Susan Amarillas

by Scanlin's Law

  All the other doors appeared closed, and he was about to go back downstairs when he noticed a ray of sunlight slicing across the carpet near the end of the hallway.

  Striding in that direction, he found a door partially ajar and, pushing it open a little farther, he saw Rebecca seated at a small drop-front desk. Her back was toward him, and she appeared intent on some papers she had spread out in front of her. The room was small and square, and three walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling walnut bookcases. There were leather-bound volumes in neat lines, intermixed with scraggly stacks of papers. One good shake and they would slide to the floor. Her desk was between the two windows. Through the white lace curtains, he could see the front lawn and the street beyond.

  So this was the lady’s inner sanctum. The place where she worked. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but then, there were a great many things he hadn’t expected, it seemed.

  With more harshness than he’d intended, he said, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you owned the Times?”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice, surging to her feet and clutching her chest all at once. She wore a dark green dress with tiny white stripes. The neck was high and the skirt full, and Luke momentarily wondered why she was so intent on disguising her God-given attributes.

  “You scared me,” she said, a little breathless.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the paper and about the articles?”

  For the span of three heartbeats, Rebecca didn’t move. She looked at him, filling her doorway like a dark specter, like the ghost who’d lived in the shadows of her life all these years.

  Each time she saw him, it was as though she were seeing him for the first time. And each time she was overcome by the intensely masculine appeal of him. The way his white shirt pulled tight against the work-hardened muscles of his chest and shoulders, the provocative way his black wool trousers hugged his narrow hips and legs.

  Their eyes met; his were focused fully on her, while hers drifted to his mouth, and she remembered the delicious passion of his kiss.

  A shiver prickled down her spine, and she blinked against the sudden sensation. “I don’t answer to you.” She dropped down in her chair and pretended to go back to her work. “Besides, I thought you left.”

  “Why should I leave? I live here, remember?” He walked into the room, his boots making hollow thuds on the bare floor before he stepped on the square carpet in the center.

  “You don’t live here,” she fired back as she struggled to ignore the suddenly vivid memories of being in his arms. “You’re a guest—until Andrew is returned. That’s all. And stop swearing at me!”

  “I’ll damned well swear if I want.”

  “Not at me, you won’t. Get out and leave me alone. I’m busy.”

  “I know all about your work, sweetheart, and I’m staying.”

  “Do you want to test that?” She regarded him with casual disdain.

  He arched one black brow in surprise, then said, “Okay, then, I’m staying until I get the boy back.”

  “Well, you weren’t here this morning,” she returned, shuffling the article she was working on until the pages were a scrambled mishmash. “If something had happened, you’d have been off doing whatever suited your fancy, I suppose.”

  He took another step in her direction, but she refused to be intimidated by him, not this time.

  “I was not suiting my fancy, as you put it. I went by the police station, and then I had a meeting.” He stood so close she could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. “It was important.”

  “More important than me?” The instant the words were out, she regretted them, regretted even more that after seven years, his leaving still affected her. He was too disturbing to her senses. Too dangerous to her plans. She squared her shoulders and steadied herself. “I mean—” she dragged out the last word “—your meeting was more important than helping me?”

  His gaze sought hers, and as quick as that, his mood changed, softened. She could see it in his eyes. The man was more quixotic than anyone she’d ever known. Maybe that was why she was more intrigued than angry.

  “Nothing—” he let the word linger between them before he finished “—is more important than you.”

  “Than helping me, you mean.”

  His mouth curved up in a lazy sort of smile that pushed her heart rate up about three levels.

  “Whatever you say.”

  There was something in the huskiness of his tone that made her nervous, kind of skittish, like a sparrow eye to eye with the hawk. Feeling cornered and not liking the feeling, she skirted around him and strolled to the window. The wood made a scraping sound as she lifted the sash. The air was fresh and clean. The distinctive sound of a ship’s bell carried up from the harbor.

  “Now what were you asking when you barged in here...uninvited?” She never looked at him, only stared out the window as she struggled to maintain an aloofness she didn’t feel. “I asked,” Luke repeated in a much gentler tone, “why you didn’t tell me you owned the Times.”

  She was quite breathtaking, Luke thought, watching the way the sunlight caught her upswept hair, the way her silhouette was outlined by the light. Yes, very, very beautiful. And he wanted her.

  “I already told you that I don’t answer to you. A great many things can change in nearly eight years. I can hardly tell you everything.”

  Luke dropped down in her swivel desk chair, making its gears squeak. He glanced at the papers on her desk. “Much as I’d like to know everything, let’s stay with this, shall we?”

  She spared him a look, seeing his hand resting lightly on the column she’d been working on, or at least trying to when she wasn’t thinking about Andrew or Luke. “It’s my next article on city corruption.”

  “I figured as much. Why?”

  “Why what?”

  He shook his head resolutely. “Why would you go stir up a mess like this? Why didn’t you take it to the authorities? You had to know there’d be retaliation.”

