by Eva Charles
I need his cooperation, but being a doormat hasn’t worked very well so far, and I’m tired of playing the part. Besides, I have a feeling Smith Sinclair might be the kind of man who appreciates a little push back. Some men are like that.
“I wasn’t planning on having dinner, but when I do, I normally order for myself. I’ve been choosing my own food for years now. I’m quite good at it.”
Sinclair pushes his shoulder blades into the back of the faded vinyl bench. I have his complete attention now. It’s more than I bargained for, and I will myself not to color under the scrutiny. “I always prefer a brat to a princess.” He tips his head, rubbing a single thumb over the stubble along his jaw. “Especially one who turns pink without much effort. If you weren’t so dead set on sticking your nose into Wilder business, we could be friends. Good friends.”
The word good skitters across my skin, leaving tiny raised bumps in its wake. His eyes have mine in a tight hold. I want to look away, but I don’t. I can’t. Because even though my body is responding like this is the best foreplay it’s experienced in years, I’m here to do a job. I have to take the power back. Back? Did you ever have it?
I’m screwed. I need answers from him, but I have no idea how to get them. None.
“The menu’s limited,” he continues, drumming those long, thick fingers on the table, “as in, there isn’t one. They have burgers and fried chicken. Don’t tell me you wanted a salad.” His tone is chock-full of innuendo. What a jerk.
“I might have preferred a salad. And I don’t appreciate the little digs about my weight.”
“Nobody orders salad here. If they’re foolish enough to make that mistake, the cook tosses some of the lettuce, tomato, and onion they use for burgers on a plate. You’d stick out like an outsider. I did you a favor. And I already told you that you have a nice body. Maybe not in so many words.” He hasn’t released my eyes, and I’ll be damned if I look away first. “For a reporter, you don’t seem to read between the lines very well. Or be much of a listener.”
I bite back the snarky remark on the tip of my tongue. “I don’t eat cheeseburgers.”
“Religious thing?”
“No.”
“Lactose intolerant?”
I dig my fingers into my thighs so I don’t reach across the table and throat punch him. “No.”
“Then you’re good. Just scrape off the cheese if you don’t like it.”
“And I don’t need another beer.” Oh, God. I sound like a whiny teenager, without a shred of dignity.
“The one you’re sipping from like it’s a rare vintage of champagne will be piss-warm before the food gets here, if it isn’t already.”
I’d like to dump my piss-warm beer over his head. Keaton wedding, Easter egg dresses, dry cake—and most important of all, my mother’s legacy. These are the reasons Smith Sinclair isn’t mopping beer off his gorgeous face.
I gather my composure and force myself to speak in a pleasant, upbeat tone. “Tell me about your relationship with the Wilders. You went to college with JD, right?”
“That is never happening. Next question.”
It’s only a matter of minutes before I begin pulling out my hair in clumps. I’m going to lay it all out for him. It might be perceived as a desperate move, but it’s worked for me at times. And at this stage, I have nothing to lose. “Look, do us both a favor. I need some answers, and you want to be done with me. Just throw a little something my way and I’ll be out of your hair forever. I don’t care about the Wilders. I’m interested in the broader topic of Charleston’s history with men’s clubs and societies, and Warren King’s relationship to them. My job depends on it.”
While I plead my case, my voice cracks. It’s a small fracture, so tiny, I doubt he notices. But I hear it, loud and clear. I’m ashamed at what a beggar I’ve become, but it doesn’t stop me from continuing to grovel. “Please.”
He assesses me carefully, the same way I’m assessing him. Just when I think he’s about to give me something, the waitress approaches the table with our food. “Eat your burger. We’ll talk after,” he says, when Carrie walks away.
