Heart of Winter (22 page)

The answer must have been a good one, because he calmed down. Wearily, he tossed the two halves of the fountain pen onto the desk. “All right, Ben, I'll see what else I can work out before the budget goes into committee. Yes. Thanks anyway.”

He hung up and studied Carla's young face. “Do you like fresh croissants with real butter?”

“Oh, yes!” she said without thinking.

“Let's go.” He got up and opened the door for her, waiting while she fumbled to get her camera, purse and accessories together.

“I'm out, if anyone else calls,” Moreland told his secretary.

“Yes, Mr. Moreland,” she said with a secretive smile.

He led Carla to the elevator and put her in, pushing the first-floor button.

“Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly.

“Away from the telephone,” he replied, leaning back against the wall of the elevator to study her. “I feel obligated to answer it as long as I'm sitting at my desk. But I haven't had my breakfast, and I feel like a decent cup of coffee and a roll. Even a mayor has to eat,” he added wryly, “although some of my supporters question my right to do that, and sleep, and go home.”

“Why don't you eat breakfast?” she asked suddenly.

“Because I don't usually have time to cook,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I have a daily woman who comes in to do the cleaning, but mostly I eat out. I don't like women snooping around my kitchen trying to ingratiate themselves, so I don't keep a full larder.”

“Oh,” she said noncommittally and let it drop.

He took her to an intimate little coffee house with white linen tablecloths and fresh roses in tiny bud vases and where waltz music danced around them. He sat her down at a small table in the corner and gave the waitress their order.

As she darted away, he pulled a cigarette from his engraved gold case.

“I wish you wouldn't,” she said.

He lifted a heavy eyebrow. “I don't gamble, drink to excess, or support organized crime. But I do have this one vice, and you'll notice that the room is quite well ventilated. I don't intend giving up a lifelong habit for the sake of one interview.”

She had the grace to blush. Her eyes moved from the tablecloth to the street outside, where autumn leaves blazed in a tiny maple tree embedded in concrete, a small colorful reminder of the season. The wind was tumbling fallen leaves and she watched them with a sense of emptiness. She felt as though she'd been alone for a long time.

“What else did you want to ask me?” he cut into her thoughts.

“Oh!” She dug her pad and pen out of her purse, moving them aside briefly as the waitress brought china cups filled with freshly brewed imported coffee, fresh croissants and a saucer of creamy butter. “I wanted to ask about your administration. What was the city's financial situation when you took office, what is it now, what improvements have you made, what goals do you have for the rest of your term in office—that sort of thing.”

He stared at her through a soft cloud of gray smoke. “Honey, I hope you're not doing anything for the next two weeks, because that's how long it's going to take me to answer those questions.”

She smiled wryly, her pale green eyes catching his. “Couldn't you manage to do a brief summary in an hour or so?” she teased.

“Not and do it justice.” He leaned back in the chair, letting his forgotten cigarette fire curls of gray smoke up toward the ceiling while he took silent inventory of her facial features. “How old did you say you were?” he asked.

“Twenty-three,” she muttered absently, fascinated by his dark, quiet eyes.

“And fresh out of journalism school?” he probed.

“I got a late start,” she explained, crossing her booted legs. “My mother was in poor health. She died.” Her eyes went sad at the admission. Two words to describe that long, painful process that ended in death. Words were inadequate.

“A long illness?” he asked, reading her expression as if he could read her mind.

She nodded. “An incurable disease of the central nervous system. There was nothing anyone could do. My father very nearly went under. He had a breakdown, and I had to run the paper until he got back on his feet.”

“Quite an experience for you.”

“Oh, yes, I learned a lot,” she recalled with a dry smile.

“Like what?”

She looked at him sheepishly. “Never misspell a name on the society page.”

“What else?”

“Read the copy before you write the headlines. Don't leave out names in school honor rolls. Never put anything down, because you'll never see it again. And especially never go to a County Commission meeting when they're discussing a new site for the sanitary landfill.”

Both eyebrows went up, and he smiled faintly. “Lynch mobs?”

“Lynch mobs. I saw in one meeting where sixty people surrounded the sole county commissioner and threatened to shoot him if he put it in their community,” she recalled. “I don't suppose you have that kind of problem?”

“No,” he admitted, “just dull things like street employee strikes, garbage piling up on sidewalks and into the streets.”

“Why not start a campaign to get everyone in the city to mail their garbage to relatives out of state?” she suggested.

“Honey, you start it, and I'll personally endorse it,” he promised. “Eat your roll before it gets cold.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied politely.

