by Leslie North
“Don’t worry,” she said. “This thing is off until you give me permission.”
“Which part of ‘No Interviews’ didn’t you understand?” Mark growled, his tone razor sharp. “Leave me alone, Ms. Rios.”
For the second time in one day, Mark betrayed the good manners his mom had taught him to say proper goodbyes and stalked away without another word.
3
“Just checking my oil,” Geneva grumbled to herself nearly an hour later. If it were physically possible to kick one’s own ass, she would’ve tried. What had ever possessed her to even consider rigging her distributor cap to trick an interviewee into talking to her? It went against every journalistic ethic she had and completely wasn’t her style.
Her boss had casually planted the seed of the idea during their last conversation before she’d left town, claiming it wouldn’t really be an interview. It would be research, but it still didn’t sit right with Geneva. And yeah, maybe Mark Rogers had refused any and all interviews since his less-than-cordial run in with the press after his discharge from the Navy; maybe desperate times did call for desperate measures.
Geneva wasn’t that desperate.
Nor did she plan to be either.
About thirty seconds into her boss’s ill-advised scheme, she’d changed her mind and attempted to repair what damage she’d done. By then though, Mark had been behind her, and she’d had to slam the hood closed to hide the evidence of her stupidity. Only problem was, now she couldn’t remember what went where and it served her right for abandoning her ethics.
Good journalists didn’t need tricks to get their story.
The hot sun beat down on her back and she felt more parched than the barren flatlands she’d passed on her way into this godforsaken little town. The white tank top she wore stuck to her slick skin and it seemed every visible inch of her was covered in grease smears and dirt. And her hair—just a bit longer than shoulder length and always leaning toward frizzy—had ended up in a high ponytail. Forget fashion. When things got rough, as they always did for her, she was all about keeping her head down and powering through.
At least she’d dressed for comfort today for the drive here, in jean shorts, instead of her usual work attire of a crisp white button down and black pantsuit. All that fabric would’ve been killer.
Speaking of killing…
It was a good thing her boss at the newspaper was currently sitting about two-hundred miles to the north. Otherwise, she would’ve marched right into his cushy office overlooking Lombard Street and given him a sizable piece of her mind. He’d swore that undoing the wires and then reattaching them later would be easy, but the damned SUV still wouldn’t start.
Seems the fake malfunction had now become a real pain in her ass.
Frustrated, she slammed the hood closed once more before glancing around the nearly empty parking lot. Most of the party guests had departed and honestly, she couldn’t blame them. If she’d driven all the way here to attend a party and found Major Crankypants acting the way he had, she’d get the hell out of there too.
She pulled out her cell phone again and scowled down at the screen. Still only one bar of service and a red battery indicator blinked in the corner. Yep. So far, this entire trip had been nothing but a total washout. She’d had high hopes for this story too. Hoped to shed light on what she considered a huge epidemic in the military; their lack of responsiveness toward returning servicemen and women with mental health issues due to their time in battle. She might be too late to help Jaime, her poor brother, but if she could stop even one more soldier from suicide, it would be worth it.
With a sigh, she headed for the diner entrance. No choice but to go inside and beg to make a call. Maybe, if she was lucky, they might still be serving some of those root beer floats advertised on their sign as today’s special.
The cool interior of the restaurant felt like heaven on earth to her sunburned skin and Geneva slowly wandered over to the deserted lunch counter. A petite woman stood behind it with her back to the restaurant. She had long, dark hair secured in a braid that reached her waist and wore a bright pink T-shirt emblazoned across the back with the shop’s slogan, “Get your Scoops On!”
Geneva slid onto a stool and cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
“Oh!” The woman whirled to face her and smiled, her expression slightly stunned. She was gorgeous, with her almond-shaped eyes and mocha-colored skin. The same skin tone as Mr. Uncooperative from out in the parking lot. Like any good reporter, Geneva had done her research about Mark before coming to Ortega. This must be the guy’s sister. She returned the woman’s smile and narrowed her gaze. Maybe there was more than one way to get inside this story. “Sorry. I didn’t hear anyone come in,” the woman said. “Welcome to Scoops. How may I help you today?”
