by Sandra Brown
He took in her dishabille. “Not particularly. But when the situation presented itself, I didn’t hear any objections from your side of the bed.”
She felt her face color at the memory of the sounds he had heard from her side of the bed. “I came here only to ask you a few questions about the Merritts.”
“How many times do I have to say it? I’m not telling you a damn thing.”
“Not even that the tabloid stories are lies?”
“They are.”
“You didn’t have an affair with Vanessa Merritt?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
“Was it you who made her so unhappy?”
“If she’s unhappy, it might be because her kid just died.”
“Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?”
“Are you sure he died? Or was Robert Rushton Merritt murdered?”
Chapter Eleven
Gray turned his back on her, silently swearing. This one went for the jugular. She interviewed with as much ferocity as she screwed.
Even before waking her, he’d recognized her as the reporter who had interviewed Vanessa several weeks ago. Apparently she hadn’t gotten all she wanted from that interview. He’d been halfway expecting her, or someone of her ilk, to show up and start dredging him through the shit again. For weeks he’d been stockpiling his resentment against the imminent intrusion.
So he felt no guilt whatsoever over what had happened. He’d been surly and in need of getting laid. She’d been consensual—and that was putting it mildly. Set a stage like that, and naturally something’s going to happen.
Actually, he doubted that seduction had been her original plan. Her long skirt, sweater, and boots were not designed to inspire sexual fantasies. Her eyes were still puffy from sleep, and her mascara had flaked off onto her cheekbones. Her lipstick had worn off long ago, and her hair was a mess.
Her voice, however, was incredible. Her voice was a wet dream. It didn’t just promise unbelievable sex, it delivered.
But if she thought a good roll in the hay was going to weaken his position, she couldn’t be more wrong. He now resented her invasion of his home and his privacy even more than he had before. She had earned his scorn.
Draining his coffee cup, he reached for a skillet and a saucepan and set them on the stove. He took a can of chili from the pantry, opened it, and dumped the contents into the saucepan, then began cracking eggs into a bowl. After beating them to a froth, he poured himself another cup of coffee and sipped it while the chili simmered.
“May I?” She held up an empty mug.
“Go ahead. You made it. I don’t want to be responsible for you falling asleep at the wheel when you leave.”
He noticed that she cradled the large mug between two very small hands. Feeling his gaze, she looked up at him. “I apologize for slapping you. I’ve never struck anyone in my life. You’re a very provoking individual, Mr. Bondurant.”
“So I’ve been told.” He stirred the chili. “How’d you find me?”
“Mostly through sources in D.C. Don’t worry. I was discreet.”
“I never worry, Miss Travis. It is Miss? Or have you just committed adultery?”
That remark, more than the deed itself or any previous insults, set her off. Her eyes sparkled with anger. “No, I haven’t committed adultery. I defer to your far greater experience on that subject. And Barrie will be fine, thank you.”
Gray turned back to the stove, dropped a teaspoon of butter into the skillet, and turned on the burner beneath it. As he watched the butter melt, he considered how to get rid of her without bodily throwing her out. With very little cerebral effort, he could list a dozen ways to kill a man silently, instantly, and painlessly. But the thought of physically hurting a woman made him queasy.
“You have a beautiful place,” she remarked, drawing him out of his thoughts.
“Thanks.”
“How many acres?”
“Fifty, give or take.”
“You’re here alone?”
“Until this morning.”
“I’m sure you know that there’s a town named Bondurant not too far from here. Is that—”
“No. That’s a coincidence.”
“Do you keep livestock? Other than the horses in the corral.”
“I’ve got a small herd of beef cattle.”
“So that’s where all the meat in your freezer came from.”
Gray turned and looked at her pointedly.
“I got a drink of water and borrowed a few ice cubes,” she said, setting her chin defiantly.
“What else did you find while you were snooping around?”
“I wasn’t snooping.”
He turned back to the stove, spread the melted butter around the bottom of the skillet, then poured in the eggs. He fed two slices of bread into a toaster, took a plate from the cabinet, then scrambled the eggs with a spatula until they were to his liking. He scraped them into the center of the plate. Over the eggs he ladled the bubbling chili, then topped it off with a liberal sprinkling of Tabasco. The toast popped up as though on cue. He added both slices to the plate, along with a fork, and carried it to the table and sat down, straddling the seat of his chair.
From the corner of his eye, he watched her approach. She sat down across from him. Ignoring her, he shoveled several bites into his mouth. Not until he paused to take a drink of coffee did he ask, “Hungry?”
“Sort of.”
“Want some?”
She looked dubiously at his plate. “I’m not sure.”
He shrugged. “It’s on the stove.”
She left the table and returned a few moments later with a smaller portion of his breakfast. He watched her take a tentative bite. She chewed, swallowed, then began to eat heartily.
“This is a remote area,” she remarked between bites. “Don’t you get lonely?”
“No.”
“Bored?”
“Never.”
