Extreme Exposure

by Pamela Clare

  “What the hell?”

  Devlin had the worst environmental record in the State Senate, and he hated Reece. She read farther, then laughed out loud when she read Reece’s response.

  “ ‘I’m a bit startled myself,’ Senator Reece told reporters Tuesday evening. ‘Perhaps someone ought to check the weather report in Hell.’ ”

  A few weeks ago, she might have thought his response to be the result of calculated PR, an attempt to garner press attention. Now she knew he was shooting from the hip, just saying what came into his mind.

  She leaned back on the couch, touched her fingers to her lips, and allowed herself to relive every moment of his kiss. His lips had been so firm and full and warm, and he’d known just how to use them. He’d been aggressive, but not overpowering, his tongue possessing her mouth with supreme confidence. His body had felt stunningly hard beneath her hands—his chest, shoulders, and arms so different from hers. And that masculine growl he’d made just before he kissed her—.

  The phone rang.

  Kara’s pulse raced. Despite the chorus of voices in her head that told her she should end their acquaintance before it became an actual relationship, she’d been hoping he would call. Every night since Friday she’d hoped, and every night she’d gone to bed disappointed.

  She hesitated and wondered if perhaps she should let her machine pick it up. But the next ring had her off the couch and dashing toward the kitchen.

  She yanked up the receiver and tried to sound casual, calm. “Hello?”

  “Listen, little girl, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into,” a man whispered, his voice a malevolent hiss. “You can’t handle this, and if you try you’re going to end up dead. Back off now, or face the heat.”

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  BELATEDLY, KARA hit the record button on her machine, but the caller had already hung up.

  “Damn!”

  Immediately, she dialed star-six-nine to get the caller’s phone number, but the number came back as a pay phone. She hung up the receiver, furious with herself. Why hadn’t she hit record sooner? She was a journalist, for God’s sake!

  She turned away from the phone and realized with some astonishment that she was shaking. That bastard hadn’t actually been able to frighten her, had he? She’d received death threats before. Lots of them. More than she could count. Why should this one shake her up?

  And then it came to her.

  No one had ever called her at home before. Whoever this was knew her home phone number, possibly even knew where she lived.

  Listen, little girl, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.

  Her gut told her the call was related to her investigation of Northrup. But how would anyone at Northrup know she was investigating the plant? She hadn’t contacted them for an interview yet. The only people who knew were her coworkers, the people she’d interviewed, the staff handling her open-records request for the state, and the whistleblower.

  It was possible that someone in the state or county health department had passed a tip to Northrup officials. It was also possible, though less likely, that one of the neighbors had said something to someone who’d passed it along the line until it reached someone who worked for Northrup. As for the whistleblower, he couldn’t give her away without also giving himself away.

  The phone rang again.

  She let the call go to her machine.

  Hi. You’ve reached Kara and Connor. Leave a message, and we’ll get back to you.

  But after the beep, there was only silence, followed by the buzz of the dial tone.

  Twice more the phone rang, and twice more the caller refused to leave a message. Whoever it was didn’t want to be recorded. And Kara realized that if she wanted his voice on tape, she’d have to answer. She would have to talk him, let him spew his venom in her ear.

  She waited. Five minutes passed without a call. She paced the hallway and watched the clock. When the phone finally rang, she gasped and jumped. She lifted the receiver, angry that anything should make her so skittish. “Listen, whoever you are, you don’t scare me!”

  There was a moment of silence. “Kara? It’s Reece. Is everything all right?”

  The relief she felt was coupled with embarrassment, and for a moment she found herself stumbling after words. “Reece! Oh, God . . . I, um . . . I’m sorry! I thought . . . I’m fine. How are you?”

  Reece heard the awkwardness in her voice. But he’d heard something else just a moment ago: anger and, beneath it, a slick undercurrent of genuine fear. “Is someone bothering you, Kara?”

  “No. Not really. Just, you know—a prank caller. He’s called a couple times tonight.”

