Extreme Exposure (3 page)

Reece jumped to his feet and reached out with both arms to steady her before she fell into the aisle. “Careful.”

“I have to catch up with her. I don’t have cash for cab fare. I’ll have to walk home.” There was genuine worry in her eyes.

Reece couldn’t blame her. The streets of Denver weren’t the safest place for a woman at night—particularly one who’d had three. He reached for his coat. “It’s allright, Kara. I’ll drive you.”

She looked at him, her green-gold eyes clouded by uncertainty. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Reece was a bit surprised to realize he was telling the truth.

As soon as Kara had paid the bill—her friend had thoughtfully abandoned that, as well—Reece led her out into the cold January night and down the icy sidewalk.

The shock of Holly’s trickery seemed at first to rob Kara of her tequila-induced chattiness, and they walked in silence. This wasn’t entirely a bad thing, as Reece wasn’t sure he could have endured more of her seductively blunt questions without embarrassing himself.

What does it feel like to be inside a woman? Holy hell!

“I can’t believe she left me! Why would she—?” But Kara never finished the question. With a gasp, she slipped on ice and would have fallen had Reece not caught her.

“You’d better hook your arm through mine, or you’re going to end up flat on your back.”

“Oh!” Kara felt the strength of his arms as they encircled her and looked into his blue eyes. Her stomach did a flip.

Flat on her back.

The next moment, he deposited her squarely on her feet, wrapped a strong arm around her waist. This was a good thing, as the sidewalk was not only slippery, but seemed
somehow slanted, as if gravity were stronger in some places than others.

She hadn’t had that much to drink. Had she?

Reece led her to the door of a yellow Jeep Wrangler that was covered with mud up to its headlights and stuck a key in the lock.

“This is yours? It isn’t a sports car.” Kara took his hand and climbed up the step into the passenger seat.

He shut the door, walked around to the driver’s side, and got in. “Sorry. I left my Jag at home in the garage next to my Porsche.”

It took Kara a moment to realize he wasn’t serious. “You’re joking, Senator.”

“It’s Reece. And, yes, I am.” With a grin, he turned the key in the ignition, turned on the heater, and slid into traffic. Then he reached across her and buckled her seat belt. “Where am I taking you?”

She had to think for a minute. “Corona four blocks south of Colfax.”

“Close to the Capitol.”

Kara nodded. “And close to my son’s day care and the paper.”

“You have kids?”

“One. He’s four.”

“What’s his name?”

“Connor.”

“So you’re divorced?”

“Oh, no! No, no!” Kara couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I was never married.”

As Reece drove through the city’s slushy streets, Kara found her gaze traveling over his face, only vaguely aware of what he was saying—something about state law and aid for single parents. Watching him, she felt something she hadn’t let herself feel for years—an overwhelming attraction to a real, live man.

Then she remembered Malibu Melanie.

Reece already had a girlfriend, a gorgeous girlfriend.
There was no way he would break up with her to spend time with a woman as unglamorous as Kara.

Then again he had left the bar with her, not Malibu Melanie. But a little voice inside her mind shot that hope to bits. He was giving her a ride home because Holly had run off, not because he was attracted to her. She felt her mood plummet.

“Corona, right?”

Kara realized they had reached her street. “Take a right. It’s that one.”

He turned into the driveway and left the Wrangler running. “I’ll walk you to your door. It’s slick out there.”

By the time Kara had opened the passenger door—the handle was a bit confusing—he was standing beside her, offering her his hand. The ground seemed ten feet away.

“Easy.” He helped her down, slipped his arm through hers, and walked with her up the flagstone path that led to her front door.

Even though she was wearing a thick winter coat, the contact was unsettling. She wanted to savor it. She wanted it to end. It had been a long time since she’d been physically close to a man.

“Watch the steps. That’s it.” He helped her up her front porch one stair at a time and then released her.

A feeling not unlike desperation welled up inside her. She didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”

“No? How so?” He stood so close she could feel his body heat.

