Storm Front (Reunited Hearts) (14 page)

Served
him right.

Allison
snapped pictures and took notes as quickly as she could, and she waited to see
what would happen next.

*
* *

Michael’s evening
wasn’t going as planned.

All
of the preparations for the event had gone smoothly, and the art show and
auction had been a success, with an impressive sum being collected for reconstruction
along the coast. The gala had sold out, even with the exorbitant price of
attendance. He’d managed to avoid the gauntlet of journalists—which he knew
would include Allison Dent—and he’d even been able to leave Ingrate in the back
office without the dog howling his head off.

But
plans had veered off course the moment he saw Gina Lane arrive as the date of a
prominent attorney. Michael stared at his ex-fiancée in her pale pink evening
gown and long, smooth hair, and he did so without a pang of desire or regret.
She hadn’t broken his heart. The break-up had proved he’d never really been in
love with her, although he’d thought he was for a while. He had nothing but
mild contempt for her now.

He
was annoyed by her presence here, however. It would rile up all of the ruthless
reporters, who would endlessly speculate on how he and Gina would interact
after such a public and dramatic broken engagement.

Michael
was sure she’d come here tonight to prove something to him. Prove that she
didn’t care that he’d dumped her, that she could find another man as eligible
as he was.

He
just nodded at her politely and otherwise ignored her existence.

He
was far more absorbed with what Allison might be up to.

And
if she hated him now for the way he’d treated her the day before.

The
memory made him want to cringe, so he had to force it out of his mind.
Otherwise it would distract him from the socializing a night like this always
entailed for him.

He’d
managed to focus his energies on strategically cultivating business and
political connections when Cole—the head of security—caught Michael’s eye with
obvious intent.

He
deftly extricated himself from a conversation with a state senator and stepped
over to talk to Cole.

“We
have a situation, sir,” Cole said in a low voice.

“Tell
me.”

“A
group of protestors got into the building and have stationed themselves at the
entrance to the ballroom.”

Surprised,
Michael asked, “Are they causing trouble? I haven’t heard anything.”

“They’re
not making any noise. They’re just sitting out there with signs, but it’s
definitely causing a scene.”

Michael
wanted to groan but he suppressed the urge. “Are they in sight of reporters?”

“Not
directly. They’re in the hall, not the entryway.”

“Get
rid of them—as discreetly as possible. I’d rather not call in the police, and I
definitely don’t want unnecessary publicity over this. And, for God’s sake,
don’t hurt anyone.”

Cole
nodded and started toward the entrance to the elegant ballroom, speaking softly
into his earpiece.

Michael
went back to the senator, hoping the incident could be taken care of quickly,
but feeling a prickle of instinct telling him that it wasn’t going to happen
that way.

A
few minutes later, he heard a brief burst of noise from outside the ballroom entrance.
With a sigh, he started toward the noise, moving at a natural pace so all the
gathered guests wouldn’t troop over to peer at the happenings.

As
he reached the hall, he saw a number of attendees staring in one direction. Michael
turned to look and jerked to a shocked halt.

There
appeared to be more than twenty protestors. They’d been sitting on the floor
with signs about some sort of lighthouse. Six members of security were
attempting to dislodge them from their positions.

The
protestors weren’t fighting back, but they also weren’t moving.

Cole
was using his best strategies of intimidation—at least, all that didn’t rely on
the use of a weapon—and several of the protestors had been “encouraged” to
stand by other guards.

But
as soon as they were released, they sat back down again. At least they weren’t
shouting or chanting, or they would have alerted the media. But it wouldn’t
take long before the reporters realized what was going on, and that kind of
publicity was the last thing Michael wanted.

As
Michael watched, one of the guards—who appeared to be getting frustrated at the
protesters’ obstinacy—lifted an older man in a red vest-sweater with more force
than was entirely necessary.

The
man stumbled a little as he was hefted to his feet. The guard, realizing he’d
been rougher than instructed, let go of the man’s arm. The old man toppled
over.

The
onlookers broke out in a murmur of disapproval. Michael’s heart gave a kick of
consternation, and he stepped forward instinctively to help the man.

But
he was distracted by a familiar voice, crying out, “Ray!”

Allison,
looking gorgeous and undeniably sexy in a deep red cocktail dress and upswept
hair, ran over to help the man to his feet. “There’s no need for brutality, you
asshole,” she snapped, glaring heatedly at the offending guard.

Michael
blinked, trying to figure out what Allison was doing in this group of
protestors and telling himself the surge of adrenalin he experienced was from
the rising crisis and not from the unexpected sight of this one infuriating
woman.

Before
he could speak and somehow diffuse the situation, it spiraled even farther out
of control. Another one of the other guards had been trying to dislodge a young
man who had linked arms with a few of his compatriots. The momentum of his pull
forced the guard backwards, and his body turned to control the backlash.

He
accidentally elbowed Allison in the gut as she’d been trying to help Ray sit
back down on the floor.

She
doubled over in obvious pain, and Michael let out of an automatic roar of
outrage at the sight.

“Enough,”
he bellowed, when Cole and the other guards turned in his direction. “Let them
go. Now.”

His
security obeyed and Michael stepped over to Allison. Putting a hand on her
shoulder, he asked, “Are you all right?”

She
nodded. “Accident.”

He
couldn’t suppress the tug of admiration at this further evidence of Allison’s
irrepressible sense of fair play. Even after being brutalized.

