“Just a friend. Definitely just a friend,” Casey added with an ominous and obvious glare.
“Thanks for coming to my party.” Yeah, Zane put a little extra emphasis on the word my. In general, he didn’t care for the fake ego-stroking of the party. Specifically, though? He’d take the fact that he was the guest of honor, that all these people were gathered there because of his academic and cultural fame, and shove it down Pierce’s throat.
“Why are you here, Pierce?” Casey asked. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“You shouldn’t be. I’ve invited you to any number of these gatherings.”
Casey blinked at him twice. Then comprehension sparked in her eyes. “Your mother’s faculty parties every quarter.”
“Yes.”
Turning to Zane, Casey said, “His mother is Hilda Rensselaer, Dean of the Classics Department.” She scrunched up her nose. “I thought they’d be dull. In a library, where I’d choke down tea and dry cookies while everyone else whispered in Latin.”
“You sold them short. Maybe you’ve made other assumptions. Not given other situations all the consideration they deserve.”
Zane couldn’t take another moment of the arch, heavy-handed insinuations. What he really wanted to do was step outside, call up Gray or Ward and ask them for the full story on this guy. Hard to go into battle blind. “Couldn’t find anything better to do than hang out with your mom on a Wednesday night?”
“President Carrajo puts out a nice spread. Better than cooking for myself.” With a self-deprecating laugh, he said, “That doesn’t always go well, does it, Casey?”
“Cooking’s not your strong suit,” she agreed.
“Not a problem. I’m quite good at heating things up.”
Seriously? Good thing Zane didn’t have a drink yet, or he’d have spewed it all over Pierce’s tie, striped a sedate red and blue. “Hate to meet and run, but we really need to get ourselves some drinks.”
“I imagine you do.”
Casey held up a finger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dr. Buchanan has a lot on his plate right now, what with that nasty lawsuit pending. Tough position to be in when you’re trying to secure a new job.”
Christ. The damned lawsuit. Something he’d successfully avoided thinking about for days now. The dean must’ve let it slip to her son when discussing tonight’s star attraction. Zane wondered how many other faculty and staff members had heard the rumor. His agent had assured Zane that word wouldn’t get out. Luckily, his publicist believed in preparing for the worst, and had told him exactly what to say if anyone brought it up. If any dirt-digging parasite tried to stir up trouble. He rolled his shoulders back and tried to look casual. The seersucker suit probably helped his cause.
“America’s a litigious society. I’ll bet if you polled the room you’d find at least five other people tied up in a lawsuit right now.”
Casey’s jaw dropped. “Wait, somebody’s suing you? That’s horrible.”
Great. Casey had set him up perfectly for the rest of his carefully scripted response. “It comes with the territory. Life in the public eye has risks as well as rewards. That’s why I’m relieved to move full time back into teaching. Put the focus where it belongs: on the work, not on me.”
“You think you’re qualified to sculpt the minds of our youth while under investigation?”
Shit. This guy was relentless. Jealousy probably fueled him. How many men paid attention to the work gossip mentioned over a family dinner? Guess that was small town life. Take the good with the bad yet again if he wanted to live here. So Zane swallowed—no, choked back the cutting words he wanted to let fly.
“If anything, this ridiculous suit proves how suited I am to teach. I expose the truth. I don’t candy coat it, or tweak it. You want an education based on facts and honesty, right?” Pierce had no way to dispute that assertion without looking like an ass. His tight-lipped silence finally gave Zane the chance to escape. “Catch you later,” he said, tugging at Casey’s hand as though it were a kite string.
The bar wouldn’t be a safe haven. No way could he risk falling into another conversation about his lawsuit. Not before explaining the situation to Casey. So Zane grabbed two glasses from a passing waiter’s tray and headed out the side door.