He glared at her. “I'm not that old.”

She peeked at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Now I know why you brought me here.”

He glowered at her. “Why?”

“Real napkins,” she explained, “and real cups and saucers. No wasted paper products to fill your garbage trucks!”

He shook his head. “How did you wind up in the city, little country mouse?”

“Dad sold the newspaper and took off on a grand tour of the Orient,” she sighed. “I didn't want to go with him, so I caught a plane and came up here to ask one of his former employees for a job.”

“And got it, I suppose,” he replied, as he took a bite out of his buttered roll.

“Actually, I didn't,” she told him between bites of her own roll. “It was the editor of the Sun, and he didn't have an opening. He sent me to the
Phoenix-Herald
, and I guess they just felt sorry for me. After I told them about my ten starving children and the lecherous landlord…”

“Ten children?” he prompted.

Remembering the tragic death of his daughter, she felt a strangling embarrassment lodge in her throat, and a wild flush stole into her cheeks.

“Don't walk on eggs with me, Carla,” he said, using her given name for the first time. “There's nothing to be embarrassed about.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “Can you read my mind?” she asked in a small voice.

“Look at me.”

She raised her eyes to his and felt them captured, held for ransom by a gaze with the power to stop her heart in mid-beat.

“You have a very expressive face, little one,” he said gently. “Readable. Vulnerable.”

“I'm as tough as used boots,” she murmured.

“Don't bet on it.” He finished his coffee. “You realize that damned labor meeting's polished off my dinner invitation?”

“That's all right,” she murmured courteously.

“Is it, really?” he asked in a deep, slow voice that sent wild shivers down her straight spine.

She met his searching gaze squarely. “No,” she managed shakily, “it isn't.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

She nodded, and the rush of excitement that made wild lights dance in her eyes was something she hadn't felt since her early teens, her first date.

“I'll call you, in case something comes up.” He frowned. “There isn't a boyfriend?”

Her heart went wild; her mouth parted, trembling slightly, drawing his intent gaze before it darted back up to catch the hint of fear in her pale eyes.

“No,” she whispered.

Something relaxed in his leonine face, and he smiled at her, an action that made his eyes soft and tender.

“Come on, country mouse. We'll talk on the way back, but I've got a budget meeting at eleven and a luncheon at twelve, followed by a visiting oil magnate at two. In other words,” he said as he rose, “I've got to go bridge my credibility gap.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” she said, moving slowly beside him to the counter.

He glanced down at her. “Your party piece?” he asked softly. “I'm not trying to wheedle any favorable copy out of you, little one. But don't make the mistake of thinking this is just a moment out of time. This is a beginning, Carla.”

The way he said it, and the slow, sweet appraisal his eyes made of her emphasized the underlying comment. She started to speak when she felt his big, warm hand catch hers and press it warmly. And the music danced within her.

S
he was busily working on the story about the city's new clerk when Bill Peck ambled in and threw himself down in the chair behind his desk.

“God, I'm tired,” he groaned. “A delegation of home owners came to the commission meeting to protest a proposed zoning ordinance. It was the hottest meeting I've covered in months.”

“Did the ordinance pass?” Carla asked absently as she studied her notes.

“No way. Mass protest does have its advantages,” he laughed. “How're you coming on your great exposé?”

She hated the mocking note in his voice and gave him a freezing stare. “I don't make fun of your stories,” she said accusingly.

He sighed. “Okay, I won't make fun of it. But you're going to have hell pinning anything on the city hall crowd.”

“You know!” she burst out.

“I know what you got the tip on, that's all,” he replied. “Your mysterious caller got to me last night. But don't make the mistake of taking that kind of tip for gospel. Fired employees tell tales, and I just happened to recognize that one's voice. He's Daniel Brown, a police sergeant who was fired recently for taking payoffs.”

“Allegedly taking payoffs,” she corrected. “I think he's innocent.”

“God, what a babe in the woods you are,” he scoffed. “Little girl, don't trust people too far. The city's just full of wolves waiting to pounce on little lambs. I wouldn't put much credibility in Brown's story, either, if I were you.”

She didn't mention that she'd already taken her information to the paper's editor and chief counsel and that she had approval from the top to check out that tip. Bill had been a tremendous help to her, boosting her low confidence, building her insight, teaching and encouraging. But he tended to be just the least bit lax in his efforts, and Carla was full of vim and enthusiasm for her job. So she only smiled and agreed with him.

