10
SHE SHOULD BE EXCITED and filled with anticipation. She was about to make one of her dreams come true. Meet her hero, the woman who’d inspired her every career decision since the second grade.
Marni stared at the looming town house, as elegant as the rest on the steep San Francisco residential street. But the flowers flanking the steps were a blurry yellow, difficult to focus on through eyes that kept tearing up.
She’d done the right thing—for both of them—by leaving Hunter.
She’d done the right thing—for her career—by tracking down the information from that hotel receipt, pulling every string she had to find out who had been in that hotel suite in the week after the explosion. While she hadn’t been able to get a photo or name confirmation, she had gotten a physical description from a room service waiter describing the temperamental redhead who’d thrown her chocolate cake at the back of the head of the guy who, as the waiter put it, looked like an extra from Men in Black. Marni was sure that redhead was Beverly Burns, and that the cake-splattered suit-wearer was FBI or someone from WitSec.
She’d spent two days writing an edgy, hard-hitting article that would break open not only the case against Charles Burns but also point to the games the FBI played.
She should be thrilled.
Instead, she felt ill.
She should be exploring the excellent San Francisco shopping venues to choose a perfect edgy reporter wardrobe.
Instead, she was wearing her oldest jeans and a T-shirt as black as her mood.
Telling herself to focus on now, instead of crying over then, Marni wiped a nervous hand on her hip. Taking a deep breath, she climbed the steps, raised her hand and knocked on the bright red door.
“Yes?” the woman answering greeted. Her hair was as blond as sunshine, the creases around her eyes deep and cheerful. Slender and stylish, she looked at least ten years younger than the forty-eight Marni knew her to be.
“Robin Clare?”
“That’s me. You selling something? I hope it’s cookies. I’m partial to those chocolate mint ones.”
Marni answered with a smile and a shake of her head.
“Actually, I don’t have anything to sell. I’m here to meet you.”
“You a reporter?”
How cool was it to be recognized as a reporter by one of the best in the business? A tiny thrill tickled its way up Marni’s spine, but was chased back down by a trickle of doubt. Because she wasn’t sure she had what it took to deserve that recognition. Not yet. And for the first time since she was eight years old and had started the Gradeschool Gazette, she wasn’t positive she had what it’d take to be a great reporter.
“I’m Marni Clare,” she answered slowly, her words as hesitant as her confidence in a warm reception. “Melinda and Jason’s daughter.”
Robin’s eyes, the same blue as her own, rounded for a second before narrowing to inspect Marni.
“Are you, now? Did something happen? Last I checked, everyone was healthy, hearty and whole.”
“You check on the family?” Marni asked in surprise. Didn’t estranged mean you locked that part of your life in a dark closet somewhere, pretending it didn’t exist except in middle-of-the-night-insomnia-induced memories?
“Course I do. Better to know all the facts, even when you don’t plan to use them.” After letting Marni mull that for a second, Robin waved her inside. “But I can see from your face they’re all fine. So you must have some other reason for crossing the country to show up on my doorstep. C’mon in. We’ll talk.”
Marni followed her aunt into the chic condo. Red walls, white trim, stark black leather furnishings all made a vivid backdrop for... Marni squinted to be sure. Was that art? Tall and slender, short and squat, black metal sculptures dotted the room like scary shadows waiting to jump out and yell boo.
“Be comfortable,” Robin suggested, pointing at a thin leather bench and taking the one opposite. Marni perched on the surprisingly comfortable seat, still looking around.
“This is an incredible space,” she finally said. Incredibly scary, but that little clarification was probably too rude to mention during their first meeting.
Robin looked around with an assessing and indulgent eye before nodding. “It is incredible, isn’t it. I’m about finished with it, though. I’ve got my eye on a Persian theme next. A lot of carpets, silk pillows, gilt and tassels.”
“I beg your pardon?” Marni shook her head, confused.
