Heart of Winter (24 page)

“They were in the service together,” he replied. “I thought you knew all that.”

“I'm new in town,” she said, and let it go at that.

She walked back to her office in a silence fraught with concern. So many things were beginning to make sense: for instance, King's real-estate background. Was he somehow involved in that missing money? Was Bryan Moreland involved? Her eyes closed momentarily. Bryan! He'd probably never speak to her again after the confrontation she'd had with his friend. Perhaps it was for the best. She was getting involved with him—too involved. And she didn't dare.

She handed in her copy and went home, turning down Bill Peck's offer of a free meal. She didn't feel like company, and she didn't want to be pumped about her latest information. That was all Bill was after, she knew. She couldn't have borne talking about it.

The apartment seemed lonelier than ever as she dressed idly in a pair of worn jeans and a blue ribbed top that was slightly too small. She turned on the radio and as pleasant, soft music filled the apartment, she went into the small kitchen to whip up an omelet. She was going to have to force it down, at that. Food was the last thing on her mind.

The doorbell was an unwelcome interruption. The omelet was almost done, and she had to turn it off before time was up. Grumbling, she moved irritably to the door. It was probably some student selling magazine subscriptions. The apartment house was a prime target, despite the “no soliciting” signs, and she was in no mood for a sales pitch.

She swung open the door with unnecessary force and froze with her mouth open to speak. Bryan Moreland was standing there, idly leaning against the wall, his dark eyes pointedly studying the too-tight top she was wearing.

H
e smiled at the expression on her face. “Who were you expecting?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Not you,” she said without thinking. He was wearing slacks and an open-necked burgundy velour shirt that bared a sensuous amount of hair-roughened bronzed flesh.

“Why?”

“Well…”

“You might as well invite me in,” he told her. “I've got a feeling it won't be a short explanation.”

“Oh!” She opened the door wider and stepped aside to let him in beside her. He went straight to the armchair by the window and lowered his big body into it.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked, stunned by his sudden appearance.

“If you can spare it,” he replied with a wry smile. “I just put the lady mayor on a plane. I haven't even had lunch yet. That's why I came. I thought you might like to go out for a burger and fries.”

It was almost laughable, the mayor taking a reporter out for a hamburger.

“Well, I…” she stammered.

“Aren't you hungry?” he asked. “Or are you still smarting from that round with Ed?”

She lowered her eyes. “I didn't mean to ruin your tour.”

He laughed. “My God, is that why you ran away?”

“I thought you were angry with me,” she admitted.

“I was furious. But that was this morning, and this is now,” he explained quietly. “I don't hold grudges. You and Ed can damned well fight it out, but not on my time. Now do you want supper or not?”

She looked up, studying him. “I just cooked an omelet.”

“Big enough for two?” he teased.

She nodded. “I can make some toast.”

“How about cinnamon toast?” he asked, rising. “I'm pretty good at it.”

“You can cook?” she asked, forgetting that she looked like something out of a ragbag, that she wasn't wearing makeup and her long hair was gathered back with a rubber band in a travesty of a ponytail.

“My mother thought it would be a good idea if I learned,” he recalled with an amused smile. “She gives me a refresher course every year at Christmas.”

“What else can you cook?” she asked, leading the way into the small kitchen.

“The best pepper steak you've ever tasted.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Come to dinner Sunday,” he said, “I'll prove it.”

“At your apartment?” she asked as she handed him the bread and a cookie sheet spread with aluminum foil.

“At the farm. I'll pick you up early in the morning, and you can spend the day.”

She thought for a minute, feeling herself sinking into deep water. She'd been too pleased at the sight of him tonight, too happy that he'd bothered to come and ask her out.

He came up behind her; and with a quick-silver thrill of excitement, she felt his big, warm hands pressing into her tiny waist. “I have a housekeeper, Mrs. Brodie. She's elderly and buxom, and she'll cut off my hands if I try to seduce you. Satisfied, Miss Purity?”

She felt her color coming and going as he drew her closer, his breath whispering warmly in her hair.

“I…I wasn't worried about that,” she managed weakly.

