A Match Made Under the Mistletoe

by Diana Palmer

  “I hear you had breakfast with the mayor,” he said.

  “Gosh, news travels fast!” she gasped. “Did you hear that I pushed him under the table and raped him?”

  “No, did you?”

  She sighed. “Unfortunately the tables are extremely small. But it was a very informative breakfast. For instance,” she said, leaning on her typewriter to peer at him solemnly, “did you know that slums account for over fifty percent of city services while they only pay about five to six percent of real-estate taxes?”

  He sighed, slumping down in his chair. “Oh, no, not again,” he groaned. “I’ve heard Moreland’s slum removal song until I can sing all twenty choruses!”

  “Now, Bill…”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” he pleaded.

  “But, it’s so fascinating,” she said, and went over to sit on his desk. “Now just let me lay some statistics on you. For example…” and she spent the next fifteen minutes describing the downtown revitalization project, only stopping when the city editor stuck his head around the door and reminded her that the deadline was twenty minutes away.

  * * *

  Moreland picked her up at six-thirty for their dinner date, immaculate in his dark evening clothes and a white ruffled shirt that, on him, looked anything but effeminate. He looked sensuous and more than a little dangerous.

  Carla smoothed her burgundy velvet dress down over her hips as he closed the door behind him. “I…I hope I’m not underdressed,” she murmured.

  “You’re fine,” he said, and his bold eyes added extra approval to the comment.

  “I’ll get my shawl,” she said, turning to retrieve the lacy black creation from her big armchair.

  With apparent interest, Moreland was studying a fantasy landscape done by a friend of hers. He turned, eyeing the tastefully decorated apartment with its floral furniture and dark brown carpet. “Earth colors,” he murmured.

  She smiled. “I like the outdoors.”

  “So do I. I have a farm out in the metro area,” he replied, and she thought how that explained his dark tan. “I’ll take you out for the day one weekend.”

  “Do you have cattle?” she asked him on the way down to the street in the elevator.

  “Only a hundred head or so,” he replied. “Purebred, mostly, a few crossbreeds. I do it for amusement. My grandfather ranched out west.”

  “It must take an awfully big horse,” she murmured absently, measuring his big, husky frame with her eyes.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “It does. Can you ride?”

  “It’s been a long time,” she admitted, “but I think I could still hold on.”

  “I’ve got a gentle little mare you’d like.”

  “Dogs?” she asked as they walked out onto the sidewalk under the lofty streetlights and neon lights.

  “One. A shepherd. The caretaker and his wife look after him for me when I’m here.”

  “You don’t live there?” she asked, amazed.

  “I have an apartment a few blocks from my office,” he replied. “Some nights I don’t finish until midnight. It’s an hour’s drive to the farm, but that seems like swimming an ocean after a rough day.”

  She followed him to a low-slung Jaguar XKE and gaped as he unlocked the passenger side. It was black and sleek and looked as if it could race the wind.

  He caught the astonishment on her face and smiled faintly.

  “What did you expect? A sedate domestic vintage with an automatic transmission? I’m not that old, honey,” he said amusedly.

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” she said, dropping down into the plush leather bucket seat. It even smelled expensive. “It isn’t conservative.”

  “Neither am I,” he said softly. He closed the door for her and went around the hood to get in behind the wheel. For such a big man, he managed to slide in gracefully.

  * * *

  The statement was easy to believe when she got on the dance floor with him in the very exclusive disco restaurant and went wild trying to keep up with the intricate steps that he managed effortlessly.

  “I thought you knew how to do this,” he teased when the music stopped momentarily.

  She only laughed. “So did I. I’m not in your league!”

  “I cheated,” he replied. “I took lessons.”

  She was ashamed to admit that she had, too. Always graceful on the dance floor, he made her look as if she had two left feet.

  But the music was invigorating, and he made dancing fun, so she danced until her legs throbbed with weariness.

  Later, he took her to a quiet little bar down the street where they sat sipping drinks over a table where a single candle in a red lamp danced.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  She nodded with a smile. “Deliciously. It was fun.”

  He lit a cigarette and smoked quietly. “How did you get into reporting?” he asked.

  She watched him leaning back against the booth, and her eyes were drawn involuntarily to his unbuttoned jacket, where the silky shirt was pulled tight across his massive chest. A shadowing of hair was just visible through the thin fabric.

