by Neesa Hart
He had charm, too. In her experience, most reporters had all the charm of rattlesnakes. She felt a twitch of amusement play across her lips. “Bargain from a position of strength,” her father would say. “I understand congratulations are in order for your Pulitzer.”
When a faint shadow passed over his blue-green gaze, the string that had seemed to sit taut between them snapped. He lifted one broad shoulder in a casual shrug that belied what she sensed was an internal struggle. “People found Leo hard to resist.” His voice had taken on a gentle quality that handily unnerved her.
“That’s the child from your series.” She didn’t need to ask. She, like the rest of the country, had been enthralled by Leo’s life through Jackson’s series of articles. When the child had died, she’d taken it personally.
“Yes.”
The soft admission reached her like nothing else could. This was a man who understood pain. She found herself quickly reassessing, reevaluating her opinion of him, and she felt ashamed to realize she’d committed the same crime against him that she’d silently accused him of committing against her. She’d formed her opinion based on the most cursory of information, filtered through the screen of her own personal bias.
In a thousand lifetimes she wouldn’t have expected that sharp look of grief at the mention of Leo. She couldn’t ignore it. Grief, and the way it manifested itself in others, had always been her weak spot. He stood looking at her with that sorrow unmasked in his expression, and Cammy felt her resistance crumbling. Professionally, she recognized the symptoms. Personally, she shared them. She saw that Jackson Puller represented a worthy risk. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she told him.
She understood.
He seemed to know it.
And he smiled. That clinched it. That damned charming, mischievous world-on-a-string smile sucked her in. It failed to completely chase away the shadows, but it did wonders for the sharp lines of his face. In Cammy’s experience, reporters never smiled—at least, not genuinely.
Jackson Puller’s smile had charmed cameras, graced millions of television screens, and been splashed on hundreds of thousands of newspapers. She’d seen it dozens of times, but nothing compared to seeing it in person. It was impossible, she decided, to thoroughly dislike a man with that kind of smile. When she caught herself staring at his lips, she forced her gaze to his eyes. That was worse. He knew exactly what she was thinking.
Jackson watched curiously as she pulled herself together. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
The remark, she knew, was meant to tell her he hadn’t missed the frostiness of her reception, nor the implied warning in her cool gaze. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth did not escape her notice. Smart, too, she marveled. Would wonders never cease? “I’m afraid, Mr. Puller—”
He held up a hand. Strong-looking and slightly callused, it was an incredibly appealing hand. “We’ll be together a lot in the next couple of weeks. I’d prefer if you’d call me Jackson.”
The subtle challenge was unmistakable. He’d sensed the change in her position and had moved quickly to capitalize on it. Cammy felt the tug of a conceding smile. “All right. I was just about to say, though, that I don’t think I’ll be able to let you observe one of my sessions with the children.”
“Now, Cammy—” Mike advanced toward her.
She ignored his interruption. “The balance of trust, of understanding, is crucial.” She continued to watch the play of emotions across Jackson’s face. Lines of amusement at the edges of his eyes softened his features and made him downright irresistible. Blast him. “I think the children would be uncomfortable around a stranger.”
“I’m very good,” he said, leaning slightly in her direction, “at making children feel comfortable.”
“True, true.” Mike nodded vigorously. “You must admit, Cammy, he’s got a point there.”
She gave Mike a scathing look but stubbornly held her ground. “I’ve worked hard to develop a rapport with these kids. They trust me.”
“Then surely they will trust you if you introduce me as one of your friends.”
“I’ve never brought a stranger to a session before.”
“Then this should give you a chance to try something new.”
He’d won another point, and he knew it. Cammy struggled for tactical ground. To her surprise, she found herself enjoying the verbal sparring. She wasn’t quite sure just what it was about Jackson Puller’s devil-may-care expression that almost demanded a challenge, but she was powerless to resist it. “I’d like to start with something a little less intimidating than a world-famous, award-winning reporter.”
“The children will have no idea who I am when they come here.”
“They’ll be intimidated once they find out.”
“Or fascinated.”
She was fascinated by the way his lips formed the word. “They won’t be. Besides, most of them speak only with sign language. You won’t be able to communicate.”
“You’ll be there to interpret for me.”
“It’s not the same.”
“But it could work.”
“It won’t.”
“It could.”
She felt herself losing ground. If he didn’t look so devilishly pleased with himself, she might manage to feel annoyed. “I don’t want to regress. They’re just starting to really open up to me.”
Instantly, his expression turned from merriment to concern. “Are you genuinely afraid that might happen?”
Was she? Belatedly, she realized that she’d been so immersed in challenging him that she’d gotten conversationally reckless. She never wasted words. Anyone who knew her knew that to be true. Yet within ten minutes of meeting her, Jackson Puller had reduced her to a chatterbox. “Maybe.”
“I’m here to write a story, not to jeopardize your work.”
Cammy blinked at the obvious integrity in his expression. The argument, she sensed, was over. “I know.”
His gaze turned curious. “Sure about that?”
“Yes. Unless I miss my guess, you’re not any happier with this situation than I am.”
