The Baby Track (3 page)

“Years?”
Connor’s voice rose on an incredulous squeak. “You’ve been going with this guy for
years
and you’ve never slept with him?”

For the first time since he’d barged into her office, he appeared totally nonplussed. Which just illustrated that, in addition to all his other sins, Connor McKay was also one of those appalling fast and demanding rogues who expected women to hop into bed with him upon command—undoubtedly on the first date!

He also jumped to conclusions—the wrong ones. She’d been about to explain that her relationship with Emery had always been platonic, from their first meeting here at the NPB offices, where he’d come to meet with members of the board. There was no chemistry between them, but they enjoyed each other’s company and occasionally served as each other’s escorts when one was needed for certain occasions. Lately she’d been seeing quite a bit of Emery; the woman he had hoped to marry had found someone else and he was taking the breakup hard. Courtney was providing the undemanding company and support he needed, but his dreadful sister Jarrell had completely misinterpreted the relationship. And now, so had Connor McKay.

Courtney decided that she owned him no explanations; in fact, he didn’t deserve one! She scowled. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the sensitivity and tact of a gentleman like Emery Harcourt,” she said with a haughty sniff.

“The guy must have a hormone deficiency if he hasn’t tried to make it with you,” Connor said flatly. “You’re a knockout, Gypsy. A woman as sexy as you makes a man’s blood run hot by just looking at you.”

Courtney opened her mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it. She didn’t know how to reply. Sexy, her? A knockout? No man had ever given her such a fulsome compliment. She suspected that she ought to be annoyed because it was an undeniably sexist remark; instead, a peculiar, slow warmth stole through her.

“Well.” Courtney stared at the floor. She self-consciously smoothed her hair with her hand in a nervous gesture that made him smile. “You shouldn’t talk to me that way,” she murmured at last.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t. We could both end up in big trouble. You’re determined to pursue a sterile but undoubtedly meaningful relationship with the bloodless Emery Harcourt, and I’m determined to avoid anything remotely resembling a meaningful relationship. Let’s talk about something else. Wilson Nollier, for instance.”

Courtney went very still. “Wilson Nollier?” she repeated carefully. “The attorney?”

“There are those who would call him something else. Like a baby broker.” Connor shrugged. “A broker puts together buyers and sellers and takes a cut of the action. That seems to be what Nollier is doing, running a lucrative business where babies are bought and sold like commodities.” Courtney’s eyes widened. “I’ve been researching the topic of adoption for a program I’m hoping will air on NPB. I’ve talked to a number of couples who have used Wilson Nollier to handle their adoptions and—”

“I know,” Connor injected. “I got your name from all of them. And I’m here to ask you to bug off. Please,” he added as an apparent afterthought. “You’re encroaching on my territory. Too many questions are being asked, and people are getting nervous and clamming up. You’re wrecking my investigation, Gypsy.”

“Investigation?” she repeated, staring thoughtfully at him. He’d already said he wasn’t a policeman. “Are you a reporter?”

“Not exactly. I earn my living collecting facts, but I don’t write the stories that use them.” It was a perfect job for the uninvolved, uncommitted life-style he’d chosen for himself. Get the facts and turn them over to someone else, then move on to something else. Crafting a story, a report, took too much time; there was too much involvement with the subject at hand. He wanted no ties—to anything.

Courtney was frowning. “What kind of a job is that?” she demanded. As one who threw herself heart and soul into a project, she recognized a shirker. “You investigate stories but don’t report them? Are you some sort of hired gun? The kind who tracks unfaithful spouses to sleazy hotels and takes pictures?” She didn’t bother to conceal her disapproval.

Connor laughed. “That’s PD work, honey. Not my line. The results of my investigations are used in stories, not divorce court. I like investigating—the thrill of the chase, gathering the pieces of the puzzle. So I turn in the facts and the desk jockeys in the office put them together for the magazine and the show.”

“What magazine and what show?”

“Insight
magazine. And syndicated television’s
Inside Copy.
I work for both. In fact, I sort of invented the job of full-time fact finder,” Connor admitted jauntily. “But it’s a surprisingly lucrative field. I also occasionally freelance for the other quasi-news TV shows. Ever tune in?”

