An Unsuspecting Heart

by Linda Turner

  Katie sat two desks away from the argument in the corner, and she closed her ears to the pandemonium while banging out the details of a daring daylight bank robbery of half a million dollars. The robbery was the sixth in a series of heists by the bandit the police were beginning to call Gentleman Jim. Suave, well-dressed, and soft-spoken, he always presented the tellers with a rose as he robbed them. Katie grinned. Classy, real classy. And darn good copy. Gentleman Jim made page one every time.

  Printing up her finished story, she yelled for a copyboy at the same time she reached for her purse. To her left, the debate over strategy continued unabated. "If you guys don't get a move on it, you're going to miss the game altogether," she commented ruefully as she prepared to leave.

  "We're going, we're going," Larry Morgan said, rising to his feet. "Just settle one point for us first. Fred lost the game for us last year, didn't he?"

  Katie bit back a grin, her blue eyes dancing as they rested on Fred Casters, who was looking hopefully to her to defend him. "Well … kicking dust all over the umpire's shoes wasn't a very smart thing to do—"

  "You're damn right," Ben Harper growled. "Our best hitter, and he gets himself thrown out of the game."

  "After we were already losing six to nothing," Katie pointed out, laughing at their disgruntled faces as she headed for the door. "Bye, guys. See you at the game."

  She had twenty minutes to get home, change, and then get to the ballpark, she thought as she strode quickly toward the Examiner's main entrance. If she hurried, she just might have time to grab a hamburger. Rummaging through her purse for her car keys, she rounded the corner into the lobby at full stride, and plowed nose first into a hard, masculine chest. As she stumbled off balance, her purse went flying, just as long, lean fingers wrapped around her arms to steady her.

  "Are you all right?"

  The question was low and husky and impossibly sexy. Dazed, Katie dragged her gaze from the sight of her lipstick rolling across the lobby and glanced up at the man towering over her. Her throat went dry as her eyes locked on an unsmiling, rawboned face that was as compelling as the voice she'd heard. This man wasn't handsome, but that would never be a problem for him. He had a confidence, an assurance, that was far more attractive than classical good looks. His chiseled cheeks were rough-hewn and stamped with hardness, the lower half of his face covered with a dark beard that did nothing to disguise the arrogance of his chin and jaw. That, combined with watchful blue eyes, thick chestnut hair, and a body that was tall and rangy in jeans and a stone-washed shirt, gave him the look of someone who wouldn't back away from trouble.

  Katie felt a tug of attraction that went right down to her toes. This was the last thing she'd expected to run headlong into at quitting time on a Friday afternoon—and the last thing she wanted.

  Summoning a smile that didn't come as easily as she'd have liked, she said, "Sorry, my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."

  He didn't return her smile, but he watched her steadily. "I should be the one apologizing," he murmured. "I almost knocked you out of your shoes. Are you sure you're okay?"

  She nodded, suddenly realizing his hands were still holding her. Slowly, carefully, she stepped back, wondering if her heart would ever stop pounding. "Really, I'm okay," she assured him. She dropped to her knees to hurriedly cram her things back into her purse. "I'm tougher than I look."

  He squatted down to help. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. At first glance, she appeared to be anything but tough. Soft, pampered, sophisticated … any of those terms suited her better than tough. She wore pale yellow linen pants, a white silk blouse, and a scent that was as delicate as her features. Next to her daintiness, he felt decidedly clumsy. He supposed it had something to do with her slenderness, with the silky black hair carelessly pinned up off her neck, with the femininity she exuded so unconsciously. Caught in the depths of her blue eyes, a man could easily overlook her stubborn chin. But he didn't.

  "You wouldn't happen to be Katie MacDonald, would you?" he asked, studying her shrewdly.

  Surprised, Katie glanced up from the pen she was reaching for. "How did you know?"

  "The receptionist was on her way out when I came in asking for you. She said to look for a sophisticated brunette who was always in a hurry." He held out his hand to her, his probing eyes locking with hers. "I'm Grant Elliot. I'm a private investigator from Chicago."