“I’d love some water please and maybe a root beer float if you still have some left.” Geneva smiled back before nodding toward the woman’s ice cream cone shaped nametag. “Leila. Pretty name.”
“Thank you.” A wedding ring glinted on Leila’s left hand as she swiped it across her forehead. “It was my grandmother’s name. And I’m sorry, but we’re all out of root beer. Had quite a crowd earlier.” Her smile faltered slightly and she stepped aside to reveal a half-eaten birthday cake on the prep shelf behind her. “We had a private party.”
“Oh, right,” Geneva said. “I think I met the guest of honor in the parking lot.”
“Mark?” Leila snorted. “My condolences.”
“How about a piece of birthday cake then?” Geneva hiked her chin toward the dessert.
“Sure thing.” Leila sliced Geneva off a generous portion of the three-tiered triple fudge cake and placed it before her along with a frosty glass of ice water. “Glad someone appreciates my hard work. Lord knows my brother didn’t.”
“Yeah. He seemed kind of grumpy about the whole thing.” Geneva took a bite of the luscious dessert and damned near died from ecstasy. The rich chocolate melted in her mouth and the slight bite of the bittersweet fudge cake added just the right counterbalance to all the sugary frosting. “This is fantastic!”
“Thanks.” Leila wiped down the bar beside Geneva. “Old family recipe.”
“Are you from Ortega originally?”
“Well, my brother and I were born here but our mother is from Samoa.”
“Interesting. Your dad Samoan too?”
“No. American.” Her abrupt tone effectively slammed the door on that topic.
All righty then. Daddy issues.
Geneva took a few more bites of cake before trying again. “Wow. I’ve never met an islander before, other than Hawaiian.”
Leila laughed. “Yeah. Everyone guesses African-American or Latina or even Chinese. No one ever guesses Pacific Islander.”
“Well, I’m all for diversity.” Geneva flipped her dark red curls over her shoulder and smiled. “Me? I’m Mexican and Irish.”
“Nice.” Leila finished wiping down the area, then helped herself to a piece of cake and took a seat beside Geneva at the counter. The place was all but empty except for a table out on the deck. Geneva couldn’t make out their faces, backlit as they were against the afternoon sunshine, just their silhouettes.
Leila downed half her cake in a few bites, and then took a sip of her water. “So, what brings you to Ortega? Do you live around here or are you just visiting?”
“I actually live up in the Bay Area. I came here for my work, but my car died in your parking lot and my cell’s dead. I was hoping maybe I could use your phone.”
“Absolutely.” Leila finished what was left of her cake then took her dishes behind the counter before grabbing the store’s cordless phone off its cradle on the wall. “Help yourself.”
Geneva finished her food and water while Leila started taking down the decorations for her brother’s party. The diner was nice, with its slightly retro décor and sparkling clean surfaces. A seagull swooped down onto the railing leading out to the deck, its lonely caw reminding
Geneva of the last time she and her brother had been to the beach. Jaime had just gotten home from his last tour in Afghanistan and had been finishing his debriefing at Army headquarters in Arlington, Virginia. The weather had been perfect then too, all blue skies and warm, gentle breezes. Two months later, Jaime was dead.
“I’m surprised Mark didn’t help you out,” Leila said, breaking Geneva out of her reverie before the painful lump in her throat turned to something more. The woman balanced precariously on a chair to reach some streamers taped to the ceiling. Geneva felt compelled to rush over and hold the thing steady for her. “He’s a sucker for a damsel in distress.”
“He wasn’t exactly friendly. More like frigid,” Geneva said, staring up at Leila as she held the chair still. “Especially after he found out what I do.”
Leila pulled down a wad of crepe paper and tossed it to the floor. “What do you do?”
“I’m a reporter. For the National Tribune.”
