Love on Trial (3 page)

“Who else was there to send?”

She sighed. “Do we have a deal?”

“Sandy,” he reminded her, “already has it in for you. I told him this morning about the Devolg case.”

“He's young,” she said soothingly. “He'll get over it. And if he won't, send him instead!” She grinned.

“Can't. I've already got him assigned to the lottery investigation.”

“City editors,” she said with vigor, “were invented by God to torment the ignorant.”

“Thanks.” He grinned. “Now get out of here and get those pictures. And don't forget, I'm still searching for somebody to take over the ‘Dear Mother Jones' column permanently.”

“Sadist,” she mumbled as she walked away.

 

The art exhibit was delightful to shoot. The lighting was good, the subject matter was fascinating, and, best of all, it got her out of the office. She sat down on one of the brocade benches, clutching the camera, and stared blankly at a charcoal sketch. The really wonderful thing about reporting was that it didn't tie you to a desk for eight hours. You could get out into the city, meet people, and visit exciting places, without having to belong to any elite crowd. It was always exciting, even a little dangerous at times. Most of the women she knew would rather have suffered torture than trade jobs with her. But she knew with a certainty, that she
couldn't have endured being a secretary or a receptionist. She was only alive with a pad and pen and a camera in her hands.

“I might have known I'd find you here,” Hawke said suddenly, and she whirled on the bench to find him leaning carelessly against one of the big round columns, his hands in his pockets, just watching her.

Her heart flew up in her chest, but it was just the unexpected surprise of seeing him, she told herself.

“I…Bill bribed me,” she stammered.

“Did he have to twist your arm that hard?” he asked. “You love these damned things.”

“Guilty,” she admitted with a tiny smile, slinging her collar length blond hair away from her face. “But he didn't know that. I got out of doing an opinion poll.”

“Witch. Sometimes I think you cast spells.”

“So does Mark,” she sighed. Her eyes
brushed the beauty of the canvasses on the high walls. “You got me into a devil of a mess last night. I was going to wait until he was in a better mood to break the news to him.”

“I've never seen him in a good mood. He's a whiner, sparrow. The world's full of them…complainers without the guts to change the things they complain about.”

“People can't help being what they are, Hawke,” she said quietly, avoiding those piercing dark eyes. “You can't go around trying to change people to suit your own taste.”

“At least your father taught you that,” he replied. “Where do you go from here?”

“I thought I'd go steal bread crumbs from the pigeons in the park,” she replied.

“You look like that's what you do for lunch every day,” he said with an unappreciative glance at her slender figure. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, grasping her camera and purse as she tried to keep up with his long, quick strides.

“To Kebo's. I'm going to feed you.”

She drew back. “Oh, no, not today. It's Wednesday,” she told him.

“So, what the hell does that have to do with it?” he demanded, his face leonine and faintly dangerous.

“Middle of the week, and I owe my soul to a mechanic on Peachtree Street for repairs on the VW,” she said in a breathless rush. “I simply can't afford Kebo's. You'll have to take me to the Krystal instead.”

His eyes narrowed, and his square jaw locked stubbornly. “You damned little independent mule,” he growled softly. “I said I was taking you to lunch, and I can afford Kebo's. Now come on.”

“Yes, sir!” she replied smartly, and had to skip to keep up with him.

It wasn't until they were inside the
plush restaurant enjoying roast beef au jus and perfectly cooked scalloped potatoes with a salad, that she began to wonder how Hawke had known where to find her.

“I wasn't looking for you,” he replied when she asked the question. “I stopped by to see Lavelle's part of the exhibit. I represented him in a libel case several years ago. His art impressed me then. It still does.”

“It's surrealistic,” Siri commented.

One dark, heavy eyebrow went up. “Yes, it is.”

Her lower lip pouted as she added a touch of the thick cream to her coffee and stirred it. “I'm not completely ignorant when it comes to things like art.”

“I never said you were. I thought your taste ran to Renoir and Degas.”

