Prime Time

by Sandra Brown

  “What the matter? No date tonight?”

  “My best girl’s out of town,” he grumbled. She laughed, knowing he wasn’t serious. “You just want to be mothered.”

  “I could get to feeling downright oedipal about you, Andy Malone.” He sighed, and she could imagine him raking his hand through his bright hair. “I’ll be you’re down there whooping it up with all the cowboys.

  She ignored his jibe. He had no idea how true it might have been. Lyon had kissed her with such tenderness, such passion. How could he have …? She gulped down a sob. “Then you’re not interested in knowing that I’m now in residence at the Ratliffs’ ranch house?”

  “You’re wh—” There was a loud crash at the other end of the line, some blasphemous language, then Les’s voice, much sharper and clearer now. She had sobered him up. “I dropped the phone. You’re what? Living there? With the old man? Have you met him yet? What about the son?”

  “One at a time, Les. Yes, at the general’s invitation I’m staying here. And so will the crew be. They’ve been of fered beds in the bunkhouse.”

  “Godamighty. I knew you could pull it off, sweet thing.”

  “General Ratliff is a perfect gentleman. He’s agreed to the interviews, though we have to be careful about tiring him. He’s extremely frail, Les.”

  “But he’s said yes to the interviews?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the son?”

  Had Les not been so excited by her news, he might have noticed the significant pause. “He’s less enthusiastic, but I don’t think he’ll interfere with us.”

  “Great, fabulous, terrific. If I were there right now, I’d give you a kiss that’d ring your bells and make your toes curl.”

  She trembled. She’d already had one kiss that had done that tonight. It had been the first kiss in her life that had affected her that intensely. She had been totally involved in Lyon, his mouth, his taste, his smell, his touch, the alignment of his body against hers. She and Robert had been an affectionate couple, at first, but …

  “Andy baby, are you still there?”

  “Y—yes.”

  “Well, tell me all about it, doll.”

  “The general’s very friendly, grandfatherly, or great grandfatherly. He said I could ask him about anything except specific battles. His—”

  “Whoa, whoa, go back. What was that about specific et cetera?”

  “He said he wouldn’t answer questions pertaining to specific battles, only to the war as a whole.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “Why?”

  “Have you ever heard of a military man, especially a general, who didn’t want to tell war stories? Do you think the old codger has something to hide?”

  Not only his suspicion, but his unflattering term for Michael Ratliff irritated her. “No,” she said flatly. “I don’t think so. I read through piles of newspapers clippings today, dated from early in his career to the day he retired. There was never even the hint of a scandal of any kind.”

  “Well, it bears thinking about.”

  She wouldn’t think about it at all. If there were something unsavory in General Ratliff’s past, she didn’t want to know about it. “I scouted through the house today, which is lovely and will give us some great background shots. We’ll confine the interviews to the rooms the general feels most comfortable in. And I want to do some outside shooting. Tell Gil to bring along some kind of mike sock that will filter out the roar of water.”

  “Water? What in the hell, Andy?”

  “A river.”

  “A river. Okay what else? I’m making a list.”

  She went on to tell him about the set up and what the crew would need to bring as far as cables and lights and battery packs and microphones were concerned.

  “I guess that’s everything,” she said after she’d gone over everything listed on her note pad.

  “Not quite,” Les said shortly.

  “What else?”

  “You could tell me why you sound like a sorority girl who’s just discovered she’s out of birth control pills the day before the big weekend.”

  “Les,” she groaned. She’d never get used to his ribaldry. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s awfully hot—”

  “So was Florida when you interviewed those Cuban refugees. You were exhilarated by that interview. What’s going on down there?”

  The last thing she needed was Les’s nose, which was a mile long when it came to sniffing out discrepancies of any kind, prying into her ambiguous feelings for Lyon. Les could always be diverted with flattery. “Did you ever stop to think that I’m homesick, that I miss you?”

  “Uh-huh, like a dog misses fleas.”

