Hot off the Presses

by Rebecca York

  Best Friends

  Hot off the Presses

  by

  Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  Chapter One

  "Who does that jerk Daniel Brady think he is?" M. J. Carter muttered under her breath, then raised her head to glance quickly around the newsroom of the Denver Star. Nobody was paying attention to her, and she breathed a small sigh of relief.

  Swiping a hand through her short brown hair, she made an effort to get a grip on her frustration. A message had just come to her in-house computer mailbox, turning down her latest proposal — to do a story on evidence planting by the Denver P.D.

  The email was from her immediate boss, news editor Hank Mooney, but she was pretty sure Daniel Brady was the one who had nixed the piece. Brady was the new editor of the Star — which meant his word was law around here.

  She sighed. Four months ago she'd been so pleased about coming back home. Aunt Martha had told her about an opening at the Star. And after her success of getting half a dozen Chicago mobsters arrested, she'd been a hot property. Of course, it hadn't hurt that her aunt was friends with the Star's news editor. She'd submitted her résumé, interviewed for the job, and won out over several candidates. And she'd produced some blockbuster stories — until Daniel Brady had come on board.

  When she'd started working for the Star, he had still been in Afghanistan filing reports from various hot spots. Then his father, the paper's owner and editor-in-chief, had died of a heart attack. And the heir apparent had been called back to take over the reins. She'd heard he thought women should stay out of the war correspondent business. She hadn't realized he had the same prejudices about investigative reporting. She'd been working on a juicy story about a murder-for-hire gang. Brady had forced her to share the assignment with another reporter, Arnold Findlay. And somehow Findlay had made it look as if he'd done most of the digging when the series of stories was published.

  M.J. had gnashed her teeth and vowed to get her fair share of the recognition next time. And as far as her friends and Aunt Martha were concerned, she was doing great at work. With the crowd down at Sunny Jones's elegant beauty salon, it was a matter of pride. With Aunt Martha, it was a matter of expediency. Her aunt's health was fragile, and she wasn't going to burden her with any work-related complaints.

  The phone on her desk rang, and she picked up the receiver. "M.J. Carter."

  "Thank God I reached you," a low, urgent voice responded.

  She knew at once who it was. Anita Mangani, the daughter of Gianni Mangani, head of the Chicago crime family who had been gunned down over a plate of veal parmigiana in an Italian restaurant. His daughter had vowed to get even with the rival family, the Detellos, who had killed him, and she'd secretly contacted M.J. For months, she'd fed M.J. leads — and the information had led to a number of arrests and convictions.

  "Anita? What's wrong?"

  "I'm taking a big chance calling you. But I have to. Your boss is in danger."

  "Hank Mooney? The news editor."

  "No. I'm talking about Mr. Brady. They're going to kill him."

  M.J. felt her skin go cold. "When? Why?"

  "His father had some...business dealings with the wrong people."

  "Who?"

  "I can't tell you. But I know they want the son to stay away from stories on certain subjects. But he won't give them that guarantee."

  "He wouldn't," M.J. muttered. She might be frustrated by Daniel Brady's sex discrimination policies, but she was sure of his integrity.

  "It's going to happen at his luncheon meeting — at the Windsor Park Hotel."

  "But that's today," she answered, feeling her heart begin to pound. She'd read about it on the schedule this morning.

  "Stop him. And don't trust anybody."

  "You can't mean the police?"

  "Yes, I do."

  The line went dead, and M.J. was left with the words "Don't trust anybody" ringing in her ears.

  God, now what?

  With icy fingers, she dialed the executive suite on the tenth floor. "Is Mr. Brady there?" she asked his secretary.

  "I'm sorry. He just left for a luncheon meeting. Can I take a message?"

  "I'll get back to him." Slamming down the receiver, M.J. retrieved her leather backpack from her bottom right desk drawer and hurried out of the newsroom. As she crossed the lobby, she spotted Arnold Findlay watching her.

  "Late for an interview?" he asked, sounding as if he was anxious to go along.

  "Something like that," she answered, as she bolted for the employees' parking lot.

  Once in her car, she had time to reflect on what she was doing. Every scrap of information she'd gotten from Anita in the past had been reliable. Which was why she was going to catch Daniel before he got to that luncheon meeting.

  Daniel. She hated the way he was running roughshod over her career. Yet at the same time, from the moment the two of them had laid eyes on each other, she'd sensed a simmering man-woman attraction between them.

  She'd tried to talk herself out of it. She'd tried to pretend it was all in her imagination. He wasn't even her type. He was too blond. Too blue-eyed. Too handsome. Too rich. Think Robert Redford in All the President's Men, and you had him pegged. It was a movie she'd watched dozens of times because she'd admired the young reporters who'd brought down Richard Nixon. They'd provided much of her inspiration for going into investigative journalism.

  Daniel Brady might look like Robert Redford, but she'd cautioned herself often enough not to get them mixed up.

  He'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. She was from the wrong side of the tracks. She'd worked for everything she'd ever gotten. Success had been handed to him.