  She turned sharply on her heel and walked to the desk. Her hands curved, white-knuckle tight, over the edge. “What do you mean, retaliation? There’s no retaliation, and there weren’t any authorities to take it to. None that I could trust, anyway. Besides, I put two years of my life into this paper. Do you think I’d give away a story this big? Circulation is up twenty percent.”

  “What’s the big deal? Didn’t you inherit the paper?”

  “Of course,” she returned, with a negligent wave of her hand. “But it was small, operating in the red, and about to close. Nathan had gotten it as part of a larger business deal. He was never interested in it, and just let it be. After he died, I decided to keep it, to see if I could make it into something.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake? You certainly don’t need the money. Couldn’t you have sold it?” He was astonished that she’d take on a job like this.

  “I could have. As a matter of fact, I have an offer on my desk right now.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Why should I discuss this with you?”

  “Why not? Is it a secret?”

  “I have no secrets,” she snapped, then abruptly walked over to the bookcase and scanned the shelves, apparently looking for something.

  “Come on, Becky. I honestly want to know. Why would you want to run a newspaper?”

  She glanced back, as though considering his question, then said softly, “Because it was mine. For the first time in my life, I had something that was all mine, with which to succeed or fail.” She closed the book and returned it to the shelf. Surely you must understand the feeling of taking on a task, a seemingly insurmountable task, and succeeding.”

  “Well, sure. But I’m a man, and—”

  Impatience flashed in her eyes. “And I’m every bit as smart and capable as you.”

  “No one said you weren’t,” he said sincerely, knowing it was true. He had great respect for any woman who could run a home and family single-handedly, and add to that a complicated busi
ness like a newspaper... “But men don’t have choices about these things. We’re expected to...”

  “To what?”

  “I was going to say that men are expected to provide, to take care of our families.”

  “And I,” she returned, speaking slowly, as if to make certain he understood, “I am taking care of myself and providing for my child.”

  “You mean you have to work?”

  “I mean, I like it. No, I love it—every decision, every obstacle, every failure, every success. It doesn’t matter. It’s mine. Someday it will be Andrew’s.”

  He didn’t miss the possessiveness in her voice. And then he understood. It was her pride, her self-respect, that she’d built. He couldn’t fault her for that. Wasn’t that exactly what he’d spent his life doing?

  “And I gather the paper is making an impact?” He already knew the answer, if the governor’s reaction to her articles was any indication.

  “Yes.” She favored him with a smug smile. “And two months ago we moved into the black.”

  Luke knew pride was all well and good, but sometimes there was such a thing as discretion. “It seems that while you were building this newspaper, you managed to stir up no small amount of trouble.”

  Rebecca shook her head and sighed. “It’s the primary function of a newspaper to inform the public. If there’s trouble, then so be it.”

  He lounged back, the chair tipping and squeaking as he did. “From what I hear, these articles of yours have tongues wagging all the way to Sacramento. People are nervous.”

  “Good,” she said adamantly. “That’s exactly what I want.”

  “When criminals get nervous, they tend to take revenge. Dammit, Becky. I asked you if you had any enemies.”

  “I don’t,” she retorted. “I haven’t done anything except point out the obvious—that there is no way the crime can flourish in this city without someone being paid off. The Barbary Coast is going twenty-four hours a day, and it’s expanding. Someone is letting that happen. It’s obvious who.”

  “You’re dealing with—hell, you don’t even know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Of course I do. I suspect the mayor and Chief Brody, for starters. Probably some lower officials, clerks, policemen, and so forth.”

  “Suspect? Don’t tell me you don’t have any hard proof.”

  She blanched, but didn’t back down. “Not yet. Nothing in writing.”

  Lord, she really was in over her head. “Has it occurred to you that someone might have taken your child, might have harmed your child, to get back at you for these stories? To stop you from finding hard proof?”

  She paled, and a trembling hand fluttered to her throat. “No one would do such a thing! Only the lowest form of human life would do that!”

  “Well, someone sure as hell did.” He paced away from her. “Wake up, woman. These little articles of yours have rattled someone’s cage, and they don’t like it.”

  “If you’re right—and I’m not saying you are—what would someone hope to gain?”

  That was still a bit of a puzzle, but Luke figured things might clear up when the ransom note arrived. “I’m guessing they’re letting you know they can get to you anytime they want. They can hurt you anytime. If they make a demand, you’d damn well better do it, is what they’re telling you.”

  She stared at him for the longest moment, then slowly shook her head in denial. “No. I don’t believe it. As much as I believe the mayor and the chief are involved in city corruption, I don’t believe either one of them would do this, would take my child as part of some dastardly scheme to get even with me.” She shook her head more emphatically.

  “I’m telling you this paper is the cause of all your trouble.”

  “Not true. Why, only two years ago John Woodson’s wife was dragged right out of her carriage in broad daylight. The perpetrators demanded money, and she was released, and neither she or her husband had anything to do with newspapers.”

  “I’m telling you you’re wrong, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t agree, and don’t call me sweetheart. I’m not your sweetheart, or anyone else’s.”

  “Really? That’s gonna come as a big surprise to the joker who was trying to play kissy-face with you last night.”

