Extreme Exposure (11 page)

Reece nodded his thanks to Brooke, his intern, as she handed him a cup of coffee and then winced at the strong burned taste. “Of course. But one has to wonder at the timing of Senator Devlin’s support for this bill. It’s almost as if he was waiting in the wings for me to announce it so he could jump onboard. I wonder how much he knew before I even agreed to carry the bill. Was this some kind of stratagem for ensuring my support—keep him in the shadows until I’ve gone public with the bill?”

“You think I’ve got that kind of time, Senator?” Stanfield laughed, his reaction and his words a bit too rehearsed for Reece. “You’re giving us way too much credit here.”

“Perhaps I am. But I don’t like being used, and if I find out you’ve played me or that this bill will accomplish something other than what I hope it will accomplish, I’ll withdraw my sponsorship so fast, you’ll hear the sonic boom up there in Adams County.”

There was a thick, uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. “I can assure you that’s not the case, Senator. I’m stunned you could think such a thing. We’re straight-talkers here at TexaMent.”

Reece glanced at the mountain of work he had left to accomplish before he could leave tonight. “I’m glad to hear that. Then you’ll appreciate that I have a very low tolerance for bullshit. Play straight with me, Stanfield, or the bill is dead.”

With that, Reece hung up. There was someone else he wanted to call.

K
ARA TOOK
a sip of her chamomile tea, determined not to lie awake all night tonight, and settled onto the couch with today’s paper. Connor was finally asleep, giving her a few moments of peace and quiet before her own bedtime. They’d read dinosaur books tonight in preparation for the field trip on Friday, and he’d been full of questions. Would a T-rex eat a boy? What about a baby T-rex? What did dinosaur poop smell like?

Kara smoothed the paper and began to read the state government page. She’d missed Reece’s press conference—somewhat deliberately—while she’d been out interviewing Northrup’s neighbors. An intern had covered it for the
Independent
and had done a reasonably good job with the story, asking all the questions Kara had told her to ask.

Kara read through the lead—decent, straightforward. She considered the nut graph and decided it needed a little work. Then she sat up straight, astonished.

Senator Drew Devlin had immediately signed on to Reece’s tire-burning bill.

“What the hell?”

Devlin had the worst environmental record in the State Senate, and he hated Reece. She read farther, then laughed out loud when she read Reece’s response.

“ ‘I’m a bit startled myself,’ Senator Reece told reporters Tuesday evening. ‘Perhaps someone ought to check the weather report in Hell.’ ”

A few weeks ago, she might have thought his response to be the result of calculated PR, an attempt to garner press
attention. Now she knew he was shooting from the hip, just saying what came into his mind.

She leaned back on the couch, touched her fingers to her lips, and allowed herself to relive every moment of his kiss. His lips had been so firm and full and warm, and he’d known just how to use them. He’d been aggressive, but not overpowering, his tongue possessing her mouth with supreme confidence. His body had felt stunningly hard beneath her hands—his chest, shoulders, and arms so different from hers. And that masculine growl he’d made just before he kissed her—.

The phone rang.

Kara’s pulse raced. Despite the chorus of voices in her head that told her she should end their acquaintance before it became an actual relationship, she’d been hoping he would call. Every night since Friday she’d hoped, and every night she’d gone to bed disappointed.

She hesitated and wondered if perhaps she should let her machine pick it up. But the next ring had her off the couch and dashing toward the kitchen.

She yanked up the receiver and tried to sound casual, calm. “Hello?”

“Listen, little girl, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into,” a man whispered, his voice a malevolent hiss. “You can’t handle this, and if you try you’re going to end up dead. Back off now, or face the heat.”

CHAPTER 8

B
ELATEDLY
, K
ARA
hit the record button on her machine, but the caller had already hung up.

“Damn!”

Immediately, she dialed star-six-nine to get the caller’s phone number, but the number came back as a pay phone. She hung up the receiver, furious with herself. Why hadn’t she hit record sooner? She was a journalist, for God’s sake!