  Well — to be fair, he'd worked hard, too. You didn't cover the dangerous beats around the world from an easy chair. She'd admired the way he'd gotten into the rough-and-tumble of reporting, but that didn't mean they saw eye to eye on anything now.

  Still, the attraction between them was there, interfering with their working relationship. And to her annoyance, none of her silent lectures about the stupidity of office romances stopped her from having wild, erotic dreams about the man. She'd wake up in bed, her skin prickly, her overheated body slick with a fine sheen of moisture. As she'd throw off the covers, she'd know that she'd been imagining herself making love with him.

  It would be impossible to get back to sleep. Not after those steamy dreams. So she'd come to work rumpled and bleary-eyed. Sometimes Daniel would look the same way, and she'd wonder if he were awake at night for the same reason.

  Her heart was pounding hard as she reached the Windsor Park Hotel and pulled down the ramp to the garage — praying that he'd pulled into the VIP area near the elevators.

  When she didn't immediately spot him, her hands clenched on the wheel and her gaze darted around the specially marked section of the garage.

  Then she breathed out a grateful sigh as she spotted him getting out of his car. A group of women stepped into the elevator. Then she and Daniel were alone in the parking area — except for a man in a trench coat and rain hat, hiding behind one of the concrete pillars. He was standing stiffly, his arm held down beside his leg. As M.J. focused on him, she saw a gun in his hand. Terror leaped inside her chest. Terror so great it threatened to swallow her whole.

  Chapter Two

  M.J. had only seconds to react. The man with the gun was leaning around the pillar, raising his hand pointing the weapon at Dan
iel.

  Oh, Lord, no. Pressing the button that opened her window, she shouted, "Daniel, he's got a gun. Get down."

  The warning was less than useless. At the high, frightened sound of her voice, Daniel looked up, his eyes fixing on her instead of the assailant — who had also heard her. He whirled, facing her, the weapon pointed at her now. The only thing she could think to do was duck low and tramp on the accelerator. The car leaped forward as the sound of a gunshot reverberated like a cannon blast in the enclosed garage.

  Two more shots rang out, and she felt a pain in her arm — like a bee sting, she thought vaguely.

  When she heard the sound of running feet, she peered above the windshield. The hit man was tearing across the garage floor, heading for the exit — with Daniel right behind him. Before the man made his escape, his forward progress was stopped by a tackle worthy of a defensive end.

  Her boss had brought the gunman down, but keeping him down was another matter. As she watched, they rolled across the cement floor of the garage, each trying to get the better of the other.

  Daniel looked to be the more agile. But the bulging muscles and sheer size of the other guy gave him a tremendous advantage. More than that, he still clenched the gun in his right hand, trying to bring it up into firing position.

  "No!" Shouting in protest, M.J. leaped from the car and pounded toward the writhing men, then lashed out with her foot, kicking the hand with the gun.

  The assailant screamed in pain, and the weapon skittered across the floor and under a nearby SUV. As she knelt to retrieve it, a shout from behind stopped her cold. Looking back, she saw the man had wrenched himself free and was running for the exit again. This time he made it, and the door slammed behind him.

  She might have gone after him if she hadn't heard a groan from behind her. Whirling, she saw Daniel pushing himself up, looking both angry and abashed.

  "He's getting away."

  "Maybe we can catch him on the street." She turned and hurried back to her car, which was still sitting there with the engine running.

  Footsteps echoed behind her, and when she would have climbed behind the wheel, Daniel blocked her way. "I'll drive."

  "It's my car!"

  "You want to waste time arguing about it?"

  She shook her head, making for the passenger seat, thinking that at least he wasn't going to order her to stay out of the action.

  Before she could fasten her seat belt, he shoved the gear lever into reverse and backed up.

  She wondered what Daniel was going to do when he reached the pay station at the entrance to the garage. To her astonishment, he barreled up the down ramp, his horn blaring to warn anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. Luckily nobody was heading into the garage.

  They reached the street in record time. But the gunman had vanished into the noontime crowd. Daniel circled the block as they both tried to locate their quarry.

  "The bastard's made a clean getaway," he growled.

  "Did you recognize him?"

  "No. But I could pick him out of a lineup."

  She nodded, and as her adrenaline rush subsided, she felt a twinge in her left arm. Focusing on her sleeve, she was astonished to see her gray jacket was soaked with blood.

  "Oh my," she murmured, fighting a suddenly light-headed sensation.

  Daniel's gaze followed the direction of hers, and he cursed. "You've been hit," he said, braking and pulling into a loading zone at the curb.

  Her vision clouded into a kind of dark mist. Then, to her utter chagrin, she found herself blacking out.

  When she came to, Daniel was leaning over her, his large warm hands on her flesh. He was opening the buttons of her blouse, and for a moment she forgot where they were, forgot why he was touching her so intimately. This was like her dreams, only better, more real. She loved the warmth and strength of his fingers where they slid over her skin. He brushed her collarbone, then the swell of her breasts at the top of her bra.

  She touched the back of his hand, letting her fingers trail over his knuckles, feeling his reaction. "That's nice," she murmured. "Don't stop."