  Good manners dictated she give him her hand, instinct made her hesitate. Before she even realized she'd decided on a course of action, his fingers were closing around hers. Katie told herself it was nothing but a simple handshake, but none of her reactions to this man had been simple from the minute she'd run into him. Strength, gentleness, heat. Katie felt all three surround her and slip into her blood in the time it took to draw a breath. Flustered—and she wasn't a woman who flustered easily—she tugged her hand free and quickly scooped up the last contents of her purse. Rising purposefully to her feet, she gave him a smile that was deliberately dismissing. "I'd love to stay and find out what a Chicago P.I. is doing in Miami, Mr. Elliot, but I really am in a hurry. I've got to be at a softball game in fifteen minutes and I'm already late as it is."

  She took two steps toward the door, only to find him in front of her again, this time with a furrowed line of irritation linking his dark brows together. "The name's Grant," he said tightly. "And what I have to say to you is a little bit more important than a softball game."

  If her pulse hadn't still been racing from his touch, Katie might have been amused by his insistence. But time was short and so was her temper. "I don't have time to stand here and argue with you, Mr. Elliot. The game tonight is for charity and I'm not missing it. Call me tomorrow if you still want to talk. I'm in and out a lot, but you're bound to catch me sooner or later."

  She swept past him with her chin in the air, daring him to stop her.

  Her parting smile and the lingering scent of her perfume taunted him. Cool sex and honeysuckle. He swore. The last thing he needed right now was to get caught up in the intoxicating contradictions that made up Katie MacDonald.

  "I wasn't lying when I said this was important," he called to her back. "It concerns Sam Bradford."

  Katie stopped abruptly, the name slipping into her heart like a dagger between the ribs. Closing her eyes, she struggled for control. She'd been so close to loving Sam Bradford, she still hurt four months after his death. "What about Sam?" she asked stiffly as she turned to face the man who followed her.

  "We grew up together in Chicago," Grant explained, his gaze never leaving her face as he stepped toward her. "I've been in Europe and didn't find out about his death until a couple of weeks ago. I was hoping you could tell me what happened. I know you were friends."

  Friends? she thought painfully. No, that was far too lukewarm a word to describe her relationship with Sam. They'd been adversaries, investigative reporters working for rival newspapers, always competing with each other for the same headlines. From the day they'd first met, they'd struck sparks off each other that had nothing to do with friendship. She hadn't been able to look into his eyes without feeling the heat. She'd cursed him, admired his cutting way with words, and found herself drawn to him in spite of herself. In the back of her mind, she'd always known they would be lovers—the attraction that sizzled between them every time their eyes met across a sea of faces made it inevitable. They hadn't rushed, confident they had all the time in the world. But time had run out for them on a rain-slick bridge in the Everglades.

  Would she ever learn to deal with the what ifs?

  Her fingers bit into the strap of her purse as she unconsciously clutched it to her. "Sam was driving through the Everglades during a storm," she said huskily. "It was raining very badly. There were no witnesses, but apparently he lost control on a bridge and drove off into a river. It had been raining for days and the river was flooded. Three days later, his car was discovered, but Sam wasn't in it. The authorities think he somehow managed to get out, but the current
must have been too strong for him. His body was never found."

  Missing and presumed dead. Those words still had the power to upset her. From the very beginning, she'd rejected them. Sam was a fighter, a survivor. He would never accept such an inglorious ending as drowning.

  "The authorities searched the banks for miles downstream," she continued in an expressionless voice that didn't begin to reveal her own horror. She'd searched, too. Up to her knees in thick, clinging mud, she'd fought the thick foliage of the swamps and the despair as one day gave way to the next and hope ran out. "After a week, it was decided that there was no point in continuing. If he'd been injured, he would have found a way to get to help. And if he was dead…" She swallowed thickly. "There are alligators in the swamp. We could have searched for months and never found anything."

