by Sandra Brown
He’d added that last just to irritate her. She hadn’t told him that she’d been fired, because she knew he would insist on staying home to console her. No sense in both of them being miserable.
Following the meeting in Jenkins’s office, one of the station’s rent-a-cops had escorted her back to her cubicle and hovered over her as she cleaned out her desk. She was so infuriated at being treated like a criminal that she said snidely to the guard, “What does this dump have that I could possibly want to steal?”
“Nothing personal, Ms. Travis. Company policy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Having already removed everything from her hard drive and stored it on diskettes, she emptied her desk drawers of files, notes, and scripts dating back almost to the day she was employed. She unceremoniously dumped everything into crates, which the station had provided, then the guard helped her carry the boxes to her car and load them into the trunk.
Disinclined to spend the evening alone in Daily’s depressing house, she debated where to take her picnic supper. The Lincoln Memorial? The Jefferson? Both looked beautiful by night. Still undecided, she pulled out into traffic.
“Barrie?”
She screamed and stomped on the brake.
“Don’t look back and don’t stop.”
The car behind her screeched to a halt, missing her rear bumper by a hair. The furious driver leaned on his horn, then whipped his Honda Civic around her and shot her the finger.
“Take a right at the next intersection,” Gray instructed from the corner of the backseat. He was slouched so low, his head wasn’t visible in the rearview mirror.
“You scared the hell out of me,” she shouted angrily, but she followed his instructions.
“It’s really stupid for a woman alone not to check the backseat before she gets into her car.”
“The car was locked.”
“I got in.”
His reasonable remark infuriated her. “I figured you were back in Wyoming playing cowboy by now. Why’d you leave me the other night to face the music alone? That was damned cowardly of you. And what are you doing in my car anyway? How’d you know where I was?”
“Go left up ahead, then immediately get into the right-hand lane and take the first street. Is there a green sedan about three cars back?”
“Am I being followed?”
“Check your rearview mirror, but don’t make it obvious.”
“Uh, no… yeah. There’s a green car half a block back.”
“Lose them, Barrie.”
“Lose them? You’ve lost me. How do you know that car’s following me?”
“You’ve had a tail all day.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been tailing the tail.”
“Pray tell, Mr. Incredible Vanishing Man, why I should believe you.”
“Lose the tail and lose the attitude, okay? Try not to let them know you’re dodging them.”
Although she had a hundred questions to ask him, she concentrated on her driving. “This is fun,” she said when she managed to speed through a light that trapped the green sedan.
“Oh yeah, lots,” Gray grumbled from the backseat.
After about ten minutes of erratic driving, she told him that the green sedan was no longer in sight.
“Get on a straightaway. Head out of the city. Make sure another car hasn’t taken up where the other left off.”
She kept a close watch on her mirror. After a while, she told him she was almost certain no one was following them.
“Okay. First chance you get, turn around and go back the way we came.”
“What for?”
“I’ve got a room.”
* * *
In the motel room registered to him under an assumed name, Barrie shared her cheeseburger and fries. There was a small end table and one chair near the window, but they dined sitting cross-legged in the center of the double bed.
“I got fired,” she told him as she stuffed the used napkins and wrappers back into the sack. “My sincere apologies weren’t enough for Senator Armbruster. He called the station manager this morning and got me canned.”
“You can’t be surprised.”
“I guess not. Armbruster hasn’t survived this long in politics by fighting fair, and serious ass-kissing is part of Jenkins’s job. So, no, I’m not all that surprised. Then, to make a lousy day even lousier, I learned that Cronkite died as a result of my own carelessness.”
“How’s that?”
“That was the ATF’s ruling on the explosion. My dog tripped over an electrical cord when he entered the kitchen through his trapdoor. The socket sparked and ignited natural gas from the oven, which I’d left on when I went to Wyoming. Without any ventilation, the gas had compressed. It wouldn’t have taken much of a spark to ignite it, they said. Luckily, my homeowner’s insurance will cover the full loss.” With a sad smile, she added, “Of course, Cronkite wasn’t covered.”
“Your house was torched and your dog was killed, but don’t worry, ma’am, it’s covered by insurance,” he said bitterly.
“Didn’t you hear me, Gray? It was an accident.”
“Like hell. When did you last use your oven?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Have you ever turned off the pilot light?”
“No.”
“Have you ever stretched an electrical cord across the path of the back door?”
He was voicing questions she’d already asked herself. Hearing them from him only made her more determined to deny the obvious answers. “But the investigation—”
“Was right on. That’s exactly how the explosion occurred because somebody set it up to happen like that. Spence wouldn’t have had his guy plant a sophisticated bomb. Anything elaborate would have created complications in the cover-up.
“He arranged it before leaving for Wyoming, and he opted for simplicity. Actually it was a no-brainer. Duck soup. You lived alone, so a lover or elderly parent or roommate wasn’t going to be an obstacle. You were out of town, so there was time for the gas to accumulate. The explosion was planned and executed to look like an accident due to your oversight. It was a fluke that Cronkite went in ahead of you. They couldn’t have foreseen that.”
