Heart of Winter (20 page)

“Can I help it if I'm a country girl at heart?” Carla laughed. “I'm still adjusting to big-city life.”

“You'll get used to it,” Peck promised her.

She sighed, smothering in perfume and cologne and the crush of people. “Oh, I hope so,” she said under her breath.

T
he cocktail party was far more of an ordeal for Carla than the dinner had been. She stood by the long bar that featured every kind of intoxicating beverage known to man, plus ice and shakers and glasses, trying to look sophisticated and nonchalant. Around her, expensively dressed women wearing jewels Carla couldn't afford time payments on were discussing new plays and art exhibits, dripping diamonds and prestige. A tiny smile touched Carla's full mouth. How horrible, she thought wickedly, to be that rich and have to worry about having your diamonds stolen. Or to have a swimming pool and all the bother of getting leaves cleaned out of it every fall.

The mind boggles, she told herself as she idly glanced around the room. Ironically, the first person she recognized was the mayor.

Bryan Moreland was unmistakable, even with his broad back turned. Carla studied him from across the room, her dancing eyes curious. She'd seen the big man often enough on television, not to mention in the flesh, but every time she was around him he seemed to be bigger and broader and darker than he looked before.

His hair was dark, threaded with gray, and thick and straight. His complexion was very tanned, as if he spent a lot of time in the sun rather than in an office, and her eyes were drawn to the hand holding his cigarette—a darkly masculine hand with long fingers and a black onyx ring on the little finger. His suits looked as if they had to be tailor-made for him, because he was well over six feet tall. He had an athlete's build, and he moved like a cat, all rippling muscle and grace as he turned abruptly and strode toward the bar.

Carla started at the suddenness of the move. She almost stepped away, but she wasn't quick enough. He saw her, and since her face was one he knew, he headed straight for her.

His dark eyes narrowed as he stopped just a couple of feet away and glowered down at her, pinning her. She felt apprehension shiver through her frozen body before he spoke, and her hand tightened on the glass of cola she was drinking instead of liquor.

“That was one hell of a mistake in your morning edition,” he said without preamble, his voice deep and slow and cutting. “My phone rang off the hook all day and I had to get on the damned evening news to get the noose off my neck.”

“I'm sorry,” she began automatically, “but it wasn't my…”

“The next time, check your facts with me before you run back and print some pack of lies!” he growled, his deep voice reverberating like thunder. “What the hell do you people do with news down there, make it up as you go along?”

She licked her lips nervously. She wasn't usually intimidated this easily. Being attacked went with the job, and most of the time she handled it well, diplomatically. But it wasn't easy to be diplomatic with a steamroller, and that was what Moreland brought to mind.

“It was the…” she began again.

“Why don't you go back to journalism school and learn how to verify information?” he growled. “My God, children are taking over the world!” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “I'll expect not only a retraction, but an apology.”

“Mr. Moreland, I'm really sorry….” she whispered unsteadily, feeling about two inches high.

He poured himself a drink—Scotch, she noticed—with incredibly steady hands, his face like granite, and she wondered idly if anything ever rattled him. He would have made a fantastic racing driver or doctor, she thought suddenly, with those steady hands and nerves.

“I didn't go to Ed Hart this time,” he said, tossing the publisher's name at her. He speared her with those demon eyes. “But if it ever happens again, I'll have your job.”

He walked away without another word, and she wanted to stand there and cry. The party had been ruined for her. Being blamed for a mistake was fine, if it was hers. But to get stuck with somebody else's, and not be given a chance to defend herself, now, that hurt.

She took a long sip of her drink and set it back on the bar, moving slowly, quietly, toward the ladies' room. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she didn't want the humiliation of shedding them in public.

She darted into the empty bathroom, locked the door, and leaned back against the wall, her eyes unseeing on the spacious, fully carpeted room with its lush champagne and gold decor. Tears ran silently down her cheeks. Why Moreland could affect her like that, she didn't know. But he seemed to have some inexplicable power to reduce her to the level of a wounded child.

She wiped at the tears with an impatient hand. This was ridiculous, she told herself. She couldn't afford to let people or things get to her like this. Hard knocks went with the job, and it was either get used to a little rough treatment or spend the rest of her life in tears. She'd have to toughen up. Her father had told her that at the beginning, the day she announced that she'd entered journalism school at the university.

She found a washcloth and tried to erase the telltale marks from her flushed young face. When she finished, her eyes were still red-rimmed, but all traces of tears were gone. She straightened her dress and ran a comb through her long, gently waving hair. Her pale green eyes surveyed the result coolly. It wasn't a pretty face, but her eyes were big and arresting, and her face had a softly vulnerable look about it.

She turned, adjusting the V-neckline of her dress with cold, nervous hands. She'd rather have been shot than go through that door, but there was no way around it. Running away solved nothing. She'd learned that much, at least, in twenty-three years.

As she went back into the spacious living room, ironically, the first person she saw was Bryan Moreland. He stared over a shorter man's head at her, and his narrow dark eyes caught hers at once. She raised her chin proudly and gave him her best south Georgia glare.

Amazingly, as she watched, a slow, faint smile turned up his chiseled lips as if that silent show of rebellion amused him.

Carla turned, purse in hand, and made her way through the crowd to Bill Peck and Blanche.

Peck's eyes narrowed thoughtfully on her face. “He got you,” he said immediately.

“Uncanny insight, Mr. Peck,” she replied with a wan smile. “I didn't get the chance to plead my case. He must be absolute hell in a courtroom.”