“It’s not my usual kind of story,” he admitted, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t see its merit.” The honesty of the statement shocked him. Less than an hour ago, he’d been practically accusing Chris Harris of tabloid sensationalism.
“My top concern has to be the children.”
He actually liked this woman That had to be the most surprising turn of the day. For the first time in his life, he’d found a political activist he didn’t immediately think of as pond scum. She lacked the high polish and hard edges he’d expected. In the few minutes she’d spent evaluating him, he’d felt an odd sense of connection with her that had him reeling. Even now, what should have sounded like a well-rehearsed line to impress him felt more like a mother tiger warning him away from her brood. He nodded, seeking to reassure her. “Then we can find something to agree on. I completely understand.”
“But would you still push me for a certain story angle?”
Cammy Glynn was a straight shooter. He hadn’t met a straight shooter over twelve years old in longer than he could remember. He tilted his head to the side as he studied her. “Dr. Glynn, why don’t you let me concentrate on the angles? You worry about your kids. That way, you’ll keep me in check.”
Beneath the smooth texture of her skin, the color heightened. She wasn’t blushing. Instinct told him that Cammy couldn’t be baited into blushing. Yet something about the cause of that slight flush taunted him. Was it passion? The thought made his flesh tingle.
“Does anyone ever keep you in check?”
Exhilarated, that’s how he felt. The simple pleasure of sharpening his wits was making him feel alive for the first time in weeks. “Sometimes.”
“But not usually?”
He didn’t even try to hide his amused smile. “No. Not usually. Don’t you think you’re up to the challenge?”
“Don’t you?”
The
question delighted him so thoroughly that he almost laughed out loud. He had to remember to apologize to Chris Harris for the rotten things he’d said that morning. Chris had been right. A few weeks with Cammy Glynn might turn out to be just the thing to help him rebuild his sanity. “Definitely.”
She watched him for a long moment, then nodded. “All right. We’ll try it.”
Mike Costas exhaled a long breath. “Excellent.”
“But,” Cammy’s gaze turned serious once more, “you’re going to have to follow my lead. If I think your presence is even remotely disruptive, I’ll put a stop to this. Agreed?”
“Absolutely. I’ll just be there to observe.”
“And I don’t want you to interview any of my children without me present.”
“No problem.”
“If you want a photographer present, I’ll need to meet with him. He needs to understand some ground rules I have.”
“It’s a her. I’ll talk to her myself. You’ll like Krista. She’s great with a camera, and great at her job. I’ll have her set up a meeting with you. I’ll also guarantee you photo approval. Nothing gets printed without your okay.”
“But she’s photographed children for you?”
“Yes. Krista’s got an excellent eye for a shot. You’ll be pleased.”
Cammy nodded. “All right. I’ll give you some guidelines for a typical session, and you can tell me how you want to proceed, but I’m serious when I tell you I won’t have my children upset or disrupted.”
“Not to worry, Doctor.” His gaze was pure mischief. “I’ll blend into the wall. You’ll never even know I’m there.”
two
He created utter chaos.
When Jackson entered the room, her children fell head over heels in love with him. Cammy had already told the children he was coming, and one flash of that charming smile was all it took. He seated himself cross-legged in the center of the small group. Less than twenty seconds later, he had one of them in his lap. If he hadn’t looked so completely at ease amid the group of swarming bodies, she might have felt annoyed at the way he took over her session. Instead, she stood to the side, marveling at the way he communicated with the children when he couldn’t speak their language. She interpreted when necessary, but she mostly allowed him to find his own way—cursing the gall of the man for looking so damn appealing.
After the first half hour, she gave up trying to recapture the kids’ attention. Jackson’s charisma held them hostage. From the edges of the room, vaguely noticeable in the overwhelming shadow of Jackson’s presence, Krista Swenlin, a young, owlish-looking woman, snapped silent photos.
As the session drew to a close, and the sponsors and volunteers began rounding up the children, Jackson stayed among them, drawing out his encounter until the last possible moment.
Cammy told the children good-bye as they fed through the door, until an insistent tugging on her trousers demanded her attention. She turned to concentrate on the tow-headed child in front of her. “Yes, Amy?” she signed.
Fingers flying, Amy asked, “Can he come back?”
Cammy’s lips twitched. “Do you want him to?” she signed.
“Yes.” Amy’s blue eyes widened expressively. “He almost knows how to spell his name.”
“Almost?”
“He can’t tell K from P.” She demonstrated the two similar signs. “I promised I’d show him next time.”
From the doorway, the sponsor who shuttled the children from their resident school to Cammy’s office waved a hand to signal she was ready to leave. Cammy nodded to her, then signed to Amy, “I’ll ask him if he wants to come back. You’d better go. Don’t want the van to leave without you.”
Amy threw her arms around Cammy’s legs with typical affection. Seconds later, she raced across the room, giving Jackson a universally understood thumbs-up on her way out the door. Jackson waved to her, and the room fell quiet for the first time in hours.
Jackson unfolded himself from the floor with a groan. “I’m getting too old for this. My butt’s asleep from sitting on the floor so long.”
