Rogue Affair

by Tamsen Parker

  He choked and began to cough.

  She patted his back and kept talking. “And they serve breakfast all day. I’m pretty sure my toast had his face on it this morning, although I could have been hallucinating that, like those people who see Jesus in their pita chips.”

  Rising to her feet, she went to the mini-fridge and brought him a bottle of water with a gold seal. As he twisted open the top, she added, “It’s the Bigelow brand, but don’t worry. It tastes like normal water, only greedier and with more egregious self-tanner habits.”

  Now he was choking on his water as he laughed and coughed at the same time. He had the distinct feeling that if he remained in Jenny Meyers’s company, he’d often find himself in a similar position.

  Oh, Lord. No thinking about positions when she was so damn close, still patting his back and looking both pleased by his laughter and concerned by his coughing.

  When he quieted, she removed her hand and tapped the menu. “Anyway, what would you like to order for dinner? I’m going to have the crab cakes, which feature neither Bigelow’s baby batter nor his face emblazoned on a bun. I know that for a fact.”

  His job. He needed to do his job. But damn it, he was hungry. And if he paid for his own meal, even a stickler couldn’t consider that an ethical compromise.

  He closed his eyes and made the decision. “Make that two crab cake dinners.”

  “Awesome!”

  That larger-than-life smile of hers nearly blinded him. She was the sexiest Muppet in the history of humanity, no doubt about it.

  Still, when she grabbed the phone to order room service, he held up his hand. “But no charging our meals to the room. I have cash, and I’ll pay for us both.”

  “Why would you pay? Like I said, Bigelow is picking up the hotel expenses.” Then realization seemed to dawn, and her eyes rounded. “Oh, wait. I didn’t even think about the conflict of interest angle. Yeah, you’d better pay for your own dinner.”

  He inclined his head. “If I’m reporting on him, I’m not going to charge my meals to his account. And consider your meal a thank you for meeting with me so late.”

  “Are you sure?” Her smile had softened and turned warm. “That’s such a sweet offer, but I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  Basking in the warmth of her regard, he smiled back. “You’re not taking advantage of me. Go ahead and make the call, Jenny.”

  While she gave their order, he corralled his wayward thoughts, steering them toward business concerns. He’d eaten dinner with other sources before, and he would again. This meal was nothing personal. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that should worry him.

  As soon as she’d replaced the phone in the cradle, he picked up a pen and the notebook he’d stashed in his messenger bag. “While we’re waiting, let’s get to work.”

  That work had filled his days and so many empty nights for years now. Ever since the divorce ten years ago. Work never failed to distract him, and it never complained about his long hours. In fact, the more time he spent working, the more accolades he received.

  His work was all he required for a contented life. Period.

  Those pale blue eyes, crinkled at the corners with her smile, were trained on him. “Where do you want me to start?”

  She was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, her knee a scant inch away from his. Close enough to feel her body heat. Close enough that he wanted to erase the distance, tug her close, and discover whether her promise of warmth was a tease or reality.

  He knew better than to follow that impulse. Above all else, he was a professional.

  But given his natural curiosity and need for answers, he couldn’t help but ask himself a simple question: If all he needed in his life was work, why did the mere presence of Jenny Meyers make that life feel so…colorless?

  3

  After polishing off the last bite of her crab cake, Jenny stacked their dishes and set aside the room service tray. “So that’s all I can tell you. I was just doing my job and painting a stupid Napoleon portrait from selfies for Bigelow’s friend, Roger Cahill. Bigelow saw it, and the next thing I knew, I was on my way to D.C. and wondering how people clean a gold toilet. Some sort of jewelry polish, do you think?”

  “I…” David blinked, his lovely dark eyes magnified by his cute glasses. “I’m not certain.”

  As she’d told him about her dealings with Bigelow, his gaze hadn’t left her face, except while he was spearing his food with a fork or taking notes. She’d returned the favor. So she’d seen every minute twitch of his face as she’d talked, every fleeting frown of concern or confusion or whatever emotion he was smothering, every flash of those scruff-covered dimples as he suppressed a smile. Every spark of heat in those bright, intelligent eyes when she got close to him, however quickly he dampened those sparks.

  He hadn’t moved away from her. In fact, she could swear he was sitting closer than when they’d begun talking.

  “I’m not certain either. But I am certain I don’t want to take money that’s supposed to go to the sick and other people in need. Bigelow should pay me from those fat bank accounts he mentions every other breath.” She pointed a finger at him. “I want you to make sure that happens. Or at least that something similar doesn’t happen again.”

  At that, he sat back on the couch. “I can’t promise that. I research and write stories. What happens as a result of those stories is completely out of my control.”

  “But if this”—she paused—“what did you call it? Self-dealing?”

  He nodded. “Charity leaders using money from their nonprofits to purchase things for personal use.”

  The damning check rested beside David’s phone on the coffee table. A financial lifeline for her, a potential scoop for David, and a smoking gun against Bigelow, all in one small rectangle of gold-inked paper.

  “If this self-dealing became public, he’d have to stop doing it, right?”

