Love on Trial (2 page)

“Do you want to go or not, Siri?” Hawke asked pointedly.

“Well, if I can get somebody to take my assignments for a few days,” she mumbled. “I've got that interview with…”

“Excuses?” Hawke prodded. “Or is it that Holland doesn't approve?”

She bristled at the sarcastic reference to her boyfriend. “Mark does have some say in what I do.”

“Why should he?” came the harsh reply. “Do you tell him how to do his job
at the accounting agency, or where he can travel in connection with it?”

“You don't understand, Hawke…!”

“The hell I don't!” he growled.

“Now, now, world tensions are bad enough without World War III erupting between you two,” Jared remarked, moving to stand between them. “And I don't have time to referee.”

Siri and Hawke exchanged glares, but her eyes fell first. He always managed to back her down, and it burned her up inside that she yielded so easily.

“All right, I'll go home and pack,” she grumbled, turning away.

“I won't be able to get away before Thursday,” Hawke said coolly. “Criminal court's in session all week, and I've got two clients to represent. If the jury doesn't get deadlocked, I should be able to leave Friday morning. Check with me later in the week.”

She nodded. “See you at home, Dad,” she called over her shoulder.

“Don't trip over your mouth on the way out,” her parent called after her.

“You should have gone into comedy instead of court,” she called back, and closed the door behind her with a flair.

“How'd it go?” Nadine asked as she headed toward the elevator.

Siri paused, thought for a minute, and smiled. “I lost.”

“You have to stay home?”

Siri shook her head. “I have to go.” She grinned.

The smile faded when she was in the elevator, alone, going down to street level. How in the world was she going to explain to Mark, who didn't trust her past his heel, that she was going away for a week with the most notorious man in local legal circles? From one battle to another, she thought resignedly. But at least with Mark, she'd have a chance of winning, which was more than she'd ever had with Hawke Grayson.

S
iri fumed around the house like a steaming clam, and every time she saw that arrogant dark head, she fumed even more. The trouble with Hawke, she told herself, was that he was too used to feminine adulation. He was accustomed to getting his own way about everything. But, even so…why did she always yield?

“He makes me feel like a spoiled brat,” she grumbled, as she headed for
the shower. “That's why I don't like him!”

Not that she was spoiled. Jared had seen to that. When her mother died, just before Siri's sixth birthday, he'd made sure she had enough love to make up for both parents. But he hadn't indulged her to any great extent. His law practice took up a great deal of his time, and Siri had to settle for odd moments of togetherness. Jared didn't spoil her; he forced her to fight her battles on all fronts. Even now, he only interfered when things got blazing hot between Hawke and his daughter. Which was another curious thing, Siri thought as she undressed and stepped under the spray of warm water.

She wasn't naturally antagonistic toward anyone, except her father's famous partner. It had been that way from the beginning, as if she'd sensed in Hawke an adversary the first time she saw him. There had been the occasional pleasant time, as Marty had hinted earlier. But
even those fleeting moments of affinity had been laced with tension, because she could never relax completely with Hawke. No matter how congenial he was on the surface, she always felt the tingle of deep fires burning just under his impassive exterior.

She stepped out of the shower refreshed, and was on her way to change when the phone caught her.

“County morgue,” she droned into the receiver, expecting to hear Marty's voice on the other end.

There was a brief pause, followed by an irritated masculine sigh. “Must you answer the phone that way, Cyrene? What if it had been mother, or your editor?”

She raised her eyes heavenward. “Mark,” she explained patiently, “I'm a reporter, remember? This is the way I am.”

“So you keep telling me. Never mind.
We're having dinner at the Magnolia Inn. I'll pick you up at six.”

“I know,” she reminded him. “You told me yesterday.”

“Yes,” he said in a long-suffering tone. “But you tend to forget dates you make with me as you move from fire to murder.”

“It was only once,” she defended herself. “And you know it was one of the very biggest fires in the city.”

“And that's another thing,” he grumbled, “always hanging around with men; firemen, policemen, civil defense…”

“It's my job, Mark,” she reminded him.

“But, Siri, the way it looks…”

Her temper boiled over. “That's it,” she said tightly, “if you can't bring yourself to accept me the way I am, you can jolly well go chase yourself!” With that, she slammed the receiver down.

