by Neesa Hart
epigraph
A KISS TO DREAM ON
Passion swept through him as his hands roamed her back. He wanted her, he realized, like a dying man wants time. With little encouragement, she could become an obsession. He could need her. Desperately and dangerously.
In the dark places, where memory haunted him, Cammy lit him up. She brought life where he’d begun to wonder if he’d ever feel again. He drank at that fountain like a man dying of thirst. His hands tightened on her upper arms. His mouth demanded. Blissfully, hers yielded. He pulled her closer, as close as he could get her. And still it wasn’t enough.
contents
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Neesa Hart
Copyright
About the Publisher
one
Washington, D.C
If Cammy Glynn had learned one thing growing up in the shadow of the media, she’d learned that every media debacle started because someone had good intentions.
Cammy’s eyes drifted shut in frustration. “Look, Mike, I know you thought you were helping.”
Dr. Mike Costas, Cammy’s longtime friend and business partner, leaned back in his chair. The soft creak of leather and slightly oiled springs signaled his lapse into informality.
Cammy opened her eyes in time to see him prop his pricey Italian loafers on the mirrorlike surface of his cherry desk. Mike did nothing without flair. “Cammy,” he said, his voice the same butterlike sound that calmed so many of his patients, “you have got to think this over.”
“I have thought it over.” Agitated, she surged from the chair to pace to the window. This was unusual for her; in the six years she’d shared office space and a practice with Mike, they’d never had a major disagreement. She liked him, personally and professionally, but this time he’d pushed her too far. “I know you feel the publicity will benefit Wishing Star.”
“It will.”
She ignored his interruption. “I also know you were doing me a favor by talking to your friend at Associated Wire.”
“Cammy—”
“But I don’t want Jackson Puller disrupting my work with the children.” She shot Mike a dry look. “Or disrupting my life.”
“This press aversion you have is—”
“Phobic. I know. You’ve told me. Spare me the professional rhetoric.”
“Look.” Mike sat up straight. “It’s time to face facts, Cam. You know I support what you’re doing with the Wishing Star Foundation, but you’ve got to be realistic. You’re scraping by on private donations. You’re spending so much of your professional time doing charity work, you’ve barely got a paying patient left in the bunch.”
“I do my share of the billing.”
“But not the collecting.” He exhaled a long breath. “Truth is, you’re not the only one that needs the publicity. Five years ago, everyone in this town wanted to see a shrink. Neurosis was in vogue. That’s not how it is anymore. It’s getting harder to make ends meet.”
“Mike, if the practice is in trouble—’’
“We’re not in trouble. Not yet.”
“You could consider another partner.”
“I don’t want another partner. I like the blend we have, and our rapport. I like having a child psychiatrist down the hall. Despite my reputation for avarice”—he flashed her his million-dollar grin—“I actually like to help people. Besides, Bess would kill me if I dumped you.”
Cammy laughed. Mike’s oft professed fear of his wife’s supposed bad temper was a standing joke between them. “I wasn’t suggesting that you dump me, Costas. I was merely pointing out that we could expand a bit.”
“No. I think we have an excellent balance here, and I don’t want to screw around with it.”
“Fear of change—”
He held up a hand. “It’s not a joke, Cam.” His expression turned uncharacteristically serious. “You and I have both known for some time that your heart’s with Wishing Star—not in private practice. You don’t want to spend your hours treating the overindulged neurotic kids of public officials any more than I want to spend my days volunteering at the homeless shelter. All I’m trying to do here is help you out.”
He was undeniably, frustratingly correct, and she knew it. “I know.”
“A little positive media attention is just the thing you need to get Wishing Star firmly established. You’ll pick up some decent corporate funding, a few big private donors, and then you can spend all the time you want working with those children. If nobody ever pays you a dime, it won’t matter. Besides,” he said, indicating the window with a wave of his hand, “you can’t beat the view from the office.”
She didn’t need to look. Mike’s Sixth Street office suite overlooked the U.S. Capitol on one side and the Washington Monument on the other. Cammy studied him for a minute. “You’re right.”
“I know I’m right. So what if I pulled a few strings? So what? It’s not a criminal offense, you know. This is Washington, D.C. The city doesn’t turn without somebody pulling somebody else’s strings.”
“But why Jackson Puller?”
Mike’s white eyebrows lifted. “That was pure luck. When I talked to Chris, he was going to send some junior hack over here. He agreed to the series of articles only because he owed me. He wasn’t going to give you anybody prominent.”
“Lucky me.”
He ignored her dry comment. “Then Puller came back from Bosnia with a Pulitzer prize in his hip pocket. And it seems the bureau chief down there is afraid that his wonder-boy is going to burn out.”
No doubt, she thought. Jackson Puller, star reporter of the Associated Wire Service, had more stickers on his passport than the president of the United States. He’d made a name for himself with human angle stories—generally stories featuring children—in just about every political hot spot in the world. “That last series from Bosnia was incredible,” she admitted.