“It does, but I…” She sighed. “I just like art. I don't know all that much about it, really, but I like beautiful things.”

“Remind me to show you my African
wood carvings someday,” he said. He leaned back in the comfortable semicircular padded chair and lit a cigarette. “Or don't you like art that exotic?”

“I have several African pieces of my own,” she told him. “Although I'm sure mine aren't as expensive as yours.”

“Stop that,” he said coldly. “I don't care for snobbery, inverted or not.”

She bit back a retort, busying herself instead with her coffee. The lunch had been perfect, and she shouldn't have attacked him. A twinge of color dotted her cheeks, and she let herself relax.

“I'm sorry,” she said quietly.

The waiter came back before he could reply and while he was ordering strawberry shortcake for them, she studied him absently. He was, she thought, a striking man. Not exactly handsome. His brow was too jutting, his face too leonine, his jaw too square. It was a strong face, not a pretty one. His build was equally strong—husky as a wrestler, and narrow-
hipped with powerful legs. He wasn't overly tall, but he didn't need to be. There was such raw power in his big body that he was as intimidating as any man two heads taller would have been. He really was quite attractive. Darkly, sensuously attractive. Her eyes rested briefly on the wide, chiseled perfection of his mouth, and she allowed herself to wonder, just for one mad instant, how it would feel to kiss him….

“Are you trying to memorize me?” Hawke asked quietly, as he caught her staring at him.

She blushed red as a cherry. “Sorry. I wasn't really looking at you,” she lied glibly. “I was thinking about an assignment….”

“Was that it?” he asked, unconvinced. He caught her restless eyes and held them with an intensity that made her heart race. He'd never looked at her like that—not with that fiery, expressionless look that burned in his eyes. He held her gaze for
so long, and with such raw power, that she was visibly shaken when she managed to drag her eyes down towards her coffee cup. She lifted it unsteadily to her lips.

“I…I don't really need dessert,” she said softly.

“Yes, you do.” He took a long draw from the cigarette. “What did Holland say about the trip? Has he convinced you that I'm going to ravish you the first night?”

She felt the color pour into her face. “Actually,” she said huskily, “he thought you were a little too old to think of me in that respect.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” he said. “How old does he think I am, for God's sake, sixty?”

“Close,” she remarked, avoiding his piercing eyes.

“How old do you think I am?” he asked suddenly.

She shrugged. “I've never thought about it.”

“Liar.” He took a swallow of his coffee and suddenly reached out to catch her cold, nervous hand in his, forcing her to look up into those threatening eyes.

“I'm seventeen years older than you, sparrow,” he said in a deep, quiet tone. “But if I wanted you, those seventeen years wouldn't make a damned bit of difference to me. Or to you.”

She felt her heart beating her to death from the inside. He'd never spoken to her like this, and it was devastating. Frightened, she drew her hand away from his and leaned back.

“What the hell difference does it make to Holland's mother if you go to Panama City with me?” he asked suddenly, harshly. “Are you engaged?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “He's asked me.”

“And?”

“I don't want marriage,” she replied. “Not now, not ever.”

“Why?”

“Don't cross-examine me, Hawke, I'm not on the stand!” she cried.

“God, you're a puzzle,” he remarked. He leaned one big arm over the back of his chair. He was wearing a light jacket over a pale blue shirt. The fabric stretched over the massive muscles of his chest. Under it, she could see the shadow of a mass of black, curling hair. Why did he have to be so masculine, so…

“I have to go…” she began weakly.

“Not yet,” he said, gesturing toward the approaching waiter. “Not until I get a little more flesh on those bird bones.”

“I'm not skinny!” she hissed at him as the waiter was walking away.

He dug into the massive dish of fresh strawberries and cream on their cake base, lifting an eyebrow as his eyes went pointedly to the soft rise and fall of her
rounded breasts under the thin white blouse.

“Parts of you aren't,” he corrected.