She didn't get two steps before the
phone rang again. She jerked it up. “Yes?” she asked impatiently.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “It's been a long day, and I'm in a rotten mood. Come out with me and cheer me up.”

Out of habit, or weariness, she gave in. After all, she wasn't any more perfect than he was.

 

They went to a popular restaurant on the outskirts of the city, and business was booming.

Without bothering to ask if the cigarette smoke would bother her, Mark led her straight to the smoking section of the plush, carpeted restaurant and seated her. She barely had time to scan the extensive and appetizing menu before the waitress was asking for her order. She ordered a steak, wild rice and a tossed salad bypassing the delicious but horribly fattening strawberry shortcake with its foot-high topping of whipped cream. The waitress returned a few moments later
with trays laden with steaming, fragrant dishes.

She thanked the girl—who looked as if she could press 200 pounds without any effort from the way she was handling those heavy trays—and froze as she looked past the girl's frilly apron.

Hawke and his current girlfriend, a darkly elegant brunette in a dress cut almost to the waist, were seated just across the way. Siri carefully rearranged her chair so that her back was slightly toward them, and hoped Hawke wouldn't notice her.

“It's been a rotten day,” Mark sighed as he attacked his steak. “One of my clients had to go downtown for an audit with the tax people, and they found a mistake. My secretary,” he groaned, “typed the right numbers, but in the wrong places. So instead of getting the refund he expected, my client wound up owing money.”

“How awful,” Siri said automatically.

“Amen. I caught it from both sides.” He reached for his soft drink, grimacing at the steaming cup of black coffee at Siri's right. “How can you drink that stuff?”

She shrugged. “Habit, I guess. Dad and I always have it for breakfast and dinner—with every meal.”

There was the sudden interruption of loud conversation just behind her, and she caught the familiar sound of a rival reporter's voice.

“I hear there's some new evidence in the Devolg case, Mr. Grayson,” Sandy Cudor was probing in his pleasant voice. “Anything to the rumors?”

“You'll find out in the courtroom, Sandy,” came the deep, equally pleasant reply.

“In other words, you aren't talking,” the reporter interpreted, and Siri knew there would be a smile on the young man's face.

“Exactly.”

“Well, have a nice evening,” Sandy said, and Siri instinctively leaned down to pick up the napkin she dropped on purpose, so that her colleague wouldn't see her. It worked.

“Disgusting,” Mark was grumbling.

“What is?” she asked.

“Reporters,” he replied with a glare after Cudor's retreating back. “And grandstanding lawyers,” he added for a good measure.

“Just hold it right there,” she told him icily. “If there's any grandstanding, it's usually done by young lawyers trying to make reputations. Hawke's a long way past the struggling stage. And Sandy may be impetuous, but he's young and learning, and bound to be a little overeager.”

“I didn't think you cared a fig about either one of them,” Mark recalled, his own voice cool.

“I don't,” she agreed. “But then you aren't attacking personalities, you're at
tacking two professions that I know intimately.”

He drew a harsh sigh and tossed down the rest of his soft drink. “You don't even have to work,” he said unpleasantly. “I don't know why you insist on pursuing that job—”

“Because I like it!” she shot back.

“You like associating with all those men, and showing your legs,” he retorted.

“You go to hell,” she said in a furious whisper, her amber eyes shooting flames toward him, as she crumpled her napkin and threw it down to the right side of her plate.

“I didn't think it was so easy to keep secrets in a newsroom,” Hawke remarked from behind her.

She turned, flushed with anger, to meet the taunting light in his dark eyes as he paused beside their table with the impatient brunette on his arm.

“It isn't,” Siri managed, irritated at
the breathless tone of her usually steady voice, hating the effect Hawke always had on her nerves. “I don't suppose Bill's told any of them yet.”

“If he does, you'd better check under your hood every afternoon before you leave there,” came the cool reply. “Hello, Holland,” he added, finally acknowledging the younger man's presence.

“Hello,” Mark grumbled. His eyes speared Siri. “What's all this about?”

“Siri hasn't told you?” Hawke asked, and even though he didn't smile, the mocking amusement was there in those unfathomable eyes. “She's going with me to Panama City for a week to research some new evidence in the Devolg case.”

Mark's thin face flushed red. “Is she? It's new to me!” He glared at Siri. “Does your father know?”