  “My father told me not to,” she replied in all honesty, keeping her wandering eyes on her glass.

  “He didn’t want you to follow in his footsteps?”

  “He was afraid to let me,” she said. Her slender hands fingered the frosty glass. “Dad liked a fight. He wasn’t afraid to take on anyone. Crooked politicians, policemen on the take, inept lawmen…anybody. He was threatened a lot, he had tires slashed and windows broken, and once he even got shot at. He’s been lucky. He was afraid I might not be.”

  “Are you afraid?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  She didn’t dare look up. “A little, sometimes,” she admitted. “Controversy is always frightening.”

  “Why bother with it?”

  She smiled. “It’s news.”

  “Do you bleed ink?” he asked conversationally.

  “I’ve never cut myself,” she replied saucily.

  “Any brothers or sisters?” he probed.

  She shook her head and shot him a grin. “They were afraid to try again: they might have had another one like me.”

  His bold, slow eyes studied her intently from the waist up. “From where I’m sitting, that would have been pretty nice.”

  She took a long sip of her drink and tried not to blush. He made her feel like a naïve fifteen-year-old.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Do you have a family?” Her face blushed as she remembered. “Oh, my…!”

  “Don’t,” he said quietly. “I told you not to walk on eggshells with me. Someone told you about it?”

  She nodded miserably.

  “The wounds are still there, but not nearly as fresh as they were,” he told her. “Sometimes talking about it helps. I loved my daughter very much. I hate to remember how she died, but that doesn’t mean I want to forget that she lived. You understand?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think I do. Did she look like you? Was she dark?”

  A corner of his mouth curved up. “No. She was fair, like her mother. All arms and legs and laughter. Not a sad child at all. She had promise.”

  Her fingers reached out and touched his, where they rested on the white linen tablecloth. “You miss her.”

  “Yes,” he said simply. He studied her fingers and turned his hand abruptly to catch them in a warm, slow clasp. “Your hands are cool.”

  “Yours are warm,” she replied, feeling the effects of that sensuous clasp all the way to her toes.

  His thumb caressed her palm. “We’d better go,” he said abruptly, dropping his hand. “It’s late, and I’ve been stuck with a visiting politician first thing in the morning. She wants to see my ghetto.”

  “I’d kind of like to see your ghetto, too,” she remarked.

  He smiled at her. “Be in my office at nine-thirty.”

  “Really?”

  “What’s your city editor going to say? This is the second i
nterview in as many days,” he said with a wicked smile.

  “He’ll probably think I’m trying to seduce you,” she replied smartly.

  He studied her in a sudden, tense silence, and she regretted the impulsive teasing as his eyes dropped pointedly to her mouth.

  “I don’t think you’d know how,” he said.

  She got to her feet, red faced. “You might be surprised.”

  He moved in front of her, forcing her to look up into dark, steady eyes. “You wear your innocence like a banner,” he said in a soft, deep voice that reached only her ears.

  She tried to answer him, but the words caught in her throat. He seemed to read every thought in her whirling mind.

  “I’ll get the check,” he said, and turned away.

  The strained silence was still between them when he pulled up in front of her apartment building and cut the engine.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said as she reached for the door handle.

  “I’m coming up with you,” he said abruptly.

  He got out and opened her door for her, eyeing her speechless stare with dawning amusement.

  “Don’t panic,” he teased. “I’m only going to see you safely to your door. I know this city a hell of a lot better than you do, and I just got the revised homicide statistics yesterday.”

  She turned and went up the steps with him on her heels. “Bill Peck was furious at me for not doing a story about the night you rescued me from those punks.”

  “Any other reporter would have,” he reminded her.

  She went into the elevator with her green eyes flashing. “There is such a thing as personal privilege.”

  “Not in the eyes of the media,” he said, joining her. He pressed the sixth-floor button and leaned back. Only the two of them had boarded the conveyance, and she felt very young as he watched her.

  “You’re nervous,” he commented.

  She ran her tongue over her dry lips. “Am I?”

  One heavy eyebrow went up over dancing dark eyes. “I almost never rape women in deserted elevators.”

  Her face went poinsettia red. “I wasn’t…”

  “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 sh
e 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 paused to photograph a house with blackened, paneless windows where a little girl stood, ragged and barefoot, clinging to a post.