Arghhh! I’ve been successful because people open up to me. Even when they know I’m a reporter, they tell me things, confide in me in ways they probably shouldn’t. I’m approachable and compassionate. I listen. Most people are desperate to talk. They just need someone to listen, because nobody really listens. Instead they’re making lists in their heads, thinking about what comes next, how they can bring the conversation back around to them, deciding what they’re going to prepare for dinner, or if it’s a good time to ask if they can bring home a puppy. I don’t do any of that. I know how to be present. How to listen empathetically. It’s my greatest strength, and it’s always worked for me—until Charleston.
Sinclair grabs a handful of fries from my plate. “Thought we’d share,” he says in response to what I’m sure is a horrified look on my face. “Help yourself to all the onion rings you want. Just leave me a few.”
He’s taking food off my plate without bothering to ask, like we’re animals in a barnyard. Oh. My. God.
I grew up with three older brothers, and all my life there have been cops—mostly men who worked for my dad—in and out of our house. Men with the manners of vultures are not a foreign concept to me. Although my standards don’t approach Emily Post’s, I just met this guy who’s foraging from my plate, and his familiarity is obnoxious. I’m starting to wonder if dealing with him is worth any story.
Relax. Just relax. He’s trying to get under your skin so you give up in frustration. This is exactly what he wants.
“Why did you leave the Boston Sentinel?” he asks, still grazing from my plate.
I shrug, and give him my standard response to the question. “It was time to move on.” I don’t even flinch as the well-rehearsed fib falls off my tongue.
“Huh. I read you eavesdropped and stole classified information from your father. That’s how you became an overnight success.”
It’s a punch square to the gut. A clean slash into the armor I’ve carefully constructed, and the gasp of pain escapes before I can stop it.
Sinclair bites into his burger, pretending he’s not gauging my reaction—not witnessing the acute distress or the gore spilling from the gaping wound. The bastard just sits there waiting to see if he landed the knockout blow.
I glare across the table without really seeing him, until I can pull myself together. I want to grab my tote and swing at his head before I run out of Tallulah’s and back to DC, but I will not let this man take everything I’ve worked for. Everything I want for myself—and for my mother. I will not let him win. Not without a fight.
“That is not true.” I answer definitively, in a strong voice, even though my insides are trembling as I cut the burger in two. I lift the top half of the bun to scrape the cheese off, but decide it’s not worth the effort. “I started working at the paper when I was sixteen. I worked hard for any success I had there. None of it happened overnight.”
“But the rest is true?” Smith asks, taking a couple onion rings off his plate, and depositing them on mine.
“None of it’s true.” I don’t owe him a damn thing, certainly not an explanation, but if I share, maybe it will encourage him to speak more candidly too. “I left because my father deserves the police commissioner’s job, and as long as I’m there investigating stories, I’m a convenient weapon for his detractors to use against him. I couldn’t have that.”
Sinclair doesn’t say anything, but I feel his eyes on me while I mindlessly rearrange French fries on my plate. My appetite has disappeared.
“Everything I read sounded like bullshit.” He takes a fry off my plate, drags it through a puddle of ketchup on his, and offers it to me. I shake my head. But he won’t be denied. He touches it to my lips, and when my tongue darts out to catch a gob of ketchup, he slips the fry inside. It’s an intimate gesture, but feels more conciliatory than sexual.
“People who want my father to have th
e job don’t believe a word of it, and people who want the other guy to have it are sure it’s all true,” I tell him after I finish chewing.
“How about your colleagues at the paper?”
My colleagues were the least of my problems. “Most everyone knew it was a lie. But the few who were sure I was sleeping with my editor to get plum assignments had something new to gossip about.”
“Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Fucking your editor?”
I look him straight in the eye. “Of course not.”
“How about your father? Did he believe you?”
My stomach ties itself into a painful knot. Sinclair’s probing has disturbed the scab in my heart. It’s still not quite healed. Maybe it will never be. Mary Katherine, I want to believe you. But how else would you have gotten this information? How else, indeed? Certainly not by skills or smarts. Or talent. Those possibilities didn’t seem to resonate with him.
“My father believed me.” Eventually. At least I think he did.
