More Than a Hero. Marilyn Pappano

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ car halfway down the block, she took a deep breath. The Tuesday dinner special at the Riverfront Grill was baby back ribs, rich, smoky and sticky with secret sauce. If she went home, she would have a salad or a frozen dinner in front of the television—probably better for her hips but not for her mental state. Turning away from the car, she covered the few remaining yards to the restaurant, greeted everyone by name and was shown to a booth at the front window.

      No sooner had the waitress left after taking her order, a shadow fell across the table—no doubt one of her very popular father’s friends or acquaintances. She glanced up, first seeing a pair of jeans so faded that they were practically white, hugging a pair of narrow hips so snugly she couldn’t help but think for one instant about exactly what they cradled.

      Heat seeping into her cheeks, she forced her gaze upward, across a simple belt—leather, brown, no tooling—and a T-shirt that could be had for six bucks at the local Wal-Mart. Half the men in town wore similar shirts every day. None of them looked half as good.

      Jake Norris’s expression was a mix of chagrin and suspicion. “You should have told me you were his daughter.”

      She unrolled the napkin in front of her, left the silverware on the table and spread the white linen across her lap. “When I asked your name, you should have shown a little interest in mine. Besides, you learn such interesting things when people are being honest rather than tactful.”

      He took a drink from the frosted mug he held, the muscles in his arm flexing as he lifted, his throat working as he swallowed. Something about the action struck her as sensual, though she rejected the thought as soon as it popped into her head. He was drinking beer. Period. It was nothing to raise a woman’s temperature.

      “I apologize if I offended you.”

      “If?” she repeated mildly.

      “But, in fairness, you accused me of exploiting other people’s suffering.”

      “Isn’t that what you do? Dig into traumatic events, lay them out bare for everyone to see, then pocket their money?”

      Without waiting for an invitation, he slid onto the opposite bench. “How many of my books have you read, Ms. Riordan?”

      “None.”

      “Then doesn’t it seem wise to withhold judgment until you know what you’re talking about?”

      She smiled faintly at the waitress as she returned with a tall glass of iced tea. “Fine. I apologize for calling you a vulture.”

      The insult brought a grin to the mouth she had inadequately described as “nice.” It was a great mouth—a really sexy mouth, especially with that bold, brash, amused grin. “You didn’t call me a vulture,” he pointed out. “At least not to my face. Were you and Lissa talking about me after I left?”

      “No, of course not.” It wasn’t a total lie. Those few minutes of calming Lissa’s worries didn’t count.

      “So you were talking to yourself when you called me a vulture. Some people consider that worrisome. Not me, though. I talk to myself a lot when I’m working.” He set the beer on the table and laced long, strong fingers around the stein. “What did you think of the reviews?”

      “What reviews?”

      He grinned again, and she had to admit that, arrogance aside, there was a certain charm to it. “Aw, come on. Don’t tell me that you or the munchkin didn’t go online as soon as I was gone to find out what you could about me.”

      Rather than admit the truth, she frowned. “Don’t call Lissa that.”

      “So…what did you think?” Norris prompted.

      Kylie summoned a cool smile. “I think you’re smug and conceited, but I didn’t have to go to the Internet to learn that.”

      “I’m not conceited. I’m confident. There’s a difference.”

      “But you admit to being smug?”

      He shrugged. “No one’s perfect.”

      She liked his easy manner. Liked his grin. Was even starting to kind of like his smugness…until he went on.

      “Including your father.”

      Her spine stiffened. “You think the senator mishandled the Baker case.”

      Another easy shrug rippled the fabric of his shirt. “I think Charley is innocent.”

      “Why? Because he told you so?”

      The easiness disappeared in a flash—no doubt chased away by her snide tone. “I’m not naive, Ms. Riordan. I’ve spent a lot of time with more convicted murderers than you can even name. They write me letters, call me, send me e-mails. They tell me things they’ve never told anyone else. Yes, Charley told me he’s innocent. My gut tells me he’s innocent. More importantly, the evidence raises reasonable doubt.”

      Kylie leaned back, crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest. A body-language expert would say her posture meant she was closed off, not open to hearing what Norris had to say, and he would be right. She knew her father—knew his morals, ethics and beliefs. He didn’t send the wrong man to prison. “Such as?”

      “The whole basis for Charley’s arrest and conviction was his affair with Jillian Franklin, and yet there was no evidence that it ever happened. No one ever saw them together. His wife swears his time was pretty much accounted for—if he wasn’t at work, he was with her or their son. Jillian never mentioned him to any of her friends. His fingerprints weren’t found anywhere in the house. Nothing connects them.”

      “Illicit affairs are generally conducted in secret.”

      “This affair appears to have been fabricated to serve as a motive for Charley to kill Jillian.”

      Anger swept through Kylie with a force that made her tremble. “My father never fabricated evidence.”

      “I didn’t say he did. It could have been the sheriff’s department.”

      “All you have is Charley Baker’s side of the story, and he’s in prison. He obviously can’t be trusted. You know nothing of the facts.”

      He remained as calm as she wasn’t. “That’s what I’m here for. The facts—or an approximation thereof.”

      “So you can include them in your book—or an approximation thereof,” she said sarcastically.

      He merely smiled. “My books are as accurate as they can be under the circumstances. I rely on trial transcripts, newspaper accounts, public record, interviews, letters—whatever sources I can find. The most recent crime I’ve written about took place eleven years ago. Time affects people’s memories. They want to make themselves look better—or, on occasion, worse—than they really were. I present what I find and I let the readers draw their own conclusions.”

      “And hope for a new trial to boost the sales of your book.”

      His grin was unexpected and all the more powerful for it. “So you did look me up.”

      She stared stonily at СКАЧАТЬ