  “No.”

  “Back to that later. I’m still hung up on this general not wanting to talk about those battles.”

  “Les, please. It’s nothing. He probably doesn’t want to relive the whole war in detail, that’s all.”

  “What about the son? Think he’d talk?”

  “No,” she said sharply.

  “Wow! Did I strike a nerve? What’s this son like anyway?”

  “He’s … he’s like nothing. I mean he’s an intelligent businessman, a rancher, who has no interest in military matters. He told me that himself.”

  “But he has an interest in his old man. And if the old man has something to hide, so does the son. Think you can wheedle it out of him?”

  “No, Les. I wouldn’t try even if there were something, which I’m sure there’s not.”

  “Come on, Andy baby, don’t go all naïve and Pollyanna on me. You know as well as I do that everyone has something to hide. Go to work on the son. God, if you practiced one tenth of your technique on me, I’d babble like a brook.”

  “I don’t have a technique.”

  “You damn well do, you’re just too nice to know it.” He let that sink in, then continued. “Warm up to the son, Andy. You can do it for me. Okay?” She said nothing. “You’re probably right about no secrets, but it never hurts to make friends, does it? Say you’ll try your tricks on the son … Lyon, is it? Okay?”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can do.” She had every intention of staying as far away from Lyon Ratliff as possible, but she was only telling Les what he wanted to hear to keep the peace. “I’ve got to go now.”

  “Darlin’, you saved me from a hellish hangover tomorrow. How can I ever thank you?”

  “You’ll think of something,” she said dryly.

  “I already have, but you’d never go for it. I love ya. You know that, don’t you?”

  Les must truly be depressed tonight and craving sympathy. “Yes, I know you love me, Les, and I love you, too.”

  “Then I’ll say good night.”

  “Good night.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  “Sweet dreams to you, too.”

  She hung up, feeling that she’d been put through a wringer. First by Lyon and now by Les. But Lyon had hurt her more. She was accustomed to Les’s swift changes of mood, his whining, his lechery, his exuberance, which tired anyone out who didn’t share it.

  Pausing only long enough to switch off the light as she entered her room, she went directly to her bed. She fell onto the scented sheets and pulled the light covers over her. Reviewing the day, she couldn’t believe all that had happened. Had she behaved irresponsibly and impulsively to pull that trick of getting in to see the general? Had she gone about it another way, had she approached Lyon like a professional, would he feel differently toward her? Probably not. She had tried that tack yesterday. He had drawn his conclusions about her long before then.

  It was obvious that he was projecting his wife’s faults onto all women. She had been flighty and selfish. She had left him for greener pastures, and he hadn’t gone after her. That wasn’t surprising. A man like Lyon wouldn’t go chasing after a woman who had left him. His wife hadn’t been happy with hearth and home, so he assumed every woman who pursued a career was as heartless and fickle as she had b
een.

  “That isn’t necessarily so, Mr. Ratliff,” she said to the dark shadows in the room.

  Some choices are made for people by others. Andrea Malone had never considered a career outside journalism because her father had wanted it for her so badly. Having no brothers, she had been the anointed one to carry on his name in the field. She had married Robert, and when her father died, she was almost relieved that now she could settle down and devote her time and energies to a home and family.

  Robert had been surprised and amused when she outlined her plans to him. “You can’t mean that you’re going to quit work and become a homebody.” His face had registered his astonishment. It was apparent the idea had never occurred to him.

  She had smiled tensely. “Don’t you want to have children?”

  “Well, yeah, sure, Andy. But only after we’re too old to do everything else. I like having my wife on the tube. We get great seats in restaurants, passes to the movies, and I get to claim that I sleep with the famous Andy Malone.”

  Often Andy felt that Robert considered her a trophy—a trophy that was only treasured each night in the bedroom. Because she felt that way, she often couldn’t respond to him. The trophy began to tarnish. Robert had grabbed at the job for the network and was away from home almost constantly, inventing stories to cover when he wasn’t assigned one. Then he had been killed.