“I had you figured for an overgrown frat boy.”

He frowned. “Now I
am
insulted. I was never in a frat.”

Kara giggled at the irritated tone in his voice. “Did you date cheerleaders?”

“No. They wanted nothing to do with me.”

“And you don’t drive a sports car.”

“They’re no good in three feet of snow, and I like to snowboard.”

“Like I said—you’re nothing like I thought.”

His lips curved in a wry grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Then, ignoring the voice of warning in her mind, she asked the question she’d wanted to ask all the way home. “Who is Malibu Melanie? Your girlfriend?”

He looked puzzled, his brow furrowed. “Who?”

“You know—the blond bimbo you were with earlier.” She watched recognition dawn on his face.

He smiled, chuckled. “Who is Melanie?”

“Yeah.”

He cupped her shoulders in his palms, an amused smile on his face. “Melanie is my little sister.”

K
ARA STARED
unseeing at the stack of new press releases in her hand.

She wanted to die, to wither, to vanish from the face of the earth.

All weekend she had tried to forget, but she could not. She’d drunk enough to act like an idiot, but not enough to blot out her memory. Like a bad song, her own words played over and over in her mind, just as they had all weekend.

I was just saying I think it’s really erotic when you kiss a man and taste yourself on his mouth.

Why hadn’t Holly done her a favor and stuffed a napkin in her mouth?

Do women really taste like tuna?

Would it have been too much to ask to have been struck by a lightning bolt?

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

You know—the blond bimbo you were with earlier.

If only she could spontaneously combust. She had called his little sister a bimbo!

Kara dropped the press releases on her desk, buried her face in her hands, and moaned, her dignity in tatters. She had made a complete fool of herself in front of a state senator, a
man she would have to interview sooner or later, a man in a position of power who could easily malign her to any number of important people.

To his credit, Reece—Senator Sheridan, she corrected herself—had kept his sense of humor and behaved like a gentleman. He’d driven her home, walked her to her door, and declined her rather blatant invitation to come in for a cup of tea and whatever might follow.

“Not this time.” He’d brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Ask me again when you haven’t had three.”

She had found herself staring up at him, wishing he would kiss her. “I’m glad I got to know you better.”

He had smiled. “I sure learned a lot about you, sweetheart.”

Then he’d turned and walked down the stairs, calling back to her to take some aspirin and drink lots of water.

One thing was for certain. Kara would never speak to Holly again. And she would never, ever drink more than one margarita at The Rio.

She forced her mind back to the press releases.

A motivational speaker promising financial gain to those willing to pay $500 for his workshop. A company vowing to make the world’s largest chocolate-chip cookie using organic dairy products. A health department notice about free vaccination clinics.

None of them touched on her current beat, which focused on the environment. She tossed them into her recycling bin and picked up her phone to check the five messages on her voicemail.

She had called his sister a bimbo!

Kara dialed her access code, determined to put her stupidity—and the devastatingly sexy man who had inspired it—out of her mind.

“Hi, Kara, it’s Holly. I guess you’re still not in. Buzz me as soon as you get this, OK?”

Delete.

“It’s Holly. Are you in yet? I want to hear how it went.”

Delete.

“Hi, Kara. It’s Holly. I hope—”

Delete.

“Hi, Kara—”

Delete.

“Hi, Ms. McMillan. I really need to talk with you. I work at a factory outside the city, and some bad things are happening out here. Pollution and all—it’s right up your alley. People need to know about this. But I can’t be seen with you, and I have to know I can trust you not to use my name or tell anyone you got this information from me. Meet me at noon in the parking lot behind the abandoned warehouse at Quebec and Smith Road. Come alone. Don’t worry about knowing who I am. I’ll recognize you.”

Kara replayed the message several times, listening closely to the man’s voice. It was no one she knew. He sounded gruff, nervous, but not threatening.

