Flash and Fire

by Marie Ferrarella

  With a cry that melted into his mouth, Amanda dove her fingers into Pierce’s hair and held on, her body pressed urgently against his.

  She knew she was going to be sorry, very sorry, but that was for later, not now. For now, for this single moment in time, she wanted to pretend she didn’t know the things she did—that there were no fairy tales, no happy endings, that men who kissed like this weren’t made of sterling and didn’t plight undying love. Men who kissed like this were womanizers who would tear her heart to shreds and rake it over the jagged rocks of grief.

  All she wanted to do was lose herself in the mindless delight he evoked in her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For one brief moment, blood pounding through his veins, Pierce thought of carrying Amanda to her room and satisfying this urgent need that held him captivated, that held him without mercy.

  But something else kept him in check, something that promised him the wait would make it all worth his while. The wait would make it sweeter.

  His hands roamed her back, pressing her to him. It had been a long time since he’d felt this kind of passion, a long time since he had wanted a woman this much.

  He reminded himself that he wasn’t an animal who gave in to lust for its own sake. At least, not often. And not with a child a few feet away. There were some rules to the game, after all.

  Pierce had had no idea, when he began to kiss Amanda an eternity ago, that he was going to be sucked into a vortex. The breathless realization had all but knocked control over his own actions out of his hands. Pierce struggled to hang on.

  The cool woman who put him down with such obvious relish and aplomb had turned out to be a sizzling wildcat, whether she realized it or not.

  He had suspected it from the first, just by looking into her eyes.

  Pierce trailed his lips over the hollow of her throat, and the familiar action reminded Amanda too much of Jeff. It was something he had been fond of doing because it aroused her so; Jeff had always enjoyed exercising his power over her.

  Common sense came rushing back to Amanda as she remembered who she was, what she was doing. She was giving Jeff another chance to undo her.

  With a strangled cry, Amanda wedged her hands between them and pushed Pierce away from her. She tossed back her head, as if that could clear the last bit of delirium from her brain.

  “Satisfied your curiosity enough?” Each syllable was dipped in bitterness.

  There was anger in her eyes. And hurt. A well of hurt. Why? Except for her back, he hadn’t even touched her. He had refrained, though he had ached to curve his hands around the swell of her breasts. But he knew that for Amanda, the bridge from here to there, from stranger to lover, was one constructed out of fragile rope that would break if stressed too quickly. Pierce hadn’t wanted to behave like an adolescent, fumbling in the backseat of his father’s car.

  If his father had had a car.

  If he’d had a father.

  Because he wanted to touch her, he trailed his fingertips against her cheek. Amanda jerked away, just as he knew she would. And desire flashed for a moment in her eyes. He had known that would happen too.

  “Mandy, I haven’t begun to satisfy anything yet.”

  She spoke in a slow, measured cadence. “Too bad— those are all the samples that are being given out. Ever.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from touching her again. “Lady, do you have any idea how lethal you are?”

  If he meant to flatter her, he didn’t. Those were just empty words. Amanda pressed her lips together and tasted him. There was a surge within her, warm and insistent, that had nothing to do with common sense. She fought it back.

  “No, but I have an idea how annoyed I am. I also know that I’d like you to leave right—“

  Amanda saw a movement in the doorway and turned to look. She blew out an angry breath. Carla was standing on the threshold. Red-nosed and sniffling, her housekeeper was staring at Pierce with huge, worshipful eyes.

  “What is it, Carla?” She asked the question a bit too sharply.

  Pierce grinned at Carla as he placed his hands on Amanda’s shoulders. Amanda shrugged him off, her eyes on Carla.

  “I was making my call. . .” Carla’s voice trailed off as she returned Pierce’s smile.

  “Yes?” Amanda prodded. “What about your phone call, Carla?”

  Carla blushed and stammered. “And that call-holding thing beeped. I got it right, finally.” Timid triumph glowed on her face.

  Carla was always losing incoming phone calls. Amanda tried not to lose her temper.