“Oh.” Leila chuckled. “Yeah, I’m not surprised my brother didn’t want to talk to you then. He’s not big on the media these days. Or ever, really. Thinks they’re all liars. Doesn’t help they’ve been swarming around here like vultures near roadkill either.” Leila winced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words. I suppose you’re here about the recent deaths too.”
“The suicides? Yeah, I am. But that’s a pretty broad brush to paint an entire industry with. Not all reporters lie. Most of us subscribe to the Journalistic Code of Ethics.” Geneva grabbed a trash bag off the counter and stuffed the discarded crepe paper into it. Never mind in her boss’s case, it was kind of true. Geneva was cut from different cloth. Her cause was just. “Your brother doesn’t even know me.”
“Oh, don’t take it personally. It’s not about you.” Leila climbed down, moved the chair a few feet to the left, and then climbed up again to grab more decorations. “With Mark, it’s about what happened when we were growing up.”
Inside, Geneva gave a silent fist-pump. She’d known those daddy issues were involved somehow. “What happened?”
“Suffice it to say our dad was a consummate liar,” Leila said. “Never could tell the truth about anything. So now Mark goes into any conversation expecting the same.”
“That sounds like an awful way to live,” Geneva said, sensing there was more to the story. This Mark guy sounded like a real piece of work. And people called her cynical. She snorted. “I bet his attitude caused some waves over the years.”
“You have no idea,” Leila said, nose wrinkled. “If you want to talk to my brother, know this. He judges the world and everyone in it by his own set of high standards and no one can ever measure up. It’s almost like he enjoys living his life in perpetual disappointment and alone.”
“How sad,” Geneva said.
“What’s sad?” a deep male voice asked from the shadows.
Geneva turned to see the people from out on the deck walk back inside the diner, one of which was Mark in all his tall, buff, half-naked glory. He watched her with those gorgeous gray-green eyes, his muscled arms crossed over his rock-hard chest. Despite Geneva’s current opinion of him, a warm tingle started low in her core. She’d never found the whole shaved-head look attractive before, but this guy made her seriously reconsider her life choices.
Not helpful, girl. Not at all.
Flustered, she fiddled with the trash bag, suddenly not sure what to do with her hands. Mark kept right on staring at her and she got the eerie feeling he could see right through to her soul with those haunting eyes of his. Finally, she gave up any pretense of being busy and headed toward the counter to escape his too-knowing gaze. “I, uh, need to use the phone.”
One side of Mark’s full lips quirked upward in a sure-you-do smirk.
“She’s helping me with the decorations.” Leila stepped down off her chair and faced her brother down even though he towered above her and had her size-wise by at least one-hundred fifty pounds. Geneva couldn’t help but admire the woman’s gumption. “Remember?” Leila placed her hands on her hips and scowled. “The same decorations you didn’t give a shit about.”
“Look, LeLi,” Mark said, his tone conciliatory despite his defensive stance. “I’m sorry about the party. But you know how I feel—”
“What I know is that you acted like a spoiled, pompous ass.” Leila poked her finger into his chest for emphasis, not backing down an inch. Geneva stifled a grin. Like David telling off Goliath. She liked Leila more by the second. Her relationship with Mark reminded Geneva of her relationship with Jaime, before…
A sharp pang of sadness stabbed Geneva’s chest and she swallowed hard against the unexpected sting of tears. Four months gone and the pain still felt as sharp as the day the Highway Patrol had shown up at her front door to relay the horrific news of what had happened. Sometimes at night, when she closed her eyes, Geneva could still see the pity in the officer’s eyes, smell the faint stench of raw fish from the open market just a few blocks down from her apartment, as they’d stood on her tiny front porch and she’d heard the words that had changed her life forever.
Ma’am, I’m sorry to report that your brother, Jaime Rios, committed suicide…
Geneva gave herself a hard, mental shake and did her best to focus on the present. Now wasn’t the time to get all sappy again about what happened. Now was the time to get the story she needed to break into the world arena of journalism and expose the military’s huge mistake where her brother and so many others were concerned.