“That’s not very convincing, Mary Katherine. Are you going to eat the other half of your burger?”
I shake my head, and push the plate toward him. “Help yourself.”
“So you went to Washington to prove everybody wrong, to show them that you really are a talented reporter who didn’t need to steal information from Daddy to publish a great story. But you got stuck on the society pages, and that’s how you ended up chasing the Wilders.”
Prick. Just when I feel like he has some measure of empathy, he’s a total prick. Again. “I don’t know how many times I have to say it. The Wilders are an inconsequential piece of what I’m after.”
“Sure they are,” he says with a smug tone, before finishing what’s left of my burger in three bites.
“As I said earlier, Warren King is my focus. Wildflower is a logical place to begin.” And every other alley I’ve gone down is dark. I take a sip of beer to fortify myself. “Tell me something about the club. How many members?”
“Not sure.”
“Let’s make a deal. I’ll tell you all about why I left the Sentinel and went to Washington, every ugly detail, if you tell me a few things about Wildflower.” I offer it up like it’s a treasure, but it’s not much of a deal. I’ve already shared the highlights, and there’s no way I would ever tell him how terribly my family treated me, or how heartbroken I was over the whole sordid mess.
“I don’t deal, Kate. Dealing is for people who have run out of ways to get what they want. I don’t care why you left the Sentinel and went to DC. I was baiting you. And let’s be clear, if I did care to know, I could find the answers with or without your cooperation.”
My heart hammers against my chest wall, the way it does when you realize you’re trapped with nowhere to go. When you’ve played all your pieces, and there’s no way you can win because your opponent is always two steps ahead, shrewder, stronger, and just better at the game. There will be other opportunities, Kate, with players who weren’t trained as special operatives. He’s out of your league. He’d be out of anyone’s league.
Just when I’ve decided to hoist the white flag and surrender to a lifetime of covering weddings and galas, he takes pity. Or maybe he’s enjoying the game and he’s not ready for it to be over—not ready to stop torturing me quite yet. He reels me back in with a measly crumb, so he can toy with me for a little while longer. And I allow it—that’s what desperate people do.
“I don’t have the exact membership numbers.” He shrugs a shoulder. “There’s a substantial buy-in, because there are numerous amenities. But I’m not an expert on the club.”
That’s a lie. Another lie. He knows plenty. He could help me, if he wanted. Somehow, I need to win his trust. Or distract him so he talks unwittingly. But how? I need to buy a little time to think. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” I ask, laying my napkin neatly on the table beside my plate.
“To the right of the entrance where you came in. There’s a narrow hall. Second door on the left.”
I excuse myself, anxious for a few minutes away from him.
The bathroom is tired, but spotless, with a couple stalls I don’t need. I turn on the faucet and examine my face in the mirror while soaping my hands. I’m not beautiful, certainly not in a classic sense, but I have a thick mane of red hair that people of both sexes are drawn to as though it holds some kind of magical power. For most of my life it’s been a blessing and a curse. Mostly a curse.
I bend forward at the waist and flip my hair over my head. Brushing it this way always makes it fall fuller over my shoulders. After applying two coats of fresh lip gloss, I tug on my collar until it’s standing almost straight up, framing my neck attractively. I stare at my prim and proper image in the streaky glass. Maybe loosening another button on my shirt would make me look less uptight, and more approachable. Less like this is an interview, and more like … Like what, Kate?
I’m the only person here. There’s no harm in trying it. If it’s too revealing, I’ll rebutton the damn thing.
With shaky hands, I free the pearl disc from the tiny slit, and examine myself from all sides. There’s no visible cleavage. This is exactly how I would wear the outfit to go out with friends for the evening, or on a date. I might even undo an additional button for a night out.
What’s the big deal?
It’s not as though I would ever exchange sex for a story. I wouldn’t do that, not even for the woman who gave up her career, her family, her very life—for me. I will do almost anything to earn my mother the Pulitzer she justly deserves, even if it means stashing my dignity and pride while I deal with Sinclair. I can do that for her. It’s so little compared to what she gave up for me. But sex is where I draw the line.
