Gossip (Desire Never Dies)

by Clara Grace Walker

  “I can substantiate it,” she offered.

  He chuckled. Of course she would. Anything to please him. “I know, sweetheart. And for purposes of running a story in my paper, that would be fine. However…” He gave her a pointed look. “Since you were trespassing on Mr. Beck’s property, there’s little chance either your testimony or this picture could be used as evidence in a court of law.”

  “Oh.”

  The expression on her face was crestfallen. Damn, she was easy to manipulate. He felt like pulling her strings a little bit more. Not by banging her himself. He’d had enough years of doing that already. “There, there, sweetie. Don’t look so down. I’m still happy with the job you did.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course.” He kissed her on the forehead. “And to prove it, I’m going to take you somewhere special.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up, sparkling with excitement. “Where?”

  Peter held a finger to her lips. “It’s a surprise.” She’d like playing movie star, and he’d like watching her in action.

  She cozied into his arms, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re the best, Peter.”

  “That I am.”

  “Are you still going to be printing my picture in your paper?”

  “Eventually. For now, I’ll hold onto it and wait for the right opportunity to present itself. Timing is everything in this business.”

  Chapter 26

  Nick sat in his office, tapping his pencil absent-mindedly on the polished wood of his desk, thinking about last night’s kiss with Jamie. He’d thought about nothing else all day. He didn’t claim to be an expert on women, but he knew when a woman was responding to him. And Jamie had definitely been responding. Even more so than the first two times they’d kissed. Last night, they’d been unquestionably on their way to his bed. So what happened? Was she worried someone had been outside, as she’d claimed? Worried the world might find out a physical attraction between them existed?

  Realistically, he should be the one worried about that. He was the one the world would be judging for hopping into bed with another woman a couple of months after his wife’s death. And if he was the sort of man who worried about what the rest of the world thought, he’d wait the requisite six months, or a year, or whatever it was. He’d always lived his life according to his own playbook, however, and he wasn’t about to change now. None of this should matter to Jamie though. So why had she left?

  He tried pushing his thoughts back to work and stared at the layout for the upcoming edition of The Tattletale. Joe would be calling any minute, wanting to know if he’d approved it. Wanting to know what he thought of the lead headline, which stunk. Wanting to know if there’d be any changes. Plenty were needed. Nick closed his eyes, leaning into the contours of his leather chair and listening to the steady tapping of his pencil. Its rhythm, accompanied by the steady hum of the air conditioner, soothed him. Calmed his mind. Helped him think.

  He tried to keep his thoughts focused on work, but this time found them slipping back to Janelle. And how she had cheated on him. With Rod Skinner. His stomach churned every time he thought of the two of them together.

  He shoved that thought away; angry it kept cropping up, and angry at Janelle for bringing it into existence. And then dying before he could tell her how he felt. Picking up the phone, he dialed Jamie’s number, letting it ring until it went to voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message.

  A knock sounded on his door. “Hey, Nick. It’s Jamie. You in there?”

  Apparently, Jamie was also psychic. “Come in,” he said. “It’s open.”

  She looked prettier than ever when she stepped inside, her long, auburn hair flowing down her back, highlighted to a shining, golden-bronze color by the sunlight streaming through his office window. Her eyes, blue like a clear sky on a summer day, sucked him into their depths and made him want to grab hold of her and make her his. She was petite and feminine, curved in just the right places and barely weighed a hundred pounds. Inside, she was tough as nails though. Never mind the porcelain doll looks. Yes. He wanted her in his bed. Badly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I was just trying to call you.”

  A frown furrowed her brow. “You were? Why?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about last night.”

  “Was there someone outside after all?”

  “No. I mean, not so far as I know. I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t done anything to offend you.”

  “Oh.” She let out a small chuckle. “Of course not. I’d let you know if I had a problem with you. Don’t worry about it.”

  Of that, he had no doubt. “Alright then. I’ll assume everything’s fine unless you tell me differently.”

  She stepped back toward the door, as if about to leave.

  “Didn’t you want something?” he asked.

  “Oh yes. E! News called me about doing a special on Darla Arnold. They want to use some of my photos for the story. They’re ones I took for The Tattletale, so they’ll need your permission. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “That’s great.” He did his best to sound excited and wondered how long it would be before she decided to head out to Hollywood, where she could find a larger sea of celebrities to photograph. Or maybe she’d head to New York. Start doing photo shoots for fashion models.

  She stood poised with her hand on the door knob. “You don’t mind then?”

  “Of course not. There’s nothing I’d love better than seeing you achieve your dreams.” He just didn’t want those dreams to take her away from him.

  “Thanks. I’ll see you later.” She left, closing the door behind her.

  As she disappeared from view, his phone rang. He picked it up. “Nick Beck.”

  “Nick, I have a complaint to register with you.”

  The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “May I ask to whom I’m speaking?”

  “You may, and today I’m even going to tell you. It’s Pearl Arnold Watson.”