Deep, soft laughter rumbled in the chest at her back. “Do you think I'm too old to feel desire?” he asked.

“Mr. Moreland!” she burst out.

“Make it Bryan,” he said.

“Bryan,” she repeated breathlessly.

“Why aren't there any men in your life?” he asked suddenly. “Why don't you date?”

Her eyes closed against the memory. “I date you,” she corrected weakly.

“Before me there was someone. Who? When?” he asked harshly, his fingers biting into her soft flesh. “Tell me!”

“He was married,” she said miserably.

There was a long, heavy silence behind her. “Did you know?”

She shook her head. “I was just nineteen, and horribly naïve. I met him while I was a freshman in college. He was one of the instructors. We went together for two months before I found out.”

She felt him tense. “How far had it gone?”

She shifted restlessly. “Almost too far,” she admitted, remembering the phone call that had saved her virtue. A phone call from his wife, and she'd answered the phone…

“And you gave up on life because of one bad experience?” he asked quietly.

“I learned not to trust men,” she corrected, bending her head. “It was…safer…to stay at home, unless I was with girl friends.”

“And now, Carla?” he persisted.

She chewed on her lower lip nervously. “I…don't know.”

His hand slid down her hips, pulling her back closer to him. Involuntarily, her hands went to push against the intimacy of his, and he laughed.

“Turn on the broiler for me,” he said, releasing her. “That omelet's going to be stone cold.”

She obeyed him mindlessly, fighting down her confusion.

They ate in a companionable silence, and she felt his dark eyes watching her when she wasn't watching him. Something was happening between them. She could feel it, and it frightened her.

Afterward, she put the dishes in the sink to soak, refusing his offer of help to wash them, and led the way into the living room nervously.

“I can't stay,” he said. “I've got to stop in at a cocktail party later tonight to try and twist the governor's arm for emergency funding for my revitalization.”

“Dressed like that?” she asked without thinking.

“It's informal,” he teased. His dark, bold eyes traveled down the length of her slender body. “You look pretty informal yourself.”

“I wasn't expecting company.”

“Sorry I came?” he asked bluntly.

“No,” she replied.

His jaw tightened, and she saw a strange darkness grow in his eyes as he looked at her. He held her gaze until she thought her heart was going to burst, until the only sound she could hear was the wild beating of her own heart.

“Good night, Carla,” he said abruptly and, turning, went out the door without a backward glance.

She stood exactly where she was and caught her breath. He hadn't wanted to go out that door. She'd read it in his eyes. But he hadn't kissed her. He still hadn't kissed her.

“What's wrong with me?” she asked the room unsteadily, turning to look in the mirror. But all she saw was a disappointed face and a body in a too-tight blouse. The reflection told her nothing.

 

She had Daniel Brown, the informant, meet her for coffee the next afternoon in the small international coffee house where she had gone with Moreland that first time. Brown was a personable young man with an honest face, but she didn't quite like the way his blue eyes darted away while he spoke.

“Did you know that the mayor and James White were close friends?” he asked as they sat and drank coffee at a corner table.

She stared at him. “James White? Isn't he that rich realtor who was investigated for fraud last year?”

“The same. Do a little digging, and you may come up with some interesting little tidbits.”

“Why are you furnishing all this information so generously?” she asked abruptly.

He looked uncomfortable. “I don't like corruption,” he replied.

“Is that the truth?” she probed, “or are you just trying to get back at the people who helped you out of your job?”

He shrugged. “It's a dog-eat-dog world.”

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “Why do you think Moreland's involved?”

“He's got too much money showing to be a mayor,” he replied vaguely.

“So he has. But I understood he was independently wealthy.”

“Did you?” he asked. “You're seeing a lot of him lately.”

“I'm working on a story,” she said for the second time, to the second person, that week.

“He wasn't much of a husband,” he said with a strange bitterness. “Don't get your hopes up in that direction, either.”

She stood up. “My personal life is my own business.”

“That's what you think.” He sipped his coffee. “Check out White. You'll see.”