  “Maybe.” His voice remained neutral. Pleasant and professional, but noncommittal. “Did Bigelow discuss with you where he plans to hang your paintings?”

  “His assistant said they would end up in Bigelow Tower somewhere.” She glanced above the bed, where a gold-framed display of magazine covers featuring Bigelow resided. “As if his tangerine-tinged face doesn’t haunt enough rooms here.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward again. “Will you receive proof of that?”

  “Kristi, his assistant, promised to send photos of the paintings once they were hung. For my portfolio.” She scrunched her face. “I kind of regret making that request.”

  It had emerged automatically, before she’d realized she couldn’t publicize this job. Not ever. Not if she still had any hopes of attaining the future she’d once envisioned for herself.

  He was watching her expression with what she now knew was characteristic attentiveness. “If he hangs it here, he’s breaking the law. Could you forward any photos his assistant e-mails to you?” When she nodded, he scribbled something in his notebook. “Why don’t you want evidence of your work with Bigelow in your portfolio? Wouldn’t a famous client bring you more business?”

  He didn’t need to hear that story. No one needed to hear that story, apart from her ever-patient parents and close friends and occasional strangers at that Marysburg dive bar with the really tasty, really alcoholic peach margaritas.

  “Is that information pertinent to a potential story about misuse of foundation funds?”

  “Pertinent information doesn’t always present itself as such. Not immediately.” He tapped his pen against the paper. “And I’m a reporter. I’m curious, especially about something that doesn’t appear to make sense.”

  She propped her elbow on the arm of the couch, resting her cheek on her knuckles as she gazed at him. “You’re curious about me?”

  “As a reporter.” His response was swift. But then he paused a moment before adding, “For the most part. So can you explain why you wouldn’t want Bigelow’s portraits in your portfolio?”r />
  For the most part. Not a ringing declaration of intent, but she’d take it.

  Without any sign of his reciprocated interest, she’d have had to give up on him. She didn’t suffer from shyness, but she also didn’t fancy herself a sexual harasser of the fourth estate.

  If he returned her interest, though, she intended to have him.

  Her instincts said he belonged with her, in bed and out. And as with many of the crucial choices she’d made her in life, she didn’t care to question that visceral certainty. Not even if a wiser woman would weigh David’s undeniable hotness, decency, and intelligence against the improbability of any future together and back way the hell off.

  Jenny would take her chances, just as she always did.

  That said, he hadn’t yet declared his interest in unequivocal terms, and she didn’t care to bare her woes to a man who might see her only as a source of information. Eyes dropping to the swirling pattern of the beige carpet, she pursed her lips. “Do we have to discuss that?”

  “No. Of course not.” Then, for the first time, he touched her. A gentle fingertip at her chin guided her attention back to him, rather than the floor. “But I’d like to know.”

  She swallowed, dizzy from the brief, delicious contact. “For a story?”

  “I—” His jaw worked. “I find you fascinating. On a personal level, as well as professional. I shouldn’t tell you that, but it’s true.”

  “Why shouldn’t you tell me that?”

  “Because a reporter doesn’t get emotionally entangled with his sources. He stays objective.” He let out a slow breath. “But maybe I’m just too tired to care about that anymore. Or maybe you’re just too warm, too kind, and too tempting to keep at a safe distance.”

  There it was, the declaration she’d wanted. And those dark eyes of his were watching her, gauging her reaction with a sort of weary hope.

  She wriggled happily on the sofa. “The feeling is mutual.” And if he could bend for her sake, she could do the same for him. “I don’t want Bigelow’s portraits in my portfolio because I’d prefer not to publicize the paintings I make through Artify Yourself!, no matter whether I’m recreating a portrait of Napoleon or inserting a baby’s face onto one of Monet’s water lilies. Or”—she contemplated her most memorable assignment to date—“changing The Creation of Adam to include some dude’s junk.”

  His brows rose. “The finger-touch?”

  “Tip to tip.” She sighed. “Tip to tip.”

  Those dimples carved into his cheeks. “It’s honest work.”

  “But it’s not my best work. It’s not what I want to do, and I don’t want to become famous for it. Not when I have so much more to offer.” She swept a hand toward the portraits she’d turned to face the wall, registering a faint sting behind her eyes. “Those paintings are pedestrian at best, and I know it. I hate the thought of potential buyers seeing them. Hell, I hate the thought of you seeing them. Maybe you don’t believe I can do better, but—”

  “I believe you.” He shifted closer on the sofa, until his knee nudged hers. “Please don’t worry, Jenny. Based on the information you sent me, I researched your work before we met. I saw some photos from your group shows a few years back.”

  His gaze, which had remained studiously neutral to that point, had softened. It rested on her, warm and comforting, as she forced herself to continue.

  “I don’t work in oils, not for my own paintings. I prefer acrylics. Like in the paintings you saw online. And I want another show at some point. A group exhibition. Or even better, a solo show.” She wrapped her arms around her middle. “But if critics and gallery owners and buyers perceive me as a hack, I’m fucked, David. I won’t ever get another exhibition.”