  All at once, his hands went very still, and she realized why he was touching her. She felt her face heat as she sat up straighter in her seat, leaning back against the headrest.

  He cleared his throat. "You've been shot."

  "It's just a flesh wound."

  He tipped his head to one side, fixing his blue gaze on her. "How do you know? You can't even see it."

  "I know because I kept moving my arm — and I barely felt it until..."

  "Until you fainted," he supplied. "I need to get you to a hospital."

  "No!"

  "What do you mean no? You're hurt."

  She took a breath, struggled for coherence. "They might look for me — look for you there. And the...the person who called me said not to trust anyone."

  "What person?"

  M.J. swallowed. "I can't tell you who it was. But they called to warn me that someone was going to try and kill you — when you went to the luncheon meeting at the Windsor Park Hotel. That's how I knew where to find you."

  "Who was the informant?" he demanded again. "What was his motive?"

  She shook her head. "I can't put their life in danger."

  "Who am I going to tell?"

  She raised her gaze to his. "The person who called said that your father had been playing ball with...with one of the crime syndicates in town. The person said they'd contacted you."

  She saw the blood drain from his face.

  "Is that correct?" she asked.

  "That's not your business!"

  "I think it is. We're going to talk about it, but first, you need to take off your tie."

  He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "I beg your pardon?"

  She cast her eyes over the spreading red blotch on her sleeve. "I think your tie will cut off the bleeding, until I can get a look at my arm. Now we've just got to think of somewhere safe."

  He thought for a moment. "How about if I take you to my love nest?"

  She caught her breath. "Your...love nest?"

  Daniel's features hardened. "Actually, it's my father's pied-à-terre. I seem to have inherited it. A nice private little town house in LoDo where he apparently entertained his friends."

  The tight feeling in her chest eased. Then she gave herself a mental kick. What did it matter to her whether or not Daniel Brady had a mistress. "Is it safe?"

  "Dad kept it secret." He heaved a sigh. "The only reason I know about it is that the woman he used to meet there called me up after he died and said she wanted to retrieve some of her personal belongings. She gave me the code for the security alarm."

  M.J. gazed up at him through lowered lashes. His face was etched in stone, and she knew that while she'd been angry with him all these months, he'd been dealing with personal issues she could only guess at.

  Chapter Three

  "The sooner we get to my dad's private hideout, the sooner I can look at your gunshot wound," Daniel muttered.

  "Okay," M.J. answered, when what she wanted to do was reach for Daniel and gather him close. She wanted to say she understood what it was like to think you knew somebody and find out otherwise. But her arm was throbbing, and she realized this wasn't the right time for anything personal.

  Apparently taking her silence for acquiescence, he started the engine again, driving just under the speed limit through the downtown area to a quiet street of restored town houses. There was an alley around back and a parking pad behind the locked back gate.

  M.J. was annoyed to find that she swayed on her feet as she got out of the car. Daniel came swiftly around to her side, steadying her as he unlocked the gate and led the way up a flight of stairs to the back door.

  They stepped into a gourmet kitchen, then a comfortable sitting area with two plush couches arranged on either side of a Georgian fireplace.

  The security alarm was beeping, and Daniel stopped to key in the access code. As she watched him mo
ve comfortably around the luxury setting, she decided that her fantasies about him were just that — fantasies. This place was a hundred times more grand then the modest bungalow where she had grown up. And it wasn't even his real home. He had a mansion on the west side of town, a second home in Aspen, and one in Florida.

  Daniel's voice cut into her thoughts. "You're not looking so great. Can you make it up the stairs?"

  "Of course!" she snapped, then marched up the wide flight of steps, keeping herself going on pure willpower. By the time she reached the top she was forced to grab the banister to keep herself from tumbling backward down the stairs. Daniel moved quickly to her side and steered her down the hall — into a masculine-looking bedroom furnished in grays and burgundies.

  "Lie down," he said, gesturing toward the king-size bed.

  "Aren't you afraid I'm going to get blood on the bedspread?"

  "I don't care about the damn bedspread," he snapped. "But I guess it's better not to leave any incriminating evidence. We wouldn't want anybody to think I'd brought a woman here and murdered her."

  M.J. shot him a startled look. Was that supposed to be a joke? While she was still trying to figure it out, he left her standing in the middle of the rug and hurried out of the room. Moments later, he was back with several thick towels, which he laid on the bed. "Lie down," he said again.

  She swallowed. Although she knew perfectly well why they were here, and she was in no shape for anything but first aid, the bed and the room carried a whole raft of connotations for her to deal with. But she simply didn't have the energy to keep standing there — or the brain power to make a better suggestion.

  So she dropped her knapsack on the floor and stretched out on the towels. For heartbeats, Daniel stood looking down at her, then he eased onto the bed beside her, the mattress shifting under his weight. When he reached toward her, she closed her eyes. The lack of visual stimulation and his silence sharpened her sense of touch. She felt every small pressure of his fingers as he removed the tie she'd used to stanch the bleeding.