by Linda Turner
And they're just down the hall from mine, Katie silently added, stifling a groan. Considering the way her body reacted to Grant Elliot's nearness, the last thing she needed was to walk out of her bedroom and find herself face to face with him. "I'm sure he has other plans, Ryan," she said desperately.
Grant gave her a maddening grin. "No, I don't."
"See," her brother said triumphantly. "This is perfect. You'll have plenty of time to be with Grant, he won't have to waste a ton of money on a hotel room he's not going to be in most of the time and I won't have to worry about you while I'm at work. What could be better?"
What, indeed? Katie thought dryly as she stared at their two smug faces and wondered how she had lost control of the discussion. Giving up in defeat, she shot Grant a smile that fairly dripped sugar. "When would you like to move in?"
He grinned devilishly, his blue eyes dancing. "How about now? My bags are still in the car."
"I'll help you carry them in," Ryan volunteered quickly. Before Katie could say another word, the two were heading outside to Grant's car as if they had been friends for years. Katie stared after them and tried to convince herself that having another man in the house—especially a man like Grant—was probably for the best. He looked as if he could handle anything that was thrown at him. The thought should have reassured her, but somehow it didn't. While Grant was protecting her from Cantu, who was going to protect her from him?
* * *
The following afternoon, Katie stood before her editor's desk and met his scowl with a knowing grin. "Is that any way to look at the reporter who's going to bring you the story of the century?" she teased. "Come on, Oscar, cut me some slack. You know I wouldn't ask to be freed from my other assignments unless I was on to something big."
Oscar Quinn only leaned back in his chair and puffed on his pipe, his sharp brown eyes drilling into hers. A short, roly-poly man with a head as smooth as a baby's bottom, he was pushing sixty and looked it. He smoked too much, ate too much, and chewed antacid tablets as if they were candy. But he was a newspaperman right down to his socks. Despite the rumors to the contrary, he hadn't hired Katie out of college because her father was a judge, but in spite of it. He'd warned her that her family connections would only get doors closed in her face in the rat holes a police beat reporter had to frequent to get a story. Then he'd suggested her talents were probably better suited to the society page. Her response, much to his secret delight, had been unprintable. All she'd asked him for was a chance, and by the time she'd left his office, she'd had it. He'd never had cause to regret his decision.
"The story of the century, hmm?" he mused, pulling the pipe from his mouth. "You gonna give me some details or wait and surprise me with an early Christmas present?"
She flashed Oscar a grin of appreciation before her face became serious. "I've gotten a tip that a local street gang is backed by one of the city's top businessmen. He's bringing in coke from Colombia and supposedly has his own people in the police department. I need time to check it out."
The older man's eyes narrowed slightly, but he still leaned casually back in his chair as if they were discussing the weather. "Who is he?"
"I don't know yet."
"What about the gang?"
She hesitated, then reluctantly admitted, "I don't know that either."
His gaze narrowed fractionally. "Just what exactly do you know?"
That Sam Bradford was murdered to kill this story. The words hovered and died on her tongue. Oscar liked cold, hard facts, and she had little enough of those as it was. Bringing Sam into the conversation wouldn't help her cause. She met the editor's eyes unflinchingly. "That's pretty much it."
He gave her a long, hard stare. The silence that followed her reply threatened to stretch into infinity. If any of his other reporters had come to him with so little, asking for so much time, he would have sent them packing with a curt refusal. But Katie wasn't like the others. Even as a rookie, she'd had the instincts of a seasoned pro. Now she could sniff out a rat in a flower garden.
Frowning, he pointed his pipe at her. "I don't have to tell you this is awfully thin. I presume you got this from one of your usual sources. Just how reliable is he?"
If he knew the tip came from Sam Bradford, he wouldn't even be asking the question. "I'd put my job on the line for this one, Oscar," she said huskily. "Just give me a couple of weeks. You won't regret it."
