by Marta Perry
Those green eyes widened. In shock? Or because she agreed and didn’t want him to know it? He expected backpedaling on her part. He didn’t get it.
“My father doesn’t need protection. But he also doesn’t deserve some kind of hatchet job, if that’s what you have in mind.”
Apparently Amanda could overcome her fear of him when it came to her family.
“Why would you assume that? I’m sure my interview style isn’t quite as laid-back as the one you generally employ in your painstaking search for the facts about the latest dog show or charity ball, but that doesn’t mean I’m planning a hatchet job.”
That was below the belt, and he knew it. After all, he was the one who assigned her those stories. And he’d been the recipient of enough sarcasm from his father to dislike using it on anyone else. Still, he had no choice but to keep Amanda away from the truth.
A faint wash of color came up in her cheeks. “You’re after something more than a profile piece, aren’t you?”
He stood, forcing her to look up at him. “You’re an employee of this newspaper, Amanda. If you want to continue in that, I’d suggest you keep your imagination in check. Anything I print about your father or anyone else will be the exact truth.”
“I trust it will be.” She took a cautious step back. “If it isn’t…” She stopped, apparently not able to think of a sufficient threat to end that sentence.
“You don’t need to worry about that. I’ll make sure of it.”
Amanda couldn’t know just how much he meant that. He wouldn’t make the mistake again of rushing into print without being sure of his ability to back up his facts.
But he also wouldn’t give up. He had no desire to hurt Amanda or her family. But if Brett Bodine was involved in a kickback scheme, the world was going to know about it, thanks to him.
She was actually shaking. Amanda detoured to the restroom instead of going straight back to her desk.
One of Cyrus’s nicer eccentricities had been to have the women’s room copied after the one in an elegant downtown department store, with plush love seats in a small sitting area and art deco black-and-white tile in the restroom. She went straight through, headed for the marble sink with its beveled mirror.
Ridiculous. This was idiotic, to let herself be so affected by what that man said or thought of her. She stared at herself in the mirror, disliking the flushed cheeks. Not only had she been affected, but she’d undoubtedly let him see it.
Grabbing a paper towel, she wet it and pressed it against her cheeks. She couldn’t let him get to her like this. This wasn’t who she was.
And he hadn’t really answered her questions. He hadn’t denied or explained anything. He’d stonewalled her, like a crooked politician fending off the press.
She tossed the towel in the trash and touched her hair, smoothing a strand back into place, regaining the polished facade she was careful to present to the world. Well, even if she hadn’t gotten the answers she’d gone into Ross’s office for, something had been gained. She’d actually confronted Ross Lockhart, and she was still in one piece.
She grimaced at her face in the mirror. More or less, anyway. And she still had her job, although he’d issued a not-so-subtle threat on that score.
Ross had implied that she was imagining the emotional currents that had swirled through the office during that interview. Little though she wanted to believe that, she forced herself to consider the possibility.
She couldn’t deny that she tended to rush headlong into her latest crusade. If she did deny it, her loving family would stand in line to protest. There was that incident with the woman who claimed her lawyer had stolen her inheritance. It turned out she had neither lawyer nor inheritance.
Tension had existed between Ross and her father. She certainly hadn’t dreamed that up. But it was possible that the two men simply disliked each other. Daddy could well have picked up on her feelings for her annoying new boss over the past few months. She hadn’t made a secret of them, certainly.
But that didn’t account for her conviction that her father had been hiding something. Brett Bodine never hid anything—everything he thought came right out his mouth. Anyone who knew him knew that. He should have exploded at Ross. He hadn’t.
She pushed herself away from the sink. Standing here brooding about it wasn’t doing the least bit of good. She had to think this through logically. If she talked to Daddy—
The reluctance she felt to broach the subject shocked her. She’d never hesitated to talk to her father, even though sometimes she’d known she’d have to be prepared to ride out a storm if she did. But then, never before had she suspected that Daddy was lying.
Enough of this. She strode out of the restroom and headed for her desk. She’d forget the whole thing, go and get some supper, maybe call Annabel, just for the assurance of hearing her twin’s voice.
But when she rounded the corner of the newsroom, she realized she’d forgotten something. C.J. was there, apparently waiting for her. In Amanda’s chair, in fact.
C.J. got up hastily when she spotted Amanda coming. “Hey.” She seemed to take a second look at Amanda. “Is somethin’ wrong?” Her tone was laced with a kind of reluctant concern.
“No, nothing.” She pasted what she hoped was a convincing smile on her face. “I didn’t realize you were still here. We don’t expect our interns to work late, you know.”
C.J.’s face tightened, as if she interpreted that as a criticism. “I was writing up the descriptions of the Coast Guard base, like you asked me to. Or was that just busywork to keep me out of the way?”
Amanda pressed her lips together. The truth was that she’d forgotten all about giving C.J. that assignment, and the kid was astute enough to know that. She cleared her mind and prepared to deal with the problem in front of her.