  She’d already moved from New York, the unaffordable city of her dreams, back to her hometown in Virginia. She’d already worked countless low-paid jobs to support herself while, despite her distance from its epicenter, she tried to gain a new foothold in the art world. She’d already compromised and compromised, each time hoping to get something in return. Some new opportunity, a patron or a lead on a show. Some sign that she hadn’t lost all the talent her professors at Cooper Union had lauded, all the promise noted by reviews of those early exhibitions.

  But this…this was a compromise too far.

  “I checked your background before I came here. You went to college on a full-tuition scholarship, at an art school whose acceptance rate is below five percent.” Reaching out, he lightly tugged her arm until she unwound it from her waist. Then he took her hand in his. “And again, I’ve seen your work. No one could consider you a hack.”

  Her heart seemed to swell at the feel of his fingers enfolding her own, the knowledge that he’d researched her and her work. That he understood what she was capable of doing, if only she could find another opening into a very, very insular world.

  “Maybe you couldn’t. But others might.” She shook her head. “And associating with Bigelow? Jesus. The art community loathes the man, and for good reason. If I became known as someone sympathetic to him or his cronies, I wouldn’t be able to resuscitate my reputation. Ever.”

  He was holding her hand with such care, the strength in his grip tempered and under control. As far as she could tell from his television interviews and their brief acquaintanceship, he was a man who kept every aspect of himself under that same firm command.

  But at the first sign of her distress, he’d reached out—to her, a source—and made contact. Comforted her. So maybe, when it came to her, his control wasn’t so absolute.

  “This is why you didn’t want an on-the-record interview.” He inclined his head as that understanding snapped into place for him. “You don’t want your name associated with Bigelow, especially not in the Washington Chronicle.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. He understood.

  “Yes.” She squeezed his fingers. “I need to stay anonymous.”

  His neck bent, and he looked down at their hands. “Jenny…”

  She knew that pose, that tone. He was about to tell her something she wouldn’t want to hear. He was going to convince her she’d need to compromise again. This time, in a way that would destroy her professional dreams, once and for all.

  But he didn’t seem happy about it. And for that reason, she left her hand in his.

  “Even when I use confidential sources, details are crucial to my stories. Names, dates, exact wording.” His brow had creased, but he caught her eye again. “Without them, it’s too easy to recast damaging information as the dishonest product of a biased media. And to be blunt, details are also crucial to holding the interest of readers. The more readers, the more ad money. The more subscriptions. The more reporters we can hire and retain.”

  Of course. Any fool should have realized as much.

  “If I attempted to report this story, this concrete example of self-dealing, without using your name or at least an image of your portrait hanging in the Bigelow Tower, my editor would refuse to run it. Rightfully so.” He laced his fingers through hers. “I can certainly research the Bigelow Foundation more thoroughly and search for other examples of self-dealing, but I don’t know that I’ll find one so obvious and egregious. And even if I did, I don’t know that I’d be able to locate and report it before the election.”

  “A man as wealthy and famous as him would be careful to cover up legal issues.” She frowned. “Although he didn’t seem particularly worried about illegality in his dealings with me.”

  Unexpectedly, David laughed. “I’m not certain I’d call Bigelow careful. Not in any aspect of his life. But he’s savvy in his own way, and he employs an army of lawyers. Which reminds me.” His thumb smoothed over the back of her hand, the stroke feather-light. “Did he have you sign a nondisclosure agreement?”

  “His assistant wanted me to, so I started reading it. But Bigelow was in a hurry.” Late for a meeting with his campaign chair, if she remembered correctly. “He winked at me and said, ‘You won’t say anything about these meeting
s, right, Jenna?’ And I shook my head, because God knows I don’t want anyone to find out I painted him.”

  David tilted his head. “Jenna?”

  “Yes. Jenna.” She pointed to the check. “My actual name didn’t seem relevant to him.”

  “So you never signed the NDA?”

  “Nope. Kristi protested, but Bigelow overrode her, and we started the first portrait.”

  Another stroke of his thumb, its pad slightly rough. “Good.”

  A hush descended over the room, the only sounds the muted mumble of a television in the next room and the whoosh of the ventilation system.

  His arguments made, he let her consider her options in silence.

  But really, she didn’t have more than one, not if she wanted to live with herself. They both knew it. So after a few moments, she turned her attention to mitigating the fallout.

  She closed her eyes before she said it. “If at all possible, I’d like to get some money from Bigelow. So you can keep the first check as evidence of his self-dealing, but I’ll ask Kristi to pay me from his personal funds for the rest.” The assistant would most likely refuse that request, but it was worth a shot. “That second payment won’t arrive until I’ve finished the portraits. I can ask her to deposit it electronically, so it comes sooner, but I’d rather not go public until I receive the money. If that doesn’t work for you, though, I can”—she bit her lip—“I can figure something out.”

  David stilled, his thumb stopping mid-sweep.

  She added, “As I understand it, you wouldn’t publish the story until I forwarded Kristi’s photos of the portraits hung in Bigelow Tower, anyway. That would be the concrete evidence of his self-dealing, right?”

  His voice was low and soft. “That’s right.”