Fire Brand. Diana Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ CHAPTER TWO

      BOWIE REALIZED BELATEDLY why Gaby’s face had turned white. “No, no,” he said shortly, noting her horrified expression. “She’s not hurt or anything.”

      She relaxed visibly and put a hand to her throat. “You might have said so.”

      “Are you through here?” He looked around as if he couldn’t see what she had to do anyway.

      “I need to file my story before I go.”

      “Go ahead. It’ll keep.” He walked back out into the lobby and sat down on one of the sofas. Trisa leaned her chin on her hands and sat watching him shamelessly while he read a magazine. If Bowie even noticed, there was no sign of it.

      Gaby had to drag her own eyes away. He was most incredibly handsome, and totally unaware of it.

      She turned on her word processor, got out her notes, and spent fifteen minutes condensing two hours of work into eight inches of copy one column wide.

      Bowie was still reading when she came out of the newsroom, after calling a quick good night to Johnny.

      “I’m ready...oh, no,” she groaned.

      Carl Wilson, the Bulletin reporter, was just coming in the door with a Band-Aid over his nose, breathing fire.

      “So there you are, you turncoat,” he growled at her. His ponytail was soaked, and Bowie was giving him an unnerving appraisal. He turned his back to get away from that black-eyed stare. “This is the last straw, Cane,” he raged. “I know you’ve got the whole damned police force in your pocket from your old days on the police beat, but that was a low blow. My camera’s busted to hell, my film’s exposed...!”

      “Poor old photographer,” she said comfortingly. “Did the big bad policeman hurt its little nose?”

      He actually blushed. “You stop that,” he muttered. “You told them to do it.”

      “Not me,” she said, holding up one hand.

      Bowie had gotten to his feet now and his narrow black eyes were watching closely.

      “If you didn’t point me out, who did?” Wilson persisted, eyeing Bowie warily as he spoke.

      “You were walking right into the line of fire,” she reminded him. “We all saw you.”

      He sighed miserably. “First my car gets towed away, despite the press sticker, because I parked in front of a fire hydrant. Then I get tackled and my film is ruined...it’s somebody’s fault!” he added with a pointed glare.

      Gaby grinned. “God must be mad at you,” she told him. “He’s getting even with you for the Garrison story you conned me out of last week. You do remember having your crony at City Hall send me out to the parking lot while you got the final word on the new landfill site?”

      He shifted uncomfortably. “That was in the line of duty. We’re rivals.”

      “Yes, and some of us hit below the belt,” she added with a meaningful stare. “But I didn’t have the policeman tackle you. You should know better than to walk through a hail of bullets. Policemen get nervous about that sort of thing.”

      “You should know,” Wilson muttered. “Didn’t you get shot in the last stand-off, after the bank robbery?”

      She cleared her throat, aware of Bowie’s thunderous expression. “This time, I was safely behind some police cars—not taking a stroll in front of the sniper.”

      “Is that so.” Wilson pursed his lips. “Well,” he said slowly, “I might be persuaded to forgive you—if you can spare a shot of the victim.”

      “No chance.”

      “Okay, I’m easy. How about the police surrounding the building? Come on, Cane, my job’s on the line,” he coaxed.

      “If Johnny finds out, mine will be, too,” she assured him. “Do what the rest of us do. Go and beg from the News-Record. They go to press every Tuesday, so this story will be old news by the time their next edition comes out. They’ll share with you.” She grinned as she said it. The News-Record was a small weekly newspaper, but its reporters were always on the spot when news broke, and they didn’t mind sharing one of their less important photos with the big dailies—as long as their photographer got a credit.

      He sighed. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Okay, doll, thanks anyway.”

      He started to bend down to kiss her cheek, but she stepped back jerkily. “You’ll give me Bulletin germs!” she exclaimed, making a joke out of it.

      He shook his head. “Leave it to you. Thanks anyway, Cane.” He chuckled, and walked out the front door whistling.

      Bowie hadn’t said anything. He had a cigarette in his hand, and he was watching her like a hawk. “Bullets?” he asked, moving closer.

      “A robbery. The perpetrator got twenty dollars. He killed a store manager and took a pregnant woman hostage, and threatened to kill her. They had to drop him.” She lowered her eyes. “He was little more than a boy. The police reporter is out sick, so I had to cover the story. I don’t do the police beat anymore,” she added, trying to ward off trouble.

      “Bullets?” he repeated, his voice deeper, rougher this time.

      She looked up. “I’m twenty-four years old. This is my job. I don’t need your permission to do it. It was just this one time...”

      “Count your blessings,” he said curtly. He glanced toward the receptionist, who smiled at him, and turned away uncomfortably. “Let’s go.”

      Gaby winked at Trisa as they passed her, but Bowie kept his eyes straight ahead, pausing only to open the door for Gaby and lead her to his black Scorpio.

      She sank into the soft leather seat with a sigh, and let her eyes wander over the dashboard. It was a honey of a car. She wished she could afford one.

      He got in beside her, making sure her seat belt was fastened before he clicked his own into place and started the car. “Does your receptionist make a habit of staring at people that way?” he asked irritably as he pulled out into traffic. “I was beginning to feel like a museum exhibit.”

      “Look in a mirror sometime,” she murmured only half humorously. “I used to have girlfriends by the dozen in college until they learned that you didn’t live at Casa Río. It rather spoiled their dreams of the perfect weekend vacation.”

      He gave her a cold glance. “I hate being chased.”

      “Don’t look at me.” She held up her hands in mock horror. “I’m the last woman you’ll ever have to beat off.”

      “So I’ve noticed.” He eased the car into another lane. “You still don’t like being touched, I see.”

      “Wilson is a womanizer,” she murmured. “I don’t like that kind of man.”

      “You СКАЧАТЬ