  “And—?”

  Carla lowered her eyes. She couldn’t think coherently with Pierce looking at her like that.

  “It’s that man again.” She stopped, trying to remember the caller’s name. Her sinus attack and this blue-eyed man made everything fuzzy. “Whitney Granger. He says he wants to talk to you. Should I tell my mother to hang up?” Carla looked a little put out.

  “Yes, tell your mother to hang up. You can call her back later. I’ll take my call in the den.” Amanda was aware that Pierce had become very attentive to the conversation at the mention of Whitney’s name.

  Too bad, you’re not coming anywhere near this one, Alexander.

  Carla hurried from the room.

  Pierce’s casual stance didn’t deceive Amanda. “Why would Whitney Granger be calling you?” he asked.

  His own sources had told Pierce that there was something up at Contemporary Vehicles, something that couldn’t bear the light of day. Was Amanda doing a little legwork on her own? He knew that unlike the other anchors, who were satisfied just to read copy someone else had written, Amanda enjoyed doing fieldwork whenever possible. He’d heard that she claimed it kept her fresh.

  He’d drink to that.

  The last thing in the world Amanda wanted was to have Alexander sticking his nose into this. He was first and last an investigative reporter. There’d be no compunction about snatching this story away from her and making it his shining scoop. He’d do it in a heartbeat, with no more thought than he had put into kissing her.

  Less.

  “He’s an old family friend,” she said easily. Amanda began to edge her way out of the room. “He’s probably just calling to invite me over for a barbecue. He does that a lot.”

  There was more to it than that; he’d bet his reputation on it. But what kind of more? Was she seeing Granger professionally? Sleeping with him? Granger appeared to be a family man, but those were usually the most predatory types.

  “I didn’t know you knew Granger.” His voice was casual as he toyed with the fringes on one of the decorative kitchen towels.

  “Why should you?” What business did he think he had in her private life? “I wear a size five shoe; you didn’t know that either.”

  His arrogant smile rankled her even as it seeped under her skin. “Yes, I did.” He touched the tip of his tongue to his lip, as if savoring her kiss. “You’d be surprised what I know about you, Mandy.”

  She wished she had a bodyguard who could throw him out on his ear for her. Anything to wipe that smug expression from his face.

  “I don’t have the time to hear it, nor the stomach for it.” She thought of Whitney, waiting on the line. Amanda gestured toward the front of the house. “You know where the door is. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

  Not waiting to see him off, Amanda hurried to the den, her mind already on Whitney. Why is he calling? Has he changed his mind?

  Pierce watched her leave. “All in due time, Amanda,” he murmured under his breath. “All in due time.” He waited a beat, then ventured out into the hall.

  The sound of her voice, low and secretive, guided him. Pierce stopped short of the den. The door was closed, but he could hear her clearly through it. Amanda sighed, and Pierce could tell that she knew Granger personally, just as she’d said.

  Amanda’s heart ached for Whitney. It wasn’t what he said but the tone of his voice when he said it that
told her just how much he was suffering. She felt so impotent, so helpless.

  “I could come over,” she offered.

  She could hear the sad smile over the telephone. “Holding my hand isn’t necessary, Amanda. I’m a grown man. I broke the law. No matter how good I thought my reasons were, I still broke the law. It’s time to face up to the consequences. I just wanted to be sure that you were still going through with the story.”

  She wished she didn’t have to. “It’s what you want, right?”

  He sighed heavily. “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll do it. I’ll present it in the best light I possibly can tonight.” She worked her lower lip. “Whitney, everything’s going to be all right.”

  At least I hope so.

  She heard him laugh softly, as if he knew better. “Of course it will. I’ll be watching tonight. I know I can count on you.”

  “You can always count on me, Whitney.” To go on the air and be the first one to destroy your reputation and maybe your life, she thought sadly. “I’ll be by later in case you change your mind about needing that hand to hold.”