“I hear you had breakfast with the mayor,” he said.

“Gosh, news travels fast!” she gasped. “Did you hear that I pushed him under the table and raped him?”

“No, did you?”

She sighed. “Unfortunately the tables are extremely small. But it was a very informative breakfast. For instance,” she said, leaning on her typewriter to peer at him solemnly, “did you know that slums account for over fifty percent of city services while they only pay about five to six percent of real-estate taxes?”

He sighed, slumping down in his chair. “Oh, no, not again,” he groaned. “I've heard Moreland's slum removal song until I can sing all twenty choruses!”

“Now, Bill…”

“I don't want to hear it,” he pleaded.

“But, it's so fascinating,” she said, and went over to sit on his desk. “Now just let me lay some statistics on you. For example…” and she spent the next fifteen minutes describing the downtown revitalization project, only stopping when the city editor stuck his head around the door and reminded her that the deadline was twenty minutes away.

 

Moreland picked her up at six-thirty for their dinner date, immaculate in his dark evening clothes and a white ruffled shirt that, on him, looked anything but effeminate. He looked sensuous and more than a little dangerous.

Carla smoothed her burgundy velvet dress down over her hips as he closed the door behind him. “I…I hope I'm not underdressed,” she murmured.

“You're fine,” he said, and his bold eyes added extra approval to the comment.

“I'll get my shawl,” she said, turning to retrieve the lacy black creation from her big armchair.

With apparent interest, Moreland was studying a fantasy landscape done by a friend of hers. He turned, eyeing the tastefully decorated apartment with its floral furniture and dark brown carpet. “Earth colors,” he murmured.

She smiled. “I like the outdoors.”

“So do I. I have a farm out in the metro area,” he replied, and she thought how that explained his dark tan. “I'll take you out for the day one weekend.”

“Do you have cattle?” she asked him on the way down to the street in the elevator.

“Only a hundred head or so,” he replied. “Purebred, mostly, a few crossbreeds. I do it for amusement. My grandfather ranched out west.”

“It must take an awfully big horse,” she murmured absently, measuring his big, husky frame with her eyes.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “It does. Can you ride?”

“It's been a long time,” she admitted, “but I think I could still hold on.”

“I've got a gentle little mare you'd like.”

“Dogs?” she asked as they walked out onto the sidewalk under the lofty streetlights and neon lights.

“One. A shepherd. The caretaker and his wife look after him for me when I'm here.”

“You don't live there?” she asked, amazed.

“I have an apartment a few blocks from my office,” he replied. “Some nights I don't finish until midnight. It's an hour's drive to the farm, but that seems like swimming an ocean after a rough day.”

She followed him to a low-slung Jaguar XKE and gaped as he unlocked the passenger side. It was black and sleek and looked as if it could race the wind.

He caught the astonishment on her face and smiled faintly.

“What did you expect? A sedate domestic vintage with an automatic transmission? I'm not that old, honey,” he said amusedly.

“I wasn't thinking that,” she said, dropping down into the plush leather bucket seat. It even smelled expensive. “It isn't conservative.”

“Neither am I,” he said softly. He closed the door for her and went around the hood to get in behind the wheel. For such a big man, he managed to slide in gracefully.

 

The statement was easy to believe when she got on the dance floor with him in the very exclusive disco restaurant and went wild trying to keep up with the intricate steps that he managed effortlessly.

“I thought you knew how to do this,” he teased when the music stopped momentarily.

She only laughed. “So did I. I'm not in your league!”

“I cheated,” he replied. “I took lessons.”

She was ashamed to admit that she had, too. Always graceful on the dance floor, he made her look as if she had two left feet.

But the music was invigorating, and he made dancing fun, so she danced until her legs throbbed with weariness.

Later, he took her to a quiet little bar down the street where they sat sipping drinks over a table where a single candle in a red lamp danced.

“Tired?” he asked.

She nodded with a smile. “Deliciously. It was fun.”

He lit a cigarette and smoked quietly. “How did you get into reporting?” he asked.

She watched him leaning back against the booth, and her eyes were drawn involuntarily to his unbuttoned jacket, where the silky shirt was pulled tight across his massive chest. A shadowing of hair was just visible through the thin fabric.

“My father told me not to,” she replied in all honesty, keeping her wandering eyes on her glass.

“He didn't want you to follow in his footsteps?”

