The Way Home. Irene Hannon

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СКАЧАТЬ sighed. There was no way around it. He and Cynthia had been co-workers and friends a long time, and she wouldn’t rest until she had the whole story. “I agreed to be one of the bachelors auctioned off at a charity dinner last Friday. A good chunk of the money goes to Saint Vincent’s, so I couldn’t say no.”

      “No kidding! Mr. Particular, who finds fault with everyone I suggest as a potential date, is actually going to go out with some strange woman?”

      “I certainly hope she’s not strange.”

      “Very funny. So do you want to talk to her or not?”

      Cal sighed again. No, he didn’t. But he’d have to face this sooner or later, and he might as well get it over with. “Yeah, I guess so.”

      “Do try to restrain your eagerness,” Cynthia said dryly. “Remember, this woman paid good money for you. You could at least show a little enthusiasm. How much, by the way?”

      “Five hundred.”

      She gave a low whistle. “All I can say is, you better make this date something to remember. I’ll put her through.”

      “Wait! Did she give you her name?”

      “No. Don’t you have it?” Cynthia asked in surprise.

      “I cut out early that night. She hadn’t gone back to pay yet. They said she’d be in touch with me.”

      “Well, it’s payoff time now. Have fun, lover boy.”

      Cal grimaced and took a deep breath. This was the most awkward thing he’d ever done, even if it was for a good cause. He just hoped the woman could at least carry on a decent conversation, or it would be one very long evening.

      He heard the call go through and, remembering Cynthia’s comment about how much money the bidder had paid, forced a pleasant note into his voice. “Cal Richards speaking.”

      “Mr. Richards, I believe we have a date.”

      He frowned. The voice was oddly—and unsettlingly—familiar, and a wave of uneasiness swept over him.

      “Yes, I think we do,” he replied warily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name the night of the dinner, although I have a feeling we’ve met.”

      “Yes, we have. This is Amy Winter.”

      Amy Winter? The reporter? Impossible! Fate wouldn’t be that unkind, not after he’d endured being auctioned off in front of hundreds of women, let himself be humiliated for charity. It couldn’t be her!

      “Mr. Richards, are you still there?”

      It was her, all right, he realized with a sinking feeling. Now that she’d identified herself, he recognized that distinctive, slightly husky voice. His headache suddenly took a turn for the worst, and he closed his eyes. “Yes, I’m here. Look, Ms. Winter, is this a joke?”

      “Hardly. I paid good money for this date. And I have the receipt to prove it.”

      “But why in the world…?” His voice trailed off as her strategy suddenly became clear. He wouldn’t talk to her in a business setting, so she figured he’d have to in a social situation. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and his headache ratcheted up another notch. “It won’t work, you know,” he said coldly.

      “What?”

      “Don’t play innocent with me, Ms. Winter. You’re still trying to get me to talk about the trial. Well, forget it. You wasted five hundred dollars.”

      “It went to a good cause. Besides, how do you know I didn’t bid on you because I really wanted a date?”

      “Ms. Winter, anyone who looks like you doesn’t need to buy dates at an auction. Let’s stop playing games. You bought a date, I’ll give you a date. And that’s all I’ll give you. How about dinner Friday night?”

      “How about sooner?”

      “Sorry, that’s the best I can do.”

      “Okay. Just name the time and place.”

      “I’ll pick you up. That was part of the deal.”

      “Don’t put yourself out.”

      Cal frowned. She sounded miffed. And she had a right to, he conceded guiltily. As Cynthia had said, she’d paid good money for their date, whatever her motivation. He took a deep breath and forced a more pleasant tone into his voice. “I’ll be happy to pick you up. Just give me your address.”

      She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse. But in the end she relented and they settled on a time.

      “I’ll see you Friday, Mr. Richards. It should be interesting.”

      That wasn’t exactly the word he would have chosen, he thought grimly as he hung up the phone, reached for his coffee and shook out two aspirin from the bottle he kept in his desk drawer. On second thought, he made it three. Amy Winter was definitely a three-aspirin headache.

      As Amy replaced the receiver, she realized her hand was shaking. The strain of keeping up a breezy front with the recalcitrant assistant prosecuting attorney had clearly taken a toll. She’d always been out-spoken and assertive, but “pushy” wasn’t her style. Which was unfortunate, given the career she’d chosen. Though she’d learned to be brash, she hadn’t yet learned to like it. The in-your-face approach just wasn’t her. But it was part of the job, and she figured in time it would get easier. The only problem was, she’d been telling herself that for years now.

      Amy took a sip of her herbal tea and gave herself a few minutes to calm down. Cal Richards didn’t like her, and though she knew she shouldn’t let that bother her, it did. She liked to be liked. But she’d chosen the wrong business for that, she reminded herself wryly. Investigative reporters didn’t usually win popularity contests. Acrimony went with the territory.

      For a fleeting moment Amy wondered if she might have been happier using her reporting skills in some other way. But she ruthlessly stifled that unsettling thought almost as quickly as it arose. It was way too late for second-guessing. She’d invested too much of her life and energy building this particular future to question it now. She’d very deliberately set her sights on a career as an anchorwoman, and she knew exactly why.

      First, she liked the glamour. She enjoyed being in the spotlight, relished her pseudocelebrity status.

      Second, she liked the big-city lifestyle. Unlike her sister, Kate, who had actually enjoyed small-town farm life, Amy had always dreamed of the bright lights and the excitement of the city. If the lights were more garish than dazzling up close, well, that was more a reflection of the nature of her work—which often took her to seedy areas—than of the actual city, she assured herself.

      Third, she liked the money. Or at least the freedom it gave her. The freedom to travel to the Caribbean on exotic vacations, the freedom to live in an upscale town house, the freedom to walk into any store in Atlanta and buy whatever designer outfit she chose without having to give up something else to do so. Money had always been tight on the farm. Her parents had done their best, but she had vowed to put the days of homemade prom dresses and hand-me-downs far behind her.

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