by Sandra Brown
“I saw it,” Kari interrupted.
“Then you saw what a disaster it was. God, I’m glad you’re back. One more day with her and … She’s got a great set of boobs, I’ll credit her that. But I think that’s where she stores her brains, because she sure doesn’t have any in her head.”
Kari laughed and it felt good. Pinkie eyed her closely. “You don’t look so hot, but I’ve seen worse.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Did you move?”
She nodded. “Into a condominium out by the reservoir. It’s small, but spanking new with all the amenities. Pool and tennis court privileges. Security twenty-four hours a day.”
“Sounds like you plan to hibernate.”
“How could I hibernate when I’m seen by thousands of people every night?”
Pinkie wasn’t satisfied. He poked a stubby index finger close to her nose. “I won’t let you, so don’t even think about it. Thomas is dead, but you’re not, and I’m not going to stand by and let you pretend that you are. So,” he said, jamming the cigarette between his lips and clapping his hands together, “end of sermon. You get your act together and cook up a good segment for tonight’s broadcast or I’ll put Booby Brain in your slot permanently.”
Kari returned to her desk. Yes, she’d been right to plunge back in. This was what she needed, Pinkie’s ribaldry, the constant deadlines to meet, the hustle and bustle.
If she could only take it home with her and not have to spend the nights alone.
Chapter Two
SHE STEPPED ONTO THE SIDEWALK AND LET THE SUNSHINE bathe her with light and warmth. Tears dewed her eyelashes, but they were cleansing tears, happy tears. The rushing noonday foot traffic eddied around her. She paid it no heed. Like an idiot she laughed deliriously and hugged herself.
She was pregnant.
For the past two months, since Thomas’s death, she had pretended to live. She had gone through all the right motions, but her heart hadn’t been in it. She had approached each day lethargically. When the annoying physical discomforts had beset her, she attributed them to the lassitude plaguing her spirit. But her pervading illness hadn’t gone unnoticed, and at Pinkie’s insistence, she had consulted her doctor. Only a few minutes ago, he had informed her that her malady was one to be celebrated.
“I estimate you’re in about your tenth week.” Her face was awash with gladness, but the doctor’s wore a frown. “You’re run down, emotionally and physically. You’re far too thin. Eat. Drink milk shakes. Gain some weight before I see you next time. You’re anemic, so I’m putting you on an iron supplement. Get plenty of rest.”
She had listened to the doctor’s instructions like a supplicant at the mouth of an oracle. He had looked at her kindly. “Under the circumstances, I hope the news that you’re carrying a child doesn’t distress you.”
“Distress me? Far from that, doctor. I couldn’t be happier.”
Relieved, he had smiled back at her and gone on with his list of do’s and don’ts.
Now as she stood outside the doctor’s downtown office, the euphoria still ran through her like a crystal river. She was carrying Thomas’s child! A living part of him was growing inside her body.
She skipped toward the parking lot where she had left her compact car and drove to the television station. Pinkie looked up from his intent perusal of the morning newspaper when she stepped in front of his desk. “Well?” he asked, scowling.
Kari hesitated. Should she tell him now? Or was the secret too precious to share just yet? Wouldn’t she rather savor it for a while? Besides, Pinkie might not take the news too well. What was the station management’s policy on pregnancy? Especially since she was an on-air personality.
“The doctor prescribed a tonic,” she said, her eyes dancing.
“Gin and tonic. Good for you. I always thought so. I think it’s the lime.”
“Not gin and tonic, you idiot,” she laughed. “Vitamins and iron and stuff. I’m going to be fine. Wonderful in fact. Are you free? Let’s go to lunch.”
“I sent out for a hamburger.”
She grabbed his arm and hauled him from his chair. “From that greasy spoon across the street? You’ll get ptomaine. I’m on a diet to eat right and you’ve got to help. Let’s go someplace where they serve salads and vegetables. Things like that.”