  Andy knew that if she had not made him unhappy, he might not have gone to Guatemala. Lyon was right. She was on a guilt trip. She felt she owed it to Robert to prove him right, to live up to his expectations. She wasn’t made to be a wife and mother, but a career woman. For three years she had kept herself insulated by her work. All her attention had been concentrated on furthering her career. She had almost become convinced that she didn’t want a man and his love, that she didn’t need it, that she could live without it.

  But her eyes had locked with Lyon Ratliff’s over Gabe Sander’s Formica counter top, and she knew then that she did want a man. He had touched her and created a need. And now, after his kiss, her body was transmitting a hundred sensual messages to her brain that she may very well die if she didn’t have him.

  “Good morning, Andy. You slept well, I hope.”

  “Yes,” she lied. “Thank you, General. I didn’t know if breakfast was a ritual or not. I’m afraid I was rather lazy this morning.”

  “I’m allowed to be lazy every morning, and I hate it. I’d much rather be up with the dawn the way Lyon is. What would you like?” he asked her as Gracie came into the dining room carrying the general’s breakfast tray, which looked as unappetizing as all his meals.

  Gracie brought in the coffee, juice, and one piece of wheat toast, as requested, tsking and shaking her head in disapproval of such a meager breakfast.

  “What are your plans today, Andy?” Michael Ratliff asked her just as she was finishing her coffee.

  “I need to go over my notes again, to rephrase them into the questions I’ll ask during each segment. That way I won’t repeat myself, though I’m sure your answers will generate questions I haven’t even thought of. By the way, the crew is flying into San Antonio tonight and will be here first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I think you’re working too hard. Lyon asked for you to meet him outside when you’re finished with breakfast.” The old man’s eyes were sparkling. “I think he’d like to take you for a ride.”

  Chapter Four

  Aride?”

  “Around the ranch. You’d like to see it, wouldn’t you?” Andy couldn’t disappoint the general, who was obviously proud of his ranch and wanted her to see it. “Yes, I do, but I’m here to work, not to be entertained. I don’t want to take up Lyon’s time. Surely he has better things to do.”

  “He might have other things to do. I doubt if he’d consider any of them better,” Michael Ratliff said, smiling.

  She couldn’t imagine that Lyon wanted to see her any more than she wanted to see him after what had happened last night. “Are you sure he asked to see me?”

  “That was the last thing he said before he left. He asked that you meet him near the garage. Now if you’ll excuse me, Andy, I spend my mornings reading. I can only read for a while before my eyes give out. We’ll talk after lunch if you like.”

  “Yes, and please rest. The next few days will be arduous.”

  “I’ll have a long time to rest, Andy,” he said dryly. “I’m looking forward to the interviews.” He wheeled out of the room.

  She finished her coffee in solitude, trying to marshal enough mental and physical fortitude to face Lyon. What did one wear to tour a ranch? To save herself from derision, she wasn’t going to wear her jeans and western boots again. She decided that the casual slacks and knit top she was wearing were as appropriate as anything.

  Let him wait, she thought perversely as she went upstairs to check her hair and makeup. Picking up an atomizer of her favorite perfume, she studied it a moment, then sprayed herself liberally. If he read anything into it, he would be wrong. She always wore fragrance, even in the daytime.

  The patio and pool area were deserted when she stepped through the glass door. The morning smelled fresh and felt cool. Clouds were shading the sun and a gentle southern breeze was stirring the leaves of the trees. Standing very still and listening, she could hear the gurgling of the river.

  “Good morning.”

  She jumped and spun around. She had been so intent on the beauty of her surroundings that she hadn’t heard him come up behind her. “Good morning.” He was wearing fragrance, too. That same brisk, clean scent she was coming to associate with him.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.” He turned his back on her and walked stiffly toward a parked Jeep she hadn’t noticed until now. It was without doors. There was no top over it, only a roll bar, and the seats looked as though the Jeep had been driven over many a dusty trail. Lyon slumped into the driver’s seat, and she climbed into the passenger side. She barely had time to get a good handhold before he accelerated and the Jeep lurched forward. He had a lot to learn about the subtleties of good driving.