She turned on her heel and left him there. Late that afternoon, she took her wealth of bits and pieces to Edwards and requested that he give it to the paper's attorneys and see if they could force the city attorney to release the airport land purchase records.

 

Bryan Moreland's farm was like a picture postcard. Well-kept grounds, white-fenced paddocks, silver silos, a red barn with white trim, and a farmhouse with a sprawling front porch and urns that must have been full of flowers in the spring and summer.

Mrs. Brodie grinned from ear to ear when Moreland brought Carla in and introduced her. The buxom old woman obviously approved, and the table she set for lunch was evidence of it. Carla ate until her stomach hurt, and Mrs. Brodie was still trying to press helpings of apple cobbler on her.

Moreland helped her escape into his study, where a fire was blazing in the hearth. It was a dreary day outside, drizzling rain and cold. But the den, with its Oriental rug and sedate dark furniture, was cozy. She stared at the portrait above the white mantel curiously. It was a period painting, and the man in it looked vaguely like Bryan Moreland.

“Is he a relative?” she asked.

He tossed two big, soft cushions down on the floor in front of the hearth and stretched out with his hands under his head. “In a manner of speaking,” he replied lazily. “He was my grandmother's lover.”

She blushed, and he laughed.

“And the picture hangs in here?” she asked, aghast.

“He's something of a family legend,” he replied. “He'd be damned uncomfortable in the closet. Come here,” he added with a sensuous look in his dark eyes as he gestured toward the pillow next to his.

She hesitated, drawn by the magnetism of his big body in the well-fitted brown trousers and pale yellow velour shirt, but wary of what he might expect of her.

His dark eyes took in the length of her body, lingering on the plunging V-neck of her white sweater, tracing her dark slacks down to her booted feet.

“If we make love,” he said quietly, “I won't let it go too far. Is that what you're afraid of, Carla?”

She caught her breath. He seemed to read her mind. She only nodded, lost for words.

His eyes searched hers. “Then, come on.”

She eased down beside him, curling her arms around her drawn-up knees with the pillow at her back. “Are we?” she asked huskily.

He traced the line of her spine with deft, confident fingers. “Are we what?” he asked deeply.

“Going to make love,” she managed shakily.

“That depends on you, country mouse,” he said matter-of-factly, and he removed his caressing hand.

She half-turned and looked down at him. His eyes were dark, smouldering, and there was no smile to ease the intensity of his piercing gaze.

“If you want it, come here,” he said gruffly.

She didn't even think. She went down into his outstretched arms as if she were going home, as if she'd waited all her life for a big, husky, dark man to hold out his arms to her.

He crushed her against his broad chest and lay just holding her as the fire crackled and popped cheerfully in the dimly lit room.

“It's been a long time for me, Carla,” he said in a strange, gruff tone. “Kisses may not be enough.”

She felt her body stiffen against him. “I can't…”

“Don't start freezing on me,” he said at her ear. “I'm not going to throw you over my shoulder and beat a path to my bedroom with you.”

“But you said…” she whispered.

“I may touch you,” he murmured sensuously. His mouth brushed lazily, warmly, at her throat, while his big hands worked some magic on her back through the sweater. “Like this.” He eased his hands underneath it, against the silken young flesh of her bare back. “And this,” he added, sweeping his hands up to her shoulder blades, discovering for himself that she was wearing nothing under the sweater.

“No…” she whispered unsteadily, a protest that sounded more like a moan.

His thumbs edged out under her arms, brushing against flesh that had never known a man's hands, and she caught her breath at the sensations it fostered.

“I want to love you,” he said softly. He eased her back on the rug, with her head and shoulders against the pillow, letting his hands move very gently on her rib cage in a silence burning with emotions.

“Bryan…” she whispered achingly.

He bent, and his mouth parted slightly as it touched hers in soft, slow movements. It was torture, the teasing, brushing touch of his mouth and hands, a delicious torment that made her heart beat violently against the walls of her chest. She had never wanted anything as desperately as she now wanted Bryan, and in a fever of wanting, she heard her own voice shatter as she cried out for his touch.