  “How dare you mention such a thing!” Rebecca set her balled fists on her waist. “If you were any kind of a gentleman, you would have made your presence known or returned to your room until Edward—” she emphasized his name “—had left.”

  He chuckled. “Well, if I was any kind of a gentleman, I guess you’d be right. I must have missed school the day they were teaching drawing room manners.”

  “No, Luke, no one could accuse you of being anything but what you are—arrogant, presumptuous...” She faced him head-on. “As far as I’m concerned, you barged in here yesterday morning, started giving orders to everyone—including the chief of police—took over without asking or being asked, and eavesdropped on a private conversation with my guest.” She paced back to the window. “I acknowledge your abilities as a lawman, and for that I am grateful, but as you can plainly see, we have nothing in common, and I do not have the time or inclination to reminisce about a brief...encounter that we are both better off forgetting about.”

  If he was insulted by her tirade, he showed no signs of it. In fact, she thought she heard him laugh, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him, so she couldn’t be certain.

  “Princess,” she heard him say, “that was a fine speech. Trouble is, I don’t see it quite that way. When I walked in here yesterday you were in trouble, and we both know it. Brody had you over a barrel, and there wasn’t a thing you could do. You needed me then, and you need me now. If that’s arrogant, then so be it. I did the right thing, whether you admit it or not.”

  “So you’re always right.”

  “No, not always. Sometimes it takes me a while to admit a mistake.” His voice took on a strange, husky quality that seemed to caress her already raw nerves. “Sometimes it takes years—eight years, to be exact.”

  Before she knew what he was about, he pulled her to him and kissed her, fully, intensely, possessively. About the time her knees liquefied, he tore his mouth from hers and in a fierce tone said, “You can’t dismiss me. You can’t dismiss the sparks that fly whenever we’re together. You want me as much as I want you, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. I’m a patient man. I can wait. I’ve waited eight years. I’ll wait another eight, or eight hundred, but you’re going to be mine, make no mistake about it.”

  Then, releasing her, he left the room.

  Chapter Six

  Rebecca quietly but oh-so-firmly closed the door. Her hand twisted around the brass knob as though she were wringing a chicken’s neck. Lord knew she wanted to wring someone’s neck.

  She counted to a hundred. Her heart was still pounding like a Gatling gun. She clamped her jaw down so hard her teeth ached. She counted to a hundred again—this time in French—just for good measure.

  She wanted to hit something or someone. Definitely someone—a specific someone, with the sable-soft eyes of the devil himself.

  Damn the man. Damn his arrogance. In one fluid motion, she grabbed the white porcelain vase from the bookshelf and hurled it against the closed door. The distinct sound of breaking porcelain only momentarily eased her temper.

  It was that momentary relief that sent her searching for something else to throw, something else to destroy the way he destroyed her carefully built defenses.

  “Who do you think you are, Luke Scanlin?” She shook her fist in the air. “What kind of woman do you think I am?” she ranted to the empty room.

  She kicked at her chair, sending it lurching across the room to slam into the wall with a hollow thud that made a sizable chink in the plaster.

  She inspected the damage. “This is your fault, too!”

  Everything was his fault. Every disaster, every heartache, every minute of lost sleep...it had all started the day L
uke Scanlin walked into her life.

  She stormed to the bookshelves, then back to her desk and back to the bookshelves again. The air stirred by her quick movements made the loose papers flutter in the breeze of her wake, like so many fingers shaking to rebuke her for her foolish actions. With narrow-eyed determination, she retaliated by flinging them off the shelf to float and tumble until they settled onto the floor.

  She would show them. And she would show him. She would show everyone!

  She hadn’t needed him then, and she most certainly didn’t need him now.

  The man had a colossal nerve. How dare he think he could say he wanted her and she’d just swoon into his arms in gratitude!

  You did swoon, her conscience reminded her.

  “I was seduced,” she countered through clenched teeth. “Then and now.”

  Call it anything you like, but he’s right. You do want him.

  She froze. The truth hit her like cold water on a hot day. She sagged down in her chair, her head lolling back against the smooth, cool plaster.

  Like it or not, this was reality. Luke, the one man she’d thought she would never see again in her life, was here, and he’d made his desires very clear to her. Oh, yes, very clear. Her pulse fluttered at the memory of his explicit words.

  Dammit. She snatched back the thoughts, and the feelings. Well, the thoughts, at least. Having Luke rip through her life had nearly been her undoing once.

  Her eyes fluttered closed, and in her mind she could see her mother’s stern countenance as she admonished her to give up her flights of fancy, to stop romanticizing, to do her duty to herself and her family. None of which included a certain cowboy, no matter how handsome he was.

  Yes, she thought ruefully, her mother had warned her, and she’d been so right. If only she’d listened. But all her life her mother had been the strict one, the demanding one, the disciplinarian, and, after a while, Rebecca had simply stopped listening.

  Oh, it hadn’t really been Mama’s fault that she was so strict, so determined, so rigid. After all, she had been one of the Stanleys of Virginia—first family, and all that.