  From the sound of her voice, Pierce judged that Amanda was about to hang up. He withdrew quickly, hurrying down the hall and then out the door.

  As he got into his car and started it, he pressed one of the buttons on his mobile phone. He needed Granger’s address, and fast. Jackie was probably in her office at the station. She could look it up for him.

  One hand on the wheel, Pierce listened to the phone on the other end ring. Just what was it that Amanda was preparing to present on the news tonight about Granger? He hadn’t heard of any exclusive shaping up at the station involving Contemporary Vehicles or Granger. That meant she was going out on her own. We’ll see, Mandy, we’ll see.

  Within forty-five minutes, Pierce was standing on the marble front steps of Whitney Granger’s house. The estate was guarded, but it had been an almost childishly simple matter to gain entry. He’d told the guard that he had been sent by Amanda to speak to Granger. Phoning the house to verify, the guard had opened the gates almost immediately.

  Apparently, Pierce mused, Amanda’s name opened doors around here.

  Whitney was at the door when Pierce knocked.

  Pierce took out his wallet to show his ID. Whitney waved it aside without bothering to look at it. “That isn’t necessary,” he told him. “I know who you are.” Whitney gestured for Pierce to come in, but his eyes remained wary as he regarded the younger man.

  It was starting already, he thought. The reporters flocking to his door like so many vultures after carrion. But he could deal with this one. “I do, however, find it difficult to believe that Amanda sent you.”

  Pierce felt his way around slowly. “She just wanted to get a couple of last-minute details straight for the broadcast tonight. They occurred to her after she hung up with vou earlier.”

  It had the ring of truth in it, but so did the best of lies. “You were there?”

  “Yes, at her house. We were working on something else when you called.”

  The impression of her mouth still warm on his, Pierce wondered how Amanda would have reacted to his wording. He stole a glance at Whitney as he pretended to look around his elegant library.

  Pierce went out on a limb, playing a long shot as he tried to second-guess Amanda’s reasoning.

  “She wants to do this without any outside interference, but she felt that she needed someone to use as a sounding board.” Pierce turned to smile broadly at Whitney, his eyes innocent and unassuming, perhaps even a touch humble. “She chose me.”

  Whitney’s initial inclination was to resist offering any explanation. He had asked for secrecy until she broke the story and Amanda had promised it. But the man before him was a known personality, and he seemed genuine. Whitney recalled seeing Pierce on the news several times. There was a quality of believability that radiated from him when he made his reports. He wasn’t a painted, two-dimensional newscaster, he was more like one of the many people he interviewed. More like one of them than he, Whitney, had ever been.

  “All right.” Whitney indicated a sofa and then sat down himself. He folded his hands before him and looked up at Pierce. “What is it you want to know?”

  Everything.

  Pierce took a seat on the edge of sofa. Willing sincerity to enter his eyes, Pierce did his best to put Whitney at ease. He’d played the kindly friend more times than he had the hard-nosed reporter and had been amply rewarded.

  He wondered how much he could ask without giving himself away. He began with a vague question, hoping it would lead to specifics. “What do you plan to do after the story’s released?”

  An enigmatic smile played on Whitney’s lips. “You mean, after the reporters lay siege to the estate?”

  So it was going to be big. He knew it. ‘Yeah, after that.”

  Whitney suddenly felt too restless to sit. He’d been counting the hours until the broadcast. There wasn’t much time left. He rose and crossed to the white fireplace. On the mantel was a wedding portrait. It brought him no joy.

  “I imagine that it’ll probably be a matter for the law to handle. I’ve already sent for Amanda’s father to represent me in this.”

  Pierce vaguely recalled hearing that her father was a high-powered lawyer who sold his services only to the rich, the very rich. Pierce cast about for more questions, his mind racing as he tried to piece things together. Whispered rumors of embezzlement had just surfaced, as recently as yesterday. But if that was the case and it was true, why was Granger releasing the story himself? Unless he wasn’t behind the embezzlement. But if he wasn’t, then who was? Pierce couldn’t ask without giving himself away.

