Hot Off the Press

by Nancy Warren

  “Hiya Mel,” Mike boomed in a overly cheerful voice.

  “What’s going on?” The woman stopped dead in her tracks and glared from Mike to Tess and back again.

  Tess had seen Mel a few times but never had been introduced. The woman had a fearsome reputation for ruling her small newspaper kingdom by fear. Hearing the gravelly voice and noting the way her gaze speared them, Tess could believe it.

  She tried to tug her hand free, but Mike held it in a grip so tight she feared her bones were bending. He continued in the same falsely jovial tone. “Mel, do you know Tess Elliot?”

  Mel sent her a curt nod. “I know your father.”

  So what else was new? Would she ever be acknowledged for her own work? She wanted to be known as Tess Elliot the journalist, not Tess, the daughter of Walt Elliot. She stopped tugging. This story was her best chance at making that happen. If holding hands with Mike Grundel was part of the price she had to pay, so be it.

  “I’m a journalist with the Pasqualie Standard,” she replied coolly.

  “Sure you are, sweetie,” Mel replied. “Those society columns keep me on the edge of my seat.”

  A few months ago Tess would have gasped at such rudeness. But she’d toughened up enough to know that Mel was baiting her. Instead of spluttering with indignation, she smiled. “You have to start somewhere.”

  To her surprise, the woman laughed—a smoker’s wheeze that ended on a hacking cough. “Your movie reviews aren’t half-bad. They need a good edit, all that highfalutin fluff hacked out. But there’s hope.”

  Tess mumbled something unintelligible, which pretty much reflected the jumbled thoughts in her brain. The worst of it was, she felt flattered. This terrifying woman read her stuff—and saw promise. Tess determined to take a hard look at her next review before she turned it in. Fluff, huh?

  “Yep. Too much fluff,” Mike chimed in. “That’s exactly what I tell her. Don’t I, hon?”

  “Hon?” Both Mel and Tess turned on him at the same time, repeating the revolting term.

  He looked harassed. And desperate. “Yeah. We’re an item.” Releasing Tess’s hand, he threw an arm around her shoulders.

  He squeezed her shoulder in warning, and she tried not to wince at the pain.

  “Right,” she agreed, nodding like one of those bouncy birds she’d seen in the back windows of cars. “An item.”

  Mel stared at Mike. “You told me she was a no-talent debutante and it was a punishment to have to review the same movies.”

  Tess felt her cheeks burn and tried to jerk away. “How dare—”

  “That was then,” Mike said, a manic edge to his tone. “This is now.”

  “Oh, no, you—” He shut her up by slapping his mouth over hers.

  Thrown off balance she tumbled against his solid chest and, before she had time to go for her pepper spray, his mouth gentled and her mind fogged.

  Even though she was rigid with anger she was still conscious of the heat and firmness of his lips and the dazzling electricity that surged between them.

  For a moment she forgot where she was, whom she was kissing, and leaned into all that potent sexiness, clutching his muscular shoulders for support since her knees seemed to have melted out from under her.

  He tasted like adventure, danger and glamour. And a bit like coffee. She smelled the leather of his coat, the all-male scent coming off his skin, and the faint whiff of cigarette smoke.

  It was the cigarette smoke that brought her to her senses. Mel. Right, this was a charade for Mel’s benefit. She pulled away from his lips, but they followed her until, with a reluctant jerk, she broke the kiss.

  Still, she gazed into his eyes, smoky-blue and hot with desire. She felt an answering tug deep in her belly.

  “Well.” The gravelly voice brought them back to reality with a start. “I thought you were making it up. I guess opposites do attract, but I never would have believed you two were lovers if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Mike Grundel and Tess Elliot.” The idea seemed to amuse her, and she stalked past them into the café chuckling.

  “Oh, my God. What have I done?” Mike’s forehead creased and he took a step after her. “Wait, Mel. It’s not what you think, we’re not—Ow.” He glared down at Tess. “What did you kick me for.”

  “For being a bonehead. You’ve just convinced her we’re an item. Don’t make her change her mind.”