Pinkie made a grimace of distaste. But he wasn’t about to refuse her invitation. For the first time since she had become a widow, Kari was acting more like herself and he didn’t want to reverse that trend.
“I just got an interesting call.” Three weeks had gone by since she had learned of her pregnancy. She had had her hair trimmed. Her complexion glowed, thanks to the facials she had resumed giving herself once a week. Her cheeks had filled out and no longer looked ashen. There was a sparkle in her eyes. Because it had a purpose, her life was good again.
Pinkie didn’t know the reason for her rejuvenation, but he was grateful for it. The zombie role she had played right after Thomas’s death had scared the hell out of him. She had withdrawn into a private world of misery, and he had been afraid she would never come out of it. Thank God she had.
“Who called? Or are we gonna play Twenty Questions?” he asked crossly, as he swung his feet down from his desk. He was no longer so careful in his manner toward her. They had returned to their old comfortable relationship and were continually engaged in conversational skirmishes.
His affected annoyance didn’t put her off for a moment. “Hunter McKee, our acting D.A.”
Pinkie had worked on a metropolitan newspaper’s city desk before transferring to television journalism. He’d been in that environment for over fifteen years. Little shocked him. He boasted that in his career he had seen and heard it all, from heads of state being assassinated to quintuplets being born in taxicabs. Nothing surprised him. He came close to being surprised now. The talk he heard from downtown was that McKee was no pantywaist, but someone to reckon with. “Oh, yeah? What’d he want? To talk over your last movie critique?”
Her smooth brow wrinkled into a puzzled frown. “That’s just it. He didn’t say. He only asked if I would come to his office tomorrow.”
“Curiouser and curiouser. Could be he thinks you’ve still got the city hall beat. Maybe he has a story for you.”
She was shaking her head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t gather that from the way he sounded. He didn’t live in Denver when I had that beat. I’m sure that if he knows me from television at all it’s as the entertainment reporter.”
“You’ve never met him? Seems likely that in the circles you and Thomas ran in, you would have.”
She had no recollection of ever having met Hunter McKee. “No. Not that I remember. What do you know about him?”
“Only what I read and what I’ve heard. He’s a hotshot. Smart as a whip. Ambitious. Shrewd. Capable. Old Silas Barnes spoke highly of him and he was no easy man to please. He’s always been a prosecutor, never a defense lawyer. He wants to be the D.A. of Denver County and probably will win the election when it rolls around.”
“What about a personal life?” Her reporter’s instincts were twitching. “Is there a Mrs. McKee?”
“Not that I know of. I think he’s the all-work-and-no-play type. Maybe that’s why you’ve never run into him at a cocktail party.” Pinkie ground out his cigarette. “What time are you meeting him?”
“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Fill me in afterward.”
She smiled as she spun around and headed back toward her desk. “Well, don’t hold your breath in expectation. It couldn’t be anything important.”
Shirt-sleeves or coat? Shirt-sleeves might make her feel more relaxed and at ease. The first impression she would have of him would be that of a trusted friend. But such casualness might offend her, too.
Damn it! What difference did it make? She was going to be offended anyway. So he would wear the coat of his three-piece suit and look official.
After pulling on the coa
t, he sat down behind his desk and fingered the manila file folder lying on its polished surface. Glancing over a few of the documents it contained, he cursed again and muttered an obscene epitaph for Thomas Wynne. What had the bastard been thinking? He’d had it all, public admiration, money, position … her. Why had he risked it all? Or had that been the allure? The thrill of the risk. Certainly the money was pocket change to someone with his bankroll. Why would he—
The buzzer on his intercom interrupted his thoughts. “Ms. Stewart is here.”
“Send her in.”
His palms were damp. He wiped them down his pants legs as he stood up. He, Hunter McKee, who had been described as having nerves of steel, who was the scourge of criminals, felt like one hundred and eighty-eight pounds of Jell-O.