“Before your, uh, retirement, you led a very adventurous life. Don’t you miss the excitement of Washington?”
“If I did, I’d go back.”
“How do you pass the time?”
“Any damn way I please.”
“How do you earn a living?”
“It’s rude to discuss finances.”
“Well then, we’re safe, because you’ve already established that reporters are rude.” She raised her brows inquisitively.
“I ranch.”
The simple answer seemed to surprise her. “Cattle?” He nodded. “Really? Hmm. You know how to do that?”
“I learned as a kid.”
“Where?”
“On my dad’s place.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
“That’s the idea, Miss Travis.”
Frustrated, she sighed. “You’ve proven yourself capable in covert military operations, and you’ve been a presidential adviser. There’s definitely no excitement factor to cattle ranching. It’s hard for me to accept that you find this new career stimulating and challenging.”
“I don’t care what you accept.”
“You just stay out here and ride horses all day?”
He didn’t bother to answer that one.
“You just tend your cattle like a good little cowpuncher?”
“Yeah. When they need tending.”
“Is that where you were yesterday? Out tending your cattle?”
“No. Yesterday I went to Jackson Hole.”
“I came from there. We must have passed each other on the road.” She pushed her empty plate aside. “Breakfast was good. Thanks.”
He laughed. “If it had been a cow patty, you’d’ve eaten it and said it was delicious.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you want something from me. Since sex didn’t get it for you, you thought you’d try being friendly. Isn’t all this chitchat just another attempt to disarm me? Frankly, Miss Travis, I enjoyed your first approach better.”
<
br /> “It wasn’t an approach. I told you, it was—”
“An accident. Tell me, do you hop into bed with every man you meet?”
“Listen—”
“Didn’t your daddy love you?”
She dropped her gaze to the tabletop, then almost immediately brought it back up to him. “I guess I can’t blame you for forming such a low opinion of me.”
“Ah, now we move from pal to penitent.”
“Damn you,” she shouted, smacking the tabletop hard as she came to her feet. “I’m being honest.”
He too stood up. “No, Miss Travis, you’re either being brave or stupid. I can’t figure out which. But either way, I’m not going to talk to you about myself or the Merritts. And I’m not interested in anything you have to say about them, either.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said earlier about the death of their baby?”
“I heard it. I ignored it. I’ll continue to.” He stacked her plate on top of his, then carried both to the sink and ran water over them.
“Why are you ignoring it?”
“Because it’s the kind of comment you reporters throw out, hoping that some sucker will bite.”
“Do you think I’d make such a serious statement just for the hell of it?”
He turned off the water and faced her. “Yeah. In the short time that we’ve known each other, I have reason to think that you’d do just about anything to get a gig on 20/20. Instead of messing with me, why don’t you sleep with a network producer?”
“Because none of the network producers I know were Vanessa Merritt’s lover.”
His surge of rage frightened him. Before he could act on it, he sidestepped her and headed to the back of the house. He could hear her coming after him. She moved so fast that suddenly she was in front of him, her hands on the center of his chest.
She was breathing hard. “You think I came here to swap sex for a juicy story. I didn’t. In fact, I’m mortified for the way I compromised myself and my profession. You don’t know me, so you’ll have to take my word for it when I tell you how badly I wanted to skulk out that front door, and how hard it is for me even to look you in the face.”
Something in her voice caused him to wait and listen.
She removed her hands from his sternum and smoothed them down the sides of her skirt. “That I’m still here should give you some indication of how important this story is, Mr. Bondurant. Not just to me and my career. To everyone. Please hear me out. Then, if you order me to leave, I will. No argument. Five minutes, okay?”
It was a very good act, he thought, but not good enough. His innate caution had been heightened by his recon training, which had taught him never to accept the surface appearance of anything or anyone. Experience had taught him that journalists were vicious scavengers. They would pick your bones clean without the least bit of remorse, then leave you exposed and vulnerable as they moved on to the next victim.
However, despite his statements to the contrary, he was growing interested in what Barrie Travis knew, or had surmised, about the SIDS death of Vanessa’s child. Knowing it was a bad idea, and hoping that he wouldn’t later regret it too much, he agreed to five minutes. “Outside.”
He took the rocking chair. She sat on the top step, her arms wrapped around her shins. She was probably cold, but he didn’t offer her anything to ward off the morning chill.
Now that he had granted her an ear, she seemed reluctant to begin, although she had her notepad ready. “It’s so beautiful here.”
This morning, the valley was shrouded in fog. The mountains were obscured by it, but the imminent sunrise had made the mist as pink as cotton candy. The air was cool and crisp.
“The barn looks older than the house and garage.”
Pretty observant. “It was here when I bought the place. It had been built over the original homesite. I just did some refurbishing.”
The horses were playing a frisky game of chase in the corral. “What are their names?” she asked.
“They don’t have names.”
He saw her surprise. “Your horses don’t have names? How sad. Why not?”
“Is this the interview, Miss Travis?”