  “Pearl?” He hadn’t seen her since shortly before he left Tidbits to launch The Tattletale. She’d stopped by to pick up Darla and had exchanged angry words with Peter inside his office. Nick hadn’t been able to make out what they were saying, but their voices had been unmistakably raised and he’d heard Pearl mention Sutton. “What can I do for you, Pearl?”

  “You can tell me why the story I’ve been waiting so patiently for hasn’t shown up in your paper.”

  “What story might that be?”

  “The one about Rod Skinner’s involvement with your wife.”

  His gut instantly contracted. “What did Janelle have to do with Rod?”

  “She knew,” Pearl said. “She knew the same thing about Rod that I do, unfortunately. And you can stop taking that angry tone with me, or I’m not going to speak with you anymore.”

  He took a breath and pushed back his anger. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Pearl. I would like to know what’s going on though. What did Janelle know about Rod? And what did he have to do with her murder?”

  “You know, I must say I’m a little disappointed in you. I thought you were a better reporter than this.”

  He let out his breath, allowing his irritation to escape with it. “I’m not in the mood to play games, Pearl. If there’s something you want me to know, please tell me.”

  “How do you think Rod makes his money?” she asked. “And how do you think that traitorous slut Patrice McKenzie was making hers?”

  Wasn’t she supposed to be the one supplying the answers? “In case you haven’t heard, Rod’s running a porn film studio. And I assume Patrice was spreading her legs for hers.”

  “Oh please.” Pearl scoffed. “You don’t really believe Patrice was still young and sexy enough to be a kept woman, do you? And how do you think Rod got enough money to open a film studio? Even one churning out porn?”

  “I guess I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if you know the answer, I’d love to hear it.”

  �
��Of course you would. You know, you’re lucky I hate my ex-husband so much I want you to have this scoop instead of him.”

  “I daresay neither of us has any love for Peter. What’s the scoop?”

  “Blackmail.” She said it simply, as if that one word would explain everything.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to need a little more info than that, Pearl. Who was blackmailing whom? And about what?”

  “The who is Rod. And the what is sex.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Rod was having affairs with married women, filming himself having sex with them, and then blackmailing them to keep their husbands from finding out.”

  That much sounded plausible. “How do you know this?”

  “That should be obvious. I was one of his victims.”

  He didn’t want to know the answer to his next question, but asked anyway. “And Janelle?”

  “Her, too.”

  He shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point, but it still hurt hearing it said so definitively. She hadn’t just cheated on him; she’d done it with Rod Skinner. A man well-known for being a womanizing, scheming scoundrel. The very man who’d betrayed her brother in pursuit of greed. “Why would Janelle do that?” Asking Pearl was probably stupid, but he hoped someone could explain it.

  “I guess we all did it for our own reasons.”

  Whatever they were. He sucked in a breath, willing his body to relax. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Tell me about it. It cost me a hundred grand to keep Rod’s film of us from going public and costing me a marriage to a man I really love.”

  “You said victims,” he pointed out. “How was Rod able to keep other women in your social circle from finding out what he was up to after the first woman was blackmailed?”

  “Easy. He kept the films. None of us dared breathe a word of it for fear he would make the film public.”

  “I see.” He had so many questions. “How was Patrice involved?”

  “She acted as the liaison. Dear old Patrice kept her eyes and ears open. Worked hard at making friends and finding out whose marriage had hit a rough patch.”

  How many people had Janelle spoken to about their marital problems? How many of them knew about the affair? For a news guy, he sure had missed the boat where Janelle was concerned.

  “Once the victim had been selected,” Pearl continued, “she’d invite the woman over for tea to discuss a new charity she was involved in. When the victim arrived at her home, Rod would be there with a sob story of how he was dying of cancer and wanted to turn his life around.”

  “Okay,” Nick spoke up. He pictured a bunch of unhappy, wealthy women feeling sorry for Rod and ending up in his bed. “I get it. So, Patrice got a cut of the blackmail pie?”

  “Of course she did.”

  Pearl sounded sure of it, and he didn’t see any reason not to believe her. “Tell me something. If Rod still had the films, and everyone was afraid to say anything, how did you find out you weren’t the only victim?”

  Pearl laughed. “Because Janelle didn’t take too kindly to being blackmailed. After it happened, she felt the need to warn other women. That’s how we found out at least six of us had fallen victim to Rod and Patrice’s little scheme.”

  Janelle would do something like that. It sounded like her. “And you think that’s why Rod killed her?”

  “I think it’s a possibility worth investigating. Don’t you?”

  Was this the information Patrice had wanted to sell him? And if so, why would Peter want it kept silent? Sounded more like something he’d be plastering on his front page. “I plan on finding out. Do you know what the connection is between Rod and your ex-husband?”

  “Peter? There isn’t any connection I can prove, but I have my suspicions.”

  “You know he was at Patrice’s house right before she was killed?”

  “Yes. I do read the papers. But I have no idea why. Like I said, all I have right now are suspicions. I figured, being a reporter, you might be able to find out what the connection is.”

  “I see.” Was there some other information Patrice wanted to sell him? “I certainly appreciate your phone call, Pearl. And I promise you will be seeing a story on Rod’s blackmail scheme in one of my papers very soon. Can I quote you for the story?”