“The assignment isn’t busywork, but it’s true that I need to get a sense of where your writing is now. And it wouldn’t have been appropriate to take an intern to that sort of interview. You see that, don’t you?” C.J. nodded, perhaps a bit reluctantly.
“Okay, then. Let’s have a look at what you’ve written.”
The intern put a couple of sheets of paper in front of her on the desk. “I was just doing some rewriting on the printouts. If you want, I can input the changes and print it out again.”
So C.J. wanted to present her with the best work possible. That was a good sign.
“Not necessary. Believe me, I’ve deciphered worse than this.”
She breathed a silent prayer as she bent over the sheets, hoping she wouldn’t have to correct too much. Cyrus had handpicked his intern, and Cyrus was erratic enough to make the decision based on whatever standard he thought important at the moment.
But C.J.’s writing proved to be surprisingly smooth and insightful. She read it once, quickly, and then went back over it again, checking a few places. Finally she looked up at the young woman, recognizing the tension that emanated from C.J.
“Relax, C.J. This is good, very good.” C.J.’s breath came out in a whoosh of relief. “Thanks.” She seemed to make an effort to sound blasé, but a hint of eagerness showed through. “You marked some things, though.”
“Let’s take a look.” At her gesture, C.J. pulled up her chair. She held the papers flat so that they could go over them together.
“This is a very effective word picture.” She tapped one paragraph. “Notice how you’ve used exact details to get the image across. Now, down here, the observation isn’t quite as visual. Do you see what I mean?”
“Got it.” C.J. scribbled a few words on the sheet, seeming determined to get it exactly right. She flipped to the second page. “It’s the same thing here, isn’t it?” She stabbed another paragraph with her pen.
“You’ve got it.” C.J. slashed an arrow and then began making notes on the back of the sheet.
“You can go home,” Amanda said gently. “You don’t have to work on it right now.”
C.J. moved her shoulders restlessly
. “It’s hard to get anything done there. The landlord turned off the airconditioning. He says it’s broke, but everyone thinks he’s just trying to save money.”
“In this heat? How long has it been off?”
“Ten days, maybe. My grandmother’s been takin’ a walk to the market every day, just so she can go in where it’s cool.”
That was unconscionable, as hot as the weather had been. Her mind flickered to the cool, welcoming dimness of her small carriage house apartment.
“Hasn’t anyone complained to the landlord?”
“Doesn’t do any good. He’s always cutting corners like that—keeping it hot in summer and cold in winter. Besides, folks figure if they complain too much, he’ll treat them even worse.”
“But—” C.J. shook her head. “No use talking about it. I’d rather work.”
A relatively polite way of telling Amanda it was none of her business. She watched as the intern went over her work again, scribbling eagerly.
Had she had that sort of initiative at C.J.’s age? She doubted it. She’d been excited to get off to college, true, but she’d been looking forward to starting over with new people, creating a different identity for herself other than just being one of the Bodines. She’d been as excited about football games and parties as about what she might learn.
C.J. looked up from the page. “If I do this whole thing again, will you read it and tell me what you think?”
“Sure thing.” She smiled, pleased at the sign C.J. was willing to accept criticism and learn from it. “You have a lot of drive, don’t you?”
C.J. shrugged, but this time there wasn’t any sullenness attached. “My grandmother always tells me that if I want something, it’s my job to do what it takes to get it.”
Her thoughts flickered to Miz Callie. “You know, my grandmother would say exactly the same thing. I guess we have that in common.”
Amanda half expected C.J. to back away from that suggestion. Instead, she got a tentative smile that revealed an eager, slightly scared young woman behind the tough exterior.
Another piece of Miz Callie’s advice popped into her mind. God sends people into our lives for a reason, Amanda. Always watch for that, because He might have a special job for you to do.
Maybe C.J. was destined to be one of those people for her.
Ross locked his office door and started down the hallway, his steps echoing emptily on the tile. He’d stayed at the computer long after the editorial offices had grown quiet, familiarizing himself with every tidbit of information that might possibly affect the investigation.
Speaking of tidbits, his stomach had finally convinced him it was time to quit. Lunch was a distant memory, and he wouldn’t achieve anything useful by checking out the snack machine.
He paused automatically at the newsroom door. His attention sharpened. Someone was still there. In a few quiet steps, he had a clear view.
Amanda sat at her desk, her attention riveted on the computer screen. A strand of that sleek brown hair swung forward, brushing her cheek, and the glasses she habitually wore for computer work had slid down her nose, giving her a slightly disheveled look. Charming, but not her usual polished veneer.
Staying late to work didn’t fit with the image he had of her as the belle of the social ball. But then, he’d already figured out that there was more to Amanda Bodine than his snap judgment of her.
She’d found the courage to stand up to him today. While he didn’t welcome opposition, especially from a subordinate, he had to admire the grit it had taken.
He’d come down too hard on her, that was the truth, and it had been nagging at him for a couple of hours now. That conscience his grandmother had instilled in him could be a troublesome thing at times.
He didn’t want to feel that he’d been unfair to her. But he couldn’t ignore the truth.
Besides, he still needed her. Threatening to fire her wouldn’t encourage her father to come across with any information.
