Hot off the Presses

by Rebecca York

  A spasm of fear grabbed her. She couldn't climb down that thing!

  Chapter Six

  M.J. wanted to scream that she was afraid of heights, that she'd faint on the way down the makeshift ladder. But she kept the protest locked in her throat as she watched Daniel expertly descend.

  The ladder ended about three yards from the ground. He hung by his hands, letting himself drop the last few yards.

  Turning, he held up his arms. "I'll catch you at the bottom."

  Knowing there was no alternative, she gritted her teeth and followed him down, ignoring the throbbing pain in her arm. When she reached the last rung, she hesitated.

  "Come on!" he growled. "We've got to get out of here."

  With a silent prayer, she forced herself to let go.

  Daniel caught her, and she fell against him. As he turned her and tightened his arms around her, she pressed her face into his shoulder.

  "You don't like heights," he said as he stroked his lips against the top of her head. "But you didn't let that stop you."

  "How did you know?"

  "Like you — I've learned to read people."

  "Yeah, well, I do what I have to."

  "And more." He raised his head, then looked toward the back door. "We'd better make tracks before they figure out we're not inside."

  They'd just reached the car when a shout sounded from the kitchen doorway.

  "Out here! They're getting away."

  A bullet whizzed past M.J.'s head as she scrambled into the car. Before she'd closed the door, Daniel hit the gas, backing up at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. More shots sounded as they screeched into a tight turn and sped down the alley.

  Behind her she heard the squeal of tires and knew the bad guys were right on their tail. Daniel made a sharp turn, then another, and another, weaving through the neighborhood at speeds so fast she kept expecting him to plow into cars parked along the street. But he would have made an excellent stunt car driver.

  There was a loud crash behind them. Jerking around in her seat, she saw that whoever was driving the other car wasn't quite so skilled as Daniel.

  "I think they're out of commission," she said. "They just plowed into a truck at the last cross street."

  "I hope the truck driver's okay."

  "He's driving a big sucker. Big enough to flatten them."

  Daniel snorted, then sobered almost immediately as he slowed the car and asked, "Are you all right?"

  "Yes. What about you?"

  "In one piece," he answered, his voice low and gravelly.

  She breathed out a sigh of relief. In the distance, she could hear the sound of police sirens.

  Once they were out of the neighborhood, he pulled to the curb under the shade of a low-hanging tree.

  "What?"

  Without speaking, he reached across the console and crushed her against him. Then his mouth came down on hers. The kiss might have started out as a celebration of their escape from death, but it quickly turned passionate as he angled his head first one way and then the other, tasting, feasting, demanding.

  She was helpless to do anything but give him what he wanted, her passion rising to match his. His hands slipped under her borrowed shirt, stroked against her back and shoulders, then came around to cup her breasts.

  She forgot she was in a bullet-riddled car, forgot everything but the taste and touch of Daniel Brady as he kissed her and caressed her.

  When his fingers found her hardened nipples, she gave a glad little cry. And when he lifted her into his lap, she straddled his body, pressing her throbbing center to the hard shaft of the erection she could feel through the fabric of his slacks.

  She made small, pleading sounds as she rocked against him, wanting more — needing more. They had almost been killed. Now they were gloriously alive and in each other's arms.

  The sound of a horn blaring made her head snap up. Headlights blinded her, and for a terrible moment, her befuddled brain thought that the thugs had found them. Then an angry voice shouted, "Find somewhere else for your nasty activities."

  She laughed, partly in relief and partly in mortification. Daniel kept his gaze straight ahead as he set her back in her own seat, started the engine, and lurched out of the parking space.

  "Sorry," he muttered.

  "About kissing me. Or getting caught?"

  "It was a little more than kissing."

  Always mindful of the truth, she answered, "It was what we both wanted."

  His tight nod had her leaning back against the seat. When she slid him a sidewise look, she saw his features were grim.

  A few blocks later, he pulled into a gas station, parked in front of the office, and climbed out. She wondered what he was doing as he stood talking to a man in gray coveralls. "Come on," he said when he strode back, a satisfied look on his face. "I've rented us another car. I'll replace this one for you later." His casual assurance was a reminder that she and Daniel Brady lived in different worlds.

  But there was little time to dwell on their relative social status. As they climbed into their new vehicle, she saw his jaw tighten.

  "What's wrong?" she asked

  He gave the ignition key a vicious twist, then backed quickly out of the parking space. "I'm wondering how those guys found us."

  "A phone tap?" she answered, because she'd been pondering the same subject.

  "If that's the case — I shouldn't have suggested you make any calls."

  She laid her hand over his. "You weren't thinking about phone taps, and neither was I."

  "I should have been!" he said as he took an on-ramp to I70.

  "Don't beat yourself up." She saw his expression hadn't changed and decided to take a wild guess. "Um...is taking the blame a pattern for you?" she asked.

  "No!"

  Figuring she had nothing to lose, she said, "I think you're lying."

  His head snapped toward her. "Is this how you get people to talk when you interview them?"

  Shrugging, she answered, "As you pointed out earlier, sometimes the direct approach is the best."