  “But she’ll tell everybody at the Star. They’ll laugh themselves sick. I’ve gotta go and stop her. Ow!” He jumped back and bent to rub his shin.

  “You are such a jerk. Stay away from me,” she said, and stomped off down the sidewalk, shoulder bag swinging angrily at her side.

  He caught up with her at the curb, grasping her upper arm. “You promised to tell me what Margaret Peabody said.”

  “You’re the expert on body language. You figure it out.” The walk light blinked and she stepped off the curb and strode ahead, staring at the opposite curb.

  “What are you so steamed about?”

  She stopped dead in the center of the intersection. “I’ll make this easy for you. Body language basics.” She flipped him the bird.

  She kept walking and for several seconds she had the road to herself.

  She gained the other side and continued down the sidewalk before he appeared once more at her side. “I can’t believe you did that—that obscene gesture. What if Mel saw you?”

  “She’d be able to tell your colleagues what I really think of you and they wouldn’t laugh themselves sick thinking you and I were dating.”

  This time he stopped her bodily, pulling her over to the side of a building and turning her to face him. “Hey, is that what’s got you so riled? I didn’t mean it like that.” His blue eyes scanned her face, pausing at her lips for long enough that she had to fight the urge to run her tongue across them to cool the heat. “Come on. If a story got out about us, your people would yank your chain, too.”

  Her eyes widened as the truth sunk in. She imagined the ribbing she’d take from Steve in sports, the guys in photography—even Caro and Jonathon would relish the joke.

  But still, he’d been more eager to convince Mel they weren’t an item than that they were. “You’re sure it’s not me?”

  He looked genuinely shocked. “No. Of course it’s not you. Most guys would give their left, uh, arm to go out with you.”

  She snorted. “Yes. They’re lining up for the chance.”

  “If they’re not it’s because you scare them. You’re so…I don’t know. Cool and unattainable.”

  Cool and unattainable were not words that gave her sexual confidence a power surge. Moments ago she’d kissed this man on a public street. That didn’t seem very cool or unattainable. An interesting thought occurred to her. “Do I scare you?”

  He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. “You scare the hell out of me.”

  “Then why did you kiss me?”

  He squinted at something over her shoulder. “I’m a boxer. I feinted her out. But I didn’t think she’d believe us.”

  She remembered the passion of their embrace. Anybody would have believed there was something between them. She’d have believed it herself if she’d seen it.

  Her gaze strayed to the scar on his lower lip.

  “Tess?” His voice dropped to a sexy, husky whisper.

  Instinct told her that if she stayed where she was, with her back against the window of Bert’s Hardware, she was going to get another chance to feel the scar.

  Part of her wanted to lean forward to meet him halfway. The sensible part put two and two together. The man didn’t want their names linked, but he’d settle for public necking on Main Street on a Saturday morning. Oh, no.

  She stopped him from kissing her the quickest way she knew how. “Margaret Peabody told me Ty Cadman helped them buy property as an investment. Apparently, the property’s going to go up in value when it’s developed into a casino and hotel complex.”

  When she’d started spe
aking he’d pulled away, a puzzled frown tugging his brows together. Presumably, women didn’t usually step back from kissing him. Why was she not surprised? But, as her words sank in, puzzlement turned to excitement.

  “He wants to put a gambling joint in an eagle sanctuary? I knew the bastard was up to something, but I never dreamed it could be this good. This time we nail him.”

  “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” she cautioned, even as her own stomach tied itself into knots. She rubbed her tingling nose absently. “The land Mrs. Peabody was talking about could be anywhere. Maybe she owns several pieces of land.”

  “Let’s assume—” He glanced sharply over his shoulder as a passerby knocked into him with a brief word of apology. “We can’t talk here. I’ll meet you at your place later.”

  “When?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Tonight sometime.”

  “Mike. It’s Saturday.”

  “Oh, right.” His gaze skimmed her face. “You got a hot date?”

  “I’m going to a charity gala. As a matter of fact—”

  “I predict another riveting story for the society page,” he interrupted, a teasing light dawning in his eyes.