“Are
you all right, sir?” Michael asked of the older man in the vest-sweater, the
only other person he’d seen who might have been injured.

“No
harm done,” the man said gamely.

Michael
was conscious that the tussle had gotten the attention of both the gala guests
and the hoard of journalists in the entry of the building.

Thinking
quickly as he moved into crisis mode, he tempered his voice so only those close
to him could hear. “Isn’t there any way we could come to terms here?”

“They
just want you to hear their case,” Allison said. She was still holding her
stomach, and her face was disturbingly pale. She’d been elbowed hard.

Michael
understood at once. He looked at the older man, since no one else had stepped
forward as the leader of the little group. “I can give you a half-hour after
the gala to make your case. I’ll listen to anything you want to tell me. If you
can move this to a more propitious place.”

He
saw the man meet Allison’s eyes, and he saw her give a discreet nod.

Ray
said, “Agreed. Let’s go, folks.”

The
motley group of protesters, looking victorious and rather worse for wear, marched
down the hall and away from the ballroom, escorted by a few of the guards.

Allison
was still beside Michael, and he realized that he’d at some point put a
supportive arm around her waist—quite unintentionally, of course. Since she
didn’t look entirely steady on her feet, he didn’t remove it. He asked dryly,
“So now your ill-will toward me has prompted you to join a protest?”

Allison
sucked in a sharp breath. “No. I wasn’t—”

“Not
here,” Michael interrupted. He started to walk her toward the back office,
wanting to get her off her feet and out of the view of an inordinate number of
spectators.

He
was ridiculously torn between concern for her and bitterness over what might be
another betrayal.

“Call
the medic,” Michael said in an undertone to Cole, who was waiting for
instructions. “The back office.”

“I
don’t need a—” Allison broke off as she tried to catch her breath.

Michael
ignored her protest. There was no way he wasn’t going to have a doctor examine
her, after she’d been injured when he was responsible.

He
kept his arm around her as they walked, and her soft, warm body against his
roused the most absurd feelings. It wasn’t even lust. It was something else—something
tender and protective.

He
tried to talk himself out of the feelings as he remembered all of the reasons
he had to resent her.

It
didn’t entirely work.

*
* *

Allison felt like she’d
gotten the wind knocked out of her, and it wasn’t just from an elbow in the
gut.

Certainly,
getting slugged in the gut by the elbow of a very large security guard was the
last thing she needed. It left her winded, unsteady, and a little nauseous.

But
she was also stunned and breathless at the gentle, considerate way Michael was
helping her down the hall.

His
arm felt more than perfunctory. It felt supportive, warm, like he was genuinely
concerned about her.

She
really shouldn’t enjoy it so much.

He
helped her into a sitting room that was out of the way of the ballroom. After
easing her down into a comfortable chair, he left the room with a murmured
comment.

He
returned a few minutes later carrying three glasses. One with water, one with
wine, one with a soft drink that looked like ginger ale.

Looking
a little sheepish, he said, “I didn’t know what you’d want.”

Allison
couldn’t help but chuckle at his incongruous expression. For some reason, he
was even more handsome and appealing when he wasn’t perfectly suave and
self-assured. “Thanks.”

She
sipped the ginger ale and tried to catch her breath, deciding she didn’t really
feel too bad now.

Michael
talked on the phone to someone who sounded like part of his security team. She
listened to the one-sided information and deduced that Ray and his friends were
camped out at the diner again, and they’d wait until the gala was over so they
could have their valuable half-hour with Michael to convince him to save the
historic lighthouse.

Allison
was ridiculously pleased that he’d agreed to hear their case. She’d figured
that he would do whatever was necessary to avoid unnecessary press coverage, but
she thought he’d been genuinely concerned when she and Ray had been knocked
down, and she didn’t think it was just because he was worried about any legal
or public repercussions.

It
was an encouraging reminder that he had a heart beneath his slick, controlled
façade. She’d known that heart before, but then he’d seemed to change.

Maybe
she hadn’t really changed.

Michael
didn’t say much as they waited a few minutes for the medic to arrive. When he
did, Allison suffered through a brief examination, which concluded the way she
knew it would. A report of perfect health.

She
felt a little self-conscious when the medic left her and Michael alone again.
She could feel his eyes on her, and she didn’t know what his quiet expression
meant.

“I
wasn’t part of that protest,” she said out of the blue, not sure why she felt
prompted to make that truth clear. “I’d talked to Ray, the man who was knocked
down, this afternoon. And then he alerted me to what they were doing so I came
to cover it. I thought it might be a good story.”

“Of
course.” She couldn’t tell if his tone was sarcastic or not. His expression
revealed nothing.

“Thanks
for making sure I was all right,” she added. “I’m fine.”

“Good.”

She
swallowed hard and stood up. “Okay then. I guess I’ll…I’ll…”

She
trailed off at the sound of a scratching from a door off the sitting room. She
turned in the direction of the sound, and then she heard more scratching, this
time paired with a familiar whimper.

Allison
gasped and cut her eyes over to the man beside her. “Michael?”

He
made a reluctant face, but, without protest, he walked over and opened the
door.

The
dog rushed out in an ungainly sprint, eager to get to Allison, whose voice he
must have recognized from inside the office.

With
a delighted laugh, Allison knelt down, heedless of her beautiful new dress. She
gave the dog a hug and let it lick her chin.