“They?”
“David Merritt sanctioned it.”
She shook her head. “Baloney. You’re basing that on the assumption that he had a big bad secret, and I was getting too close to uncovering it,” she said. “We know better now. I was wrong about Vanessa and the baby’s death and… everything. So were you. We were wrong. Right?”
“Why’d you have someone tailing you all day today? Even if there is nothing to your story—and I still contend there is—David never forgives a slight. Whether or not the allegation is true, your implied accusation pissed him off enough to have you killed.”
Her bravado collapsed. “Do you think he’ll try again?”
“That’s a safe assumption.”
“Good thing I’ve already had my supper,” she murmured. “I just lost my appetite.”
“There’s one last french fry.”
“I’ll split it with you.” She broke the cold french fry in two, put one half in her mouth, and extended the other to him. He surprised her by nibbling it straight from her fingers.
At the touch of his lips against her fingers, delicious sensations spiraled through her. Her limbs suddenly felt heavy, but her tummy floated weightlessly. She began to tingle, even to the tips of her toes.
Toes that she set firmly on the floor as she stood up. “I’m not going to sleep with you, Bondurant. In case that’s what you have in mind, I want to save you the embarrassment and the physical discomfort of getting all worked up for nothing.”
“I don’t embarrass, and I’m very comfortable, thanks. Am I to assume that you used the word sleep euphemistically?”
“You know what I meant.”
He looked at her for a moment. “I know what you meant, but I don’t recall asking.”
“That’s right, you didn’t. You don’t. You didn’t ask the first time.”
“I didn’t have to.”
There was no point in arguing that. He hadn’t needed to woo her that morning in Wyoming, so why had she presumed that he planned a fancy seduction tonight?
“I’m going to take a shower,” she mumbled. She picked up her satchel, carrying it and her smarting pride into the tiny bathroom and closing the door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“A man painted me once.”
“Painted you?”
She’d come out of the bathroom wearing only her sweater and panties. She smelled like soap and damp skin, some of which he’d glimpsed when she quickly pulled her sweater over her head before sliding between the sheets. He’d taken up a sentry post in the chair near the window, where he took periodic peeks through the blinds and was doing his damnedest not to think about a clean-smelling, seminaked Barrie Travis only a few yards away.
“I don’t mean he painted my body,” she clarified. “He painted me on canvas. I posed nude for him.”
“How come? Need the money?”
“No, it wasn’t that. I was in college, feeling frisky and rebellious and wanting to do something outrageous and that my parents would definitely disapprove of. He asked, and I thought, what the hell, As long as he kept his studio warm.”
“How’d it go?” Gray asked.
“His studio turned out to be a ratty attic apartment that smelled of turpentine and unwashed artist. He smoked a lot of pot, drank a lot of cheap wine, and was very morose and moody.”
“What about the painting?”
“It was a disaster. A few of my body parts got lost in the translation. He felt he’d been betrayed by his own labor of love. He was in the throes of an artistic tirade when I collected my clothes and sneaked out. But he did hold to his promise to keep the place warm.”
Gray’s snuffle could have passed for a laugh. “Was he the one who taught you how to give head?” After a moment, when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to reply, he turned toward her.
She was lying on her side, facing him, knees drawn to her waist. Her hair was tumbling around her face and over her bare shoulders, childlike. Which had been one of the first things he’d found intriguing about her—that irresistible combination of womanly allure and childish vulnerability. Of course now, weeks later, when the snug heat of her was still vivid in his memory, there was no question that she was more woman than child.
Her expressive eyes showed a mix of innocent perplexity and hurt. “Why do you do that, Bondurant?”
“What?” he asked.
“Why do you say things intentionally crude, insulting, and hurtful?”
“It wasn’t meant that way. I was trying to tease you. I guess I’m not very good at it.”
“I’d say you’re pretty lousy at it.”
“Character flaw.”
A long moment passed before she said in a whisper, “The artist taught me nothing except to keep away from artists. As for learning how to… I sort of, hmm, developed my technique as I went along.” After a significant pause, she added in an even softer voice, “That morning at your ranch house.”
His body responded to the erotic memory, making the damned uncomfortable chair even more uncomfortable. Nor could he comfortably look into her eyes. He didn’t want to be her virgin voyage on any sexual adventure. That gave him significance. With significance came a responsibility he wasn’t certain he could handle. Changing the subject, he asked, “What brought that story to mind? About the painter.”
She gave a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know what else to say.”
“That’s a real thing with you.”
“What?”
“Always feeling the need to say something.”
“That’s not true.”
“See?”
She made a face. “Very funny.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular comedian. People tell me that all the time. That I’m a comedian and a tease.”
He didn’t even crack a smile, but she laughed. Giggled actually, rolling onto her back and flinging her arms over her head. He hadn’t been around laughter much, not since he’d been an adult. Her laughter was as enticing as her voice, genuine and spontaneous. He liked the sound of it.
