by Sandra Brown
“Congratulations.”
“They’re not all fan letters. Some are hate mail from the religious crazies who believe we’re going where God never intended man to go. Some credit God with the Challenger accident—His punishment for our tampering with heaven or nonsense to that effect. I’ve had proposals of marriage and of other assorted liaisons of a prurient and/or perverted nature,” he said dryly.
“How nice for you.”
Ignoring her snide remark, he continued. “But your letters had a stroke of originality. You were the first one to claim that I was the father of your child.”
“Don’t you listen? I told you I’ve never had a child. How could you possibly be the father?”
“My point exactly, Miss Hibbs!” he shouted.
Marnie stood. So did he. He tracked her when she moved to her drafting table and needlessly began rearranging sketch pencils and paintbrushes in their various canisters.
“You were also the first one to threaten me with public exposure if I didn’t do what you wanted me to.”
She turned to find him very close. She could even feel the fabric of his trousers against her bare legs. “What possible threat could I pose to you? You’re the fair-haired child of the space program, hailed as a hero. You held every American spellbound in front of his television set while you and a Russian cosmonaut shook hands over a peace treaty in space.
“There was a ticker-tape parade in honor of you and your crew in New York. You had dinner at the White House with the President and First Lady. Almost singlehandedly you’ve turned around public opinion on NASA, which certainly wasn’t favorable after Challenger. Critics of manned space flight are being ridiculed after what you’ve done.
“To pit little ol’ me against a celebrity giant like you, I would have to be crazy or stupid. I assure you that I’m neither.”
“You called me Law.”
After her lengthy speech, his four-word rebuttal came as an anticlimax that took her off guard. “What?”
“When you first recognized me, you called me Law.”
“Which happens to be your name.”
“But the average man on the street would address me as Colonel Kincaid, nothing as familiar as Law. Unless we’d known each other well before.”
She sidestepped that. “What did these alleged letters demand from you?”
“Money first.”
“Money?” she exclaimed. “How crass.”
“Followed by public acknowledgment of my son.”
Marnie eased herself from between him and the drafting table. His closeness was wreaking havoc on her ability to think clearly. She began shuffling through a stack of sketches left lying on one of her worktables. “I’m a very independent, self-reliant person. I would never ask you or anybody else for money.”
“This is a nice neighborhood, a big house.”
“My parents’.”
“They live here with you?”
“No. My father is dead. My mother suffered a stroke several months ago and is in a rest home.” She slapped down the stack of sketches and faced him. “I manage to support myself. What business of yours is any of this?”
“I think the victim ought to get to know his extortioner.” Huskily he added, “In every way.”
His eyes moved over her again. This time more slowly and analytically. She saw them pause in the vicinity of her breasts, which the damp T-shirt did little to conceal. She could feel her nipples projecting against the worn, soft cotton and tried unsuccessfully to convince herself that the response resulted from the air-conditioning, and not Law Kincaid’s stare.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me now,” she said with affected haughtiness. “I’m expecting someone soon and I’ve got to clean up.”
“Who are you expecting? The agency man?” At her startled expression, he said, “You mentioned him when I first got here.”
“He has an appointment to look at my proposed sketches for a commission.”
“You’re an artist?”
“An illustrator.”
“For whom?”
“For myself. I freelance.”
“What project are you working on?”
“The cover of the Houston telephone directory.”
His tawny eyebrows rose a fraction, impressed. “That’s quite a commission.”
“I haven’t gotten it yet.” Marnie could have bitten her tongue the minute the words were out. He was shrewd enough to catch the slip.
“It would be an important commission to you?”
“Of course. Now, if you’ll—”
He caught her arm as she tried to go around him, headed for the front door. “It must get tough, living from one commission to the next while you maintain this house and pay your sick mother’s medical bills.”
“I do fine.”
“But you’re not rich.”
“Not by a long shot.”
“That’s why you’ve been writing me these threatening letters, isn’t it? To get money from me?”
“No. For the umpteenth time, I haven’t ever written you a letter.”
“Blackmail’s a serious crime, Miss Hibbs.”
“And a charge too ridiculous even to discuss. Now, please let go of my arm.”
He wasn’t hurting her. But his encircling fingers held her much too close to him. She was close enough to smell his sexy cologne and the minty freshness of his breath, close enough to see the dark centers of eyes that had sold more copies of Time than any other issue in history when they’d graced the front cover.
“You seem reasonably intelligent,” he said.
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
“So why did you send anonymous letters to me, then put your return address on the envelope?”
She gave a soft, disbelieving laugh and shook her head. “I didn’t. Or was that a trick question designed to trap me? Where are these letters? May I see them? Perhaps after I saw them I could offer an explanation.”
“Do I look stupid? I wouldn’t hand them over to you so you could destroy the evidence.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she cried. Then, staring up into his stern face, she said, “You’re really taking this seriously, aren’t you?”
“At first I didn’t. You were just one crank in hundreds. But after the fifth letter, when you got really nasty about pinning a paternity rap on me, I thought it was time to confront you.”
“I’m not the kind of woman who would pin a paternity rap on any man.”
“Even one with as high a public profile as me?”
“No.”
“One who stood to lose a lot if there was a scandal?”
“That’s right! Besides, I’ve told you that I’ve never had a child.”
They heard the front door open, then bang shut. There were running steps in the hall. Then a tall, lanky teenage boy rushed through the door.
“Mom, you gotta come see the car parked in front of our house. It’s totally bad!”
About the Author
SANDRA BROWN began her writing career in 1980. After selling her first book, she wrote a succession of romance novels under several pseudonyms, most of which remain in print. She has become one of the country’s most popular novelists, earning the notice of Hollywood and of critics. More than fifty of her books have appeared on the New York Times bestseller list. There are seventy million copies of her books in print, and her work has been translated into thirty languages. Prior to writing, she worked in commercial television as an on-air personality for PM Magazine and local news in Dallas. She and her husband now divide their time between homes in Texas and South Carolina.
BANTAM BOOKS BY SANDRA BROWN
Demon Rumm
Sunny Chandler’s Return
The Rana Look
Thursday’s Child
Riley in the Morning
In a Class by Itself
Send No Flowers
Tidings of Great Joy
Hawk O’Toole’s Hostage
Breakfast in Bed
Heaven’s Price
Adam’s Fall
Fanta C
A Whole New Light
22 Indigo Place
Texas! Sage
Texas! Chase
Texas! Lucky
Temperatures Rising
Long Time Coming
DEMON RUMM
A Bantam Book
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1987 Sandra Brown
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004046404
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.bantamdell.com
www.randomhouse.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-41799-2
v3.0