“You'd think so if you'd ever seen him in one,” the older reporter agreed. “I've seen prospective witnesses cringe when they saw him coming. Was it rough?”

She shrugged, pretending a calm she didn't feel. “A little skin's missing,” she said with a laugh.

“Sorry,” he said. “That was my hiding you took.”

“The rewrite man's,” she corrected. “Don't worry about it. It goes with the job, remember? That's what everybody tells me.”

“Amen.”

“Well, I've gritted my teeth and made my appearance,” she added. “I've got my notes in my grubby little hand, and I'm getting out of here before His Honor takes another bite out of me. See you in the morning.”

“Don't brood on it,” he cautioned.

“I won't.” She smiled at the blonde. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Blanche smiled back. “Don't sweat it, honey, we all get our lumps occasionally, deserved or not.”

“Sure,” she said.

She wound her way through the crowd to Senator White and thanked him for the invitation, then she turned and moved quickly to the door. Just as her hand touched the doorknob, a large, warm hand covered it, effectively stopping her, and before she turned, she recognized the black onyx ring on the tanned, masculine hand.

“Peck told me what happened when you darted out of the room,” Bryan Moreland said quietly, and she had to look up a long way to his face, despite her two-inch heels and her formidable five feet, seven inches of height. So that was why Bill had looked so unconcerned.

“Did he?” she asked wanly, meeting the darkness in his eyes with uneasiness.

“I like to place blame where it's due,” he said in his deep, lazy voice. “Why didn't you tell me you weren't responsible for that story?”

Her eyes flickered down to his burgundy tie. “You didn't give me much of a chance, Mr. Moreland,” she said.

“Mister?” His heavy eyebrows went up. “God, do I look that old?”

“No, sir.”

He sighed heavily. “Not going to forget it, are you?” he taunted.

She raised her eyes to his with a faint grin. “Not going to apologize, are you?” she returned.

Something kindled in his dark eyes, making them velvet soft, sensuous. A hint of a smile turned up a corner of his wide, firm mouth. She found herself blushing and hated the way she felt: young and gauche and very much outmatched.

“I haven't had much practice at it,” he admitted.

“Always right, huh?” she asked.

“Cheeky little thing, aren't you?” he challenged.

“Nosey,” she countered, and he chuckled deeply.

“Well, good night,” she said, reaching again for the doorknob.

“Do you have a way home?” he asked unexpectedly.

All of a sudden, she wished with all her heart that she didn't. She somehow felt warm and soft inside, and she wanted to know more about the big man.

“Yes,” she replied reluctantly.

“Good night, then.” He turned and left her at the door with her sudden, nagging disappointment.

She got down to the street where her car was parked just in time to be confronted with two tall, menacing boys. There were streetlights around the senator's palatial home, but it was a little-traveled street, and there wasn't a soul in sight. Carla started toward her car with sheer bravado, mentally cursing herself for coming out here alone.

“Ain't she pretty,” one of the boys called with a long whistle, his voice slurred as if he'd been drinking.

“A looker, all right,” the other commented, and they moved quickly toward her.

She fumbled in her purse for her car key, frantically digging through makeup and pens and pads with fingers that trembled.

“Nice,” the older of the boys said, smiling at her from an unshaven face. “Where you going, baby? Me and John feel like a little company.”

She straightened jerkily, fighting to remember her brief class in karate, the right moves at the right time.

“I don't want company,” she said quietly. “And if you don't go away and leave me alone, I'm going to scream, very loud, so that those people in the house come out here.”

“I'm scared,” the one called John laughed drunkenly. “God, I'm scared! You think the old senator's going to come down here and save you?”

“He might not,” Bryan Moreland said from the shadows, “but I'll be glad to oblige.”

“I ain't scared of you, either,” the older boy said, moving forward to throw a midriff punch toward the big man.

Moreland hardly seemed to move, but the next minute, the boy was crumpled on the pavement. The big man looked at the one called John. “You've got two choices. One is pick up this litter from the street and carry it home. You don't want to know what the second one is.”

John stared at him for a moment, as if measuring his youth and slenderness against the older man's experience and pure athletic strength. He bent and helped his winded companion to his feet and they moved on down the sidewalk as quickly as they could.

Carla slumped against the small Beetle, her eyes closed as her heart shook her with its wild pounding. “That was close,” she murmured breathlessly, opening her eyes to find Moreland very close. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Sheer stupidity. I forgot how deserted it is out here.”

“You'll remember next time, won't you?”

“Oh, yes,” she said with a smile. “You're very good with your fists. I didn't even see you move.”

“I boxed for a while when I was younger,” he said.

“I didn't know boxing was around on the Ark,” she commented seriously.

He chuckled. “That's a hell of a way to say thank you.”

“You're the one harping on your ancientness, not me,” she told him. “I just do my job and catch hell from bad-tempered public officials.”

“I'm not always bad-tempered.”

“Really?” she said unconvincingly.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow, and I'll prove it.”

She stared at him as if she'd just been hit between the eyes with a block of ice. “What?”

“Have dinner with me. I'll take you disco dancing.”

“You're the mayor!” she burst out.

“Well, my God, it didn't de-sex me,” he replied.

She blushed. “I didn't mean it that way. It's just…”

“You can't maintain your objectivity, is that it? Honey, I don't mix politics and pleasure,” he said quietly, “and right now I don't give a damn about your objectivity.”

She felt the same way. Something strange and exciting was happening to her. Something she felt that he shared. It was almost frightening.