“Don't!” she whispered, attempting to give her entire concentration to the dessert.

“Doesn't Holland ever touch you, little one?” he asked gently.

She moved her thin shoulders as if trying to twist out from under the question. “Mark's a gentleman.”

“Mark's a boy, Siri,” he corrected.

“He suits me very well,” she countered, savoring the sweet taste of the whipped cream. Her tongue came out to whisk it off her upper lip, and Hawke's eyes narrowed on the tiny movement. The deliberate scrutiny confused her, and she put the coffee cup quickly to her lips.

“Should I bring the camera?” she asked, trying to sound cool and professional.

“Only if you're planning to do a speculation piece on the ‘Miracle Strip' for
some travel magazine,” he replied, “or photos for your album.”

“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “I could hire one of the hotel employees to pour beet juice over your head while I take pictures.”

“I wouldn't advise it, honey,” he said, mildly amused. “You might not like the way I'd reciprocate.”

“You wouldn't hit that hard.” She smiled.

His eyes travelled over her face, from the crown of golden hair to the amber eyes, the soft curve of her mouth. His gaze lingered there until her lips parted under the scrutiny that was as potent as a caress.

“Siri,” he said in a deep, sensual tone, “if I ever lift my hand to you, it won't be to hit you.”

The look in his eyes said much more than the words. It haunted her all the way back to the office.

T
hat lunch marked a turning point for Siri. Suddenly, the thought of Panama City, of being with Hawke for the better part of a week, was unbearable. And she knew when she reached her office that she wasn't going to go. No matter what, even if Bill fired her, she wasn't going. She took a deep breath and walked into his office.

“You're
what?
” Daeton exploded.

She stood her ground. “I'm not going with Hawke.”

“Why, for God's sake?”

Now there, she thought miserably, was a good question. What could she tell him? I'm afraid of Hawke because of a look he gave me across a table?

She swallowed. “My…boyfriend doesn't like the idea,” she said finally, digging up the only excuse he might find acceptable.

He threw down his pencil and leaned back in his chair. “Siri, there just isn't anybody else I can send,” he explained. “Nobody. And even if there was, Hawke told your father that it was you or no one. This is one hell of a hot story. I don't want to blow it because your boyfriend's got a bad case of jealousy.”

She stared at the cluttered top of his desk. “I'm sorry,” she muttered, turning to open the door.

“Siri, if you do this to me,” Bill Daeton threatened quietly, “I'll take you off
the police beat and switch you to the garden club circuit for the next ten years.”

She shrugged fatalistically. “I like flowers,” she said over her shoulder, and closed the door.

If Daeton was disbelieving, her father was dumbstruck. He gaped at her over the dinner table, his face blank.

“Do you realize,” he said quietly, “how long it took me to convince Hawke to let you go?”

She smiled. “Five minutes?” she guessed.

“Four.” He shook his head, toying with the brussel sprouts. “Want to tell me why you changed your mind?” he pursued.

“I'll sound silly.”

“Oh, I'm already convinced of that. Tell me anyway.”

She wrapped her cold fingers around her coffee cup. “It's kind of hard to put into words,” she began.

Jared spread his fingers behind his
head and leaned back lazily. “I've got all night.”

“I thought you were taking Nadine to that new night club.”

“Don't change the subject.”

She shrugged. Of all people, she couldn't lie to her father. “I'm afraid of Hawke,” she said miserably.

He didn't seem in the least surprised. “You've spent the past five years being alternately fascinated and terrified by him. Did you realize that you start backing away the minute he comes near you?” he asked with a patient smile.

She took the napkin from her lap and folded it. “Isn't this where I get the lecture about the evils of running away?” she asked.

“Just about.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “He took you to lunch, didn't he?”

She nodded, dazed.

“Well, did he try to seduce you at the table?” he persisted.

“Of course not!”

“You needn't sound so indignant. I know Hawke,” he laughed. “He isn't even vaguely subtle when he wants something, and that includes women.”

