Heart of Winter

by Diana Palmer

  “Yes, you were,” he mocked. “I’m aware of the dangers even if you aren’t, little girl. I didn’t plan to pounce on you at your front door.”

  She studied his face, trying to figure out the enigmatic statement, but it was like reading stone. “Mr. Moreland…”

  “My name is Bryan,” he corrected, standing aside to let her off the elevator as it stopped on her floor.

  “Yes, I know,” she murmured, “but it sounds so presumptuous…”

  “I won’t be ninety for fifty more years,” he reminded her.

  She laughed in spite of herself. They were at her door now; she turned, looking up at him, and some vague longing nagged in the back of her mind as her eyes swept over his hard, chiseled mouth. She couldn’t help wondering if its touch would be rough or tender, and she was suddenly, dangerously, curious….

  “Don’t forget,” he was saying. “Nine-thirty, my office.”

  “Can I bring a photog?” she asked huskily.

  “Bring the whole editorial staff, if you like,” he replied amiably. “It’s my favorite story, and I love to tell it.”

  “Thanks again for tonight.”

  “My pleasure, country mouse,” he said with a quiet smile. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” she replied nervously.

  His dark eyes dropped to her mouth, then slanted up to catch the mingled curiosity and apprehension in her shy gaze. He smiled mockingly just before he turned and walked away.

  She lay awake half the night wondering why he hadn’t kissed her. It would have been the normal end to an evening. It was customary. But he’d only smiled, and left her, not even bothering to brush a kiss against her forehead.

  Was something wrong with her? Wasn’t she pretty enough, attractive enough to appeal to him? Or did he already have a girlfriend? The question tortured her. He had women, she realized. He was certainly no monk. But why had he asked her out in the first place, and what did he really think of her? Had it all been a ploy to get her interested in his urban renewal program?

  Bryan Moreland was one puzzle she couldn’t seem to put together, and he got more complicated by the day.

  Bill Peck gave her an odd look the next morning when she explained why she couldn’t attend a City Planning Commission session with him.

  “We’ve done three pieces on that damned downtown revitalization theme of his already,” he said dourly. “Don’t you think he’s had enough free publicity?”

  “I’m working on a story, in case you’ve forgotten,” she replied, irritated.

  “A story? Or the mayor?” he returned.

  She gathered her purse and camera and went toward Edwards’s office in a smouldering fury.

  “I’m gone,” she told him.

  “Wait a sec. Come in and close the door,” he called.

  She shut out the sounds of typewriters and ringing telephones. “What’s up?”

  He motioned her to a chair. “Suppose you tell me that,” he replied.

  Her brows came together. “I don’t understand.”

  “Moreland took you out. Then, this bogus story this morning—Carla, you’re not getting involved with him, are you?” he asked kindly.

  “Why…no,” she lied. “But, he isn’t even involved…”

  “Your informant called me this morning.”

  “Is he after a job?” she asked with a flare of anger. “First Bill, now you…is he going to call everyone on the staff?”

  “He knows you’re seeing Moreland,” he replied calmly, leaning back in his chair, “and he thinks the mayor may be involved in this.”

  She felt something inside her freeze. A cold, merciless, nameless something that had been in bud.

  “He isn’t,” she said.

  “How could you possibly know? Be reasonable. You haven’t even been able to get to the records.”

  She clutched her purse in her lap, her eyes staring at the skirt of her simple beige dress as she fought for control.

  “All we know for sure,” she replied, “is that land was purchased by the city for a new airport. The evaluation was twenty-five thousand dollars an acre—a steal even though it was in a sparsely populated section. But the city paid a half million for it.” She sighed. “It’s not unusual for a realtor to mark up his asking price when he knows he has a buyer like the city. But Daniel Brown said that the land owner only received two hundred fifty thousand dollars and that records will bear him out. The problem,” she added ruefully, “is that when I asked for the records of the transaction, that icy-voiced little financial wizard promptly called the city attorney and they refused to let me see the records on the grounds that it hadn’t been formally approved by the city council.”

  “That’s a lie,” Edwards said.

  She nodded. “I know, and I told the city attorney so. But we did a piece on his department last month that he didn’t like, and he can quote the obscure law to you verbatim if you call and ask him.”

  “God deliver me from disgruntled lawyers!” he groaned.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m going to ask the mayor for permission to look at them.” She smiled. “I think he’ll agree.”

  He eyed her. “Unscrupulous little minx.”

  “Me?” she blushed.

  “You. Get out of here. And if you don’t have any luck with Moreland, I’ll get our legal staff on it.”

  “No problem.”

  She walked out the door in a daze. Was she trying to get close to Moreland to get information? It might have been that way at the beginning. But not anymore. She remembered what Edwards had said about Moreland being involved in what could be the biggest city scandal since the City Council chairman was arrested picking up a streetwalker. It couldn’t be true. Not Bryan Moreland. Perhaps Edwards had misunderstood Brown. She smiled. She’d have a talk with the ex-cop tomorrow. It was about time she got the whole story firsthand.

  Moreland was waiting for her in his office with a woman she recognized as the new mayor of a city in a neighboring state: Grace Thomas.