Luckily it led to a screened-in porch, filled with rattan furniture and no people. Funny how a complete lack of appetizers could clear out a room. Zane dropped onto a forest-green cushion and patted it in invitation. “How about we sit and enjoy our drinks in peace?” He sniffed at the top of the brown liquid. Took note of the orange slice decorating the rim. “I think we scored whiskey sours. Much better than the rainbow sherbet and vodka punch I’ve tossed back at faculty gatherings back in the day.”
“Well, the only person successfully wooed by rainbow sherbet is under the age of ten.” Smiling, Casey sat and snuggled into the crook of his arm. If you ignored the din bleeding through the French doors, it could be a normal night of listening to the crickets chirp and staring into the blackness of the summer night. “I think the president realized he had to raise the bar to net a celebrity like you.”
Her choice of words stabbed at him. “See? That’s the problem. I don’t want to be a celebrity. That’s a person who’s famous, who attracts attention by being in the media. It doesn’t reflect on my deeds or who I am at all. My fame is a persona I’ve been stuck behind. It isn’t really me. It doesn’t fit. And it’s itchy.” Zane knew he sounded ungrateful. But he was tired. Exhausted of pushing himself around the world, chasing stories and deadlines simultaneously. And he was about a year past done with it all.
“I feel like that, sometimes.”
Zane brushed the side of his thumb against her upper arm. “Famous? Itchy?”
“Stuck behind a persona.”
There it was again. That hint at something more. The sense that Casey was on the brink of revealing...something...to him. Zane’s pulse leapt. He took a deep breath, consciously tamping down his curiosity. Expert at excavating information and secrets from the unwilling, he knew Casey needed time, not a push. So he’d wait.
She twisted in the seat to look at him. “About this lawsuit...”
Waiting usually worked. But the other trick was to choose the topic to fill the gap while waiting. He’d forgotten that important step. Got sidetracked by smelling her hair and feeling her curves tight against his side. “It’s stupid. It’s trumped up. And I’ve got a lawyer working to get it dismissed.”
“Want to tell me why someone’s gunning for you with a totally trumped-up charge?”
No. In fact, Zane hated thinking about it, let alone discussing it. He enjoyed sharing wisdom with people. Educating was about opening doors and eyes to the truth. Nobody ever got to choose what truths might be inconvenient or uncomfortable. That amounted to censorship. People made choices. Joined cults. He, himself, carried no blame for simply stating the facts of such.
“The charge isn’t trumped up. Just the idea that I’m responsible for ruining someone’s life—hell, let me start from the beginning.”
A slight shuttering of the light behind those sea-green eyes, as if a storm was thickening off the horizon. “I think you’d better.”
“You know I write about cults. I research them. Analyze what makes them so seductive to people.” Zane twisted one hand in the air in a come-hither gesture. Or like a snake charmer. Probably more apropos. “How their religious structure works, and how it influences the members to change their lives so radically. I expose the questionable money handling and oftentimes megalomaniacal power structure. Then I bring it all back to explain how people become members because they want to be happy. Ultimately, that’s what drives people to join a cult. The search for happiness. Structure. Love.”
“Insecurity. Depression. Desperation.” Casey stuck out a finger to bulletpoin
t each word.
“Those are often the cause. What sets people off on their quest for something better. I don’t sugarcoat that angle, but I don’t pretend to read minds, either.” Which is what pissed him off so much about this lawsuit. He hadn’t written a single libelous word. In fact, Zane always bent over backward not to judge, not to leach his opinions onto the page. To be fair and reasoned.
“None of that explains the lawsuit.”
“No, but it does explain where I’m coming from. Last fall, I wrote an article for a big magazine. Got good press, great circulation. Talking heads came out to pick it apart. To psychoanalyze the ‘victims’ in the piece.” Zane used air quotes.
He didn’t believe there were any victims in his piece. People made choices and stuck with them. If anything, the victims were the family and friends left behind when people joined a cult. Those whose savings disappeared, or never heard from their loved ones again. Or children dragged into something without being able to voice their dissent. Those were the true victims.
