The Baby Connection. Dawn Atkins

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СКАЧАТЬ led him to her Jetta and unlocked the doors. The car was stuffy from the day’s heat. It was only May, but the broil hit early in Arizona. Noah sat, then lifted something from the floorboard, which he held out. “Your portfolio?”

      “Yeah. Thanks.” She put it in the back. He followed it with his eyes, which she thought was cool. He seemed curious about her work.

      “I liked your description of the nitty-gritty of an investigation,” she said, making the most of the short drive to the hotel. “Combing through boxes of legal files, Dumpster diving for phone bills, waiting hours in a parking lot to ambush a bad guy trying to slip away.”

      “Yeah, it’s a glamorous life, all right,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve got the scars.” He shoved up his sleeve to show her a bite mark. “Drug dealer’s pit bull.”

      “Was that for the Life of a Banger series?”

      “You read that?”

      “I’ve read all your pieces.” She hoped that didn’t come out too breathless. Why wouldn’t she study the best in the business? He said he’d just been doing his job and she intended to follow his lead. She couldn’t wait to get started.

      “Some of that early stuff was pretty rough.” He shifted in his seat.

      “Not that I could tell. And you got a Pulitzer for the pain-med racket series that came out before that.”

      “The team got the prize, Mel. And the magazine.”

      She liked his modesty. “How did you get that guy to give up the doctors’ names to start with?”

      “I found out his sister died of an OD, and when I mentioned her, he folded. It was pretty heavy. Sometimes you get deeper than you intend.”

      “But it was so worth it. Those stories led to new regulations.”

      “They were a factor, sure, but lots of people were in that fight.”

      She let a second pass, then said, “My favorite was your story on that national guard soldier who missed his child’s birth due to redeployment.”

      “Yeah? That one was tough. I knew he’d get flack from his superiors for breaking rank and talking to me. Afterward, though, he told me he was glad. That’s not always the case. A hell of a lot of people regret talking to me.”

      “But it’s your job to get the truth, even when it hurts.”

      He shot her a look, then stared out the windshield. She could tell he liked what she’d said. The conversation felt so natural. It had to be their shared passion for journalism, but it felt good to her. Damn good.

      She’d been thirsty for this kind of talk, dreamed of it from the first day of her first class, but rarely experienced it, because she never had time to hang with classmates or professors. And now she was doing it with Noah Stone, the best of the best.

      The hotel sign appeared, signaling the end of the trip. Damn. She pulled in and stopped. “The reservation’s prepaid for two nights, so you shouldn’t have any charges or—”

      “Have a drink with me, Mel,” he said. “In a couple of days, I’ll be lost to the assignment and I won’t come up for air until it’s over. This feels good, talking with you. How about it?”

      Yes, oh, yes, please. But she made herself look at her watch. “I guess I’ve got time for one drink….”

      “Great.” He reached around for her portfolio. “All right if I look at your stuff?”

      “If you want to. Sure.” She felt like pinching herself with excitement.

      They headed straight to the bar, where they sat knee-to-knee at a small table, leaning in to hear each other over the soft piano someone played.

      “This feels like a martini night to me,” he said. “We’re both about to take off—me to Iraq, you to your new job. Sound okay?”

      “Sounds great.” She was celebrating her graduation, after all. The launch of her career. At last, she’d achieved what she’d worked so hard for. And she was doing it with Noah Stone, no less. This called for more than an ordinary glass of red wine for sure.

      “Two martinis, up, two olives,” he told the waiter. “With gin, as God intended.”

      As soon as the waiter left, Noah opened her book, shifted to the side so they could both look at the pages. They were so close she could see the crinkles around his eyes, the streaks of darker color in his light brown hair, which curled, untamed, to his collar. He had a beauty mark above one ear, and his cologne filled her head.

      Their arms touched and they breathed in sync as he flipped the pages, commenting on the subtlest detail of shot after shot. His praise thrilled her, but she kept getting distracted by how close he was, how sexy, how mmm.

      “I like these street graffiti ones a lot,” he said.

      “The gang-squad cop told me they signified a turf war. I thought the way the styles clashed told that story.”

      “Only because you got the right angles and depth of field. Your composition is, hell, poetry.”

      “Thanks.” He really got what she’d been trying to do. And he knew what he was talking about, so it was high praise indeed. Meanwhile, his nearness electrified her. It was as though her skin was vibrating. Sparks flew so hot and fast she swore she could see blue flashes.

      The drinks came and Noah tapped his to hers. “To good gin, remarkable art and great company.”

      “To all that,” she said, and they both drank, watching each other over their glasses. The icy cocktail burned all the way to her toes.

      “Good?” Noah asked, his chocolate-brown eyes twinkling.

      “Mmm.” She smiled. “Perfect.”

      He nodded, satisfied, then flipped to the next page. “This guy has a great face.” He tapped the shot of a Hispanic man with a leathery tan and sad eyes beneath a white straw hat. “How’d you get so close?”

      “It wasn’t easy. He waved me off at first. People tend to stiffen, preen or shy away from a camera, but I hung around long enough to become scenery.”

      “Smart. Are Latino issues of particular focus to you?”

      “I’m passionate about my heritage, but I won’t let that limit me. There’s a knee-jerk tendency to slot Latino reporters into any story that involves brown skin or speaking Spanish. I intend to resist that.”

      “Good for you.” He closed the book. “This is great stuff, Mel. No wonder News Day snapped you up.” He searched her face. “So why photojournalism? Why not art or commercial photography?”

      “How can you ask that?” she demanded. “You know why. Journalism matters. And with people barely reading these days, photos are crucial. A picture stops you cold, makes you see what you’d rather ignore. Think of the photo of the Viet Cong soldier being shot in the head, the leash shot at Abu Ghraib. The starving children in Darfur. News photos galvanize people. They СКАЧАТЬ