  “Grace, this is Carla Maxwell,” he told the older woman, “with the Phoenix-Herald. She’s going to do a follow-up on the revitalization.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Grace said with a pleasant smile. She was years older than Carla, a contemporary of Moreland’s most likely, despite her dark brown hair that didn’t show a trace of gray. “I’m very interested in the renewal idea. It might be feasible in my own city.”

  “If you’re both ready, let’s get moving,” Moreland said as he helped Grace on with her plush wool coat. “I’ve got a budget meeting in two hours, and that doesn’t leave us much time.”

  Carla watched the way the older woman’s eyes slid sideways to Moreland as he held her coat, and she wanted to drop her heavy camera on the woman’s foot. It was ridiculous to feel this surge of jealousy toward the visiting mayor. After all, she wasn’t even pretty, and she was wearing a wedding ring! But that didn’t stop her from wanting to push Moreland away from her.

  Inexplicably, Moreland looked up at that moment and caught the expression on her face, and something darkened his eyes.

  She averted her gaze quickly while Mrs. Thomas went right on talking about her city council woes without even noticing the undercurrents around her.

  Walking through the streets with Moreland and City Planning Commission Chairman Ed King and the two other commission members, Carla was impressed with plans to renovate the run-down area. While Mrs. Thomas pumped King, Moreland dropped back beside Carla.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” he asked quietly, indicating the windowless old houses with their sagging porches and littered yards. Some were deserted, but children played aimlessly in the yards around others, and deserted store buildings were interspersed with the homes.

  “Tragic,” she replied. “It reminds me of shacks I’ve seen back home. Poverty has many addresses.”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Is this area where you’re concentrating?” she asked as she pause
d to photograph a house with blackened, paneless windows where a little girl stood, ragged and barefoot, clinging to a post.

  “Yes. I got a manufacturing chain to bear almost half the cost of construction; their headquarters office is located near here. When we get this project going, you won’t recognize the neighborhood.”

  “How about the people?” she asked, gazing up at him. “You can change their environment, but can you change them? Poverty doesn’t go away because the setting is changed. How about employment?”

  He smiled. “One step at a time, honey. I’ve got experts working on that aspect of it.”

  She glanced ahead, where Mrs. Thomas had cornered Ed King and his two planners. “Why won’t your legal department let me look at the airport land purchase records?” she asked suddenly, catching his eyes.

  Both heavy brows went up, and he paused before he replied, “Honey, that’s between you and Ed King. I’ve told you before, I’m not going to interfere.”

  “But…”

  He turned away. “We’d better catch up.”

  She followed along, puzzled and a little disappointed at the answer he’d given her. And try as she might, a nagging suspicion began to work on her mind.

  “Mr. King tells me that the slums account for half of all your arrests,” Mrs. Thomas was saying as they walked.

  “That’s right,” Moreland agreed. “And fifty percent of all disease, as well as thirty-five percent of all fires. With proper housing, we could save almost a million dollars a year in fire losses and communicable disease.”

  Carla found herself beside Ed King, and the mayor’s voice faded in her ears as she put the question to the planning commissioner. “May I ask you a question, Mr. King?” she asked abruptly.

  He glanced at her, eyes sharp through his heavy glasses. His bald head gleamed in the cold sunlight. “If it concerns the airport land purchase, I’m sure the city attorney told you that the information is privileged until the council formally approves the purchase.”

  “Excuse me,” she countered coolly, “but the council approved the purchase two meetings ago,” she snapped her notebook closed, “and construction on the terminal is already underway.”

  “You choose to misunderstand me,” he said with a cold smile. “the council hasn’t approved the paperwork. A formality, of course, but legally binding. Check the city charter.”

  “I have,” she told him, her green eyes narrowed. “If everything is up and aboveboard, Mr. Chairman, why all the secrecy?”

  He purpled. “As usual, you reporters want to make something of nothing! I’ve told you, it’s a formality, the figures will be released.”

  “When?” she shot back.

  “Carla!” Moreland stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence to thunder her name. She jumped, turning to face him. “That’s enough, by God,” he growled. “This isn’t an interrogation.”

  The clipped, measured tones made her flinch. “I apologize,” she said tightly. “I didn’t mean…”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Bryan,” King said curtly, “I think I’ll pass on the rest of the tour. You know my position.”

  “Sure,” Moreland said. “We’ll talk later.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Thomas,” King told the visiting mayor with a smile. He ignored Carla as he walked away, taking his planners with him.

  “Well,” Mrs. Thomas said with a mirthless laugh, “I suppose that little scene ended my chances of a discussion with your planners.”

  Carla flushed to the roots of her hair. She pressed her camera close to her side. “I…I have an interview with the public works commissioner at eleven,” she said unsteadily. “I’d better get going. Thanks for the tour.”

  She almost ran for her car, deaf to Moreland’s deep voice calling her name.

  She was shaking all over by the time she got to Tom Green’s office. He was a public accountant, and she had a feeling he’d made a good commissioner, if for no better reason than his outspokenness.