  She narrowed her own gaze, having taken enough heat about her society stories for one day. “This is fair warning. The next kick won’t be aimed at your shin.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Tell you what. Since you like fighting so much, come by the boxing club this afternoon and watch me pound your boss, Jon, into mush. We can talk there.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s what I want to do with my free time. Sit in some old boys’ club and breathe eau de testosterone.” Still, at this point she’d do almost anything to move from the society page. Somehow, someday, there’d be a Pulitzer with her name on it. She wouldn’t get there if she didn’t occasionally do something she hated. Such as spend an afternoon with a bunch of troglodytes in some dank boxing club.

  TESS WRINKLED HER NOSE as she stepped inside the Pasqualie Men’s Pugilist Club.

  In spite of the fancy name, as she’d feared, it stank. It smelled like half a century of sweat, dirty socks, spilled beer, dust and things she preferred not to contemplate.

  Light came from harsh fluorescents mounted in the rafters. The highlights of the cavernous club seemed to be a single boxing ring, an area with exercise mats and four punching bags—two currently having the stuffing slugged out of them—and the corner closest to her with a bar/restaurant that looked as though it kept colonies of cockroaches in good health.

  She shuddered and tried not to touch anything. When she’d agreed to meet Mike here, she’d had no idea it would be this bad. How could he stand this place?

  How could Jonathon Kushner?

  She didn’t think she could spend another second here. She’d leave him a phone message, changing their meeting until tomorrow.

  But as she turned to the exit, which promised fresh air and sunlight, Mike emerged from a doorway that presumably led to a change room. He wore a disreputable pair of gray shorts, a white tank top, fat red boxing gloves and a helmet.

  He didn’t see her, and she remained still, watching. He jumped nimbly up into the boxing ring and began to dance around, presumably to loosen up.

  She forgot about fresh air and collapsed into the closest chair.

  The man was built. Bronzed, muscular shoulders, flat stomach, strong legs.

  Then he turned and she discovered his back view was just as enticing as the front.

  “Okay, Jon. Knock me down. You know you want to.” His voice echoed oddly as he taunted a second figure already in the ring. One she’d only just noticed. She had to admit, her friend’s husband wasn’t too bad, either. What was Jonathon Kushner doing here? He was as far out of his milieu as she. Intrigued, she decided to hang around to watch the former street kid and the millionaire fight it out.

  She moved closer, but the two males circling in the ring were too absorbed in each other to notice her.

  “All right. Touch your gloves, and I want a clean fight,” grated the voice of an old man who stood in the center of the ring. Then he glared from one to the other of the bobbing and weaving opponents. “From both of yez.”

  They bumped gloves and backed off and the referee or whatever he was jumped back down to ground level to watch the action.

  She saw Mike’s and Jon’s heads lower and two pairs of legs—one dark and muscular, one paler and more rangy—begin to bounce. She heard the thump of leather gloves against flesh, watched the men dance ’round each other, looking like fierce opponents rather than fast friends, and she moved closer still, fascinated.

  The old man cast a glance her way as she stood beside him. His red-rimmed eyes narrowed. “I don’t do no lady boxing. You want the pink joint down the street. Tae bo.” He used the maximum number of facial muscles to utter the last two words, letting her know how he felt about newfangled foreign concepts, then jerked his head toward the door and turned his attention back to the ring.

  She was momentarily nonplussed. Was he throwing her out? Because of her gender? Not only was this behavior rude and politically incorrect, it was probably illegal to refuse women entry. As if she’d choose to be in this smelly old pit.

  “I’m not interested in boxing myself. I simply want to watch the match. Those men are…friends of mine.”

  The old man snorted and rubbed a gnarled hand over his gray-stubbled chin. “These two been beating the crap out of each other—pardon my French—since they were kids.” The rheumy eyes blinked. “Never knocked any sense into either of them.”

  Thump. Thumpthumpthumpthump. She didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Come on, spit the silver spoon out of your mouth, buddy. Come and get it,” Mike taunted.