  Grant stared at her haunted blue eyes and questioned for the first time the wisdom of his actions. She was hurting, damn it, and he was only going to cause her more pain. Before he was finished, she would hate him. But what other choice did he have? She knew bookies and prostitutes and those in the know in the barrio. She would have been a valuable ally for that reason alone, but her contacts weren't limited to the lower echelons of society. She was the late Judge Ryan MacDonald's daughter, and she knew everybody who was anybody in Miami. She had connections it would take him months to establish. Hardening his heart, he asked, "Did anyone know what he was doing on that road during a flood?"

  "Reporters are like private investigators," she replied with a faint smile that never reached her eyes. "They don't talk about what they're working on. Anyway, what difference does it make? He's dead and all because of a senseless accident—"

  "Do you really think it was an accident?" He pinned her with a hard look that demanded an answer. "Sam was an excellent driver and a Red Cross certified swimmer. Do you really think he would have drowned even if he did drive off that bridge?"

  Katie paled. "What are you saying? If it wasn't an accident—"

  "Then it was murder," he finished for her. "He wrote to me just days before he died, and he was working on something big, something that was finally going to win him that Pulitzer he'd always wanted. If he could get the proof he needed and get the story to press before the man he was exposing got to him. I think he had that proof, Katie," he said softly, dangerously. "Someone got to him and shut him up. Permanently. That's why I'm here. I want you to help me find Sam's murderer."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  The ball game was already in progress when Katie reached the park. She took one look at the scoreboard and groaned. The Tribune staff was ahead two to nothing and it was only the end of the first inning. This was going to be a long evening.

  Katie quickly apologized to her teammates for her tardiness, then grabbed her glove and headed for center field as the next inning started. The crowd was wildly enthusiastic, cheering them on, but for the first time, Katie couldn't summon any enthusiasm for the game.

  I want you to help me find Sam's murderer. Grant Elliot's words rang in her ears, chilling her to the bone even though it was stiflingly hot on the field. Rubbing the goose bumps on her arms, she stared out at the crowd in the packed grandstands. Her eyes narrowed against the sinking sun as she searched for his gaunt, bearded face. She knew he was up there somewhere in that blur of color, probably still cursing her. The man was obviously used to having his way, she reflected ruefully. Once he'd realized she wasn't going to stand up her co-workers, he'd followed her home and then to the park, scowling all the way. He claimed he wasn't letting her out of his sight until they'd had a chance to finish their conversation.

  Staring unseeingly at the first batter as he took up his position at the plate, Katie replayed her short talk with Grant. Her thoughts were tangled with a thousand unanswered questions. Was it possible? Could Sam have been murdered without the news leaking out on the streets? Without the police or anyone even suspecting any foul play? It just didn't seem possible. He was an award-winning investigative reporter; his death had shocked the city. If someone had killed him to shut him up, surely one of her informants would have picked up on it.

  The crack of a bat connecting with the ball suddenly ripped through the still, evening air. The crowd roared as they got to their feet, jerking Katie's attention back to the game just as the ball started dropping straight toward her. Her heart jumped into her throat. If she missed a simple fly ball, she'd never hear the end of it!

  Grinning at the thought, she sprinted into position for the catch, her glove raised. A split second later, the ball fell into the old soft leather with a satisfying plop.

  "Atta, girl, Katie!" Larry Morgan yelled from left field. "Now we got 'em right where we want 'em—in the palm of our hand!"

  Only through sheer luck and the grace of God, Katie thought with a laugh, giving him a thumbs-up signal. Get your head back in the game, MacDonald! she commanded herself.

  That should have been easy, but it wasn't. Murder. The word hounded her, whispering in her ear, taunting her, disturbing her. She forced herself to ignore it, but then she had to contend with the memories that confronted her everywhere she turned. She had only to look at third base to see Sam as he had been last year, rounding the bag and heading for home at full speed ahead, determination etched on his face as he dived for home plate. Today, she came face to face with the flashing image of the very first time she'd played against him every time a fly ball was hit. She'd been a rookie, he a seasoned reporter; and he'd taken great delight in ending the game by catching her popup fly. His taunting smile had nearly melted her knees.