“I didn't know he was such a playboy,” she observed, wrapping both cold hands around her coffee cup.

“He isn't.” He picked at a speck of lint on the sleeve of his jacket. “Oh, he's got money. But that can be a two-edged sword, my girl, didn't you know? I don't think he's ever been really sure if women want him or what he can give them.”

“It wouldn't make a bit of difference if he didn't have a dime,” she said without thinking.

Jared's grin went from ear to ear. “I didn't know you thought he was so attractive,” he remarked, noting the sudden color in her cheeks.

“Even if he is a generation ahead of me, I can notice him,” she said defensively.

“Age isn't everything, you know.”

“It is to him,” she grumbled absently. “Any day now, I expect him to offer to buy me a balloon or an ice-cream cone. Even now, with an award of merit under my belt for investigative reporting, he's still giving me the ‘helpless little Siri' looks.”

“You could change his mind if you tried,” her father said gently.

“Why in the world would I want to?” she asked, aghast. “My gosh, dad, he's almost twice my age, and you know we don't get along at all. We never have!”

“Do you get along all that well with Holland?” he probed. “Honestly?”

She glowered at him. “I can handle Mark.”

“That's probably the only reason you let him hang around, too,” he said flatly. “And someday you'll accidentally marry him if you don't open your eyes!”

“I don't want to marry anybody,” she muttered.

“It can still happen. Go with Hawke, Siri,” he said, more solemn than she'd ever seen him. “Face it. Will you do that, for me?”

He didn't make sense, but at the suggestion, she gave way to a twinge of panic. She stood up, shaking her head stubbornly. “I'm sorry. I love you very much,” she said, “but not enough for that. The story can go hang. I'm fresh out of sacrificial urges.”

“Siri…!”

But she was already halfway up the staircase, running for privacy.

She knew her father wouldn't be back until late, so she threw on a deep blue caftan and stretched out in the living room on the couch with a book and put on a stack of easy listening records. The book should have taken her mind off the problem of Panama City, but she opened it and couldn't get past the front page.

It was almost a relief when the doorbell rang an hour later. Expecting that her
father had lost his keys again, she threw open the door with a smile and a quip on her mouth and froze when she saw who was standing there.

“Oh!” she murmured.

Hawke raised an eyebrow at her, his dark eyes taking in every inch of her body outlined under the clinging blue fabric. He was obviously on his way home from a date, still dressed in his dark evening clothes. He had on a white ruffled shirt that was anything but effeminate, making his complexion seem even darker. His hand was propped against the door facing, and ruby cuff links gleamed rich and red in the light.

“Yes, ‘oh',” he said. His eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you mean, you're not going with me?”

She swallowed hard, hating her nerve for deserting her as she stepped back to let him in the house. “I…well…you know…”

“I don't know. That's why I'm here. I
ran into your father and Nadine downtown. Siri, so help me, sometimes I think you belong back in high school instead of in a newspaper office!” he growled.

She stared at the carpet, unaware of the picture she made with her blond hair curling delicately around her flushed face, her long lashes hiding the expression in her amber eyes.

“It's kind of hard to explain,” she mumbled.

“Then let's do it over a nightcap.” He took her arm firmly and propelled her back into the living room, while she tried desperately not to let him see how much his touch affected her.

He poured two drinks at the bar, handing her a sherry while he fixed himself a scotch on the rocks.

“I like scotch, too,” she protested, glaring down at the pale red liquid in her glass.

“I like you sober. You cry when you're drunk,” he taunted.

“Only that once!” she defended herself.

“Once was enough. Or have you forgotten…?”

“I'm sure trying to, if you'll let me!” she flashed back, embarrassed at the memory of how she'd clung to him in the car that night she overdid it at the senior prom, and he had to rescue her because Jared had been out of town.

He smiled down at her, something he rarely did, but there was a boldness in the dark eyes as he gazed over the clinging caftan again.

“I like you in blue,” he said.