  “Of course not!”

  “No? Now I’m confused. If you want me to print the story so badly, why can’t I quote you? Right now your word is the only proof I have.”

  “Then you need to find some other kind of proof. Weren’t you listening? Rod still has a film of the two of us having sex. And I do not want Kenneth finding out about it.”

  “Okay, Pearl. I’ll leave you out of it. But if you can give me the name of one of his victims willing to go on record, or any other proof of your story, please let me know.”

  “I will,” she said. “In the meantime, I’d suggest you put your reporter skills to use and see what you can dig up on your own.”

  “I’ll do that.” He ended the call, locked the door to his office and sat back down at his desk. If he could, he’d go back in time. He’d divorce Janelle when it became clear they were never going to sort out the issue of children; and leave her free to do as she pleased without the mess of affairs and blackmail and murder. It was a damn shame he hadn’t reached that conclusion sooner.

  Chapter 27

  Jamie re-lived the events of the previous night for what seemed like the millionth time. Be with me tonight. Please. I want you. Those had been Nick’s exact words.

  He wanted sex. Of course, he wanted sex. He was a man. Was that all he wanted though? Was that all she wanted? Caution lights had been flashing in her brain since Janelle’s death. She liked Nick too much. Found him more than just attractive. Wanting to comfort this hurt and lonely man had her in danger of letting down her emotional guard.

  She sat in the living room of her small Miami apartment with a box of cherry cordials in her lap. Popping them absently into her mouth, she acknowledged the problem. She was torn; torn between wanting Nick and not wanting to lose control. The obvious solution was to vacate his life completely; head to California; work on furthering her career. But she had given Nick her word to help find Janelle’s killer. And breaking her word was not something she did.

  Who was she kidding? She’d be reluctant to leave even if she hadn’t given Nick her word. Which showed how close to losing control she really was.

  She needed to work harder at solving Janelle’s murder, even if it meant taking matters into her own hands. She was a photographer, not a reporter. Taking pictures wasn’t the same as breaking a story. There were some similarities though. While she didn’t have any experience interviewing a subject, she did know something about tracking down leads. She couldn’t get celebrity photos to sell if she didn’t know where those celebrities would be.

  Thinking the matter over, she went through her options. So far there were two victims: Janelle and Patrice McKenzie. One person was related to both victims, and as far as she knew, neither the press nor the police had spent any significant time interviewing her; Maggie McKenzie Tyler. Jamie wrote her name down on a piece of paper. If she wanted insight into the situation, maybe Maggie was the person to ask.

  Chapter 28

  Life was getting complicated. Rod recognized the signs all too well. Anxiety plagued him. He found his people-reading skills cluttered by attraction, impulsiveness and irrationality. Just as it had been with Tracy Capelli. Now Tracy Tyler, he thought bitterly. Wife of the late Janelle’s Uncle Henry. Sleeping with Janelle had given him a sense of satisfaction beyond the monetary gain. He loved sticking it to a member of the Tyler family. Any member of the Tyler family.

  Sticking it, he thought. Literally. He laughed at his double entendre.

  Now he was stuck with uncomfortable, complicated feelings all over again. Because of Darla. And he couldn’t figure out why. If the internet and the tabloids were to be believed, she’d slept with as many men
as he had women. And that was saying something.

  Although in her case, he wasn’t sure how on target all the rumors were.

  Worse still, his relationship with her was threatening his very lucrative business arrangement. An arrangement that could well be his last chance at establishing himself as a hot-shot, multi-millionaire tycoon. That was his dream, he reminded himself as he opened the door to let her in. Do not let her fuck this up.

  “Hi, babe.” He gave her his widest smile. “Good to see you.”

  She smiled back. Genuine and friendly. She might be a rich, spoiled slut, but she was nowhere near the self-centered, shrill bitch Taralynn Clarke had been. Darla was nice. No screaming. No temper tantrums. No constant attempts at manipulating him. Just pleasant conversation and great sex. “Come in.” He stepped back from the door, letting his gaze linger over the way her tits spilled out of the yellow tube top she wore and the stretch of bare legs shown off by her flower-print mini skirt. “I’ll get us some drinks.”

  “I would love that.” She walked past him in a huff. “I have just had the worst run-in with Peter. God, I hate that man!”

  Peter was his ticket to the big time. Be careful, his inner voice cautioned. Do not fuck up your future. “I’m sorry to hear that, babe.”

  “The man is such an unbelievable prick!” She wasn’t calming down a bit.

  He headed right for the bar. “What are you drinking today?”

  “I’d love a Cosmopolitan.”

  He paused and arched a brow. “Want to try a drink I can actually make?”

  “Oh. Sorry. How about vodka on the rocks?”

  “That I can do.”

  He made her the drink, deciding to skip one for himself. He wanted to fuck her and not worry about shit like confusing emotions and business arrangements.

  As he handed her the glass, she moved purposefully toward his bedroom. Like she’d just read his mind. Good. He noticed she’d polished off half the drink before she made it to his bed. She stopped, drank down the rest and set the glass on his nightstand, sprawling herself across his five hundred dollar quilt.