“No,” Courtney said bluntly. “I don’t read
Insight,
either, unless I have a long wait in the dentist’s office or supermarket checkout line.”

Insight
was a slick, gossipy magazine featuring pictures and stories about celebrities from every walk of life, as well as average citizens whose lives had taken a newsworthy turn, sometimes inspiring, usually ghoulish, but always informative or entertaining, according to
Insight’s
massive marketing campaign. Since bursting onto the publication scene five years ago in a carefully orchestrated media blitz,
Insight’s
circulation had steadily increased until it had become a worthy rival of its popular forerunners.

On its three-color logo,
Insight
proudly described itself as “infotainment,” a word combining information and entertainment that Courtney considered gaggingly cutesy.
Inside Copy,
the magazine’s TV equivalent, was “infotainment,” too.

“Let me guess—you consider infotainment beneath your lofty public broadcasting values,” Connor taunted.

Courtney grimaced. Ugh! He’d actually used the repulsive word in conversation. “
Insight
is a step above the sleazy supermarket tabloids,” she conceded. “
Inside Copy
is a television tabloid. Enough said.”

“Why hold a grudge against them, Gyps?
Insight
and
Copy
fans don’t begrudge you NPB’s offerings for eggheads. There’s room in the marketplace for both.” “Unfortunately there isn’t room for both,” Courtney said flatly. “NPB’s educational magazine was forced to cease production because of decreasing circulation. And our network scrimps along on a shoestring budget while trying to offer television programs that are culturally edifying and enlightening while shows like
Inside Copy
earn profits by appealing to—”

“Save it for the next NPB fund-raiser, Courtney. The truth is that
Insight
is rolling in dough because it delivers what the public wants to a wide audience. The same principle applies to television.
Insight
and
Inside Copy
are fun, a mindless escape. Your ponderous documentaries on subjects like collective farming in Albania and nature studies of obscure animals are downright tedious.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that, won’t we?” she retorted. “But I won’t agree to giving up my research on adoption. I started out as a reporter here at the station, but for the past year I’ve been doing editing, producing and programming, a bit of everything, actually. This is a story I wanted to report and write myself, and my boss gave me the go-ahead. I’m doing just that—going ahead with it, despite your investigation or fact-finding or whatever it is you call what you do
tor Insight
and
Inside Copy.
”

Connor heaved an impatient sigh. “Can we at least work out some kind of compromise? You do your program on foreign adoptions and adoptions handled through the licensed state agencies.
Insight
will do the story on private adoptions, including Wilson Nollier’s racket, of course.” She shook her head. “Since Nollier seems to have crossed the line from the gray market to black market adoptions, he belongs in NPB’s documentary.”

“Courtney, if both of us go after Nollier, he’ll suspect something. I told you that I’ve already interviewed the same adoptive parents you have. They mentioned your name and the program you planned to do for NPB. They were already having second thoughts about talking to either of us. There’s a chance one of them might open up to one of us, but never to both.”

“And you think that one ought to be you, not me,” Courtney said coolly.

“That’s right. Let’s face facts, honey. More people are going to read
Insight
or watch
Inside Copy
than tune into your well-meaning documentary on NPB. And I want to alert the public to Nollier’s racket.”

He definitely had a point there, especially considering NPB’s unhappy ratings in the Neilsen’s. But give up the story? Courtney shook her head. “NPB has a number of powerful benefactors,” she argued. “They could use their pull and their prestige to put a stop to Nollier if they were allied to the program—which they would be if it aired on NPB.”

It was a standoff. They stood facing each other, each waiting for the other’s next move.

“We’re not getting anywhere on this,” Connor growled. “I’m not used to being stonewalled, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby,” she snapped. “I’m not a casual pickup. And I’m not stonewalling you, either.” She somehow instinctively knew that what he wasn’t used to was having a woman not give in to his wishes, whatever they happened to be. The perception annoyed her more than it should have.