“I'm twenty-one years old, almost twenty-two,” she replied. “I don't need Daddy's permission!”

“My God, how am I going to explain it to mother?” he groaned.

“No dessert?” Hawke remarked, noticing Siri's barely touched dinner. “You're thin enough, aren't you?”

“She's just fine the way she is, thanks. I don't want her to look like a cow,” Mark replied hotly, with a speaking glance at the well-endowed brunette beside Hawke, who bristled visibly at the insult.

Hawke didn't say anything, but his eyebrows went up as if the remark astonished him.

“Enjoy your dinner,” Hawke said pleasantly, and escorted the brunette out of the spacious dining room.

“I don't like that man,” Mark grumbled, glaring at the retreating broad back. “What business is it of his how you look or what you eat? And what the devil did he mean about you going with him to Panama City?”

“Just what he said,” Siri replied
coolly. “You don't own me, Mark. Not now, not ever, and I can't think how you've convinced yourself that you did. I don't have to apologize to you for the job I do. And that's precisely what the trip concerns—my job. I won't be sharing Hawke's bed, if that's what you're wondering.”

The way he averted his eyes told her what he'd thought.

“I should think you'd be too young to interest a man like that anyway,” he finally said. “He must be at least forty.”

That bothered her for some reason, but she bit her lip to keep from making a reply. “Hawke's got all the women he needs, I imagine,” she said finally.

“I don't doubt it.” He laughed humorlessly. “Wasn't his father a shipbuilder, or owned a fleet of ships or something in Charleston?”

“Something like that.”

“And his mother was an heiress. There was some horrible scandal before he left
there.” Mark frowned, trying to remember.

“Was there? I don't keep tails on Hawke, I never have. He's Dad's partner, not mine, and I like it that way,” she said harshly.

“If you dislike him so much,” he protested, “why do you start changing color the minute you see him?”

“Do I?” She searched in her purse for her compact and lipstick. “Temper, probably. He's always telling me how inferior a woman reporter is, and this afternoon was no exception. Dad had to separate us.”

There was a long pause while she put on her lipstick. “Siri, I'm sorry,” he said finally. “It's just that I don't trust him around you. You're so…naive.”

She almost laughed. Mark, who'd never even tried to touch her, or intimately kiss her, telling her she was naive.

“To Hawke, I'm still the teenager he used to bring to football games when I
was a cheerleader. He doesn't think of me as a woman.” And, boy, am I glad, she almost added. She'd never seen Hawke in action, but she'd have bet her typewriter that there wasn't a woman alive he couldn't get with that dark, sensual charm. She didn't really want to find out if she could resist it. Besides, she told herself silently, he was almost twice her age. Far too old to even dream about.

“Can we go now?” Siri asked, putting away her cosmetics. “I'm really tired.”

“Of course. Just let me finish this cigarette,” he said, lighting one up. “Won't be a minute.”

It was ten, and she felt like screaming before he finally stubbed it out and took her home.

 

“Siri, got a minute?” Bill Daeton called from the doorway of his office.

She left the half-finished story on her desk and joined him. “What's up?”

“Look, I know you don't do family
news,” he said, anticipating an argument, “but I've got a great feature story on my desk and no cameraman to shoot it. Can you spare an hour from that burglary wrap-up to take some pictures of an art exhibit at the museum? There are a couple of paintings by Jacques Lavelle in it—you know, our local talent who does those exquisite portraits in pastels?”

She glared at him without speaking.

“Think of the class that story will give the paper,” he coaxed, “an international exhibit, right here in our city, and a local artist included in it, along with some of the old masters. The arts council will love it. So will old Sumerson. Remember that? He owns 65% of the stock in our publishing company? Pays both our salaries? Siri, dammit, I haven't got a photog. Everyone's out on assignment, and I've got to have those shots today!”

She saw a chance for some bargaining and grinned. “Remember that opinion poll you wanted me to conduct in my
spare time to see how local people felt on the gun control issue? Well, if you'll make Sandy do it instead, I'll just be purely tickled to cover your art exhibit!”

“Blackmailer!” he burst out.

“It's no worse than what you did to me,” she replied. “A week in Panama City with Hawke Grayson…one or both of us will be in shreds by the time we come home, and it'll be all your fault. You knew I didn't want to go.”