“He was afraid to let me,” she said. Her slender hands fingered the frosty glass. “Dad liked a fight. He wasn't afraid to take on anyone. Crooked politicians, policemen on the take, inept lawmen…anybody. He was threatened a lot, he had tires slashed and windows broken, and once he even got shot at. He's been lucky. He was afraid I might not be.”

“Are you afraid?” he asked in a quiet voice.

She didn't dare look up. “A little, sometimes,” she admitted. “Controversy is always frightening.”

“Why bother with it?”

She smiled. “It's news.”

“Do you bleed ink?” he asked conversationally.

“I've never cut myself,” she replied saucily.

“Any brothers or sisters?” he probed.

She shook her head and shot him a grin. “They were afraid to try again: they might have had another one like me.”

His bold, slow eyes studied her intently from the waist up. “From where I'm sitting, that would have been pretty nice.”

She took a long sip of her drink and tried not to blush. He made her feel like a naïve fifteen-year-old.

“What about you?” she asked. “Do you have a family?” Her face blushed as she remembered. “Oh, my…!”

“Don't,” he said quietly. “I told you not to walk on eggshells with me. Someone told you about it?”

She nodded miserably.

“The wounds are still there, but not nearly as fresh as they were,” he told her. “Sometimes talking about it helps. I loved my daughter very much. I hate to remember how she died, but that doesn't mean I want to forget that she lived. You understand?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think I do. Did she look like you? Was she dark?”

A corner of his mouth curved up. “No. She was fair, like her mother. All arms and legs and laughter. Not a sad child at all. She had promise.”

Her fingers reached out and touched his, where they rested on the white linen tablecloth. “You miss her.”

“Yes,” he said simply. He studied her fingers and turned his hand abruptly to catch them in a warm, slow clasp. “Your hands are cool.”

“Yours are warm,” she replied, feeling the effects of that sensuous clasp all the way to her toes.

His thumb caressed her palm. “We'd better go,” he said abruptly, dropping his hand. “It's late, and I've been stuck with a visiting politician first thing in the morning. She wants to see my ghetto.”

“I'd kind of like to see your ghetto, too,” she remarked.

He smiled at her. “Be in my office at nine-thirty.”

“Really?”

“What's your city editor going to say? This is the second interview in as many days,” he said with a wicked smile.

“He'll probably think I'm trying to seduce you,” she replied smartly.

He studied her in a sudden, tense silence, and she regretted the impulsive teasing as his eyes dropped pointedly to her mouth.

“I don't think you'd know how,” he said.

She got to her feet, red faced. “You might be surprised.”

He moved in front of her, forcing her to look up into dark, steady eyes. “You wear your innocence like a banner,” he said in a soft, deep voice that reached only her ears.

She tried to answer him, but the words caught in her throat. He seemed to read every thought in her whirling mind.

“I'll get the check,” he said, and turned away.

The strained silence was still between them when he pulled up in front of her apartment building and cut the engine.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said as she reached for the door handle.

“I'm coming up with you,” he said abruptly.

He got out and opened her door for her, eyeing her speechless stare with dawning amusement.

“Don't panic,” he teased. “I'm only going to see you safely to your door. I know this city a hell of a lot better than you do, and I just got the revised homicide statistics yesterday.”

She turned and went up the steps with him on her heels. “Bill Peck was furious at me for not doing a story about the night you rescued me from those punks.”

“Any other reporter would have,” he reminded her.

She went into the elevator with her green eyes flashing. “There is such a thing as personal privilege.”

“Not in the eyes of the media,” he said, joining her. He pressed the sixth-floor button and leaned back. Only the two of them had boarded the conveyance, and she felt very young as he watched her.

“You're nervous,” he commented.

She ran her tongue over her dry lips. “Am I?”

One heavy eyebrow went up over dancing dark eyes. “I almost never rape women in deserted elevators.”

Her face went poinsettia red. “I wasn't…”

“Yes, you were,” he mocked. “I'm aware of the dangers even if you aren't, little girl. I didn't plan to pounce on you at your front door.”

She studied his face, trying to figure out the enigmatic statement, but it was like reading stone. “Mr. Moreland…”

“My name is Bryan,” he corrected, standing aside to let her off the elevator as it stopped on her floor.

“Yes, I know,” she murmured, “but it sounds so presumptuous…”

“I won't be ninety for fifty more years,” he reminded her.

She laughed in spite of herself. They were at her door now; she turned, looking up at him, and some vague longing nagged in the back of her mind as her eyes swept over his hard, chiseled mouth. She couldn't help wondering if its touch would be rough or tender, and she was suddenly, dangerously, curious….