  Reece sensed she was trying to make light of it. “If he calls again, you should notify the police.”

  She laughed as if that were the stupidest suggestion she’d ever heard. “If I had a dollar for every death threat I’ve gotten, I could buy you a bottle of that fancy Italian wine.”

  So it had been a death threat. He didn’t like that one bit. In fact, it really pissed him off. “It’s a crime to threaten someone, Kara. You really ought to contact the police.”

  “The last time I called the police, do you know what they said? They told me to call if the guy actually showed up and tried to kill me. That’s how helpful the cops are.” She sounded angry now.

  “Okay, fine. Forget the cops. How about I stop by? I can stay for a couple hours, make sure you’re safe. I can even sleep on the couch if it makes you feel better.” Then, sensing she was about to refuse him, he added, “That’s what I’d do for my sister.”

  “Oh! Well . . . I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s kind of you to offer, Reece, truly, but I don’t need you to rescue me.” She sounded . . . surprised, flustered, uncertain.

  Hadn’t anyone tried to “rescue” her before? Even as the question occurred to him, he knew the answer. She’d never had a father or a husband. She was used to taking care of herself.

  “I don’t mean to steal your feminist mojo, sweetheart, but what if I want to rescue you? I’m on my way out of the Capitol right now, so I’m only ten minutes away. I’ll just stop by, make sure everything is okay.”

  She didn’t seem to know what to say to that. “Well, I . . . I look like a slob. I’m wearing sweatpants and—”

  “I spilled salsa on my shirt at lunch, so we’re even. See you in ten. Keep the doors locked.”

  He hung up before she could object, locked his office, and hurried out of the building to his Jeep, which was parked outside the west portico. He headed east on Colfax, and the weight of the day seemed to vanish from his shoulders, replaced by a strange mix of protectiveness and anticipation. In the short time it took to reach her house, his thoughts had ranged from loaning her his gun and teaching her to shoot to all the things he would do to her sweet body Friday night when he got her into his bed. As he pulled into her driveway, he found himself having to remind his hard-on that he had not come here to fuck her senseless but rather to make certain she was safe.

  His hard-on didn’t seem to care.

  He was glad to see her porch light on. She was taking precautions. He knocked lightly, assuming Connor would be asleep by now. He saw her shadow darken the security peephole and heard the deadbolt tumble as she opened the door.

  “Hi,” she said, a bit shyly. She stepped aside to make room for him, a slight smile on her face. “Come in.”

  She wore dark navy sweatpants with a flannel shirt of hunter green and navy blue plaid that revealed the soft curve of her breasts—which were clearly not bound by a bra. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a few dark wisps floating around her face. She wore no makeup, her skin dewy and clean, newly washed and ready for bed. In short, she looked sexy as hell.

  But it was her scent that just about killed him. Clean skin. Woman. And something more—something that made him feel like dispensing with five thousand years of civilization, dragging her off to a cave somewhere, and filling her wit
h babies.

  He decided to mark his territory, ducked his head, gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Has he called again?”

  She looked up at him, clearly startled by the kiss, then hastily turned away, and shut and locked the door behind him. “No. I’m sorry if anything I said on the phone made you feel you had to come over. It’s probably just some wingnut. He hasn’t called again. I get a lot of crazy phone calls. It comes with being a journalist.”

  He slipped off his coat. “I know what you mean. I get e-mails and phone calls from people threatening to kill me for being a fascist. If only they would come to some kind of consensus with the people who want to kill me for being a communist.”

  That made her laugh. She took his coat and hung it on a peg by the door. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  “That would be great.”

  Her gaze fixed on his shirt, and she smiled. “You did spill salsa on your shirt. I thought you’d just made that up. The tomato will stain it, you know. Would you like me to wash it? I can have it dry for you within an hour. It’s what I’d do for a friend.”

