Storm Front (Reunited Hearts) (13 page)

“I
thought your magazine focused on politics.”

She
gave a slight shrug. “You’re big news. You know that by now.”

He
did know that. He was mostly killing time so he could observe her reactions and
figure out what her game was. “So it’s just a coincidence they sent you?”

“No.
I wrote a few other stories about the storm so my editor wanted me to do this
too.”

It
actually made sense, and Michael had to acknowledge the possibility that she
was telling him the truth. It seemed like an unlikely coincidence, but stranger
things had happened.

“Are
you planning to throw me out?” Allison demanded, her eyes narrowing.

He’d
considered it initially but immediately dismissed the idea. Not only would the
gesture be petty—and Michael hated being petty—but it would also be
counterproductive and could cause public relations problems.

He
gave her a cold smile. “If I did, I have no doubt that you’d plaster an
exaggerated account of it all over the papers tomorrow.”

“I
wouldn’t go quietly,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving his face. Not very
many people would hold his stare when he was in this sort of mood. Something
else to reluctantly admire about her. “I promise.”

“I’m
not going to throw you out. You’re welcome to cover the benefit if you want. As
long as you don’t have any other plans.”

“Like
showing up in your bedroom wearing nothing but one of your shirts?”

Her
tone was thick with sarcasm, but the involuntary image her words evoked did
uncomfortable things to Michael’s body.

Fighting
the wave of arousal, he bit out, “I assume even you wouldn’t be foolish enough
to try that.”

For
the first time, his words had a visible effect on her. She winced very briefly,
as if she’d been stung.

“I
apologized,” she said softly, turning around as if she would leave, although he
certainly hadn’t dismissed her. “You’re the one acting like an ass.”

For
some reason, despite all of the good reasons he had to resent her, the words
hit home. His defenses had been raised far too high to let down, and he still
sensed something else underlying her presence here—something beyond her stated
assignment. His instincts were rarely wrong, and he’d been used too many times
to let it happen again.

But
her words struck a chord just the same.

That
only infuriated him more.

Without
thinking, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, swinging her around and
pressing her back into the wall. Holding her arm in place, he used his body to
imprison her. He asked roughly, “What game are you playing?”

She
stared up at him, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. “Damn you, Michael. I’m
not playing a game. Why must you always expect the worst from people?”

“Because
the worst is inevitable.” He leaned even closer, his face inches from hers. He
was nearly shaking with intensity, and he could feel that she was trembling
too.

“Well,
I only lied to you once, and I said I was sorry. I don’t deserve for you to
treat me like some sort of cheap—” She cut her own words off and didn’t finish
the sentence. Instead, she pushed against his shoulder with her free hand,
obviously trying to give herself some space.

Automatically,
he grabbed her second arm and held it against the wall like the first. He
stared down at her, fueled by emotion and a deep desire that both shocked and
enraged him.

But
he physically responded to the soft strength of Allison’s against him. She struggled
against his grip. His body hardened and tightened at the way her breasts rubbed
against his chest, at the way her hips squirmed restlessly against his pelvis.
He responded by instinct alone.

He
kissed her. Hard, deep, and unyielding.

It
took him only a minute to realize that she wasn’t responding. She wasn’t moving
at all. She’d gone almost limp as he held her against the wall.

He
jerked away as soon as this knowledge penetrated the fierce haze that clouded
his mind, and his passion died in a wave of both shame and revulsion.

What
the hell was he doing?

He
realized he’d been gripping her wrists so tightly they might bruise, and he
dropped her arms like they would burn him.

Her
knees buckled briefly, but she managed to straighten up.

Yes,
Michael was angry. And still suspicious. And he had just cause to resent her
deception.

But
there was no excuse for losing control the way he had.

Allison’s
face twisted, but it was with anger more than fear or pain. She swiped at her
mouth with the back of her hand. “What?” she snapped. “Is that supposed to turn
me on? Or was that some sort of punishment?”

Michael
had absolutely no idea what it was. He had no idea why his life had suddenly
become this hot, chaotic tangle of extremes. He just stared at her, breathing
heavily.

She
was panting too, and he couldn’t help but notice that her nipples were poking
out tantalizingly through the fabric of her top, under her unbuttoned jacket.

He
looked away immediately. Forced his mind back to the control he’d tried to
cultivate over so many years of his life.

Finally,
he forced out, “If you want something from me, just tell me now.”

For
just a moment, her eyes looked wounded. “I don’t want anything from you, Michael.”
She turned to leave and added under her breath, “I never did.”

He
didn’t reply. Just watched as she walked away, her hips swaying with a
sensuality he knew was unconscious.

When
she stopped, he wasn’t prepared. He’d assumed she would storm off in a huff. A
justified huff since he’d treated her quite shoddily.

But
she paused and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Is the dog all right?”

Ingrate
was, at present, in the maintenance room of this very building, since the
animal howled every time Michael tried to leave him alone. So he’d been taking
the dog with him and trying to convince himself Ingrate was nothing but a
damned inconvenience.

But
his voice was softer and just a little husky as he admitted, “The dog is fine.”

Allison wasn’t sure
what she’d been expecting from the gala.

But
it wasn’t
this
.