She resisted the urge to look, again, at that portion of his anatomy, which was showcased in his jeans. “Occupational hazard,” she assured him. “After the first couple of weeks I worked with these kids, I had trouble walking properly. It might be days before you get all the feeling back.”
He stretched, arching his back, linking his hands over his head so his body pulled into a lean bow of muscled perfection. “I still haven’t figured out how a room full of deaf kids can be so noisy.”
Cammy laughed. “Some things are universal to the childhood experience.”
“They’re amazing.”
“I think so.”
The photographer finished packing her gear. She approached Jackson with an easy familiarity that Cammy envied. How long, she wondered, would a person have to know him before his presence failed to daunt? It had taken her children about twenty seconds, and here she was, still struggling a full twenty-four hours after she’d first laid eyes on him.
The photographer patted the top of her camera bag. “I got some great photos, Jack. Nice stuff.”
“Great,” Jackson said.
“Listen, I’m meeting Rory at Dirksen at three to cover Senator Goss’s press conference. I’m going to head over to the office and get these developed for you. You should have something to look at this afternoon.” She straightened her camera bag on her shoulder and looked at Cammy. “Nice meeting you, Dr. Glynn.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Cammy answered.
Krista looked at Jackson. “See you later, Jack,” she called as she hurried from the room.
In the late morning sunlight, he looked, Cammy decided, every bit as intriguing as he had the day before. Today, he’d worn jeans and a faded blue Henley that heightened the color of his eyes and did nothing to lessen the impact of his presence. “You were right,” Cammy told him. “I like her.”
“I’m usually right,” he joked. “How did you feel about this morning?”
“I felt like I didn’t get done what I wanted to.” She studied his expression. Why couldn’t she label the shifting emotions she read in his gaze?
He nodded. “We were late. It was my fault.”
She looked at him in amazement. “How very impressive, Mr. Puller. I don’t think I’ve met many men who are willing to accept blame.”
He laughed, but she still sensed his tension. “In your line of work, I guess not. Anyway, I want to apologize. I’m still a little jet-lagged, and I just didn’t get moving as quickly this morning as I would have liked. I know you wanted us here before you started.” He took a step in her direction that carried him across the invisible line of her personal space.
Cammy drew a deep breath and forced herself not to retreat. “It probably would have been less disruptive if the children could have met you as they arrived.”
He winced. “I know. I promised you I wouldn’t disturb your work, and I have a bad feeling I failed.”
“Miserably.”
Another step brought him close. “You mean your sessions don’t normally look like this?”
“Like a melee, you mean?”
“You’re not swinging at me. I’m going to take that as a good sign.”
“It’s all right. I wouldn’t want this to happen every time, but the kids had fun today. There should always be room for fun.”
He touched the sleeve of her sweatshirt with a large hand. The heat of him seeped through to her skin. “I like them.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes. Something lurked beneath the surface of his easy calm. She felt it simmering, waiting. “They liked you,” she told him carefully.
His fingers moved absently over her fleecy sleeve. “So am I off the hook?”
Cammy held his gaze, determined not to glance at his hand. “Not exactly.”
“There’s hell to pay, isn’t there?”
Was it her imagination, or did that sound more like a proposi
tion than a question? She shook her head, then used the opportunity to move away from him. “I don’t think the price is quite that high. I would like you to have a clearer picture of what generally goes on here, though.” Cammy began to pick up the scattered toys and books.
“I read the materials you gave me yesterday. I know you normally work on their language skills.”
“It’ll be easier for them in the long run if they learn how to speak the language of the world they live in.”
“That’s a controversial position, isn’t it?” He accepted a stack of books from her, then turned to shelve them deftly on the bookcase.
She exhaled a long breath. “Very. There are members of the deaf community who feel that lip-reading and audible language are concessions to the hearing world. They don’t feel that deafness is a disability, and shouldn’t be treated as something to overcome. For them, speaking sign language is like speaking Spanish or French.” She dropped an armload of toys into a bin. “It’s just another way of communicating.”
“You don’t agree.” Jackson finished restoring the pieces of a puzzle before he glanced at her.
“I’m practical, I suppose.” And would do well to remember it, she chided herself. She straightened her glasses. “American Sign Language is an incredible liberator—one of the best things that ever happened for the deaf community. If deaf Americans lived together in a cloistered environment, where only ASL was spoken, then yes, I’d have to agree there’s no reason to go through the process of trying to learn audible speech.” She tidied a shelf. “But the reality is, these children live in a world that speaks and understands English, not ASL. In my opinion, and it’s not necessarily a popular one, they’ll have more opportunities and better chances in life if they learn to function in that environment.”
“According to the material you gave me to read, it can take several years for a deaf child to learn audible speech and lip-reading.”
“Think of it as teaching a blind person how to paint a tree. Not only are they unable to see the canvas or the paints, but they have no frame of reference for what the tree looks like. If it were art, it wouldn’t matter. Your tree may look different than my tree. But with speech, it’s not valid if it isn’t understood.”