  He danced away and the Jon followed, fiercely focused, fists flying.

  “Ow,” Mike yelled. “I think he broke a rib.”

  “Shouldn’a teased him,” said the old man. Tess glanced over and could have sworn he grinned, one swift twist of the lips and then it was gone. “Nice right hook.”

  She watched the rest of the match, or whatever this was, fascinated as they taunted and poked at each other like kids, both clearly enjoying a holiday from civilized adulthood. Well, Jon anyway. She wasn’t certain Mike had ever attained civilized or adulthood.

  “Come on, Mikey, scared I’ll bite?”

  After a bit she stopped flinching at every hit and just watched.

  “Mike’s good, isn’t he?” she asked the old man.

  “Yeah. He’s been hanging around here since he was a delinquent himself. Now he coaches…whadya call ’em? Problem teens. After they get knocked on their asses—pardon my French—a few times, they don’t make so many problems.”

  She watched until the old man called it over and they both jumped out of the ring and approached him. Only then did Mike seem to become aware of Tess. His stride hitched then he continued moving toward her. “Hey, Tess,” he said casually.

  “Hey, Mike.” She tried to keep the smile off her face but couldn’t quite manage it. Even though he was slick with sweat, she really wanted to hug him, not just for coaching troubled boys, but for being the best-camouflaged good guy she’d ever seen. Ty Cadman loved to parade his financial donations to charity, but she thought Mike—hiding behind his bad-boy clothes and attitude, but giving of his time and skill—was the truly generous one.

  “Why, Tess. How nice to see you,” Jonathon said, appearing beside Mike. He was too well brought up to show his curiosity, but she felt it all the same as he held out his gloves to the old man, who swiftly untied them.

  “Hi, Jon.” She wasn’t going to make up some lame excuse about why she was here. She’d leave that for Mike.

  He thrust his own gloves toward Tess. “Untie me?”

  “Oh, sure.” It felt strangely intimate somehow, but she managed without fumbling too badly, feeling Mike’s gaze on her face the entire time, his breath evening slowly. A drop of sweat hit the gloves and bounc
ed and she smelled the healthy perspiration from his workout.

  She felt Jon’s gaze on the pair of them and wished Mike would drop some glib explanation, but he didn’t. The silence started to feel strained, and Jon, who was always smooth, headed for the change room with a brief wave.

  By the time she got Mike’s gloves off, Jon had already disappeared. “I never should have come here. I don’t want Jon thinking we’re chasing a hard news story any more than you wanted Mel to know.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Jon’s cool.”

  “Oh, good. What did you tell him?”

  “That you’re crazy about me and follow me everywhere with your tongue hanging out of your mouth.”

  Before she could come up with words that would blister him sufficiently, Mike turned to her, only barely keeping the grin in check. “Give me five minutes to shower and change. I’ll be right out.”

  SHE MADE HER WAY to the gym’s small cafeteria/bar and settled in the chair that looked the least grubby. She pulled it back a little from the table; calling that grubby would be a rare compliment.

  While she steamed and thought up every devastating insult she could, Jon jogged by, hair soaking. “Nice seeing you, Tess,” he said.

  “Mike and I aren’t…” Aren’t what? She couldn’t explain to her ultimate boss that she was working on an unauthorized news story, but she couldn’t let him believe she was a Mike Grundel groupie, either. “We aren’t serious,” she choked out, her own fists clenched. She was going to hurt him when he emerged from his shower, and he’d need more than a helmet and fat gloves to protect him.

  Jon sent her a grin that only upped her frustration. “Too bad for him. I’ve got to go. Caro’s dragging me out shopping. I’m already late.” And he was gone.

  The outside door had barely closed when Mike appeared, hair hanging around his face in damp hanks, wearing a clean white T-shirt and jeans.

  “Tell me again what Margaret Peabody said. Everything,” he ordered as he flopped into the chair opposite hers while sucking on a water bottle.

  “There’s something I have to do first.”

  “What?”

  “Kill you. How could you tell Jon I had a crush on you?”