“Duty calls. The Duchess is holding a press conference outside the courthouse. I’m supposed to cover it.”
A frown dug furrows around Nicco’s mouth. “Can’t they get someone else?”
Now it was her turn to frown. “It’s my job.”
“Courthouse, here we come.”
They raced each other back to her house. “Give me twenty minutes,” she called to Nicco as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She spared a moment to text the photographer and give him a heads-up.
She showered and dressed in record time and was on her way to the courthouse in the promised twenty minutes.
Nicco drove. “No sense taking two vehicles,” he said.
She knew it was more than that. He wanted to stick as close as possible to her. The two of them needed to smooth out the kinks for a working relationship. She had a feeling that Nicco Santonni was accustomed to getting his own way. Well, he’d find that she was just as determined when it came to fighting for what she wanted.
Print and TV journalists crowded the courthouse steps where Patrice Newtown stood. More like holding court, Scout thought, a trifle uncharitably. She prepared herself for a candy-coated speech full of self-aggrandizement and grandiose plans that didn’t have a chance of succeeding.
Scout had already dug up background material on the woman. Her husband, Edmund Newtown, had traced his ancestry to several generations before the War of Northern Aggression. In the South, proving your ancestry was mandatory if you didn’t want to be considered an upstart.
Patrice’s maiden name was Copperwood. A wedding announcement some thirty years old featured a picture of a young Patrice Copperwood and Edmund Newtown. Best man was listed as Edmund’s brother, Charles, and matron of honor Irene Copperwood Kruise.
The last had given Scout pause. Kruise. Something niggled at the back of her mind.
A link to an obituary detailing Edmund’s death had taken her to a notice of the dissolution of assets of Newtown Industries. She’d read further and discovered that the Newtowns had been on the verge of bankruptcy when a sudden infusion of cash had replenished the family fortune.
Digging deeper, she’d followed links to various financial journals. No mention was made of where the money had come from. With the death of her husband, Patrice Newtown became the face of the charity he’d started.
Scout shoved everything else from her mind when Newtown began to speak, her voice vibrant with passion in describing the plight of Savannah’s homeless.
Scout volunteered at a shelter for teenage girls whenever she found the time and donated whatever money she could spare.
It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
The work was both heartbreaking and rewarding. The stories she heard tore at her heart, all the more so when she realized that all the measures taken by both the city and its charities were at best a bandage on what appeared to be an incurable disease.
“Hey,” Tagg said, arriving with the backpack he was never without. “The Duchess summons, and we mere mortals appear.”
She grinned at his reference to Newtown as Duchess. The name was commonly used in describing Newtown, who was the closest thing to royalty that Savannah society could boast.
“When will we realize that the problem of homelessness is everyone’s problem?” Newtown asked.
As Newtown outlined ideas for the proposed shelter, Scout couldn’t help wondering if the words were empty ones. She elbowed her way forward, all the time aware of Nicco. His stance was one of hypervigilance, and she wondered if others were curious about the good-looking man who was no more than a foot away from her at any given time.
“What actions do you propose taking that the city’s not already doing?” Scout shouted above other voices. “What makes you think you’ll succeed where others haven’t?”
All eyes turned first to her, then to Newtown.
The lady took her time in answering. “Good question. I don’t have all the answers, but I have committed myself and my charity to wiping out homelessness in our city. Those of you who have visited the shelters know that they are overwhelmed, understaffed and underfunded. That’s why I plan to devote the money from the coming months’ fund-raising efforts to building a new shelter, one that will accommodate more people, provide education and job-training, and even on-site medical care.”
Applause burst through the crowd.
“Money alone won’t solve the problem,” Scout shouted above the din.
“You’re right. Money doesn’t solve problems by itself. That’s why we need everyone’s help.” Newtown swept her gaze over the crowd. “I’m challenging each of you to give of your time. Volunteer to read to the children at the shelters. Sort clothing. Serve at the food pantry. Whatever you can do, do it. Together, we’ll make a difference.”
More applause sounded until Newtown raised her hands. “A gala held in a few weeks will highlight our efforts. Tickets are still available for those who have not yet purchased them. Thank you for coming today. With support like this, I know we’ll reach our goal.”
Scout found herself responding to the woman’s speech with reluctant approval. Socialites like Patrice Newtown weren’t on Scout’s A-list, but they could accomplish what ordinary people couldn’t.
She turned to Tagg. “Did you get enough pictures?”
He tapped his camera. “Sure did. Didn’t even need a filter. The lady photographs like a dream.”
Rich, compassionate and beautiful. It seemed Patrice Newtown had it all.
Scout directed a smile at Tagg. “Thanks. You’re the best.”
“Tell that to the boss. My paycheck looked anemic the last time I checked.”
She chuckled. “Haven’t you heard? Anemic’s the new black.”
“I’d rather have my checking account in the black.”