Knowing Katie, he wouldn't. "All right," he decided. "You're going to leave me shorthanded, but I'll figure something out. You just make sure you come back with the story," he said sternly. "And I want to be kept informed on how you're doing. You hear me?"
"Yes, boss," she said obediently, grinning as she quickly backed toward the door before he could change his mind. "Whatever you say."
"And be careful," he growled. "You're taking on someone who makes his own rules."
"I won't take any more risks than I have to," she agreed solemnly, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement.
He groaned at that and reached for the antacids lying on his desk. "That's what I'm afraid of," he muttered. "God, why didn't I listen to my mother and become a dentist?"
* * *
For Oscar Quinn's peace of mind, it was just as well he had no idea where Katie was six hours later. He would have needed a whole case of antacids if he'd seen her pull up before a bar wedged between a pawnshop and a shoe repair store in Little Havana.
"I guess this is as good a place as any to start," she told Grant as she cut the engine.
The lounge was little more than a hole in the wall. Burglar bars protected the two high windows that faced the street and graffiti covered the walls. A few battered cars were parked out front, and from the open door, conjunto music blared out into the dark street.
Grant gazed at the door speculatively before turning to Katie, his eyes running over her shadowy figure. He didn't have to see her clearly to know that she was dressed all wrong for their little evening adventure. "You been here before?"
She shrugged. "A few times."
"At night? Dressed like that?"
"Well, not at night," she began and then frowned, glancing down at herself. "What's wrong with my clothes? They're casual."
Grant almost choked on a laugh. Didn't the woman know what she looked like? Her flowered camp shirt and yellow split skirt might have been informal enough to wear to Disney World, but even he could tell they were of excellent quality and no doubt expensive. With her dark hair confined in a French braid and yellow and white hoop earrings at her ears, she would draw the eye of every man in sight.
And for reasons he couldn't begin to explain, that irritated the hell out of him.
"You look like a princess slumming it," he said mockingly. "You're going to stick out like a sore thumb."
"That's ridiculous," she retorted. "I'm wearing cotton, for God's sake!"
"Maybe so, but you're not going in there looking like that." And before she could even begin to guess his intentions, he slid across the bench seat of her small Ford and reached for the pins in her hair. "You're too neat, too sophisticated. You need to be a little mussed."
Her hair came tumbling down to her shoulders, spilling into his hands. Instinctively, his fingers curled to gather the midnight-black strands as the silken curls wound around his wrists, capturing him as surely as he captured her. He caught his breath as a pleasure he hadn't expected coursed through him. He found himself surrounded by the honeysuckle sweetness of her scent, and the dark seduction of the hot summer night drew him in, tempting him.
He knew instantly he should have put her from him then, but it was too late. She was too close and his fingers were already crushing her hair, holding her captive in his hands as his gaze moved to her enticingly colored mouth. Something very close to need tugged at him sharply. What man could look at her mouth and not want to kiss it, taste it?
"That lipstick's got to go," he said thickly.
Startled out of the bemusement his touch had generated, Katie par
ted her lips to protest, but only a whisper of a sigh shuddered out. His hand held her jaw and his gaze captured hers as his thumb slid along her bottom lip. Back and forth, rubbing, stroking with agonizing slowness, carefully stealing every trace of lipstick from her mouth. Devastated, she could only stare at him, her heart hammering wildly in her breast. At every brush of his thumb, heat rolled into her stomach on a white-hot tide of longing, destroying thought, tugging her toward him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a distant voice warned her to stop this before it went any further, but how could she when her body was tingling at every movement of his clever thumb?
She leaned closer, her moist breath unconsciously caressing his hand. "Grant…"
At the sound of her husky whisper, the hand still buried in her hair clenched. Her voice was like the call of a siren in the night. He tensed, his eyes hard as they searched the dark blue depths of hers. He could kiss her, and she'd never even offer a murmur of protest. In another time, another place, he'd have welcomed the kiss without a thought. But the music from the bar was blaring in the back of his head, reminding him that he wasn't there to romance Katie MacDonald. He had a job to do, and she was a distraction he couldn't afford.
