Extreme Exposure (40 page)

“Hey, Matthew, grab me some coffee while you’re up.”

“What am I, Tess—your bitch?”

“Yep, says so on your forehead.”

Most entertaining to him was the way they seemed to speak in code. He’d had no idea that journalism was so specialized, and he realized that a well-managed news team had more than a few things in common with a well-trained police unit, including its own jargon.

“What’s your slug?”

“We’re putting a hammer on the main bar. What do you want for the drop?”

“We’re going to start it above the fold, jump it to five, and spread the rest over two columns.”

“Kara, what do you want for that cutline?”

“Production wants a head for the second sidebar.” To which the reply was, “They’re always begging for head down there. Don’t they get any at home?”

Reece left Kara’s side only twice—once when Tessa interviewed him about his being cleared of Alexis’s murder and once when Sophie interviewed him for her story about events at the cement plant today.

“What do you have to say to those who believed you guilty?” Tessa asked.

Reece bit back the words he might otherwise have said and tried to see it from the public’s point of view. “People wanted justice for Ms. Ryan and, understandably, misdirected their anger toward me. I’m ready to move forward with the legislative session, and I hope I have the public’s support.”

Sophie’s interview was much tougher. “You saw them carrying Kara out of the building across from you, is that correct?”

For a moment, Reece found himself back in that horrid, desolate moment. “Yes. I saw her, and I thought she was dead. I thought I was too late, that I was no longer fighting to save her life, but to keep her body from being disposed of like trash. I never want to feel that way again.”

Tears welled up in Sophie’s eyes. “Thank God you were there! They would have burned her alive!”

Reece nodded, smiled, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Is that part of your interview?”

Sophie laughed. “No. That part is off the record.”

As the evening wore on, Reece noticed the way everyone seemed to be watching over Kara. They got her cups of tea without being asked, ran to fetch files for her, and cast covert glances her way. And he realized that they had come close to losing her, too.

But as the evening wore on toward midnight, Kara began to fade. He knew it was only strength of will that had carried her this far.

She lifted her left hand from the keyboard, shook it, and winced.

Reece took her hand, loosened the bandage. “Let me put more of that prescription cream on it.”

She didn’t argue with him—proof, he supposed, that it must really hurt.

“How are you holding up?” He asked as if he couldn’t see the exhaustion on her face.

“Okay. Just a little more to go.”

She finished at a little past one, her face pale. “I’d read through it again, Tom, but I just can’t. I—”

“Go on, and get some sleep, McMillan. We’ll take it from here.”

Reece guided her back to his Jeep, helped her climb inside, and buckled her seat belt.

“Where are we going?” she asked, half asleep beside him.

“Back to the hotel. The suite is booked through the end of the week. Seems a damned shame to waste it.”

S
ATURDAY MORNING
dawned bright and blue, one of those Colorado mornings where the sky seems impossibly wide and bright. In the streets of Denver and throughout the metro area papers made their way into racks and onto front porches and kitchen tables.

“Greed,” read the headline at the top of the
Independent
. “Investigation of cement plant reveals environmental crimes, government corruption, murder.”

People walked down the sidewalks reading of the reporter who’d nearly been killed in her search for the truth and of the senator who’d been blamed, betrayed, and redeemed.

Moira and Ed Farnsworth read it over their morning coffee, called Dottie and Carl Perkins over, and spent most of the morning together discussing it. Moira set her china cup down daintily in its saucer. “Well, I think we should sue the bastards.”

Miguel de la Peña read the story from inside his cell at the Denver County Jail and wept. He’d be going home today. Well, not really home. Because he’d turned state’s witness, he, Hilaria, and the kids were going to be placed in protective custody until the case was resolved. He only hoped his family and Reece would one day forgive him.

Juan de la Peña read it shackled to his hospital bed, bleary from the anesthesia they’d given him when they wired his jaw back together. He got through the first paragraph before throwing it across the room. He forgot about his jaw, tried to shout, and ended up whimpering like a baby.