  But that was five years ago, she reminded herself. Another game, in another lifetime. Shaking off the memories, she deliberately emptied her mind of everything but the actions of the batter at the plate.

  An hour and a half later, the game was over, the loss from last year avenged five to two. Both teams surged together, exchanging good-natured congratulations and promises of revenge as friends and family poured out of the stands to join them. Katie stood in the mad rush, searching through the faces, when Grant Elliot suddenly appeared at her side.

  Even in the laughing, jostling mass of humanity that buffeted them on every side, his tall, lean figure and rugged face drew all eyes. Katie felt the same tug of attraction that had hit her earlier in the lobby and ruthlessly dismissed it. There was a raw power, a danger in this man, lying just beneath the surface, waiting to ensnare any woman foolish enough to be fascinated by it. She had no intention of getting that close.

  She gave him a smile that was cool and businesslike. "We can go back to my house to talk, if that's all right with you," she said over the noise of the crowd. She turned toward the exit.

  Before she could take a step, however, she was surrounded by three older men dressed in business suits and wearing wicked grins. "Hey, slugger, where're you off to so fast?" Mike Gallegos teased, affection softening the hard lines of his face. "Aren't you even going to speak to your favorite uncle?"

  "He means me, Katie, honey," Henry Stevens chuckled, the laugh lines around his green eyes deepening as he spread his arms invitingly. "How about a hug for your favorite uncle?"

  Tony Baker snorted at that, his dimples flashing. "You both been out in the sun too long if you think she's got a soft spot for either one of you. Tell them who you love, sweetheart."

  Katie laughed, delighted to see her three favorite uncles. "I'll take the fifth on that," she chuckled and moved into their arms, giving them each a fierce hug.

  They weren't really uncles at all, but three of the most well-known men in Miami. Gallegos owned one of the city's largest construction firms, Baker was a federal judge, and Dr. Henry Stevens was a nationally known heart surgeon. But before they had all achieved fame and fortune, they'd been her father's best friends. With their help, he'd been elected county judge before she was born. After his death, it was their influence that helped her gain guardianship of her brother. Aside from Ryan, they were the nearest thing to
family she had left.

  "What are you all doing here?" she asked as she pulled out of Tony Baker's arms. "You should have told me you were coming."

  "We thought we'd surprise you," he replied. His brown eyes narrowed consideringly on the tall, bearded man who stood a few feet away, clearly waiting for her. "If you've got a date…"

  "A date?" She frowned, puzzled, then suddenly remembered Grant. She whirled, heat climbing into her cheeks. "Oh, Grant, I'm sorry! I'd like you to meet my uncles. Mike Gallegos, Judge Anthony Baker, and Dr. Henry Stevens."

  Grant gave each of their hands a firm shake. The man he was after was well known in Miami, so in the single instant it took palm to rub against palm, he was weighing, evaluating. Gallegos was a name synonymous with construction throughout the southeast. His hand should have been hard and calloused, not soft and pampered. Did he let others do the dirty work? Grant wondered, then turned his attention to the man next to him. Judge Anthony Baker. He was the one with the hard palm, the assertive shake. Assertiveness or arrogance? Did he have what it took to administer justice with one hand and defy it with the other? And last, but not least, Dr. Henry Stevens. His hand was narrow, his fingers long, skilled, knowledgeable. He was a man who worked with drugs. Did he also sell them illegally?

  Katie stepped to his side. "Grant is an old friend of—"

  His hand slid boldly around her waist, the action cutting her off before she could say Sam's name. Grant gave her a slow, easy smile that fairly throbbed with intimacy. "Katie and I were college sweethearts," he told her uncles without taking his eyes from hers. "When I found out I was going to be in Miami for a few weeks on business, I decided to look her up and see how she was doing."

  Stunned, Katie could only stare at him. "Grant—"

  His smile was wicked, sexy, devastating. Moving his hand up her back, he lazily played with the silken strands of her hair. "She looks terrific, doesn't she?" he murmured to the three men as his fingers slid under her hair to knead the back of her neck. "I was a fool to ever let her slip through my fingers."