He set her away from him, then deliberately ran a dispassionate eye over her. He nodded. "You'll do," he said tightly.
The mood shattered. Dazed, Katie blinked and dropped back to earth with a hard bounce at the look on Grant's face. Dear Lord, who was this man that he could entrance her so? she wondered wildly. He had a pull on her she didn't understand, didn't want. If she believed in such things, she could almost believe he was her soul mate, her destiny.
She shied violently away from the thought. No! She was being fanciful. Love at first sight only happened in books and movies, and she wasn't stupid enough to lose her head over a man she'd known for little more than a day. What she felt was nothing more than chemistry. Very strong chemistry, she reluctantly admitted, but now that she'd acknowledged the problem, she could deal with it. All she had to do was stay clear of his touch, and she and Grant Elliot would get along just fine.
Ignoring the voice in her head that jeered, Yeah, sure, she pulled her keys from the ignition and reached for the door handle. "Then let's get to work."
The place wasn't all that bad, Katie discovered a few minutes later as she followed Grant to a table in the corner opposite the door. It was dark, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke, but someone had added a festive air by draping Christmas lights above the mirror behind the bar. They blinked cheerily, the only spot of color in the whole place. Just inside the door, a lonely sprig of mistletoe looked as if it had been hanging in that same spot for years. Suppressing a smile, Katie realized it probably had.
Grant silently motioned for her to take a battered chair, then took the one next to her, his back, too, to the wall. They'd hardly settled in their seats before a tired-looking waitress appeared before them, her dark eyes wary as she waited for their order. Without consulting Katie, Grant ordered two beers, then turned his attention to the other occupants of the bar.
There were only a handful of customers. In the small cleared area in front of the jukebox, a couple melted into each other and swayed to the music, disregarding its beat. Two old men cackled over a game of dominoes at a nearby table, but no one even spared them a glance. A bored bartender leaned against the bar and watched two rough-looking hustlers play nine-ball on the pool table in the far corner.
At first glance, Grant would have sworn that the waitress was the only one who noted his and Katie's entrance. But a second, closer look caught the furtive glance of dark, shadowed eyes that were directed not at him, but at Katie, he realized with a frown. Turning to her, he swore under his breath. She was a well-known figure in the barrio, but he doubted if any of the men there had ever seen her like this—her hair wild and sexy, her mouth free of lipstick and looking as if she'd just been thoroughly kissed. Damn it, he never should have touched her!
Katie stiffened at his scowl, her glance darting to the other customers before she quickly looked back at his stony face. "What's the matter? Is something wrong?"
"Every man in the place has his eye on you," he said accusingly, then shut his mouth with a snap as the waitress arrived with the beers.
Katie lifted a delicately arched brow. Tension drained out of her, replaced by amusement. So he wasn't happy with his handiwork. It served him right! "They don't mean any harm," she said lightly after he paid the waitress and the woman had headed back to the bar. "We don't exactly blend into the woodwork, you know."
"Yeah, tell me about it," he said dryly. He reached for his beer as she picked up hers. "Better go easy on this stuff. It could be a long night, and you're going to need your wits about you."
She leaned back in her chair and studied him over the top of her glass, noting the way he watched everyone in the room without ever seeming to take his eyes off her. "I imagine your work takes you into places like this all the time."
He shrugged, his midnight-blue eyes nearly black in the dim light. "It goes with the territory."
His tone was curt, closed, and all but stamped with a No Trespassing sign. The reporter in Katie itched to dig deeper, to probe into his past until she discovered the story behind his silence. But the woman in her took one look at his flinty expression and backed down before he could throw her curiosity back at her.