Galen Prentice, having made bond late last night, read it in his lawyer’s office and swore he’d never known that any of this was going on. He slammed the paper on his lawyer’s desk. “I’m the victim here! Why doesn’t anyone understand that?”

Drew Devlin hadn’t read it yet when the police knocked on his front door and asked if he’d be willing to come down
to the station to answer a few questions. He got the chance to read it at his leisure while waiting in booking for his lawyer. “It’s lies. It’s all bullshit,” he told the toothless drunk sitting next to him.

Mike Stanfield was unable to read it. Although doctors had successfully removed the S.W.A.T. team bullet from his liver, cement kiln dust had burned his corneas so severely that he wouldn’t be reading much of anything for a while if ever again.

But thirty floors up, Kara and Reece slept in one another’s arms, oblivious.

CHAPTER 30

K
ARA WAS
lost in the most erotic dream. Reece was cupping her breasts, his thumbs drawing circles around her aching nipples, his lips on her throat. Then he entered her from behind as she lay on her side, his cock moving thick and hard inside her, his fingers busy between her thighs.

She awoke to the sound of her own cry just as the climax washed through her, hot and sweet.

He leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Good morning.”

He was still inside her. And he was still hard.

She smiled. “Good morning.”

A half hour later, she lay with her head against his chest, her body still pulsing with pleasure. She ran her hand over the muscles of his chest and toyed with a flat brown nipple.

“Don’t tell me you’re still feeling frisky after that.” His voice, still rough with sleep, rumbled in his chest.

“Maybe.”

He shifted, brought her closer, and stroked her hair. “Sorry, sweetheart. Unlike you, I have to reload.”

“Actually, that’s probably a good thing, because I’m sore. Every muscle in my body aches.”

He slid gently out from beneath her, sat up, and looked down at her through eyes dark with worry. “Stay here.”

She couldn’t even think about getting up. Her legs ached. Her ribs ached. Her head ached. Her shoulder throbbed where
the bullet had grazed her. Her skin stung in the places where the cement kiln dust had touched her. She was a wreck.

He strode across the room, gloriously naked. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

In a moment he returned with a cup of steaming tea and a bottle. “Drink. Then lie down however you’re most comfortable.”

She sat up slowly, wincing, took the tea, and stared at the bottle in his hands. It held an amber-colored liquid. “What’s that?”

“Massage oil. I found it in the bathroom.” He grinned, sat beside her. “I figure the gold-medal winner in the Run from the Bad Guys Olympics deserves some TLC.”

She laughed despite herself, sipped her tea, and then lay down on her back.

His hands worked over her slowly, gently, massaging the almond-scented oil into her skin. Her muscles began gradually to loosen, the pain to lessen, and she found herself telling him in detail what had happened at the plant.

How she’d tried to stall Stanfield with questions. How she’d demanded to know whether Reece was still alive. How her heart had nearly broken through her chest when she’d believed that he was dead. How, as they’d been about to throw her into the blaze, a strange clarity had come over her. How she’d escaped from Juan and run. How she’d tried to hide. How her last thoughts before she’d been hit on the head had been of him and Connor.

He listened, his hands soothing her, forcing her to relax when she grew tense, easing the memory of fear and rage away.

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. “The worst of it was wondering how much you’d suffered and knowing I’d never have the chance to tell you I love you.”

“It’s over. Stanfield can’t hurt you or anyone you care about again.” He bent over her, kissed her, and wiped away her tears. Then he stood and scooped her into his arms.

“Wh-where—?”

“After a massage, it’s time for a hot soak. My soccer coach used to do this for us.”

She laughed. “Hopefully not exactly like this!”

“Well, most of the time he made love to us
after
the massage and soak.”

Her laughter was the most beautiful sound in the world to Reece. He filled the sunken tub with steaming water, helped her climb in, and then waited until room service had brought their breakfast—champagne, omelets, and fresh fruit—to join her.

As they fed each other and sipped champagne in the soothing heat, he told her how enraged, desperate, and helpless he’d felt driving down the highway, counting every second, fearing he was already too late.