“When he wrote about that kid dying in that car bomb explosion, the response from the public was amazing. But that’s what Chris says won him some downtime.”
“Great. I’m downtime.”
“Don’t take it personally. Look at it as providential. Puller was pretty shaken up, from what I understand, by seeing that kid die. He’s got a real thing for kids. When he got back, his bosses decided he needed a break. Your story came up, and the work of Wishing Star seemed like the perfect decompression assignment for their ace reporter.”
Visibly exasperated, he waved his hands in front of him. “Look. The benefits of this are immeasurable. Because Puller’s column is syndicated, they give each installment of a series a full week to run its course. He’ll do three installments on you, four if he likes the subject. That means you get at least a month of national attention, and all you have to do is answer a few questions and act polite.”
“I understand that, Mike.” At his skeptical look, Cammy nodded. “I do. That’s not the point. It’s just that in my experience, reporters like Jackson Puller are extremely disruptive. He’ll show up with an agenda and a preconceived idea of what he will find here. Next thing you know, he’ll be pressing me for a certain kind of story. And then he’ll want an interview with one of
my kids who has a particularly wretched home life, because that’s what sells papers.”
She turned to face the window again. “Whatever I come up with won’t be enough. Never mind that I’m trying to make Wishing Star a haven for deaf children. Never mind that they already face enough challenges just trying to survive in a world that’s hostile to their disability. Puller’s going to insist that he needs something sensational. If he can, he’ll take one of my kids, exploit their story by dragging their family history through the mud of public opinion, and then he’ll just walk away. It’s not a plum assignment for him, so what does he care? I know the type, Mike. He’s nothing more than a vulture who feeds on the carnage of broken reputations and wounded lives.”
“Then I guess we’d better shoot him before he does any more damage,” came the strange voice from the doorway.
Cammy froze. The rush of adrenaline she’d felt from her passionate outburst drained from her body like water through a burst dam. Mistake number one, she thought wryly. Nothing like insulting the press to get them on your side. Her father was probably twirling in his grave. No choice now but to tough it out. She placed a hand on the windowsill to stabilize herself.
Mike’s chair creaked again. She heard him round his desk. “You must be Mr. Puller.” His voice had lost none of its buttery quality. Cammy alone knew him well enough to hear the slight edge.
“Jackson,” he answered. She watched his reflection turn to look at her. “I’m here for Dr. Cameo Glynn.” Undisguised curiosity tinged his voice.
“We’re delighted,” Mike assured him. “I’m sure you’re going to enjoy working on this story.”
Jackson shook his hand, then seated himself in one of the leather chairs. Costas’s office looked much as he’d expected. It was the woman at the window who had surprised him. “I spoke with Chris Harris this morning,” he told Mike. “I understand you know him.”
If Costas detected the slight note of censure in Jackson’s comment, he didn’t show it. “Chris and I go way back.”
“So he tells me.”
Costas propped one hip on the side of his desk. “You know, Wishing Star’s work with deaf children is really quite groundbreaking. Cammy’s done an incredible job working with these kids. The results are fantastic.”
Jackson nodded, not bothering to take his gaze from the woman whose back remained stubbornly to him. “I’ve heard that. They meet here?” he prompted Costas, while he continued to study Cammy. Her hair, a fascinating shade between red and gold, was caught in some kind of trap thing that looked like it wanted to explode.
“Once a week,” Costas answered. “She’s got two different groups with ten to twelve kids each. Wishing Star has also funded a number of encounter sessions with other experts on hearing impairment.”
“Oh?” The breeze from the air-conditioning vent played with several wispy strands of her soft-looking hair. The occasional lift of the tendrils near her right ear gave him glimpses of a tiny electronic device. Hooked to the ear frame of her glasses, it looked like a miniature microphone. Cameo seemed unperturbed by the current dancing across the nape of her neck. Jackson wasn’t sure he’d ever met a woman who ignored her hair. “That often?”
As expected, the question sent Costas into a long discourse on Wishing Star’s activities. Jackson settled in to contemplate Dr. Glynn. He had to admit, the coolness of her reception surprised him. She hadn’t even faced him yet. In the window, he could see the tension in her face. It was a good face, he decided. All the basic equipment was there to make it an attractive face. Even an honest one.
He’d built a career on reading faces. Long ago, he’d decided there were few honest adult faces left—and none of them lived in Washington. It was just one of the reasons he preferred working with kids on stories. He always got straight answers. Having spent the first part of his career covering the political world, he’d learned, quickly, just how devious adults could be.
Like Costas, he thought, who was gushing about a Wishing Star fund-raiser set for later that month. “That’s quite impressive,” Jackson supplied.
“It is.” Costas took off on another verbal detour. Jackson tuned him out again. He’d been mad as hell when Chris had sent him over here. After ten years in the field, he no longer had to cover feel-good assignments. It wasn’t that he didn’t find the doctor’s efforts admirable, or even that he didn’t find them interesting—what had torqued him was Chris’s insistence that he’d been handpicked by the bosses at AW for this particular assignment.