His irrepressible humor tugged a smile from her. Tagg was twenty-three, only three years her junior, but sometimes he seemed impossibly young. Or maybe she was just feeling old. Two attacks in two days could do that to a person. She inhaled deeply, a vain attempt to calm her pulse, which still had an annoying tendency to race when she thought of the last two days.
“Hey, you all right?” he asked, lines of concern marring his smooth brow. “I heard about the shooting last night.”
“Fine.” The lie tasted sour upon her lips, but she wasn’t going to share the fact that she’d been receiving death threats and had had attempts made on her life. That kind of news would circulate through the office at warp speed.
He gave her a doubtful look. “You sure? And who’s the big guy who glares at anyone who looks at you twice?”
“He’s a friend. He offered to drive me here.”
Tagg nodded. “Okay. If you’re done with me, I’m going to take off. I want to get these pictures downloaded. I’ll go through them, then shoot the best of the bunch to you.”
“Thanks again.”
“No problem. You make my job easy. You always know just what you want.” The warmth in his voice caused her to flush.
More than once, Tagg had hinted that he’d like to ask her out. She’d ignored the hints and had worked to keep their relationship on a professional level.
Nicco kept close, making her hyperaware of his presence. She did her best to ignore him, but that was proving difficult. She was discovering that he was not a man to be easily ignored. He was too big, too male, too overpowering to stay in the background.
Though intensely conscious of her bodyguard’s displeasure, Scout didn’t rush off, wanting to mill around, gauge the reactions to Newtown’s remarks. She learned a great deal by talking with people in the crowd at such events.
She wanted to see what they thought of the speech so she could add some quotes to the story. She smiled her best reporter’s smile, the one that invited people to open up. A veteran reporter had taught her the value of “j
ust-between-me-and-you” questions, and while Scout had appreciated the advice, she genuinely wanted to hear the reactions of those who had gathered to hear Newtown’s speech.
When the crowd dispersed, she continued to hang around, listening to the other reporters. Journalists had seen it all. They were rarely taken in by pretty words or pretty faces.
Pretending not to notice Nicco’s scowl, she zeroed in on a reporter from a competing paper.
“She came off as sincere,” he said. “She plays the Lady Bountiful role well, may even mean it.”
“Do you think she can pull it off?” Scout asked. “Building a new shelter?”
“I think a woman like that can do anything she sets her mind to.” This came from a television reporter. “What did you think of the plug for the lady’s big shindig? Like regular Joes can afford the price of one of those tickets.”
Scout had wondered the same thing. She’d been given two tickets, one for herself and one for a guest, to cover the event; otherwise, there’d be no way she could have afforded the cost of attendance.
Would Nicco accompany her to the gala? Anticipation sparked within her at the idea of seeing him in evening wear once again. She did her best to squelch it with the stern reminder that he was her bodyguard. Nothing more.
“Time will tell if she wants to help the city or just help herself,” the first journalist said.
That snagged Scout’s attention. “What do you mean?”
“People with Newtown’s money don’t do anything unless it helps them. That’s a rich people maxim.”
“That’s pretty cynical.” Scout felt compelled to defend Newtown.
“You know what the world’s like.”
She nodded. More than most, she knew what the world was like. She’d seen firsthand the results of violence. That didn’t mean that she’d stopped believing. In people. In the Lord.
“Thanks, guys. See you later.” She had a story to write.
* * *
Nicco didn’t like the open venue. He especially didn’t like that Scout refused to stay put. She was all over the place, talking to one reporter, then another. The boy assigned as her photographer shadowed her, but he was no protection. He had the engaging manner of a puppy, eager to please and totally clueless to any impending danger.
Dusk had settled, smudging the sky with a purple gray haze that was more smog than darkness.
Nicco grabbed her elbow. “You’ve got your story. Let’s get out of here.”
She frowned. “I’ve got to go to the office.”
It was his turn to frown. “Can’t you write from home?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothing. I can’t protect you here out in the open. And your office is a free-for-all with people coming and going all the time.”
“I can’t stop doing my job because of some letters.” And a couple of attempts on her life. But she didn’t add that. Giving voice to the incidents gave them more power, and that she was unwilling to do.
“You were pretty scared earlier.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. “You’re right. I was. I have to clear it with my boss.” She made a call, explained that she planned to work at home. “Thanks,” she said when he agreed and ended the conversation.
Scout was subdued on the drive back to her house. He hadn’t meant to shut her down like that, but he had a job to do. Keeping her safe meant controlling the environment. Her home turf was the best place for that.
The pint-size reporter wasn’t what he’d expected. She was forthright, honest and, most surprisingly of all, a believer. Most of the journalists he’d met, with the notable exception of Ruth, tended to be hardened and callous, viewing the world through the lens of cynicism. And though Scout wasn’t naive, her quiet faith set her apart.