“And when I saw you, watched them drop you on the ground as if you were garbage—good God, Kara! I could have killed every one of them with my bare hands and enjoyed it!”

She lifted herself and kissed him. “It’s over. Except . . .”

“Except what?”

“What about Miguel?”

A white-hot shard of pain sliced through his gut, and his words came out harsh and angry. “What about him?”

“I can’t imagine how much it hurt to realize he’d betrayed you. He was your best friend, Reece, and he tried to kill you.”

“I don’t think he was ever truly a threat to me, but he gave Stanfield everything he needed to hurt you.” He remembered Miguel’s sobbing as he poured out his story to the sergeant-at-arms, felt the seeds of pity, and ignored them. The anger was still too strong. “I’ve always admired him for being such a devoted family man. It’s strange to think his devotion nearly brought him down.”

“I hope someday you’ll be able to forgive him.”

“Forgive, probably. Trust? I doubt it.” He picked up the champagne and refilled their glasses. “I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about how much I love you.”

A smile spread over her beautiful face, and she seemed to glow. “You finally said it!”

“I’ve said it before.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “No, you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I haven’t. But I do. I love you, Kara McMillan.”

“Good.” Her gaze traveled down his body, and her pupils dilated. She bit her lip.

He felt himself grow hard. “What are you thinking?”

Her hands slid up his water-slick chest. “I’m thinking how if I had your body, I would never leave the house. I would stay in bed all day every day because I wouldn’t be able to stop playing with myself. Truly, I don’t know how you do it.”

He set his champagne aside, leaned against the back of the tub, and stretched his arms out along its edge. “Well, sweetheart, don’t let the fact that you’re not
in
this body stop you. Go for it. Feel free to consider me your own personal playground.”

B
Y THE
time they were out of the tub and dressed it was almost two in the afternoon. The red message light on their phone blinked furiously. Kara brushed her wet hair and watched while Reece listened to the messages and took down the details on a pad of paper.

When he was finished he turned to her. “There are five messages from Tom offering you a raise and two from your mother saying she’s heard the news and wants to know you’re safe. And let’s see: CNN, Fox News, CNN again, Larry King, the
New York Times,
the
Columbia Journalism Rev
—”

“You’re kidding me!” She grabbed the list from him, read through it. “Jeez. And this story wasn’t even that well written. I was so rushed—”

He snorted. “Oh, give me a break!”

“And what’s this? Someone calling to find out if you want to run for
Congress
?” She felt her humor evaporate and looked up at him. “I guess we both have some choices to make, don’t we?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Maybe it was.

Kara called Henry Marsh first and gave him the full story. “If you hadn’t stepped forward, Mike Stanfield would have gotten away with it. You truly are a hero, Mr. Marsh.”

“Hell, I didn’t do anything. I sure am sorry for what you went through. If I had known what would happen, I’m not sure I’d do it again.”

“Will you be moving back to Colorado now?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of liking Tennessee, truth be told. We might try things here for a while. I got a good job at the hardware store, and my wife is happy. Don’t know what could be better than that.”

Kara wished him well and then returned her long list of messages. She gave what seemed like a dozen interviews and set up half a dozen more, the whole time asking herself one question: what did she want?

She thought she knew. No. She
knew
she knew. But could she just ask for it? Could it be that easy?

For so many years now she’d had so few choices. She’d worked hard at her job, paid the bills, and made ends meet. She’d worked hard at being a good mother, too, and tried her best to give Connor the life he deserved. When it came to meeting her own needs, satisfying her own desires, she’d never had the time, the money, or space to worry about such things. Could she afford to do so now?

“Love you, too, Mom. Can’t wait to see you. Bye-bye.” She hung up the phone and turned to see Reece reading through her article, his face grim.

He looked up from the page. “How’s Connor?”

“He loves the beach. Now he’s fascinated by pirate ships.
I guess my aunt has been telling him pirate stories. They’ll be coming into DIA tomorrow at 12:57 on United.”