Jackson had to suppress an irritated snort. That was a joke. He’d lay down real money that what had happened was that a phone call from Costas had sent Chris scrambling for options. Since the suits—as the field journalists called the mostly useless group of executives who signed their paychecks—had decided that Jackson was on the verge of cracking up, Chris had seized the opportunity to give Costas what he wanted. They’d put him on this mostly useless filler assignment while they decided whether or not he was going to crash and burn—and what in the hell they’d do if it happened.
The fact that Costas specialized in two kinds of cases—rich divorcées and grief-stricken patients on the verge of a breakdown—had tipped Chris’s hand. Not only could he and his bosses at AW use the flimsy excuse of this story to keep Jackson from returning to the field for a while, but they were also holding out hope that he’d use the opportunity to spill his guts to Costas. Costas, they imagined, could slap a psychiatric bandage on the pain he felt and send him blissfully on his way.
No one had bothered to ask Jackson’s opinion. They wouldn’t have liked his answer if they had.
After a heated argument with Chris, he’d taken a cab over here, expecting to find Doctor Glynn ready to gush over him—at least tell him how delighted she was that he’d been assigned to her story. If she’d gotten Costas to pull the strings for her, she couldn’t possibly have dreamed he’d land such a big fish.
It sounded arrogant, but Jackson frequently quipped, “False humility is for morons.” He said the phrase so often, in fact, that one of his copy editors had it mocked up as a headline and article, and framed it for him. It hung over his desk in the AW office on Twelfth Street—the office from which he’d built a world-class reputation for his stories on kids and their problems. A story, not to mention a series, under his byline would put Cameo’s charity on the map. He knew it, and, unless she was a complete idiot, she knew it, too.
That’s why she’d thrown him. Surprises rarely came his way, but unless he missed his guess she wasn’t exactly pleased with his presence. The square set of her shoulders beneath her loose-fitting clothes betrayed her tension.
“So,” Costas was saying, “where would you like to start?”
“I’d like to sit in on one of Dr. Glynn’s sessions,” Jackson announced.
Cammy finally turned from the window. The impact of intelligent gray eyes steadily watching him through tortoiseshell glasses made him miss a breath. There was a world of mistrust in that gaze—mistrust he hadn’t expected. He’d been right about the face, though. Honest. Not very pleased, granted, but honest. Something about her expression made him feel absurdly curious about what lay beneath her facade. For the first time that day, he found something appealing about this assignment. He’d settle his issues with Chris later. For now, he’d enjoy the challenge of deciphering the enigma of Doctor Cameo Glynn.
Cammy gave him a measured look as she took a firm hold of her nerves. Despite her objections, she knew Mike was right. Jackson Puller could do a lot for Wishing Star. The images she’d seen of him blinking from her television screen, staring up from a grainy newspaper photo, splayed in color on the pages of a news magazine, didn’t begin to do him justice. Charisma was the only word she had for him. He embodied it, with his dark hair, broodingly byronic features, and large, solid build. Even the simplicity of his clothes—a collarless denim shirt, well-worn khaki trousers, and navy blue suspenders—raised images of another age, but of an age when decency and
honesty mattered. She mentally shook herself. An age that had no place in the tactics of the modern media.
Thrown slightly off-balance by the direction of her thoughts, Cammy took a quick assessment of the man and his possible motives. His shrewd expression told her many things. First, he hadn’t listened to a word Mike had said. As the daughter of a former U.S. senator, she’d seen too many reporters try to mask boredom. She could spot it across a room of three thousand high-dollar donors, much less in the confines of Mike’s office. Jackson had spent the last few minutes studying her, forming opinions, building strategy.
And second, he wasn’t any happier about this than she was. That, at least, didn’t surprise her. This assignment wasn’t his usual style. It wasn’t flashy, or dangerous, or high profile. He wasn’t likely to break new ground or win awards simply by writing a few articles on the deaf kids she was trying to help. The public was just as guilty as the media for the general downward spiral into sleaze and muckraking. Honest journalism, she’d learned the hard way, had gone the way of the Hula Hoop and the station wagon. Still, if Jackson Puller considered this particular assignment so beneath his great journalistic reputation, then he could take his notepad and go back to Bosnia.
At the protracted silence, Mike cleared his throat. “I’m sure Cammy would be glad to have you evaluate a session. It’ll give you a chance to see the foundation’s work in action,” he assured Jackson.
Cammy extended a hand to Jackson, but she held her ground by the window. The air between them seemed oddly heavy. “I’ve seen your work,” she told him. “Very impressive.”
His expression turned quizzical as he regarded her hand. “So is yours,” he told her. He levered out of his chair, then took three smooth strides to where she stood. For the first time, she noticed the white bandage on his palm. It felt harsh when his hand grasped hers. When he slid his fingers away, the scrape of it left a searing impression she feared might linger for days. “I glanced through some of your PR material before I took a cab over here. You’ve pulled together an eclectic group of supporters.”