  He was about to say that his cleaners would undoubtedly remove the stain with no trouble, but he stopped himself. If she wanted to get him out of his clothes, he wasn’t stupid enough to stop her. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

  He slid off his tie, pulled the shirt out of his slacks, and began to unbutton it.

  Her cheeks flushed, and she turned abruptly away. “I’ll just put some water on to boil for tea.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, where the dishwasher hummed in mid-cycle. Everything was clean and shiny from the granite countertops to the homey wooden table with its pewter salt-and-pepper shakers. Every inch of the white refrigerator was covered with alphabet magnets and drawings made by a child’s hand. One showed a small, sticklike figure with slashes of short brown hair standing beside a taller sticklike figure with slashes of long brown hair. Beneath the shorter figure in shaky letters was written, “Me.” Beneath the taller one in the same unsteady script was, “Mommy.”

  He slipped out of his shirt and watched Kara as she filled a silver teakettle and put it on to boil. Her movements were feminine, graceful, and her ass was positively scrumptious when outlined by the soft fabric of her well-worn sweatpants. He could definitely see how she had ended up as someone’s mommy. Clearly, he wasn’t the only man who reacted this way around her.

  And what was that scent? God, it was driving him insane!

  She stood on tiptoe, searching through the cupboard above the stove. “Would you like Earl Grey, Lemon Zinger, Hazelnut Vanilla, True Blueberry, Almond Sunset? My mother has a friend who works at the Celestial Seasonings factory and brings me tea every time I see her. I could also make coffee if you don’t like tea.”

  “Earl Grey sounds perfect.”

  He saw her reach for it, and realized he’d chosen the tea farthest toward the back of the cupboard. Quickly, he moved up behind her, reached beyond her, and retrieved the sought-after box. “I’ve got it.”

  She spun about to face him before he’d had time to step back, her breasts grazing his ribs, her pupils dark, a look of surprise on her face. And he smelled it again—that scent. It rose off her skin like body heat, like pheromone, like lust. Faint but intoxicating, it grabbed him by the gonads.

  Caves. Neanderthal sex. Babies. That’s what he wanted.

  Kara knew she was in trouble. He stood close, too close, wearing a T-shirt that revealed the very muscles her hands had discovered last Friday. Through the white cloth, she could see the dark circles of his nipples, the swell of his pecs, the distinct ridges that could only be a six-pack. His raised arm revealed a hint of dark blond hair and a well-developed triceps.

  Oh, come on, McMillan! You are not turned on by armpit hair!

  But she was—that and the whole delectable sexy male package that came with it.

  She sucked breath into her oxygen-starved lungs and slid out from between him and the stove, box of Earl Grey in hand. “Thank you. I’ll get your shirt in the wash while the water heats.”

  Trying not to run, she grabbed his shirt from where he’d draped it over a kitchen chair and sought shelter in the laundry room, which was just off the kitchen by the sliding glass door.

  “Tell me about this caller.” He walked over to the window above her sink and looked like he was about to open it.

  Then she realized he was testing it, making sure it was securely locked. She stopped and watched him, taken aback. He really was trying to make sure she was safe. “There’s nothing to tell. A pretty standard run-of-the-mill death threat.”

  “Has he called before tonight?”

  She rubbed detergent into the stain, dropped the shirt in the washing machine, turned the dial, and set it to wash. “No.”

  He walked over to her sliding glass door and tested it. “Could it be connected to anything you’re working on for the paper?”

  She hesitated to answer. “Yes, but I can’t talk about that.”

  “Can you tell me what he said?”

  Kara repeated the caller’s words. “Pretty vague.”

  A muscle tensed in Reece’s jaw. “You can buy special locks for these doors, you know. They’re more effective than this wooden dowel at keeping intruders out.”

  “Really?” She had never seen such a thing, but then again she didn’t spend much time patrolling the aisles at hardware stores.

  He smiled. “Really. I’ll pick you up a couple next time I’m out.”

