Night's Pleasure. Amanda Ashley

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      “Hi, sweetie,” he said. “How was the show?”

      “Amazing, as always.” Taking off her coat, she hung it in the hall closet, then kissed her dad on the cheek before dropping down on the sofa and kicking off her shoes.

      “Did you get to interview him?” William Gentry asked.

      “No, I didn’t see him.” She hated to admit defeat, especially since her father was the one who had given her the assignment. If necessary, she would just write the article without the interview.

      Her father chuckled softly. “Seems like he’s a hard one to catch. Are you going to try again?”

      “Sure, if you want me to, but honestly, Dad, I don’t know why you’re so determined about this. The man is a great magician, but it’s not like he’s a rock star or anything. I mean, how many people even know who he is?”

      “If it’s too hard for you, just let it go.”

      Savanah’s eyes narrowed. “Did I say that?”

      “So, you’ll try again?”

      “Of course, and I’ll get him. You just wait and see.”

      “I don’t doubt it for a minute. It’ll make a good story.”

      “I hope so.”

      For the last five years, her father had been the editor-in-chief of the local newspaper. Before that, he had been an investigative reporter, one of the best in the country. He had blown the whistle on high-level government officials and small-town gangsters alike. He had brought down drug lords and pimps and put an end to a group of scumbags who had been selling crystal meth to high school kids. Once, he had spent several months in jail because he had refused to give up a snitch. He had been honest and fearless, never turning away from a story, no matter how gritty it might be, never backing down when the going got tough.

      Although he was now the editor-in-chief and no longer a field reporter, she knew he was working on a story, and she knew it was something big because he refused to talk to her about it.

      Savanah wanted to be just like him; however, being just a rookie, she hadn’t yet been assigned to any big stories. Of course, in a small town like Kelton, there weren’t too many big stories to begin with, but once she had gained some experience, she hoped to move to New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles.

      Savanah smiled at her father. Though he was still a relatively young man, his hair was tinged with gray. Lines of pain were deeply etched around his mouth and eyes. He rarely smiled. Savanah couldn’t blame him. Eighteen years ago, her mother had passed away from a mysterious illness. Savanah had been seven at the time. She remembered very little about her mother except that she’d had an infectious laugh, made the world’s best chocolate chip cookies, and loved to dance.

      Seventeen months ago, Savanah’s father had been the victim of a hit-and-run accident that had cost him the use of both legs and left him confined to a wheelchair. He had spent several months in the hospital. The driver had never been found. For a time, Savanah had feared that her father would never recover, and then, one night, on the spur of the moment, she had bundled him into the car and headed for the next town to see a new magician. To her surprise, it had been the man now billing himself as Santoro the Magnificent. Miraculously, her father had regained his old zest for living. He had gone back to work, and bought a special van to get around in.

      Savanah chatted with her father for another few minutes, then excused herself to go upstairs and take a bath. Her father hadn’t slept in the master bedroom since her mother died. It was a nice, big room, and while her father couldn’t bear to sleep there, it made Savanah feel closer to the mother she scarcely remembered. Her father slept in one of the bedrooms downstairs, and used the downstairs’ guestroom as his office. When Savanah had turned fifteen, her father had given her carte blanche to redecorate the master bedroom. She had spent weeks looking at paint and wallpaper and new furniture.

      Savanah’s old bedroom now served as her office. It was her favorite room in the house. An antique oak desk held her computer, a state-of-the-art printer, a small gum-ball machine, and a photograph of her parents on their wedding day. Her first newspaper story published under her byline hung in a silver frame on the wall across from her desk. A large bookcase filled with paperback novels, a couple of dictionaries, a thesaurus, a world atlas, and several encyclopedias took up most of one wall.

      After filling the tub and adding a generous amount of jasmine-scented bubbles, Savanah sank into the water and closed her eyes. Tomorrow night, she vowed, tomorrow night she would get that interview with Santoro the Magnificent, or know the reason why.

      Chapter Two

      The dark-haired woman was there again, front row center. For the first time in his life, Rane found it difficult to keep his mind on what he was doing while on stage. He was aware of the intensity of her gaze as she followed his every move. She wasn’t there to be entertained, he thought. She was there to discover how he did what he did. Rane grunted softly. If he told her his secrets, she would undoubtedly run screaming into the night. Not that he would blame her. He was a predator, a killer, and she looked good enough to eat.

      Showing off a little, Rane left the stage and strolled up the wide center aisle. Stopping at one row after another, he asked men and women chosen at random to think of something that no one else could possibly know, and then he told them what it was. No doubt most of the people in the audience thought those he spoke to were shills, but he had no need of such. He had only to open his mind to hear the thoughts of those around him.

      From time to time, he glanced back at the dark-haired woman sitting in the front row, annoyed by the blatant skepticism in her eyes. Backtracking, he stopped in front of her.

      “Good evening, Miss Gentry.”

      Her eyes widened in surprise when he called her by name.

      “Your expression tells me you think that maybe the people I’ve talked to are shills, planted in the audience to make me look good.”

      She blushed under his regard. “No…that is, well…” Her chin came up defiantly. “Maybe I do.”

      He took a step closer, heard her heartbeat increase as he deliberately moved into her space. “Shall I tell you what you’re thinking now?”

      The pink in her cheeks turned brighter, darker. She shook her head vigorously. “No!”

      He laughed, amused, because she had been thinking he was the handsomest man she had ever seen, and that she would like to run her fingertips over his bare chest.

      Savanah pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. There were several people in the audience that she knew, including one of the reporters she worked with. How would she ever face any of them again if Santoro the Magnificent blurted out what she had been thinking?

      Sensing her mortification and unwilling to humiliate her in public, Rane asked, “Would you care to think of something else?”

      She nodded, wishing she was anywhere but there. His nearness sparked an odd tingling in the pit of her stomach. Nerves, she thought, and who could blame her, when he was standing so close, when his gaze rested on her face like a physical caress?

      “In high school,” he said, “you had a crush on your journalism teacher, Mr. Tabor.”

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