  He settled on another mundane question. “Does Amanda know that you’ve called her father?”

  Whitney shook his head. “No, I haven’t told her, but I imagine she’s guessed. As a matter of fact, she was the one who counseled me not to say anything unless Henry Foster was at my side.”

  “It might be wise to listen to that advice.”

  Whitney thought of the blackmailer. The voice had been adamant.

  “It’s too late to play it safe. Too late.” Whitney realized that his mind had been drifting. “Perhaps I should just call Amanda and answer her questions myself—?”

  Granger suspected, Pierce decided. “She’s not available,” Pierce told him easily. He took his cue and rose to his feet. Well, it had been a gamble. No need to press his luck. “She’s at the studio right now, working on her copy. She told me not to call until after four. She wanted to do the story, and you, justice.”

  Whitney’s mouth curved. He wasn’t entirely certain that Amanda had sent this man, but what did it matter? In a few hours, everyone would know. “Strange that you’d use that word.”

  Pierce looked at Whitney and saw only a human being in pain.

  “Hey, justice is for everyone. She told me to tell you not to worry. That she’d be there for you if you needed her. That hand to hold,” he reminded Whitney.

  Whitney nodded as the wariness temporarily left his eyes.

  He believes me, Pierce thought. Yet the triumph was oddly hollow. Pierce jerked a thumb behind him in the direction of the front door. He had a bad taste in his mouth. “I’ll just let myself out.”

  “Nothing else you want to know?”

  “No. Amanda has the rest of it.”

  Whitney nodded. “Tell her thank you for me when you see her.” His voice was resigned.

  “Sure thing.”

  It occurred to Pierce as he drove away from the estate that he could be accused of attempted theft. This was Amanda’s story. Amanda’s and Whitney’s. Once she announced it on the air, it would belong to everyone. But until that time, it was hers alone. He had no right to try to steal it by using a man’s tnist.

  Thirty-two and he was finally developing a conscience, he thought. No, that was wasn’t exactly accurate. He had a conscience. But until just now, it had only pertained to widows and orphans, not ne
ws stories.

  He supposed that everyone deserved an off day. His was today.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He didn’t have enough information to break the story on his own, and a delayed sense of morality had impeded his normal instincts, but his curiosity was still aroused. Rather than going home, Pierce decided to head to the television studio. There was nothing waiting for him at home anyway except for a mailbox full of bills and an empty refrigerator.

  The refrigerator.

  Like a clue in a word association game, “refrigerator” made him recall the groceries he had haphazardly deposited into his trunk earlier today. He had been preoccupied with thoughts of Amanda. Seeing her had thrown things off kilter. Now the milk he had bought this morning was surely on its way to souring.

  Swallowing a halfhearted curse, he debated turning around and heading home with the two bags. Oh, the hell with it. There was no point in going home now. The perishables were already gone.

  Pierce shrugged. He could always buy more. His nonchalance about the waste amused him. There was a time when spoiled milk would have been more than just a source of minor irritation. It would have generated a real problem. But his days of hand-to-mouth existence, and Georgia, were long behind him.

  Pierce drove to the studio.

  He pulled the car into his reserved spot in the rear parking lot and popped the trunk. He raised the lid and looked in. Wrinkling his nose, he sorted through the groceries, saved what was salvageable, and packed the rest into one bag. He rolled the bag firmly up at the top and took it out. There was a Dumpster at the rear of the studio. He crossed to it and threw out the bag. As he did so, a movement in the shadow of the building caught his eye.

  Turning, Pierce saw a shabbily dressed man waiting for him to go inside the studio. Despite the heat, the man wore a huge, shapeless, dirty overcoat that looked as if it had once been a light tan color. Pierce had seen him around before. The man was a homeless vagrant who hung around the area. Pierce didn’t know his name but he had dubbed him Maurice, naming him after a slow, shuffling alley cat his grandmother had favored for a while, before the cat had gotten run over by a car.