What was wrong with him? He had faced vicious murderers screaming threats of what they were going to do to him if they ever got out of the prison he had helped to send them to. He had remained unmoved. In a moment’s time, he would be facing one dainty woman, who looked no more threatening than a fragile butterfly, and his insides were churning. What was he afraid of?
She walked through the tall door. The sunlight streaming through the windows fell on her hair, on her skin, on the soft blue dress that draped over and clung to her perfect figure.
His loins knotted painfully.
One mystery was solved. Her eyes were green. Pale green surrounded by a forest of dark lashes.
She wasn’t wearing her hair as she had on the day of the funeral, but as she did on her television segments. It was a wreath of undisciplined curls left free about her shoulders. There must have been a thousand shades of blond in that riot, varying from the palest white to the richest hue of gold.
The taste-oriented words usually used to describe complexions crowded his mind. Peaches, cream, honey. None by itself was quite adequate. But a delicious combination of them came close. Add to it the tint of apricots that stained her cheeks and mouth, and it was no wonder he wanted to take a bite of her and hold it on his tongue for a long time.
One look at her in the flesh and he knew what he had been afraid of. He had feared it from the time he saw her on television attending her husband’s funeral. His unflagging objectivity had just taken a suicidal leap out the window.
“Mr. McKee?”
The tall athletic-looking man seemed to come out of a trance and then moved toward her. “Thank you for coming. Do I call you Ms. Stewart or Mrs. Wynne?”
She extended her hand. “How about Kari?”
Her hand was swallowed by the warm pressure of his. He had a good handshake, firm and solid, but not crippling. It lasted a bit long while his eyes probed intently into hers. He finally withdrew his hand and, placing it beneath her elbow, guided her to the chair opposite his desk.
“Are you too warm?”
“No.”
“Too cool?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “I’m fine.”
She was accustomed to such overblown solicitousness. Ever since Thomas’s death, people had walked on eggshells around her. It had begun to grate on her nerves. The photographers who went out to shoot stories with her had taken to treating her like an elderly maiden aunt. One had cursed viciously just the week before, then turned to her abashedly and said, “I’m sorry, Kari.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she had cried. “Will you stop being so nice to me? I didn’t become mentally or physically impaired when Thomas died!” Apparently word had gotten around. Everyone had begun to relax around her and return to their old camaraderie.
Now Mr. McKee’s overabundance of politeness amused her. He went to the blinds behind his desk and adjusted them so she wouldn’t be looking into glaring sunlight.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Ice water?”
“No. I’m comfortable, Mr. McKee. Only curious. Why did you want to see me?”
He disregarded her question and made an observation of his own. “You’re more …” he gestured awkwardly, “slender than you look on television.”
This was a remark she heard frequently. “Television cameras add about fifteen pounds. You’re very young.” His brows shot up. “I mean for the office you hold,” she added quickly. “I expected someone older.”
“Someone more like Silas?”
“Yes.”
“Disappointed?”
“Surprised.” She tilted her head to one side. “Where did you come from?”
“My last post was in St. Louis.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Is that important?”
She had the grace to smile self-deprecatingly. “I used to cover city hall as a reporter. I guess it’s natural for me to fire questions at the district attorney.”
He produced a hint of a smile. “Then I’d better answer honestly. In St. Louis I was too far down on the ladder. There was no room to move up.”
She nodded her understanding. “I wonder why we never met before.”
“Should we have?”
“I came to the courthouse frequently. My late husband was on the city council.”
“Yes. I know.”
“You knew him personally?”
“I met him a few times.”
He moved behind the desk, sat in the deep leather chair, and pulled on a pair of eyeglasses. They didn’t diminish his attractiveness. If he wanted to stay in public life, Kari predicted he would go far. His physical appearance certainly wouldn’t be a handicap.