  He sighed. "Not necessarily with your editor."

  "You think I overstepped the bounds?"

  "Yeah, but I'm going to answer anyway, since I think you need to understand what kind of guy you've gotten mixed up with. I'm not taking any blame I don't deserve. I screwed up in Afghanistan."

  Her throat had gone dry, but she managed to ask, "What happened?"

  She saw his hands tighten on the wheel.

  "One of the reporters I was traveling with, Cindi White, got a hot tip that there were some villagers willing to talk about an al Qaeda hideout in the mountains. Cindi always did have lousy judgment. I should have vetoed the trip into the countryside. But I wanted the scoop as much as she did, so we teamed up with a CNN guy, and the three of us hired a driver to take us to the village."

  "And all of you came back alive!"

  "By dumb luck. The road was mined. If we hadn't been stopped by bandits and turned back, we would have gotten blown up."

  She stared at him, processing the information. "So that's why you don't trust women reporters when it comes to the hard stories. But I'm not Cindi White. My judgment is very good."

  "The way I heard it, you put yourself in danger in Chicago."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Now who's being asked to reveal sources?"

  Chapter Seven

  M. J. held her breath. Somebody had told Daniel she'd taken dangerous chances on the job in Chicago. Would he tell her who it was?

  After a long pause, he answered, "Okay, it was my news editor, Hank Mooney."

  She was torn between relief that Daniel had trusted her with the name — and outrage that Hank would have sabotaged her like that.

  "But he's Aunt Martha's friend. Why did he hire me if he thought I couldn't cut it?" she sputtered.

  Daniel shrugged. "He knew your aunt wanted you back in Denver?"

  She grimaced. If she'd known that was how she'd gotten the j
ob, she would have turned it down.

  The conversation halted abruptly as the car slowed. She looked up and saw they had left the highway behind and turned into the parking lot of a motel. Daniel pulled up under the canopy.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice suddenly tighter than it had been — even during the previous tense conversation.

  "Getting us off the streets while we figure out our next move. Wait here, so the clerk doesn't see both of us."

  She gave him a small nod, then slouched down in her seat while he went inside. He returned five minutes later, dangling a room key in his hand. "It's around the back. Where we have some privacy," he said.

  Probably he was talking about a place where they could settle down for a long discussion. But after the passionate scene in the car a little while ago, she couldn't help imagining other activities as he pulled up in front of room 72. When he fumbled with the key in the lock, she wondered if his nerves might be jangling the way hers were.

  They stepped into the room, and he turned to lock the door and set the chain. She told herself to calm down. They'd just spent hours together in a bedroom. They'd gotten to know each other pretty well in a very short time. But that was precisely the problem. Between their arrival at his father's house and their escape, the stakes had gone up.

  Or maybe she'd changed her priorities, she silently admitted, then told herself to be very careful. Because no matter her feelings now, she still thought there was no way there could be anything permanent between them.

  Once again, she'd gotten mixed up with a man who was all wrong for her. It had happened while she was in school at Berkeley. She'd been in love with Julian Tindall, and she'd dreamed of a partnership of a marriage, with all the things she'd always longed for. A house in the country. Babies. But Julian hadn't wanted any of that. He'd wanted a kind of working partnership where she'd make life comfortable for him and entertain his political cronies at their town house in the city.

  So she'd bailed out, and she was prepared to do it again, because she'd learned that you couldn't depend on a guy for your happiness. You had to make your own life. In fact, if they got out of this alive, the smart thing would be to quit her job and find something else — even if it meant giving up journalism.

  "I'm thinking that the mob has someone working for them at the Star," Daniel said, breaking into her thoughts.

  "How about Arnold Findlay," she said promptly.

  "No way."

  "You paired us up, so he's been following my every move. In fact, he was waiting for me when I left the building. And he's one of your dad's old friends, isn't he?"

  Daniel nodded tightly. "Probably another mistake on my part."

  "That's not what I meant at all." Swiftly she closed the distance between them, reached for him. "You stepped into a big job, and you've done better than anyone could expect."

  "Yeah, and I almost got both of us killed."

  "Because of your integrity. Your honesty. Your determination to do the right thing." As she spoke, she silently acknowledged for the first time how strong her feelings were for this man. Before she could stop herself, she brought her lips to his — for a long, deep kiss.

  * * *

  When she finally drew back, Daniel's gaze burned down into M.J.'s.

  "Integrity. Right. That's why I can't bring you to a motel room for the purpose of making love with you! Because if we keep kissing like that, it's where we're headed, Mary Jane," he said, deliberately using the name he knew she hated.

  She gave him a look that told him she understood exactly what he was doing. Instead of getting sidetracked, she answered, "I think it's my choice."

  Cupping her hands around his head, she brought his mouth back to hers, and the passion that was always simmering just below the surface flared again. She tasted of summer sweetness, of his heart's desire. Of forbidden pleasure.

  When he broke the kiss, they were both struggling for breath.

  "We can't," he said, making one last protest. "What about your arm?"

  "I think you've got the right medicine for what ails me." As she spoke, she covered his hand, pressing her fingers against his.

