a sip of her wine and felt his fingers curl around hers. A moment ago she would have wrenched her hand away, but now she held still, feeling her heart seem to catapult into her throat.
He leaned toward her, his blue gaze very intense. “Kristin, I don’t want you getting involved in this.” He hesitated a moment. “My agent drove out today. Christina and I have always been good friends, as well as professional associates. I was one of her first clients when she was starting out, and my name helped her pull in more people. Of course the phones have come back on, but she had already started out because she couldn’t get hold of me. The media apparently gave the storm a bit of exaggerated coverage, and when she couldn’t reach me, she was worried.”
“She was—worried enough about you to drive out here? From New York?” Kristin murmured. She felt the pangs of jealousy tearing at her. “Is she…at your house?”
“No,” he answered, seeming distracted as he studied his wineglass. “She’s staying at the inn. That’s what I was doing in town when I saw your Cherokee at the library and then ran into Miss Petrie.”
Kristin nodded, grateful that at least his agent wasn’t at the house. She could remember the picture of Christina Anderson. Tall, attractive, with her sophisticated swing of blond hair. Even her name was attractive.
“Oh?” she murmured.
He nodded, distracted, running a finger over his wineglass.
“How nice.”
He looked at her then and grinned slowly. “Jealous? Don’t be. She’s a friend. She believed in me when no one else did. She was the only one who didn’t point a finger at me when the police came. But there’s more.”
She stiffened, ready for some painful blow.
That was it. He and Christina were platonic friends now, but they hadn’t always been so platonic. He’d been having an affair with his agent. Myra had been furious about it. Jealous. So furious that she had…
Run out into the snow and strangled herself?
Kristin swallowed hard. Her imagination was running away with her.
“What more?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“The actress who was playing Myra’s part in the reopening has had to leave the cast. There’s a new woman taking the role, Maria Canova.”
Kristin lifted her glass, watched him and shrugged.
“Maria is represented by Artie Fein, too. The man who represented Myra. She wanted to meet me, and Christina tells me that Artie is bringing her out over the weekend.”
Kristin shrugged again. “So?”
“So, according to Christina, Maria told the rest of the cast that she was coming, and they invited themselves along, too. I don’t know when they may be showing up, or anything like that. And I don’t like it.”
He took a gulp of wine.
Kristin watched him questioningly.
“Maybe I’m overreacting. I don’t know. Maybe the cast members won’t really show up, after all. Christina didn’t seem sure of the details. But one of those people is a murderer. And it’s too close to that last party. I don’t want you involved.”
I am involved! Kristin wanted to shriek. But the waitress had returned with their lunches, and she remained quiet.
She took a bite of her food, and smiled at Justin. “It’s delicious.”
He groaned. “Did you hear me?”
“Of course, I heard you.”
“Who did you call?”
She thought quickly. “I just called the house to see if Sue was back yet. She had a doctor’s appointment. She wasn’t back yet.”
He smiled, leaning back. “Lie again, and I’ll never believe a word you say.”
He knew she was lying. Rivers of uneasiness swept up and down her spine. She couldn’t tell him the truth. He didn’t want her involved, and she was involved, whether he liked it or not.
“What difference does it make? You never believed me to begin with. In fact, I really can’t believe I’m here with you.”
“But you want a good story, right?”
“You haven’t given me anything for a good story,” she reminded him.
“Okay,” he said. He leaned toward her once more. “There was a rumor running rampant that Myra was having an affair with Joseph Banks. That she was so desperate for her career to take flight again that she wasn’t going to trust in the play—she wanted to make sure she could get an endorsement from Banks.”
“Really?” Kristin asked.
He nodded. “What else? There was Jack Jones. He was trying to have an affair with Myra, so rumor went, because he thought she could further his career.”
“There are motives all over the place!” Kristin exclaimed.
He smiled. “There are rumors all over the place,” he corrected her. “Here’s another one. Myra hated Roxanne Baynes. Despised her. She called her a cheap little scene stealer. Rumor has it that what Roxanne really stole was one of Myra’s lovers.”
“Then—”
“Let me see, what can I tell you that isn’t rumor? There was one sensational blowup at the party.”
“There was?” Exc
ited, Kristin set down her fork. “What happened?”
“The huge blowup between Myra and myself. I told you, I was mad enough to throttle her. And she was dramatic. Everyone heard her say that I’d threatened to kill her, and then, hell, she kicked poor Jugs and I did threaten to kill her. In front of everyone.”
Kristin set down her fork and looked across the table at him again. He was studying her intently.
“So then you walked out into the snow,” she said.
“You know, by a lot of circumstantial evidence, I do look very guilty.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Afraid to drive home with me?”
“I was never afraid of you. Except when I thought you were going to shoot me with your shovel,” she corrected herself.
He grinned, lowering his head. “Want dessert?”
She shook her head.
“Coffee?”
She shook her head again. He motioned for the check and paid it, then he helped her back into her coat and they left the restaurant.
In the car once again, Kristin mulled over the night of the party in silence for a long while as they drove. Then she realized they were nearing the town square again, and that she might not have a chance to question him again.
That she might not see him again.
“What else was going on that night? You and Myra had a blowup, but what about the others?”
He shrugged. “I really don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“Christina and Artie Fein were discussing the merits of various actors and actresses. Like I said, Joseph Banks and his wife just sat on the sofa by the fire. Myra was flirting—”
“With whom?”
“With anyone. When she wasn’t fighting with me, that is.”
“And the others?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You’re not concentrating.”
His gaze shot quickly to her. “And you haven’t told me who you called. And none of it should matter, because you’re not writing an article, right?”
“Oh, I do intend to write an article. Eventually. I’m going to expose the truth,” Kristin announced.
“A champion for justice?” Justin asked with a laugh.
“I can’t believe that you don’t care anymore!”
“I do care!” he snapped back.
“Then—”
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