  “Sleep okay?”

  “Yes,” she lied, for the second time that morning. She didn’t want to see the sinewy strength of his arm as he shoved the gearshift into higher gear. His legs worked the pedals of the vehicle with a flexing of thigh muscles that was awesome. She diverted her eyes from his lap, the sight of which made a tumbling team of her vital organs.

  His hands gripped the steering wheel hard. There was an aspect of controlled violence about him this morning. Every thread of his clothing seemed strained to contain the tension just under his skin.

  She studied his face beneath the brim of his straw cowboy hat. The lines of his jaw were as hard as iron. When he blinked, it was more than nature’s way of moistening his eyes. It was reflex of anger, as though he were trying to clear his vision that had been clouded with rage.

  He seemed disinclined to talk as he concentrated on keeping the bouncing Jeep on the uneven trail. Andy turned away from him and studied the landscape. She’d be damned if she’d force her company on him. After the disgraceful thing he had done the evening before, he should be thankful she’d speak to him at all. If he held her in such contempt, why had he suggested this outing?

  Damn her! Lyon thought. All ten fingers extended as the palms of his hands rested on the wheel. He stretched them out as far as they would go, then curled them around the steering wheel in so tight a grip, they ached.

  If she had to be who she was, why did she have to look like she did? If she wanted to move in a man’s world, why didn’t she dress the part? Why did she wear clothes like that shirt-thing she had on now that molded to each soft curve of her breast? And pants that hugged her bottom? And why were her feet bare in sandals so skimpy that he marveled over how she kept them on her feet. Her toe-nails were polished with a delicate shade of coral. Like the color only found inside a seashell …

  Hell! he cursed. Would you listen to yourself, Ratliff? Seashells!
God.

  So she’s a great-looking broad. So? Do you have to act as imbecilic as an adolescent? You’ve been with good-looking women before, some even more beautiful than this one. But there’s something about …

  Her eyes? Unusual color, yes, but … No, it’s the way she looks at you when you’re talking to her. It’s as if what you’re saying is of vital importance to her. She’s interested. She wants to know. Your opinion matters to her.

  Easy, Ratliff. Don’t be too taken in by that. Isn’t that what she’s supposed to make you feel? Isn’t that her job? The secret of being a good interviewer is the ability to listen.

  Okay, so her eyes are pretty and she uses them to full advantage. You still know that she lies with that luscious mouth. If not with words, then certainly with kisses. Face it, buddy, a kiss hasn’t meant that much to you in a long time. Some women fake passion, hoping to get to your checkbook. Most respond out of conditioned reflex because they know it’ll please you if they do. But Andy … hell, yes, go ahead and think her name. Andy. Andy. Her passion hadn’t been faked. She needed that kiss as badly as you did. She wanted it.

  She’d known how to give and how to take. You felt desire rocketing through you until you were ready to explode. It scared you, and you swore that you wouldn’t have anything more to do with her. And then the first thing you do this morning is arrange to see her alone.

  She’s poison, dammit. So why are you watching her out of the corner of your eye, Ratliff? Why are you looking at her hand that’s gripping the edge of her seat with every bump. Are you hoping that since it’s so close to your thigh that she’ll …

  Lyon jerked his thoughts back from where they were wandering and braked the Jeep suddenly. Inertia propelled them forward until they fell back against the seats. Andy looked over the bluff. The scenery was beautiful. They had climbed into the hills and were now gazing down at the valley. The house looked like a toy far beneath them, nestled in the grove beside the river.

  She wished he’d say something. Was he waiting for her to speak? She turned her head slightly to look at him. He was staring over the hood of the Jeep. “It’s beautiful up here,” she said tentatively.