He realized he was gritting his teeth, and he forced his jaw to relax. Mending fences was clearly indicated. He’d never been especially good at that.
He walked toward Amanda’s desk. At the sound of footsteps she looked up, startled. When she recognized him, she slicked her hair back behind her ear with one finger and slipped the glasses off her face. He couldn’t mistake the aura of defensiveness that wrapped around her.
“Amanda.” He lifted an eyebrow, trying not to look intimidating. “What keeps you at the office so late?”
Her eyes widened, as if his genial tone was cause for astonishment. “I…I came back after supper to do a little work.”
He leaned against the corner of her desk, moving a silver-framed photo so that he wouldn’t knock it over, looking at it as he did so. Amanda and her twin, her parents, the two older brothers, all in jackets and jeans and looking windblown as they walked on the beach. A nice family portrait. His gut tightened.
“Doing some research for a story?”
“Not exactly.” Her lips pursed, as if trying to decide how much to tell him. The sight distracted him for a moment.
He managed a smile. “It doesn’t matter to the boss if you’re doing some early Christmas shopping online.”
That surprised her into a smile, and some of the wariness evaporated from her face. “It’s nothing like that. I’m looking into some family history for my grandmother, and I can get better access to records through the newspaper.”
“Family history?” He perched on the edge of the desk. It was proving easier than he’d expected to get past the barriers he’d erected between them this afternoon. “I should have thought your grandmother was an expert on that.”
“She is the family historian, but…” She paused, fiddling with the silver chain that hung around her neck. He had a sense that she was weighing what and how much to tell him.
“But what?”
“It’s sort of a…a bit of a family mystery.”
The stammer was a dead giveaway that poised, incontrol Amanda didn’t want to tell him about it, whatever it was. That just increased his curiosity.
“A mystery?” he said lightly. “Sounds intriguing. Tell me about it.”
“Well, I…” She bit her lip. “It has to do with a distant relative who dropped from sight during World War II. My grandmother is determined to find out what happened to him, and I promised to help her.”
It didn’t escape his attention that she was carefully editing what she said to him. Well, fair enough.
If he could gain her trust by helping her with her little genealogical problem, it might ease things between them in other ways.
“This relative—was he in the service?”
She nodded. “He ran away from home to enlist, as far as we can tell.”
“That’s simple, then. The military records—”
She was shaking her head, and that recalcitrant strand of hair swung back against her cheek again. His hand itched to smooth it back for her, and he clamped down on the ridiculous urge.
“It’s not that easy. He apparently signed up under a false name. That’s what upsets my grandmother—the possibility of never knowing what happened to him.”
He didn’t know a lot about World War II, but the problem intrigued him. “You’re assuming he died in service, are you?”
“I guess we are. I’d think he’d have gotten in touch with the family sometime if he’d come back safely.”
He prodded the problem with his mind, intrigued in spite of himself. How would you go about tracing someone in those circumstances?
“That is tricky. Would he have enlisted locally?” He shook his head. “Probably not, if he didn’t want to be recognized. Unless he wasn’t very well-known.”
“That’s a thought.” She absently slid the hair back behind her ear, frowning at the screen. “I was trying to look at enlistments from Charleston, but you’re right. He’d have been recognized for sure if he’d gone there. But if he went someplace else, how do I begin finding him?”<
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He pulled over the office chair from the adjoining desk and sat down next to her. He didn’t miss the involuntary darkening of her eyes at his closeness. Didn’t miss it, but tried to ignore it, just as he tried to ignore his own longing to put his hand on her arm.
“Do you know anything about the circumstances? Exactly when he enlisted? Did he have a car? Any other means of traveling very far? Where were the enlistment centers in the area?”
“Some of that I know.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “But you’re pretty good at this investigative stuff, aren’t you?”
“I should be. It comes with the job. Any journalist should have an overdeveloped sense of curiosity.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I have to admit I’m wondering why you’re so eager to help me with this. This afternoon…”
“Maybe that’s why.” He forced the words out, not used to apologizing. “I guess I owe you an apology. I came on pretty strong.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure you want to admit that?”
“All the books on managing staff say that the good boss admits when he’s wrong.”
“I see.” The dimple next to the corner of her lips showed briefly. “I’m delighted to know that you’re trying to be a good boss. Is scaring everyone in the building half to death part of that?”
Was he really enjoying this semiflirtatious exchange? Maybe he ought to back away, but he discovered that he didn’t want to.
“You’re exaggerating. Nobody is that intimidated by me.”
Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Then why does Billy run in the other direction every time he sees you?”
“Billy?” He tried to think of a newsroom staffer by that name and failed. “Who’s Billy?”
“Billy Bradley. The mail room boy who delivers mail to your office several times a day.” Her expression said that he should have known that. “I’m sure those books of yours would tell you that a good boss knows something about all of his people.”
“Maybe so.” He could pull back from the intimacy of this conversation at any moment. Maybe he should. But he didn’t want to. “If you’re so smart, tell me three things about Billy Bradley.”