She turned away from the phone and realized with some astonishment that she was shaking. That bastard hadn’t actually been able to frighten her, had he? She’d received death threats before. Lots of them. More than she could count. Why should this one shake her up?

And then it came to her.

No one had ever called her at home before. Whoever this was knew her home phone number, possibly even knew where she lived.

Listen, little girl, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into
.

Her gut told her the call was related to her investigation of Northrup. But how would anyone at Northrup know she was investigating the plant? She hadn’t contacted them for an interview yet. The only people who knew were her coworkers, the people she’d interviewed, the staff handling her open-records request for the state, and the whistleblower.

It was possible that someone in the state or county health
department had passed a tip to Northrup officials. It was also possible, though less likely, that one of the neighbors had said something to someone who’d passed it along the line until it reached someone who worked for Northrup. As for the whistleblower, he couldn’t give her away without also giving himself away.

The phone rang again.

She let the call go to her machine.

Hi. You’ve reached Kara and Connor. Leave a message, and we’ll get back to you
.

But after the beep, there was only silence, followed by the buzz of the dial tone.

Twice more the phone rang, and twice more the caller refused to leave a message. Whoever it was didn’t want to be recorded. And Kara realized that if she wanted his voice on tape, she’d have to answer. She would have to talk him, let him spew his venom in her ear.

She waited. Five minutes passed without a call. She paced the hallway and watched the clock. When the phone finally rang, she gasped and jumped. She lifted the receiver, angry that anything should make her so skittish. “Listen, whoever you are, you don’t scare me!”

There was a moment of silence. “Kara? It’s Reece. Is everything all right?”

The relief she felt was coupled with embarrassment, and for a moment she found herself stumbling after words. “Reece! Oh, God . . . I, um . . . I’m sorry! I thought . . . I’m fine. How are you?”

Reece heard the awkwardness in her voice. But he’d heard something else just a moment ago: anger and, beneath it, a slick undercurrent of genuine fear. “Is someone bothering you, Kara?”

“No. Not really. Just, you know—a prank caller. He’s called a couple times tonight.”

Reece sensed she was trying to make light of it. “If he calls again, you should notify the police.”

She laughed as if that were the stupidest suggestion she’d
ever heard. “If I had a dollar for every death threat I’ve gotten, I could buy you a bottle of that fancy Italian wine.”

So it had been a death threat. He didn’t like that one bit. In fact, it really pissed him off. “It’s a crime to threaten someone, Kara. You really ought to contact the police.”

“The last time I called the police, do you know what they said? They told me to call if the guy actually showed up and tried to kill me. That’s how helpful the cops are.” She sounded angry now.

“Okay, fine. Forget the cops. How about I stop by? I can stay for a couple hours, make sure you’re safe. I can even sleep on the couch if it makes you feel better.” Then, sensing she was about to refuse him, he added, “That’s what I’d do for my sister.”

“Oh! Well . . . I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s kind of you to offer, Reece, truly, but I don’t need you to rescue me.” She sounded . . . surprised, flustered, uncertain.

Hadn’t anyone tried to “rescue” her before? Even as the question occurred to him, he knew the answer. She’d never had a father or a husband. She was used to taking care of herself.

“I don’t mean to steal your feminist mojo, sweetheart, but what if I
want
to rescue you? I’m on my way out of the Capitol right now, so I’m only ten minutes away. I’ll just stop by, make sure everything is okay.”

She didn’t seem to know what to say to that. “Well, I . . . I look like a slob. I’m wearing sweatpants and—”

“I spilled salsa on my shirt at lunch, so we’re even. See you in ten. Keep the doors locked.”

He hung up before she could object, locked his office, and hurried out of the building to his Jeep, which was parked outside the west portico. He headed east on Colfax, and the weight of the day seemed to vanish from his shoulders, replaced by a strange mix of protectiveness and anticipation. In the short time it took to reach her house, his thoughts had ranged from loaning her his gun and teaching her to shoot to all the things he would do to her sweet body Friday night
when he got her into his bed. As he pulled into her driveway, he found himself having to remind his hard-on that he had not come here to fuck her senseless but rather to make certain she was safe.

His hard-on didn’t seem to care.