She
knew, as a reporter, that she wouldn’t have access to the ballroom and wouldn’t
get to mingle freely with the guests. Journalists, although they were required
to dress appropriately for the evening, were relegated to the main entryway of
the building and couldn’t participate in any of the festivities. She wasn’t
surprised or disappointed by this.

But
she hadn’t expected to feel like she was covering the red-carpet entrances at
the Oscars, asking women who they were wearing and men who their dates were,
and that was exactly how she felt.

Michael
had effectively managed to give journalists nothing substantial to cover, so
all they were left with was fluff.

She’d
been more successful earlier in the day as she covered the art show and silent
auction. She’d gotten some good interviews and had all the information she
needed about the paintings and who had purchased them. The gala in the evening
was the big event, however, and she couldn’t have the access she wanted unless
she forked over several thousand dollars for a ticket.

After
an hour of watching the arrival of affluent members of New York society dressed
to the nines in tuxes and evening gowns, Allison gave up on the front entrance
and decided to try something else.

She
hadn’t even seen Michael this evening. He must have arrived by a different
entrance, obviously intent on avoiding the media as much as possible.

She
wondered who his date was tonight.

She
wondered if he regretted the way he’d treated her the day before.

The
memory of their intense encounter yesterday made her uncomfortable, so she
pushed it from her mind as she left the building and forced her way through the
crowd on the sidewalk. Everyone was trying to get the best view of the popular
film star who was just exiting her limo out front.

Allison
had no interest, so she wandered farther down the block, searching her mind for
an interesting approach to the story she had to write. She would have to think
of something, or Jeff would consider her a failure for not getting an interview
with Michael like he expected.

After
a few minutes, she noticed Ray across the street. He was the elderly man she’d
spoken with the day before. She called out a greeting, and he waved her over.

Deciding
she had nothing better to do, she crossed the street—shamelessly jaywalking—and
caught up with Ray on the opposite sidewalk.

“You
looking for an interesting angle?” he asked. He had gray hair and was wearing
baggy trousers and a red vest-sweater.

Allison
perked up. “Always.”

“You
care about Virginia, and you seem like a smart girl. Check this out.” Ray
starting walking down the block, as if he never doubted she would follow him.

Allison
followed him.

The
day before, they’d talked about Virginia and the storm, so she knew he was
invested in the issue. She doubted he worked for Michael, or he wouldn’t be
talking to her now. But he’d been in the building yesterday so maybe he had
something worthwhile to show her.

It
wasn’t like it would hurt to look, since she was just wasting time at the
moment.

Ray
headed to a diner on the corner of the block and, when he pushed in through the
door, Allison was right behind him.

She
immediately realized what was going on.

A
group of twenty or twenty-five people was gathered in the diner, chatting and
drinking coffee. Propped up on the tables and booths were about a dozen picket
signs.

With
a surge of excitement, Allison realized that they were about to stage some sort
of protest. “What’s the issue?” she asked Ray, who’d slid into a booth beside a
young woman.

“Lighthouse,”
Ray said, obviously a man of few words. “Take a seat. We have another twenty
minutes or so.”

Allison
did as he instructed, getting excited for the first time that evening.

She
talked with the protesters and learned that they were working for the survival
of a historic lighthouse on one of the islands near Sunset Cape. It had been
seriously damaged by the storm, and the plans were just to tear it down. A
developer had wanted the land it stood on for more than a decade anyway, so the
local government was reconciled to the impending destruction of the landmark.

Ray
and his fellow protesters wanted Michael to get involved, to use his money and
influence to save the lighthouse. They’d attempted in several ways to get his
ear on the issue, but they hadn’t been able to get past all the barriers he had
in place to avoid unwanted conversations.

So
this was their method for making their case. A staged protest in the middle of
his fancy gala benefit.

Allison
was delighted—both at their earnest support of the lighthouse and at this
interruption to Michael’s flawless arrangements for the evening. They were
clearly not violent or criminally minded, so she had no fears that things would
get out of control.

It
seemed like such a fun, old-fashioned thing to do, and it would really beef up
her story.

She
talked to the different people in the diner, getting some great quotes and
taking notes like mad as they organized themselves. This would be a perfect
angle for her story—one that would distinguish it from all of the other reports
about designer clothes and film stars.

Ray
worked in the maintenance department of the building, so he was their “inside
man.” He was going to let them in through one of the back entrances so they could
actually get inside.

Allison
fell back as they left the diner and headed around the rear of the building.
She followed them, of course, but she didn’t want there to be any confusion
about her actually participating in the protest.

If
she wasn’t on the job, she would have considered joining them, but she couldn’t
blur any lines at the moment.

They
all entered the building and quietly made their way through empty hallways as
Ray took them an alternate route toward the main hall that led into the
ballroom. There, they quickly took their places right at the entrance, where
well-dressed denizens of the city were mingling with champagne and polite
laughter.

The
protesters were in place before anyone could react or alert security. They held
up their signs and sat down against the wall. They’d decided not to chant,
march around, or cause an uproar. They were just going to sit.

Allison
hid a smile of amusement as she imagined Michael’s response to this
interruption.

She
was sure the last thing he wanted for his classy publicity stunt was an
annoying sit-in about a lighthouse he’d never heard of.