High Octane. Lisa Renee Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ I guess you didn’t hear that an American soldier, one of our own, robbed a bank last night, and he was connected to a drug cartel. That’s big news. The right take on the story could get you a television mention, or maybe even an interview.”

      “I heard,” she said. “People do stupid stuff every day. It’s sad but it doesn’t require me to report on it person ally. And you aren’t going to use me to get your own press. The last thing I want is a television mention that will destroy the entire reason I’m here—to get away from the pressure of the spotlight.”

      “You know that world,” he said. “You can find out what I want to know.”

      “‘That world’?” she said. “You mean politics? Yes. I do. And I wish I didn’t. Exactly why I came here and took a job with specific duties that do not include ‘that world.’” She was thirty-two, long past having every breath she took approved by her father.

      “What if I told you I have a person on the mayor’s staff who says the mayor not only knows this soldier, but he’s trying to bury this story.”

      “Why would he do that?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

      “Maybe the mayor is dirty and I know how you hate a dirty politician,” he said. “Maybe he’s even involved with the drug cartel. The possibilities are endless. That’s why I need an expert on this story. Do I have your attention now?”

      “No,” she lied. “No, you do not.” She’d come here to create a new life, not move the old one to another state. “This isn’t why you hired me. And you know my father is known to be highly ambitious and that he’s rising as a leader for his party. I don’t need to be in the middle of a scandal involving a Governor. Especially not one of the opposing party, which this one is.”

      “If anyone can get inside this story—”

      “I don’t want inside this story,” she said, cutting him off.

      “Well, I do,” he said. “And that means you do. This is investigative reporting, Sabrina. Not political-opinion commentating. It’s about facts. And no one can judge you for the truth.”

      “My job—”

      “Is to do what I tell you to do,” he said. “And mine is to report the news by using every resource possible. Strawberry festivals are beneath you. Period. The end.” His eyes sharpened, his voice firmed. “The press conference is at four o’clock. Be there.”

      She ground her teeth, fighting the part of her that yearned for more substantive reporting, the part she’d dismissed to get her life back. She liked plans. And this story didn’t fit her plan.

      “Sabrina,” he said.

      “Oh, all right, Frank,” she said. “I’ll go, but I don’t want my name attached. Have someone else write the story with my notes.”

      His lips twitched and he turned with a mumbled, “We’ll talk,” and headed toward the newsroom.

      Sabrina debated pursuit and that “talk” right now, but Jennifer Jones, the petite blonde veterinarian who was the newly established pet-advice columnist appeared in her path, rushing toward her.

      “What the heck was he shouting your name for?” She stopped in front of Sabrina. “I swear I’ll never get used to this place. I need to get back to my clinic. Barking dogs and hissing cats are so much nicer than hot tempers and demanding bellows.”

      Sabrina might have laughed at the flustered look on Jenn’s face, if not for the knots in her own stomach. “Can I go with you?”

      “Depends,” Jennifer said, smiling. “How do you feel about chickens? I hear I have someone bringing one in this afternoon.”

      “A chicken?” Sabrina asked, laughing. It had only been a month, but she already considered Jennifer a friend. The woman and her silly animal stories hit all the right notes at all the right times. “You can’t be serious.”

      “As a mama hen,” she said. “This is Texas. People take their chickens seriously. This one belongs to a highschool kid in Future Farmers of America.”

      “In New York,” Sabrina told her, “it’s the rats we take seriously, only they aren’t school projects or pets.”

      Jennifer snorted. “And here I thought New York City didn’t have wildlife.” She smiled. “Did Frank’s shout mean you are otherwise occupied or can you grab some lunch before I retreat to the animal kingdom of my clinic?”

      Sabrina blew hair from her eyes. “It means I need a margarita and some chocolate, though I’ll settle for lunch and dessert. But I need to—”

      “Drive,” Jennifer said for her. “I know.”

      Sabrina frowned. “You do?”

      She nodded. “We’ve been to lunch three times, and every time you found a reason to drive. Just like you have to fill your coffee cup to an exact spot. You’re a control freak.”

      Sabrina opened her mouth to deny this, but Jennifer held up a finger. “Let me go grab my purse.” Jennifer rushed away toward the newsroom in a flash of long blond hair and bubbly personality.

      Sabrina stood absolutely still, frowning over Jennifer’s assessment that she was a control freak. She wasn’t a control freak. Her father was. And she intended to prove that fact to Jennifer over lunch.

      An hour later, seated in a red-leather booth of a family-style restaurant, the main course completed, Sabrina helped herself to the huge brownie, covered with chocolate and ice cream, in front of her.

      “I’m not a control freak,” Sabrina insisted, having just taken Jennifer into her confidence with a confession of how and why she’d come to Texas.

      Jennifer arched a brow.

      Sabrina pursed her lips in rejection of that silent challenge. Darn this woman for seeing so much, for forcing her to face facts. “Fine. I admit it. I’m a control freak, but it has been by necessity. Back home, every step I took was analyzed, dissected for political gain. I’m out of that environment now, and I want to be free, but it’s hard.”

      Silence followed as Jennifer savored a big bite of brownie, and then said, “Have you ever watched the Dog Whisperer?”

      Sabrina laughed in disbelief at the off-the-wall comment that seemed to fit nowhere in this conversation. “Big Fan,” Sabrina admitted. “And not because I’m trying to be a dog whisperer. I don’t even have a dog. It’s the way those animals instantly submit, well…that kind of control is really sexy.”

      Jennifer set her spoon down. “Listen, this isn’t going where I meant for it to go. We are talking about giving away control, not making it sexy.”

      “Oh, good grief,” Sabrina said in realization of her mixup. “I’m completely conflicted. I’m in way worse shape than I thought.” And on that note, she did the only logical thing she could do—she took a huge bite of her brownie.

      “We’re all confused,” Jennifer assured her, but not before she stifled a laugh. “It’s called being human.”

      “Then maybe СКАЧАТЬ