There was every chance he was just another weirdo, someone who thought his boss was a space alien or had an ax to grind with management. But something told her he was authentic—perhaps the current of very real fear in his voice, or perhaps the fact that he knew his story fit her beat.

She glanced at her planner and saw she had scheduled a lunch downtown with a member of the state water board for her story on water conservation. Colorado was prone to drought, and with the population explosion of the past decade, water resources were stretched to their limits in some areas. It was an important story, and she couldn’t afford to cancel the interview.

She listened to the message again and saved it. Then she pulled up the number of the state water board and was about to dial when her phone beeped. The LCD display showed it was Holly calling on the inside line—again.

“I know you’re there, Kara,” Holly’s voice said over her speaker. “If you don’t pick up—”

Kara picked up the receiver and dropped it back into its cradle, disconnecting her ex-friend. Then she picked up the
receiver again, pressed an outside line, and dialed. She had just managed to postpone her lunch meeting until one o’clock when she spied Holly making straight for her.

“Thanks for being so understanding. I’ll see you there.” Kara hung up and glared at Holly as Holly entered her cubicle. “I’m not talking to you ever again. Go away.”

“I called four times this weekend, and you didn’t call back!” Dressed in a mauve peasant blouse, a short tweed skirt in mauve and yellow, and knee-high black boots, Holly looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of
Vogue.
“Now tell me what happened!”

“If you hadn’t deserted me, you’d know exactly what happened. Instead, you walked out and left me with him—and the bill!”

“I only did that to make sure you didn’t have fare for a cab.” Holly exposed a twenty she had crumpled in her palm and tossed it on the desk. “Here. That ought to cover my part of it.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of manipulating people?”

Holly frowned. “You didn’t sleep with him, did you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“If you had, you’d be grateful this morning instead of surly.”

Kara grabbed for her notebook and pencil, then stood. “He was too much of a gentleman. He took me home and walked me to the door, and that was it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an I-team meeting. You arts and entertainment writers might have all day to gossip, watch DVDs, and listen to music, but we investigative reporters actually work for a living.”

She ignored the insulted look on Holly’s face and walked off toward the conference room.

“W
E NEED
a shooter in Boulder by five. Another protest about breast-feeding in public.”

Kara fought to keep her thoughts off Reece Sheridan and on the meeting as Tom Trent, the editor in chief, doled out last-minute assignments. A big man whose linebacker body
matched his bulldog personality, he was more than a little intimidating to most people. His green eyes had a way of seeing through people that made even other men squirm. Only his curly gray hair, which more often than not he let grow until it covered his eyes, softened his appearance in any way.

“I’m on it.” Joaquin Ramirez, by far the best photographer at the paper, tapped the time into his pocket planner. Young and sexy, he reminded her of Antonio Banderas. If only he hadn’t been twenty-five. “Will your mother be at this one, Kara?”

“Probably.” Kara hid her irritation behind a smile.

Joaquin had covered the first such protest in Boulder a few weeks ago and come back with a photograph of Kara’s fifty-two-year-old mother topless, her bare breasts barely concealed behind a sign that read “Nursing is nurturing.” Only company policy, which restricted the paper’s use of photographs of employees’ family members, had kept that photo off the front page.

“Alton, what’s on your plate?” Tom had the irritating male habit of calling everyone by his or her last name like a football coach.

Sophie looked up from the notes she’d been poring over and tossed her sleek auburn hair over her shoulder. With freckles, a bright smile, and baby-blue eyes, she had an all-American, outdoorsy look that immediately set people at ease, and Kara knew she used it to her advantage. “There was another murder at the state prison last night. Some young kid was put in a cell with two lifers. They eviscerated him.”

“Good God!” Kara’s expression of disgust joined the others.

“What is that? Three prison killings this month?” Tom was the only one without a look of shock on his face. But Kara knew he’d heard and seen it all during his thirty years at the copy desk.

“How much space do you want?” Syd Wilson, the managing editor, sat with a calculator, tried to figure out how to make all the news fit.

“Can I get twenty inches?”