The silence stretched between them. At last, Connor reached inside his jacket and pulled out a packet, which he tossed onto the desk. “That’s my report on Nollier. Read it and you’ll see why this guy has got to be put out of business as soon as possible.”

He frowned. The facts in his report haunted him; he couldn’t seem to blithely shake them off. “I’ve interviewed both adoptive parents and birth mothers who used Nollier to handle the adoptions. A direct conflict of interest there, but Nollier’s only interest is in the fat fee he collects when the baby is handed over.”

“I agree that Wilson Nollier’s racket has to end.” Courtney looked troubled. “But it’s been impossible for me to find anyone willing to talk on the record about him, so I can’t use any of the material I have about him.”

Connor nodded grimly. “Everybody I interviewed refused to be named as a source and swore they’d deny everything if they were officially asked about Nollier or called upon to testify against him.”

“Don’t they realize their silence almost makes them accessories of that baby-selling barracuda?” Courtney exclaimed, frustrated.

“The adoptive parents are afraid of the consequences of an official investigation. They aren’t exactly unaware that paying big bucks for a baby, directly to Nollier—all in cash, no records or receipts allowed—is legally questionable, at the very least.”

“I’ve talked to some of the girls who gave up their babies and they wouldn’t talk on the record, either,” Courtney said quietly. “But they felt intimidated, even threatened, if they tried to change their minds about giving up their babies.” Connor frowned. “It looks like the only way to get some real evidence is to deal with Nollier directly.” His eyes met Courtney’s. “Maybe we don’t have to compete, maybe we could work together on this, put together a plan and share information. Maybe
Insight, Inside Copy
and NPB could combine forces.
Insight
could do its usual two-page article,
Copy
its ten-minute quickie, and NPB could put together a serious documentary. Would you consider it, Courtney?” It was a reasonable compromise. Wasn’t it? “Well, maybe,” she hedged, stalling.

“It would mean some role-playing, some undercover investigating. Are you game, Courtney?”

Game-playing and undercover work. Had her overactive imagination gone wild or did that sound like a seductive, suggestive proposition? She swallowed, hard.

“Wilson Nollier is selling little babies to the highest bidder, Courtney,” Connor continued, his green eyes intense. The story inflamed him. Even as he mocked himself for his single-mindedness on the subject, he still couldn’t shrug it off.

“He’s taking advantage of desperate couples who want children and can’t have them naturally, people who have lost hope because of the adoption agencies’ years-long waiting lists. And he’s also victimizing desperate young women who find themselves pregnant and alone, maybe too poor or too young or emotionally unable to raise their babies. Those are the people that creeps like Nollier are preying upon.” Courtney stared at him in surprise. “You really care, don’t you?” she said incredulously.

Connor’s mouth curved faintly. “And that surprises you?” It certainly surprised the hell out of himself.

“Frankly, yes. You seem like the type of man who believes in feeling no pain, showing no fear or displaying no weakness. That type doesn’t care about anyone or anything.”

“You’ve pegged my character—or the lack of it—correctly, Gypsy,” he admitted cheerfully. “Cool, cynical and shallow, avoiding emotional intimacy and involvement at all costs. That’s me and I offer no apologies.”

“But this baby-selling business has really gotten to you,” she said, staring thoughtfully at him. Which called into question exactly how cool, cynical and shallow he exactly was.

Connor shrugged uncomfortably. “I just think it’s unconscionable to sell human beings. And I hate seeing scum like Nollier parading around as a respectable member of the establishment while he’s getting rich off defenseless people in desperate straits.”

“So do I,” she said softly.

“We can stop Nollier, Courtney.” Connor’s detached, sardonic expression disappeared and was replaced by one of genuine enthusiasm. “Working together we can infiltrate his adoption ring, gather the necessary evidence against him and then testify after charges are brought. We can bring him down, Gypsy, and get one helluva story in the process. Will you do it?”

Would she work with Connor McKay? Courtney found it unnerving that she found the prospect intriguing, especially when Connor was looking at her in
that
particular way,-his eyes a breathtaking dark green, his handsome face alive with interest.