Is it, Kate? Are you sure about that? For a second, I catch a fifteen-year-old in the glass. She was willing to trade sex. I turn away from the glare of the mirror, shoving the thoughts back into the dark corners of my memory. This is different.
I won’t have sex with him. But Sinclair can think whatever he wants as long as he gives me useful information.
When I finish justifying my questionable choices, I take a deep breath and head back to the table.
4
Kate
“Okay,” I say in an optimistic voice as I slide into the booth. “Just tell me one teeny tiny thing about the clientele at Wildflower.”
The lines on Sinclair’s forehead become more prominent as his eyes flit from my freshly polished lips to the deep vee of my neckline. There’s nothing to see, but still, I feel exposed.
I misjudged this—misjudged myself—misjudged him. My face is hot, and I’m sure it’s a lovely shade of I-am-a-moron red. It seems ridiculous now, plotting to distract a former special forces operative with some lip gloss and a low neckline, like I’m some glamorous femme fatale. The embarrassment is scathing. My mother would have never stooped to such tactics to get a story, and until now, I never have.
It would be painfully obvious if I rebuttoned my shirt here at the table, so instead, I tug at the neckline discreetly, pulling the edges closed.
Sinclair was more responsive when I laid out my dilemma for him. I should try it again. Begging is less shameful than a come-on, even a fake one. “There must be something you can give me,” I plead. “I need this story. I already told you I’d give up something in return. There must be something I have that you want. Anything.”
“Anything?” His brown eyes have scores of gold flecks that should make them warm and inviting. But they’re not. They’re cool and calculating.
I hadn’t meant it to sound like an open invitation, but the breathy plea came out all wrong. And God help me, I don’t disabuse him of any assumptions, although I do choose my words cautiously. “I’ll tell you anything.”
Sinclair says nothing, and his face gives nothing away. We sit in silence playing a cat and mouse game. If animals played mind games, that is. While I’m still trying to read him, he slides both feet on either side of
mine. He doesn’t say excuse me, or offer anything resembling an apology, because it’s not a mistake, and he’s not sorry.
I’m a hair over five-eight, and I wear a size nine shoe, but his feet dwarf mine. The inner sole of each foot presses the outer sole of mine, dragging my legs together slowly, trapping them with my thighs crushed against one another. The sensitive skin chafes as the pressure between my legs mounts.
His jaw is set firmly, with the occasional tick popping under the scruff. Each time it happens, a shiver runs down my spine, making it almost impossible to sit still. I can’t escape it. Just like I can’t escape the oppressive heat radiating from across the table, creating bright streaks of jagged lightning that electrify my pussy.
“Do you want to see Wildflower?” His voice is thick and rough, like a man who has sex on the brain.
“Wildflower? See Wildflower?” Wildflower. The intensity of the moment fades. I forget all about the overwhelming sexual tension and throw all good sense out the window. This might be the break I need. There might be some small insight to be gleaned that can help me tie Warren King to Charleston’s seamier side. At least something that will allow Colin to let me stay on the story. “You would take me there?” I’m practically salivating.
“Off the record.”
Sinclair frees my feet, and I inch my legs apart, releasing the exquisite pressure that bloomed there. There’s no time for sexy games right now. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
He rakes his teeth over a full bottom lip. It’s an excruciating slow movement—raw and primal. I shouldn’t have said whatever you want—I certainly don’t mean it, and I’m through playing. He’s too male, and there’s been a shift. I can feel it. All of a sudden, teasing feels too risky.
Sinclair motions for the check, then props his elbows on the table, cracking his knuckles. It’s the only sound between us. I would give anything to know what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s having second thoughts. We need to get out of here now, before he changes his mind. I don’t relax until Carrie approaches with the check. But even then, Sinclair seems broody and far away.