“Thanks, Bondurant,” she said. “After the day I’ve had, I needed a good laugh. Although I should be used to it by now.”
“What?” he asked.
“Getting sacked. This isn’t the first time.”
“Was Daily the first to fire you?”
She cocked her head inquisitively.
“He told me.”
“Oh, well, that was good of him,” she said, meaning exactly the opposite.
“Idle conversation.”
“Yeah, right. While enlightening you on my turbulent professional history, did he happen to mention why he had fired me?”
He shook his head. He was lying. Daily had told him the story with a great deal of elaboration. But he couldn’t get enough of her voice, even though a steady diet of it was jeopardizing his resolve to keep his hands off her. When running for your life, a romantic interlude isn’t in the program.
“Well,” she began, smiling at the memory, “Daily and I didn’t start out as friends. He gave me my first job in TV news. Of course, I thought I knew everything there was to know about broadcast journalism, so from the get-go I resented even constructive criticism. Daily thought I was an airhead who had nothing to contribute to the profession.
“Not long after he hired me, he started looking for reasons to fire me. But he was shackled by FCC, and EEO, and a whole alphabet soup of hiring and firing regulations. But Daily got a break. I self-destructed.”
She’d been first on the scene at a county courthouse where a gunman had opened fire inside a courtroom. Based on the testimony of a woman who’d narrowly escaped a hail of bullets, Barrie reported that dozens of people had been wounded.
“In the ‘bloody melee.’ I think that was my exact wording.”
Then, on live television, she reported that the shooting was taking place in Judge Green’s court. “That made it even more of a story because it was rumored that he was under consideration for a seat on the Supreme Court. On camera I speculated on whether the shooting was politically motivated. Was Judge Green the target of an opposing radical, or was this retribution for an unpopular ruling? Had he survived, or was he wounded?”
As it turned out, Judge Green was on the golf course when a caddie came to tell him of the unfolding story. The incident had occurred in another court, and the only thing wounded was the ceiling light fixture, which had been shot out during the struggle between the bailiff and a man who’d brought his deer rifle to court to use as evidence in a civil suit involving poaching.
“My eyewitness was later identified as the mentally challenged woman who refilled iced tea and water glasses in the basement cafeteria. As far as anyone knew, she had never been above the first floor of the building.
“Sealing my fate was the fact that my special report had interrupted The Young and the Restless. Judge Green’s wife never missed an episode. When she heard my report, she ran from the house, fell over a sprinkler head in their yard, and broke her right wrist. Other viewers were incensed over the program interruption, especially when they learned that there had been no drama at the courthouse, certainly none to rival the soap opera script. They melted the switchboard with irate calls.
“My credibility was shot to hell. The station’s as well. The newsroom suffered the scorn of our competitors. And just in case somebody missed it, the TV critics in the local newspapers used it as fodder for days. Daily was taken to the woodshed and thrashed by the station’s management for hiring me. It’s a wonder he kept his job. He fired me in a heartbeat. The only one who benefitted was Judge Green, who is now a Supreme Court justice.”
“An unpopular one.”
“Which is another point in my loss column. More than one pundit ed
itorialized that if not for the sympathy Judge Green garnered as a result of my fiasco, his nomination would never have been approved. The American people have me to thank for sticking them with an ineffectual Supreme Court justice. Daily holds to that theory, by the way.”
“With all that between you, how’d you get to be friends?”
“A few years ago I heard through the press corps grapevine that he’d been forced to retire because of his emphysema. I felt duty-bound to pay him a courtesy call.” She gave a small Mona Lisa smile, and Gray asked what the secret was.
“Daily admitted that he’d been unusually hard on me because what I lacked wasn’t talent, but maturity and common sense. He was willing to help me if I’d shut up and listen. He’s been my best friend ever since.”
“Why do you keep your friendship a secret?”
“Mainly because it’s personal, and I’ve always been a stickler for keeping my personal and professional lives separate. Second, because…”
“Because if it got around that you’d kissed and made up with your former enemy, you’d lose the respect of your colleagues.”
“Very perceptive, Mr. Bondurant. When you burn a bridge in broadcasting, it’s usually a conflagration, and usually for keeps. If anyone knew I was friends with Daily now, I’d be regarded as a softie trying to hack it in a cutthroat career.”
Her smile was so ingenuous, he hated to be the one to ruin it. “Your secret’s out, Barrie. I’ve been following them following you. They know where you’re staying.” At her anguished groan, he added quickly, “I don’t think they’ll bother Daily. But we should advise him first thing tomorrow.”
“Why are they following me?”
“Most of the Secret Service agents assigned to David, Vanessa, and the White House are Spence’s men. They went through the recruitment program and met all the standards, but they’re his.”
“How can they flout the regulations?”
“That’s the beauty of it. They don’t flout them. They maneuver with the adaptability of quicksilver. If anyone questions them, they can say that you fall into the category of an emotionally disturbed person who merits watching.”
“To say the least,” she muttered.