  At least, she thought wearily as she waited in his outer office, he wouldn’t be angry. She could still see Bryan Moreland’s dark, accusing eyes. Why, oh, why did she have to open her big mouth? It was all part of the job, but the argument had left a bad taste in her mouth, along with Moreland’s obvious disapproval.

  “Miss Maxwell?” the secretary repeated. “You can go in now.”

  She put on her best smiling face and went into Tom Green’s carpeted office.

  He rose, tall and gray haired, towering over her as he shook her hand. “I have to agree that the media gets prettier every day,” he said with an approving glance from pale blue eyes.

  She smiled. “For that, I promise to mail all my garbage out of town.”

  “God bless you. How about agreeing to support my recycling concept instead?” he teased. “I can get federal funding and match services instead of cash.”

  “Really?” she asked, sidetracked. She whipped out her pad and pen. “Tell me about it.”

  He did, and by the time he was through, her cold hands had warmed and she was relaxed.

  “You were tense when you came in,” he observed. “Care to tell me why? Surely it wasn’t because I inspire fear in young women?”

  “I…uh, I just had a run-in with the planning commissioner,” she said. “Nothing important.”

  “Ummm,” he said noncommittally. “I never approved of Moreland making that appointment,” he said bluntly. “King was a real-estate agent before he took office, you know. A damned shady one, if you want my opinion. He gave it up when he went into office, but I’ll bet my secretary that he still has all his old contacts. It just isn’t good business. He has too much sway with the city commission, what with Moreland on such friendly terms with him.”

  “Are they friends?” she asked carelessly.

  “They were in the service together,” he replied. “I thought you knew all that.”

  “I’m new in town,” she said, and let it go at that.

  She walked back to her office in a silence fraught with concern. So many things were beginning to make sense: for instance, King’s real-estate background. Was he somehow involved in that missing money? Was Bryan Moreland involved? Her eyes closed momentarily. Bryan! He’d probably never speak to her again after the confrontation she’d had with his friend. Perhaps it was for the best. She was getting involved with him—too involved. And she didn’t dare.

  She handed in her copy and went home, turning down Bill Peck’s offer of a free meal. She didn’t feel like company, and she didn’t want to be pumped about her latest information. That was all Bill was after, she knew. She couldn’t have borne talking about it.

  The apartment seemed lonelier than ever as she dressed idly in a pair of worn jeans and a blue ribbed top that was slightly too small. She turned on the radio and as pleasant, soft music filled the apartment, she went into the small kitchen to whip up an omelet. She was going to have to force it down, at that. Food was the last thing on her mind.

  The doorbell was an unwelcome interruption. The omelet was almost done, and she had to turn it off before time was up. Grumbling, she moved irritably to the door. It was probably some student selling magazine subscriptions. The apartment house was a prime target, despite the “no soliciting” signs, and she was in no mood for a sales pitch.

  She swung open the door with unnecessary force and froze with her mouth open to speak. Bryan Moreland was standing there, idly leaning against the wall, his dark eyes pointedly studying the too-tight top she was wearing.

  Chapter Five

  He smiled at the expression on her face. “Who were you expecting?” he asked.

  She swallowed. “Not you,” she said without thinking. He was wearing slacks and an open-necked burgundy velour shirt that bared a sensuous amount of hair-roughened bronzed flesh.

  “Why?”

  “Well…”

  “You might as well invite me in,” he told her. “I’ve got a feeling it won’t be a short explanation.”

&
nbsp; “Oh!” She opened the door wider and stepped aside to let him in beside her. He went straight to the armchair by the window and lowered his big body into it.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asked, stunned by his sudden appearance.

  “If you can spare it,” he replied with a wry smile. “I just put the lady mayor on a plane. I haven’t even had lunch yet. That’s why I came. I thought you might like to go out for a burger and fries.”

  It was almost laughable, the mayor taking a reporter out for a hamburger.

  “Well, I…” she stammered.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked. “Or are you still smarting from that round with Ed?”

  She lowered her eyes. “I didn’t mean to ruin your tour.”

  He laughed. “My God, is that why you ran away?”

  “I thought you were angry with me,” she admitted.

  “I was furious. But that was this morning, and this is now,” he explained quietly. “I don’t hold grudges. You and Ed can damned well fight it out, but not on my time. Now do you want supper or not?”

  She looked up, studying him. “I just cooked an omelet.”

  “Big enough for two?” he teased.

  She nodded. “I can make some toast.”

  “How about cinnamon toast?” he asked, rising. “I’m pretty good at it.”

  “You can cook?” she asked, forgetting that she looked like something out of a ragbag, that she wasn’t wearing makeup and her long hair was gathered back with a rubber band in a travesty of a ponytail.

  “My mother thought it would be a good idea if I learned,” he recalled with an amused smile. “She gives me a refresher course every year at Christmas.”

  “What else can you cook?” she asked, leading the way into the small kitchen.

  “The best pepper steak you’ve ever tasted.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Come to dinner Sunday,” he said, “I’ll prove it.”

  “At your apartment?” she asked as she handed him the bread and a cookie sheet spread with aluminum foil.

  “At the farm. I’ll pick you up early in the morning, and you can spend the day.”