He was over six feet tall. Even under the cover of his immaculately tailored charcoal-gray suit, she could detect a trim body of lithe muscle and graceful coordination. His hair was well cut, but had about it a boyish disorder that most women would find endearing. It was dark brown, threaded with reddish highlights.
His forehead was broad and high and bespoke intelligence. His brows were thick and arched over eyes neither gray nor green, but the mossy, woodsy color in between. An aristocratic nose divided two high cheekbones. His lips were finely shaped, the lower one having a sensual fullness to it. His mouth was wide. She imagined that when he smiled, he would be heart-trippingly sexy.
He gazed at her across the desk for several moments before he said quietly, “I’m sorry about your husband.”
“Thank you.” Was that what he had called to say? she wondered. Why couldn’t he have said that over the phone?
He spoke the words she had heard repeatedly over the past months, but there was something unique in the way he said them, an element of intensity. She thought it was more than Thomas’s demise he was sorry about. And the piercing way he was looking at her made her distinctly uncomfortable, as though he were weighing her reaction to everything he said.
“I’ve seen you on television,” he remarked with seeming nonchalance. Actually she thought it was a calculated comment. She doubted if Mr. McKee ever said anything off the top of his head.
“That’s like saying ‘I’ve seen your baby.’ What’s your opinion?”
He grinned. She had been right. He was handsome and sexy. She could think of a dozen young ladies who would love to remedy his single status.
“I used to turn off the TV after the hard news stories.” He glanced away and unnecessarily opened his lap desk drawer, then closed it. “Lately I’ve been making it a point to watch your entertainment features. They’re very good.”
“Thank you,” she said with a formal nod of her head and a wide smile.
“You have a clever way with words and you always look … beautiful.” The last word was uttered softly after a slight, almost imperceptible pause.
Kari’s heart did a fancy little dance it had never done before. An odd but thrilling feeling slipped past her tight control and feathered up through her stomach and chest. She caught her breath at the strange sensation, and barely quelled the impulse to place her hand over her stomach. Could it have been her baby moving? No. It was too early. Then what? Certainly she wasn’t reacting in schoolgirl fashion to Mr.
McKee’s compliment.
“You could have saved yourself this visit and written me a fan letter.” She smiled, but it was shaky.
“I am a fan and I wanted to tell you so.” His brows drew together into a frown. “But I’m afraid there’s more to this appointment than that.”
“I thought there was. If it’s a news story, you should call our assignments editor. He’ll send over the—”
“No, it’s not a story. At least, not yet. It will be by this afternoon.”
She recrossed her legs and shifted in her chair impatiently. When was he going to get to the point? “Why don’t you tell me what this is about, Mr. McKee?”
“It concerns your late husband,” he said bluntly.
That stilled her rising impatience. She blinked in surprise and watched as Hunter McKee opened the file lying on his desk. His movements were methodical, official. He no longer had the aspect of a gracious host, an admiring fan, but of a public servant about to carry out an unpleasant duty. “Thomas? What about him?”
He drew a deep breath. “For several months this office has been conducting an investigation into the disappearance of huge sums of money. The funds went into the city council’s coffers. There was never anything tangible to show for this money, though the ledgers showed a place for every penny. But only on paper. The funds allocated for several projects were never forthcoming.”
“I don’t see what—”
“Please,” he said calmly, holding up both palms. “The funds were being misappropriated. We have the evidence now to go before the grand jury. This afternoon two councilmen will be arrested on charges of fraud and embezzlement of city funds. I wanted to speak with you before the issue became public knowledge.”
She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Why?”
His eyes speared into hers. “Because Thomas Wynne was alledgedly in on the scam.”
For a long moment she sat perfectly still. So did Hunter. It was silent. Sounds of typewriter keys and ringing telephones filtered down the hallways and through the insulated walls, but overall the room was silent.
In one abrupt motion, Kari bolted from the chair and made a beeline for the door. Nimbly Hunter rounded his desk and caught up with her just as she reached it. His strong lean fingers circled her upper arm.