But he didn’t want to delve into that deep a discussion right now. No, what Zane wanted was to get back to the date portion of the evening. The part where she’d pretzeled around him instead of sitting with a discernible gap between them. Which was probably the exact result Pierce had in mind when he’d dropped the lawsuit bombshell into the conversation.
White teeth bit down on her deep pink painted lips. “Let me guess. One of those victims wasn’t wild about being the poster child for crazy cultists?”
“You got it.” Frank Diggle, who’d spent a single summer holed up with the Hare Krishnas five years ago, had raised hell. Hired a lawyer. Spouted off to the media whenever he could get a microphone pointed in his direction. Demanded not only money, but an acknowledgement of liability and an apology from Zane. The money was one thing. But an apology? Never gonna happen. “The sticking point, the one this whole case rests on, is that I never called anyone crazy. The media did. But now Diggle says his life is ruined and it’s all my fault.”
“Is this guy gunning for loads of money?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have it?”
Zane rubbed a hand across his chin. What was with her dogged questioning? “Want to peruse my bank statements before we go on another date?”
“It’d probably be interesting, but no.” She shifted on the cushion to tuck her feet beneath her. “I meant, could you pay? If you lost the case? Or would it ruin your life the way he claims you ruined his? Are you in real trouble? I don’t like the thought of you being under fire.”
His agent, his publicist and his lawyer all assured him the answer was no. The question still gave Zane a few sleepless nights. But he tried to brush them off. Just like he’d brush Casey off now. “Doesn’t matter. This case won’t move forward. Classic protection from the good old First Amendment.”
“Freedom of speech. The shield you can count on journalists to cower behind.”
Harsh words. Oddly harsh, in fact. Zane could mount a defense. But the last thing he wanted to do was pick a fight with Casey. He nipped a doily out from beneath a potted violet on the end table and waved it in the air. “Can we have a truce? Or at least switch to a more neutral subject?”
She laughed, and shrugged her shoulders. “You started this discussion, not me.”
No, Pierce was the one who carried all the blame for that. Something Zane would be sure to pay him back for, eventually. Not to mention finding out exactly how Pierce and Casey were connected. It didn’t matter tonight, though. Since Zane was the one on the sofa with her right now. He interlaced their fingers.
“Look, I asked you to come with me tonight for a few reasons. To share a few laughs. So I’d have someone to help me wade through all the appetizers and provide cover when I hit a bad one and need to ditch it into a ficus. I thought it’d be fun to get your blunt and refreshing take on this houseful of strangers.” Now he brought their joined hands up to his mouth to drop kisses on the soft, tan skin below each of her knuckles. “Most of all, I asked you to be my date because I flat out wanted to spend more time with you. Even if that means arguing.”
“You’re getting more than your money’s worth. A value-added, blunt and refreshing take on your lawsuit. So let’s keep going.”
Sassy. Not afraid to disagree. Qualities he liked about her. Just not right now. Zane shook his head. “Can I collect the bonus argument later? Call a truce until a moment without wine and moonlight?”
Casey looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to keep pushing. Then she exhaled and smiled. “I like the idea of a truce. A party’s no place for a serious debate, anyway. We should do that in private.”
“When I get you alone, we won’t be arguing. You won’t be talking at all,” he promised in a dark rasp. Zane bent his head to lick at the exact point where her pulse thrummed in her neck.
“Promises, promises.” Casey straddled him to trace the outline of his lips with one finger. “You use five words to every one of mine. What if, Professor, we assign that mouth of yours some non-verbal homework?”
It delighted him that she’d tried to turn the tables, tried to run offense in this sensual skirmish. “I like your plan.” Arms banding around her waist, Zane stood. And almost groaned as she slid down his torso with a shimmy until her feet hit the ground. “As much as it kills me to remind you, I’m still on an interview tonight. We can’t make out on the president’s porch.”
“I doubt we’d be the first.”