She’d failed Jaime once already. She wouldn’t do it again.
Leila continued to lay into Mark despite his irritated frown. “…and after mom went through all that trouble to make your favorite cake too. Don’t give me that shit about your trust issues, little bro. It’s time for you to get the hell over it, mister.”
Geneva bit her lips to keep from laughing out loud and met Mark’s gaze with a raised brow. Take that, Major Crankypants.
“Tough standards are the only thing that keep this world going,” he said to his sister, then turned to Geneva. “Can I talk to you outside for a moment, please?”
4
“What the hell were you doing in there?” Mark led Geneva back out into the parking lot, keeping a solid grip on her arm the entire time.
“I told you I had to use the phone.” She tried to free herself from his grip and then gave him an annoyed look when she couldn’t. “Then I had some cake and helped your sister clean up. Why?”
“Hey, Aleki,” Leila called from the entrance behind them. “Be nice. She’s okay.”
Mark waved his sister off and led Geneva over to where her SUV sat alone in the corner of the lot. “You’re leaving.”
“Hard to do when my car won’t start.” She tried to pull away from him again and this time he let her go. Geneva crossed her arms, which only highlighted her magnificent rack again. Not that Mark was looking. Definitely not. “My cell was out of juice so I went inside to use the phone. Sue me. And I thought your name was Mark.”
“Aleki is my middle name.” Jaw clenched, he attempted to stare her down. Except she wasn’t backing down any more than his sister had. Seems he was losing his intimidating touch. Not that he’d ever had much of one to begin with, especially when ladies were involved. Still, the sooner he got rid of Geneva Rios, the sooner he could get to the courthouse and get on with his plans for the rest of the day. He sighed and cocked his chin toward her vehicle. “Pop the hood.”
Geneva stared at him a moment before walking around to the driver’s side of the SUV and doing as he asked, cursing under her breath the entire time. Sure enough, the whole distributor cap assemblage was a mess. He was no Jace when it came to mechanics, but he knew enough to fix it. Still barefoot and in his wetsuit shorts, naked from the waist up, he leaned over the engine and got to work. Given her profession, he wouldn’t have put it past her to put everything back the wrong way as another attempt to get him to talk. “These distributors can be tricky.”
“Tell me about it.” Geneva�
�s disgruntled tone was laced with fatigue and suddenly Mark felt something he wasn’t prepared for where she was concerned. Sympathy. He did his best to stifle the unwanted emotion, though it continued to bubble inside him. “I don’t even know any local mechanics,” she huffed.
“There’s a shop about a mile from here. Burrell’s. My buddy, Jace works there part-time. Want me to call him out to take a look?” Mark placed his hands on his hips and squinted into the late afternoon sun. He still didn’t trust Geneva any farther than he could see her. She was a part of the media, after all, and he’d dealt with enough of them lately to last him a lifetime. Plus, the last thing he needed was some nosy snoop messing up his plans for his own quiet investigation into the recent SEAL deaths. Most reporters he knew were about as subtle as a nuclear warhead. His well-honed honor, though, wouldn’t let him walk away from her distress either. Lord knew if Leila or his mom were in the same position, he’d want a Good Samaritan to help them out too. “I think I can get this working for you again. Might not be a bad idea to have Burrell’s check it out before you head home, though.”
“Home?” Geneva stood several feet to the side of him, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun as she watched his every move. A strange tingle spread over his skin from her stare, as if her gaze were more of a physical caress. She gave a curt nod. “Thanks. But I’m not heading home until I get what I came here for.”
Mark scowled and shook off his odd attraction for this frustrating woman. Yes, she was hot, in an Eva Mendes sort of way. But he was not going there. Not now and not with her. She was a reporter. He didn’t talk to reporters. No matter how delectable said reporter might appear. God, did she paint on those denim cutoffs or what? Hugging all her curves and cupping that fine ass like his own fingers itched to do.