Dragging her gaze away from him, she glanced around the bar again, looking for a familiar face. Watching her, Grant said, "You know anyone in here?"
She shook her head. "Not a soul. Either they got a new bartender since I was in here last, or the guy I know only works days."
"Great," he sighed in disgust. He still wasn't comfortable about blatantly asking around for the informer, but they didn't have a hell of a lot of options. "Then the waitress is probably our best bet. If she's worked here for any length of time, she's bound to know the steady customers. Let's get her over here and see what she knows."
He set his glass on the table and waited for the woman to look their way again. With the single lift of an index finger, he brought her to their side. She glanced speculatively at the barely touched beers on the table, then shrugged as if it was no concern of hers. "You want another round?"
"Actually, we'd like a little information," Katie said with a smile. "We're looking for a man named Leo who might come in here occasionally. Do you know any customers by that name?"
"Leo, hmm?" Her brown eyes were still suspicious, but she didn't immediately reject the question as Katie had feared. She frowned, considering, then shook her head. "No Leos that I can think of. There was a Leonard who used to come in for a game of dominoes, but he hasn't been around in a year or so. I think he died." She shrugged. "Sorry, but that's all I know. Can I get you anything else?"
Grant slipped her a bill from his wallet. "No, that's all. Thanks for the help."
"That doesn't sound like our Leo," Katie said quietly as the woman walked away. "Not if Sam was still getting tips from him right before he died."
"So this place is a dead end," he agreed. Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet and then pulled her chair out for her. "Like I said, it's going to be a long night. Let's try somewhere else."
Later, Katie couldn't say how many bars they went to that night. It could have been twenty, it felt like a hundred. They cruised up and down countless streets, stopping at every lounge and cantina and watering hole in sight. Deeper and deeper they went into the barrio, until one establishment faded into another and time ceased to exist. And always their questions were met with the same response. Suspicion, wariness, and finally a negative shake of the head. No one in Little Havana had ever heard of a man named Leo, or if they had, they weren't talking.
It was long past midnight when they stepped out of the last bar and Katie admitted defeat. Slumping against the front fender of her car, she stared glumly at Grant. She was too tired to even unlock her door. "You realize we're probably wasting our time, don't you? We could do this ev
ery night until we're old and gray and still never find this guy."
His eyes focused on the businesses located down the road, he said flatly, "You're certainly singing a different tune. Anyway we can't stop. This is too important."
"So is sleep," she mumbled and held out her keys to him. "You drive. I don't think I can."
He turned and, for the first time in hours, allowed himself to really look at her. She was exhausted. She'd worked a full day at the Examiner finishing up last-minute assignments, then come home to traipse through the barrio with him. The long hours had finally caught up with her. Her hair and clothes were limp, her eyes heavy with fatigue. A good stiff wind would push her over where she stood.
Grant fought the sudden, unexpected need to reach for her tired shoulders and massage some life back into her. Touching her now would be asking for trouble. "Okay," he agreed as he took the keys. "We'll stop for tonight."
They'd only gotten about three blocks away from that last bar when Grant suddenly eased up on the accelerator, his eyes on a cantina on the corner. The ramshackle, wood-frame building was painted a bright turquoise and surrounded by cars, despite the lateness of the hour. "You know, this is the only bar in this area we haven't checked," he said, throwing Katie a quick look as he slowed down even more. "Don't you think it'd be stupid not to check it out while we're here?"
He didn't wait for her answer, and squeezed into the last parking space in front of the building before she'd even realized his intentions. She groaned and reached for her purse. "This is what I get for letting you drive," she grumbled. "You'll probably stop at every place between here and my house."
He grinned and pocketed the keys. "This is the last one, I promise."
The minute they stepped through the door, they both realized they'd saved the worst place for last. There were no Christmas lights here to add a festive touch to the dreary decor, no mistletoe to bring a smile. Only loud music and voices, and the smell of stale beer, sweaty bodies, and cigarette smoke.