  She shook her head and walked over to the cupboard to fetch two stoneware mugs for their tea. The kettle was just starting to whistle. “You don’t need to do that. I can ask about them next time I’m shopping. Do you take sugar or milk?”

  In a few minutes, they sat in the living room on the couch, each with a steaming cup of tea. The next half hour passed in comfortable conversation, as Reece asked Kara questions about Connor. She felt herself begin to relax and told him of their upcoming trip to the museum and Connor’s rash of funny questions. She had just put Reece’s shirt in the dryer and returned with a second cup of tea for each of them, when she found him reading the article about his bill.

  “That was a pretty hilarious quote you gave our intern.”

  He shrugged off the compliment. “So I merit only an intern, do I? I had hoped to see you there.”

  Her alarm bells ringing, Kara set their tea down, and sat. This is what she’d feared—that he would feel their budding relationship earned him special consideration. “I felt it was best that someone else cover it. I can’t compromise my job, Reece.”

  “It was just a joke, Kara. I’m not asking you to compromise anything.”

  “Oh. Well, then, you understand that if we’re going to be friends—”

  “Is that the direction we’re heading, Kara? Are we becoming friends? I sure as hell hope not.” He pinned her to the couch with his gaze and reached across to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, the touch of his fingers scorching her like fire. “Please tell me you’ve thought about me at least once since Friday.”

  A blush crept into her cheeks. How did he do this to her? He was just a man.

  Not just a man, McMillan. A very, very sexy man.

  “Okay, I’ll admit I thought of you once. For a second or two.”

  “I guess it’s time I made more of an impression on you.” He scooted closer, his gaze never leaving hers, pulled her against him, and kissed her.

  The phone rang.

  Kara hopped to her feet, her pulse already racing. “It can’t be him again. He hasn’t called for an hour.”

  Reece was already walking toward the phone. “Can you record on your machine?”

  “Of course. I’m a journalist, remember.” She hurried into the kitchen, took a deep breath, clicked record, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Kara, it’s Holly. I almost screwed the Orkin man! Can you believe it?” Holly’s voice came over the speaker loud and clear.

  Kara shot R
eece an embarrassed glance and clicked off the record button so he could no longer hear Holly. “That’s, um, very interesting. I can’t talk just now. Can you tell me about it tomorrow?”

  Kara hung up and looked up to find a smirk on Reece’s face.

  “The Orkin man?”

  KARA LAY in the dark, sleep once again eluding her.

  Things were moving too fast. One minute she’d been chatting with Reece like the Drunk Whore of Babylon in a bar. The next he was getting all protective, offering to buy locks for her sliding glass door and acting like he was really, truly interested in her.

  Is that the direction we’re heading, Kara? Are we becoming friends? I sure as hell hope not.

  When had a man ever gone out of his way to make sure she felt safe? When had any man acted like she was something delectable that he just had to get his hands on? When had any man asked her about Connor or listened to her talk about the sweet and silly things her son said?

  “Are we still on for Friday evening?” Reece had asked on his way out the door.

  She’d nodded. “My mom is driving down from Boulder to watch Connor.”

  His voice had dropped to a masculine rumble. “Good.” Then he’d leaned down and given her a lingering kiss on the mouth, before turning and heading down the front steps. “Lock the door, and think about contacting the police.”

  Kara figured there were more than a few police officers who wouldn’t mind terribly much if she turned up dead, but she didn’t tell Reece that. “Okay. And, Reece, thanks.”

  The grin on his face as he’d opened the door to his Jeep had nearly turned her knees to Jell-O. “My pleasure, as always.”

  But as she closed her eyes and drifted into a troubled sleep, it wasn’t Reece’s smile or his words that passed through her sleepy mind, but the rough voice of a stranger.

  Listen, little girl, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.

  REECE UNLOCKED the door to his condo, tossed his keys on the counter, and set his briefcase on the floor. Then he reached for the phone. The dial tone told him he had messages, but he ignored them and dialed the number for Denver police dispatch.