  All it took was that touch for a shock wave to go through him. She must have felt it, too, because her hands went to his shoulders and hung on as though she needed to anchor herself to something solid.

  He watched her eyes drift closed as he strung tiny kisses over her face and chin and neck. Watched her back arch as he slowly began to undo the buttons of her shirt — still giving her time to draw back.

  "Touch me," she murmured. "I need you to touch me." The request ended in a choked exclamation as he cupped her breasts through the lacy bra he'd admired earlier, then found her nipples where they beaded the delicate fabric.

  He reached to unhook her bra, caressing her with his face, then his lips and teeth and tongue, drinking in her exclamation of pleasure.

  She swayed on her feet. "I can barely stand up," she breathed, her fingers digging more tightly into his shoulders.

  "Yeah." He brought her down to the surface of the bed, holding her, rocking her against him.

  "Am I hurting you?" he asked when she made a strangled sound deep in her throat.

  "No. You're making me feel a whole lot better."

  He turned her onto her back so he could strip off the rest her clothing, kissing each bit of skin he exposed.

  "Lord, you are so beautiful," he exclaimed, his fingers trailing down her body, touching her breasts, her hips, and the dark thatch of hair at the base of her legs, before finding the slick, hot core of her.

  She gasped out her pleasure, then reached for his belt buckle as she whispered, "I want you naked, too."

  He started tearing at his shirt, and it took the two of them only moments to remove his unwanted clothing.

  Then he was pulling her into his arms, mesmerized by the feel of her naked body against his. She wasn't a passive lover. Her hands were busy, stroking the length of his back and over his buttocks, then moving to the front of him for caresses that drove him near madness.

  "Don't," he choked out.

  "Daniel...I need you now," she gasped, "Please, now."

  "Yes!"

  He rose over her, claiming her in one sure thrust. His eyes locked with hers as he began to move with slow, gliding strokes that quickly became more urgent as she matched his rhythm.

  He watched her face, gauged her readiness, sensing that her pleasure was building toward climax — then felt her contract around him as she cried out in joy. Seconds later, he was there with her, his own shout of pleasure mingling with hers.

  He shifted his weight off her, but she kept her fingers knit with his as he lay back against the sheets.

  Mindful of her arm, he gathered her carefully to him, and she snuggled trustingly against him.

  "Daniel, thank you for that."

  "Thank me after I figure out who's trying to kill us," he couldn't stop himself from saying.

  M.J. shifted in the bed, staring at him, obviously cut by the sharp tone of his voice. "You just made love to me — and it was as wonderful as I dreamed it would be. Are you trying to take that away?"

  Chapter Eight

  Daniel folded M.J. close. There was so much he wanted to say to her. But he didn't have the right — not yet, not when he'd dragged her into danger with him.

  Still, the wounded look in her eyes told him he'd hurt her. "You know that making love was spectacular. But those guys are still out there looking for us — and we have to do something about it."

  "Yes," she whispered. "I know."

  He let himself hold her a little longer, then helped her on with her shirt. Crossing to the minibar, he unlocked the door and gestured toward the contents. "Junk food always helps me think. What about you?"

  "Right, comfort food." As they settled down at the table with bottles of soda and sour cream and chive potato chips, she said, "I was thinking about what to do. I have a contact in the police department. Jackson Hunter."
<
br />   He tipped his head to one side. "You said we couldn't trust them."

  "Jackson's different. He's going to marry one of my oldest friends."

  "You'd trust this guy with your life?"

  "Yes," M.J. answered, waiting tensely to see if Daniel trusted her judgment.

  He gestured toward the phone. "Make the call."

  She reached for the receiver, her hand trembling as she dialed.

  "Kelly," she said when her friend answered. "I'm in kind of a jam. And I'm hoping Detective Hunter can help me out of it."

  "I'll put him right on," Kelly answered.

  When he came on the line, she quickly filled him in on what had been happening since — lunch time, she realized. Although it seemed more like a lifetime ago.

  * * *

  On the way to the safe house where they agreed to meet Jackson, she and Daniel began working out a sting operation — including making sure that key people at the Star knew they were hoping to make a deal with the mob.

  The plans firmed up quickly. An hour before dawn the next morning, they were at the municipal park in Aurora, sitting in the front seat of their rented car, waiting for the show to begin.

  M.J. knew she should be exhausted, but her adrenaline was pumping. And when another vehicle pulled up a few yards from them, she felt every nerve in her body go taut. Although they'd worked this out carefully, based on certain assumptions, things could still go wrong.

  When her aunt's friend, Hank Mooney, stepped onto the blacktop, she struggled to hold back a small gasp. Daniel had argued that the spy at the Star would show up, acting as if he wanted to help. And now here was Hank — hurrying toward their car.

  He cast a worried glance over his shoulder. "Thank God I'm in time," he called out. "You've got to get out of here. Findlay knows where you are, and he's coming to get you."

  "Findlay!" Daniel growled.

  The word was hardly out of his mouth when another vehicle lurched into the parking lot — and the man in question climbed out. When he saw Hank, he pulled a gun and fired at the news editor.