“True.” Zane picked up his sweating glass and threw back the contents. The punch of cold to his throat and whiskey to his belly shocked the arousal right out of him. Although as long as Casey stood next to him, he wouldn’t be able to shake the bone-deep want she caused. “Promise you’ll stay close all night?”
“You won’t be able to shake me,” she said, wrapping one arm around his biceps and twining their hands together.
He hoped it was true. And not just for tonight.
Chapter Eight
Zane wasn’t wrong very often. But when it did happen, he could acknowledge it. Diving in a strange lake, by himself, at night, had been eight kinds of stupid. Or at least thoughtless. Doing it now, with the June sun warm overhead and properly kitted out in a borrowed wetsuit, was much smarter. And about ten times more comfortable.
Checking the pressure on his wrist unit, Zane kicked lazily to the surface. His head broke the water. At the same moment, an oar slapped down barely an inch from his nose. Zane circled his arms backward with a mighty thrust of his fins. Then thwacked his wrist—hard—into something. Pain sprinkled red-hot stars into his field of vision. He spat out his mouthpiece. “Son of a bitch!”
“God, Zane. I’m so sorry.” Gray extended a hand over the edge of the rowboat. “Want me to pull you in?”
“All that would do is put both of you in the water,” said Joel. “Shove over.” Both men moved to the opposite side of the rowboat so Zane could drape himself over the oarlock. Panting from the pain, he appreciated the chance to stop treading water.
“Are you okay?”
“When you loaned me this wetsuit, you didn’t mention it should come with a helmet.”
“You didn’t ask.” Gray pulled his oar out of the water and dropped it at his feet. “So yet again, your diving almost ends in a trip to the hospital.”
Joel shook his head. “You’ve got to stay out of the water, man.”
“Hey, you’re the ones playing whack-a-mole with my head. I’m not taking the blame for this.” Zane flexed his wrist. Hissed in a breath at the stab of pain, but was relieved the range of motion meant it wasn’t broken. Maybe he’d talk Casey into kissing it to make it better.
“You chasing the imaginary sub again?”
“Not this time. Thought I’d spend one full dive getting my bearings with the lake f
irst. Why are you two out here smack in the middle of a Friday?”
Gray peered up at the sky, as if only just noticing the sun was straight overhead. “The hotel business isn’t exactly a nine-to-five gig. We take time when we can.”
“I’m trying to whip this one into shape,” Joel added.
Both men wore only swim trunks and tans, so Zane could tell they were already in just as good shape as he was. Although Joel looked like he probably had a decade on the other two, he was all corded muscle. Put together with the dog tag tattoo on his calf and the one of crossed silver arrows with a dagger over his right pec, Zane pegged him as ex-Special Forces. So yeah, he probably had a stricter definition of in shape. “In a rowboat?”
“I run a lot. Joel says the rowing will balance me out, muscle-wise. And up my cardio, which I’ll need now that I’m anchoring our relay team in the race next week.” Gray shot Joel a glare. “I wasn’t supposed to anchor. This one called an audible on our whole lineup.”
Zane fit the pieces together. “The marathon to raise money for your town?”
“Yeah. Since it was my bright idea, certain people—” another glare at the older man, “¾insisted I run the race. Only it was too late to start training for a whole marathon, so we put together a relay team.
“This pisses you off why?”
“Joel’s the one with six marathons under his belt. He was our anchor. The guy with the speed and stamina to bring it home and make us look good no matter how the other four people do.”
Clearly this was turning into a full-on conversation. Not that Zane minded. There were worse ways to spend the afternoon than shooting the breeze in the middle of a lake beneath a cloudless sky. He tugged off his mask and snorkel and dropped them into the boat. “Was?”
With a huge sigh, Joel said, “My sous-chef dropped a cast iron frying pan on my foot last night. Broke two of my toes. Maybe three. Hard to tell until the swelling goes down.”
All for You Page 13