“Thanks,” she murmured. She sipped the sherry nervously.

“Now tell me why you don't want to go.”

She shifted restlessly. “Hawke, you know how Mark feels…”

“All I know is what a damned possessive jackass he is,” he said shortly, the smile disappearing at the mention of her
boyfriend. “I don't like the way he treats you. I never have.”

“You don't understand!” she protested.

“The hell I don't!” His eyes narrowed into a piercing glare. Hers fell before their onslaught, and she clutched the glass like a shield.

He studied her downcast face for a long time, pausing to light a cigarette and take a long draw from it. “Now tell me the real reason, Siri,” he said firmly. “You're afraid of me, aren't you?”

She couldn't meet his eyes, but she wasn't going to lie about it. She drew a slow breath. “Yes,” she admitted.

A smile tugged at the corner of his chiseled mouth. “Why?”

She shook her head. “I don't know.”

He took a draw from the cigarette. “Don't you?” he asked.

She lifted her eyes only to the top button of his shirt, quickly dropping them again.

“Hell, I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted,” he said. “My God, Siri, you're still wet behind the ears.”

She clenched her teeth. “I didn't mean it that way!”

“What other way is there? And look at me, dammit!”

Her eyes jerked up. She flushed at the intent, totally adult look he was giving her.

“You…you said…in the restaurant…” she grasped for words.

“I said what?” he growled. “That those seventeen years didn't matter? What the hell did you think I was talking about? Siri, if I meant to seduce you, I wouldn't have to take you all the way to Panama City!”

There it was, out in the open, and she'd never felt quite so stupid. She closed her eyes. “I…I feel pretty dumb.”

“You're just young, sparrow,” he said, kindly. “I understand you very well. Come with me.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“Holland will get over it,” he assured her. “Tell him we'll send a joint postcard.”

“He won't like it,” she said with a wistful smile.

“Why the hell does it matter?”

“Because he's my—”

“Your what?” he shot at her. “Your lover?”

She glared at him. “No!”

“That I can believe.” His dark eyes traced the supple lines of her body, and a musing smile touched his mouth. “He hasn't left a mark on you.”

“What do you do? Brand your women?” she fired back.

He considered that for a minute, studying her through a thin veil of gray smoke. “Honey, if I'd had you, everybody who came in contact with you would see it written all over you,” he replied flatly.

“In dollar signs?” she said venomously.

He smiled involuntarily. “Is my money my only attraction, little girl?”

She sighed loudly. “You ought to know it isn't,” she said reluctantly. “Women follow you around like puppies.”

“Children like me, too, don't you?” he retaliated.

“Ooooh!” she groaned, stamping her foot on the soft pile of the carpet. “Hawke Grayson, you make me so mad!”

“And your eyes burn like fiery topaz,” he told her. Something wild and untamable flamed in his eyes for just an instant as they held hers. “Holland isn't man enough to kindle any fires in you, little bird, much less put them out.”

“He suits me just fine, thanks.”

“He wasn't suiting you at that restaurant the other night, was he?” he asked with a confident smile, as he threw down the last swallow of his drink. “It sounded
like a down-home brawl from where I was sitting.”

“You and the scarlet lady, that is,” she returned with a defiant glance in his direction.

One heavy eyebrow went up. “Scarlet lady?” he probed. “Gessie? She types my letters, little girl, and answers the phone.”

“Excuse me,” she apologized. “I didn't know she could do all that on her back.”

He burst out laughing. “You little brat! What the hell business is it of yours if I keep a mistress?”

She didn't want to think about that. “None at all. And Mark isn't any of yours, either,” she said stubbornly.

“We'll have to have a long talk about that someday.”

“My love life…!” she began.

“What love life?” he countered pointedly. “You'd faint if he started to make love to you.”

“Mark,” she said harshly, “is a gentleman!”

“God help him,” he said with feeling. “What do you think men are made of, you little blond mule, ice water and spirits?”