He was glad to see her porch light on. She was taking precautions. He knocked lightly, assuming Connor would be asleep by now. He saw her shadow darken the security peephole and heard the deadbolt tumble as she opened the door.

“Hi,” she said, a bit shyly. She stepped aside to make room for him, a slight smile on her face. “Come in.”

She wore dark navy sweatpants with a flannel shirt of hunter green and navy blue plaid that revealed the soft curve of her breasts
—
which were clearly not bound by a bra. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a few dark wisps floating around her face. She wore no makeup, her skin dewy and clean, newly washed and ready for bed. In short, she looked sexy as hell.

But it was her scent that just about killed him. Clean skin. Woman. And something more
—
something that made him feel like dispensing with five thousand years of civilization, dragging her off to a cave somewhere, and filling her with babies.

He decided to mark his territory, ducked his head, gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Has he called again?”

She looked up at him, clearly startled by the kiss, then hastily turned away, and shut and locked the door behind him. “No. I’m sorry if anything I said on the phone made you feel you had to come over. It’s probably just some wingnut. He hasn’t called again. I get a lot of crazy phone calls. It comes with being a journalist.”

He slipped off his coat. “I know what you mean. I get e-mails and phone calls from people threatening to kill me for being a fascist. If only they would come to some kind of consensus with the people who want to kill me for being a communist.”

That made her laugh. She took his coat and hung it on a peg by the door. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“That would be great.”

Her gaze fixed on his shirt, and she smiled. “You did spill salsa on your shirt. I thought you’d just made that up. The tomato will stain it, you know. Would you like me to wash it? I can have it dry for you within an hour. It’s what I’d do for a friend.”

He was about to say that his cleaners would undoubtedly remove the stain with no trouble, but he stopped himself. If she wanted to get him out of his clothes, he wasn’t stupid enough to stop her. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

He slid off his tie, pulled the shirt out of his slacks, and began to unbutton it.

Her cheeks flushed, and she turned abruptly away. “I’ll just put some water on to boil for tea.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where the dishwasher hummed in mid-cycle. Everything was clean and shiny from the granite countertops to the homey wooden table with its pewter salt-and-pepper shakers. Every inch of the white refrigerator was covered with alphabet magnets and drawings made by a child’s hand. One showed a small, sticklike figure with slashes of short brown hair standing beside a taller sticklike figure with slashes of long brown hair. Beneath the shorter figure in shaky letters was written, “Me.” Beneath the taller one in the same unsteady script was, “Mommy.”

He slipped out of his shirt and watched Kara as she filled a silver teakettle and put it on to boil. Her movements were feminine, graceful, and her ass was positively scrumptious when outlined by the soft fabric of her well-worn sweatpants. He could definitely see how she had ended up as someone’s mommy. Clearly, he wasn’t the only man who reacted this way around her.

And what was that scent? God, it was driving him insane!

She stood on tiptoe, searching through the cupboard above the stove. “Would you like Earl Grey, Lemon Zinger, Hazelnut Vanilla, True Blueberry, Almond Sunset? My mother has a friend who works at the Celestial Seasonings
factory and brings me tea every time I see her. I could also make coffee if you don’t like tea.”

“Earl Grey sounds perfect.”

He saw her reach for it, and realized he’d chosen the tea farthest toward the back of the cupboard. Quickly, he moved up behind her, reached beyond her, and retrieved the sought-after box. “I’ve got it.”

She spun about to face him before he’d had time to step back, her breasts grazing his ribs, her pupils dark, a look of surprise on her face. And he smelled it again
—
that scent. It rose off her skin like body heat, like pheromone, like lust. Faint but intoxicating, it grabbed him by the gonads.

Caves. Neanderthal sex. Babies. That’s what he wanted.

Kara knew she was in trouble. He stood close, too close, wearing a T-shirt that revealed the very muscles her hands had discovered last Friday. Through the white cloth, she could see the dark circles of his nipples, the swell of his pecs, the distinct ridges that could only be a six-pack. His raised arm revealed a hint of dark blond hair and a well-developed triceps.