He knew she struggled in accepting his protection. Her independence came through loud and clear in everything she said, everything she did. He respected that, admired it even, but it didn’t make it easy to safeguard her.
Nicco had an obligation to not only protect her but to find out who was targeting her. He couldn’t get the letter she’d shown him out of his mind.
There were software programs designed to determine in which magazines certain words appeared in a particular font and color, but knowing what magazines were used didn’t automatically point to the identity of the sender.
Finding that individual was going to take serious computer skills. He’d leave that to Shelley, who was not only one of S&J’s founders but a tech geek bar none as well.
“Okay if I stop at my place for a shower and a change of clothes? I’m pretty sweaty after our run.”
“Sure.”
He pulled up to the shotgun-style home he’d bought last year, showed her inside, and looked at it through her eyes. The unfinished construction in the front room where he’d planned to redo the fireplace and wainscoting. The shabby furniture that was a collection of hand-me-downs. The faded wallpaper that was probably fifty years old.
He was taking his time, choosing materials that were true to the era and crafting them to last. His latest project was restoring the hardwood floors to their original condition. The patina of polished oak gleamed softly in the late afternoon light.
“Sorry about the mess.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re taking your time, making it something that says who and what you are.”
He hadn’t thought of it that way. “Yeah. I am.” No one else had recognized or appreciated that. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making me see what I’m working for.”
“You’re a craftsman.”
“Hardly.” He held up his hands, studied them. “But I like working with my hands.”
He watched as her gaze moved around the room. “It shows.”
A rush of pleasure filled him at the simple words before he remembered that he had a job to do, a job that didn’t involve basking in the warm glow of his client’s compliments. “I’ll grab a shower and some clothes.”
“Take your time. If it’s okay, I’ll look around.”
After a shower and a quick change of clothes, Nicco was driving Scout back to her place. He had a lot to digest. About Scout McAdams. About who wanted her dead. About his unexpected attraction to her. It was the last that caused his lips to tighten.
He wouldn’t get involved with a reporter again. He’d already done that once, with disastrous results. Aside from that, Scout was a client. That put her firmly off-limits. A smile tipped the corners of his lips as he thought of two of his co-workers and his brother, all of whom had found love while on the job.
The smile winked out. Love and happy-ever-after weren’t in the future for him.
FIVE
“How long have you known Olivia?” Nicco asked over delivery pizza and soda in Scout’s kitchen that evening.
She plucked a mushroom off her pizza and chewed it thoughtfully. Her earlier run had done her good, but she’d still been keyed up after the near-miss at the docks. Now, with good food and, she admitted, good company, she felt herself relaxing. “A couple of years. We met at an auto-repair class for women.” She tapped her chest. “You are looking at class valedictorian.”
Nicco’s eyes lit with humor. “Don’t tell me. Olivia was salutatorian.”
“You got it. It didn’t hurt that there were only five of us in the class and one woman dropped out before the end of the semester.”
“I’m impressed.” He chuckled. “You and Olivia, huh? I’m trying to see it, but the picture won’t take hold.”
“We called ourselves Mutt and Jeff. But it works.” Her voice warmed. “I’m glad she and Sal found each other again.”
“Me, too. Sal’s never been happier. They want to start a family right away. Mama’s in seventh heaven at the idea of more grandchildren.”
“Sal and Olivia are the perfect couple,” she said, pulling her thoughts away from that time. “They deserve to be happy. What about you? Do you want the white-picket-fence-and-bikes-in-the-driveway thing?”
“Not in my future,” he said.
“I get it. You like the idea of having a girl in each port.” She gave him an appraising glance. “Let me guess. You were BMOC. Big Man on Campus,” she explained at his quizzical look. “Captain of the varsity football team. Prom king.”
The reddening of his cheeks told her she’d gotten at least part of it right.
“Guilty. Except for the BMOC thing. I played football and dated the prom queen. What about you? Homecoming queen. Head of the cheerleading squad. Voted Girl Most Likely to Succeed.”
“Hardly. I was Girl Most Likely to Swallow Her Retainer and Choke on It.”
He barked out a laugh. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe it. I was a nerd with a capital N.”
“You grew out of it just fine.”
Now it was her turn to blush. His words brought a rush of pleasure, but she refused to take them seriously. She leaned forward. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m still a nerd. I just grew out of the retainer phase.”
Humor lit his eyes. “Good to know.”
She felt herself responding to his easy manner. He was charming without trying, funny without being obnoxious. Careful, she cautioned herself. She’d fallen for Bradley without knowing the man beneath the good-looking exterior. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
But Nicco didn’t give off any warning signals. He was genuine, an honest-to-goodness American hero. He was funny, his comments insightful, and his observations about people dead-on.
She did her best to banish thoughts of how appealing he’d looked with his dark hair still wet from the shower, or how the snug black T-shirt he wore highlighted his broad shoulders.
High-Risk Investigation Page 5