She gave a puzzled shake of her head. “I’ve never met anyone who didn’t name his pets. Part of Cronkite’s personality is his name.” As she told him about her dog, her face turned soft and animated. “He’s a big, floppy, affectionate, spoiled baby. You should have a dog,” she said. “It would be good company for you.”
“I like my solitude.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.”
“Time’s ticking.”
She let him have it then. With both barrels. “I think Vanessa Merritt killed her own baby.”
Gray clenched his teeth to keep from saying anything.
She talked nonstop for the next several minutes. He lost track of how many, but certainly more than five. She talked him through several motives for why the First Lady might destroy her child, then detailed for him the steps she’d taken in making inquiries and the roadblocks she’d encountered.
“Now Mrs. Merritt has gone ‘into seclusion.’ Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“No,” he lied.
“When she retreated from public life after the child’s death, that was understandable. Jackie Kennedy did the same when she lost her baby. But it was for a specified time, and we’re past that. If she’s only resting, as insiders insist, then why isn’t she staying with her father? Or why hasn’t she gone to their home in Mississippi?”
“How do you know she hasn’t?”
“I don’t,” she admitted with a frown. “But it’s been announced that she’s in Dr. Allan’s care, and he’s still in Washington. I don’t get what the big secret is all about.”
“There is no big secret.”
“Then how do you account for Anna Chen’s strange behavior? She was always a reliable source, willing to cooperate.”
“You pissed her off?”
“I don’t know her well enough to make her angry.”
“I don’t know you at all, and you’ve made me angry.”
“She was scared,” Barrie said stubbornly. “I recognize fear when I see it.”
“Okay, maybe she was scared,” he said impatiently. “Maybe she’d just seen a mouse. And maybe Vanessa’s behavior is a little unusual, but doesn’t she deserve privacy to do her grieving?”
This Barrie Travis, this reporter with the sexy voice, was bringing up the ambiguities he himself had entertained. His gut in a knot, he stood and walked to the edge of the porch. “Christ, what she must be going through.” He plowed his fingers through his hair, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried forcibly to keep his own demons at bay.
Several moments passed before he remembered that she was there. He caught her staring up at him, a strange expression on her face. “It wasn’t just an affair. You truly loved her, didn’t you?” she said in a hushed voice. “You still do.”
Cursing himself for consenting even to five minutes with her, he bent down and, for the second time that morning, picked up her big leather bag and pushed it into her arms. “Time’s up.”
His hand encircled her biceps as he pulled her to her feet. To steady herself, she gripped one of the posts supporting the porch roof. “After everything I’ve told you, is that all you have to say?”
“You’re on a single track going nowhere, Miss Travis. All these inconsistencies are distortions of the facts, pieced together by your warped imagination and ambitious little mind to create an ugly but sensational story.
“For whatever it’s worth, I advise you to drop this thing before you upset somebody in the administration who could really hurt you. Forget about that baby and how he died.”
“I can’t just forget it. Something about his death doesn’t ring true.”
“Suit yourself. But whatever else you do, forget about me.” He went inside and locked the front door.
Chapter Twelve
When Howie received the su
mmons to the general manager’s office, his bowels turned to water. Leaving the men’s room, he went directly to the carpeted office on the second floor. An aloof secretary told him that “they” were waiting for him and to go right in.
Jenkins was seated behind his desk. Another man was standing in front of the window, while another occupied an armchair. “Come in, Howie,” Jenkins said. Rubber-kneed, he advanced into the office. Typically, an unscheduled meeting like this meant bad news, like a drastic drop in ratings, a major cutback in budget, or a comprehensive ass-chewing.
“Good morning, Mr. Jenkins,” he said, trying to appear calm. He purposely kept his eyes on his boss and not on the two austere men who were looking him over like he was in a lineup. “What can I do for you?”
“These men are from the FBI.”
Howie’s sphincter clenched. The goddamn IRS. He hadn’t filed a tax return for the last three years.
“They want to ask you some questions about Barrie Travis.”
Howie nearly laughed with relief. Cold sweat had trickled from his armpits and collected around his waist. “What about her?”
“Did you send her on an assignment?” Jenkins asked.
“Uh…”
That was a tricky question, and Howie needed time to weigh his answer. If he answered yes, and Barrie was in deep shit, he’d be jumping into the shit right along with her. If he answered no, and her instincts about a top-secret hot story proved correct, then he would be sacrificing his share of the credit.
He glanced at the FBI agent standing silhouetted against the window. The guy looked all business, and so did his partner.
“No,” Howie replied. “She asked my permission to take a few days to investigate a story, but I didn’t assign it to her.”
“What story?” asked the agent by the window.
“I don’t know. Something she cooked up on her own.”
“She didn’t discuss it with you?” the second agent asked.
“Not specifically—not the subject matter. All she told me was that it was hot stuff.”
“You don’t have a glimmer?”
The new buddy he’d made in the bar the other night had asked him these same questions. “No, sir.”
“I find that hard to believe.”