“I get bored. Oh, the constant travel helps, but it’s not enough. I used to move every two years. But staying in one condo is financially smart given the real estate fluctuations. Instead, I redecorate. Well, not personally. I couldn’t tell a Chippendale from a chifforobe. I hire a decorator. They send me a catalog each year, I choose a theme and by the time I get back from my next story, the entire place is redone. Right down to the sheets.” She wrapped her hands around her upraised knee and gave a satisfied nod.
Marni could only stare.
It wasn’t as though she came from an unsophisticated nowhereville. She lived in Manhattan, for crying out loud. But she’d never heard of anything like that. It was so, well, indulgent. So impersonal. She frowned, looking around again, wondering if it felt as empty as it seemed.
Marni’s nails dug into the tender flesh of her palms as she tried to pull her emotions back where they belonged. This was crazy. She shouldn’t be second-guessing her choices because her aunt had a bizarre decorating style. She should be excited, craving the same privileged life. That was her goal. Freedom, fame, the ability to create a life that was perfectly suited to her own particular tastes.
Still, all of a sudden, she missed her mother’s china cabinet. The one that had been in the family since before Marni was born. The one her mother wished, time after time, that she could get rid of because it was so huge and ugly, but wouldn’t for sentimental reasons.
“So. You’d be my niece. Marni, right? That makes you the fifth girl from the oldest.”
Marni started to correct her since she was actually the eighth oldest of her thirteen cousins. Then she did a quick count of just the girls. Devon, Meghan, Sammi, Carrie, her. Then Kyra, Lannie, Sheila and Marla.
Wow.
“You really do keep up with the family, don’t you?” Was that because she missed it? Her heart a little heavy at the idea of her aunt being so shut out, Marni almost reached over to give the woman’s arm a pat.
But Robin’s shrug didn’t seem sad. More...disinterested.
“You’re not here to borrow money, are you?” Robin asked, her affable smile fading a little. “I’ve got a strong policy against lending.”
Borrow money? Horrified, Marni opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. Was that better or worse than asking for career advice?
Before she could decide, Robin wrinkled her nose and added, “But family is family, so I might be willing to reconsider once I hear your story.”
Holding out one hand in dismayed denial, Marni shook her head so fast, she whipped herself in the face with her own hair. “Oh, no. Thank you, but no, I’m really not here for money.”
Robin arched one perfectly groomed brow, leaned back on her own bench and waited.
“I’m here to ask about your life,” Marni blurted inelegantly. She winced, pushed her hand through her hair. “I mean, I want to know more about you. About your career. What it’s like, leaving the demands and expectations and, well, the burden of everything you grew up with and chasing your dream?”
“Exhilarating. Have you ever jumped from an airplane?”
“No. About the closest I’ve ever gotten was maybe jumping on a trampoline,” Marni offered with a weak smile.
Robin dismissed that with a wave.
“The drop from the plane, knowing you’re completely at the mercy of fate, it’s fabulous. That you can depend on just yourself, your equipment and the elements... That’s the life, Marni.”
Marni didn’t get it. What did willingly stepping out of a perfectly sound airplane to plummet to the earth, dependent only on a flimsy piece of fabric and the wind, have to do with being a reporter?
Her confusion must have shown.
Robin leaned forward, her hands hanging loose between her knees, the look on her face intense.
“That’s what it’s like walking away from family. Leaving behind the safety net and demands. It’s like diving into the unknown. It’s fabulous.”
“Couldn’t you be the same reporter, have the same drive and success if you hadn’t walked away, though?”
“Not a chance. There’s no way I’d have pushed as hard, or felt as free if I hadn’t closed that door.”
Marni bit her lip. Well, then. Maybe she could settle on a similar career, with half the success, and keep her family ties. Just sort of distance them a little. Like, from the opposite coast. California, from what she’d seen since getting off the train that morning, was pretty.
The train.
She sighed.
And Hunter.
She was standing in a tidal wave of misery. As if she’d just wrenched open that door and let all the pain she’d tucked away pour out. She’d left him there, sleeping. She hadn’t said goodbye, hadn’t left a note. Nothing.
He’d figure it out, she knew.
The man was FBI. All he had to do, if he cared enough, was run her name and he’d know she was a reporter. Would figure out that she was a liar.
That she was a heartbroken, miserable liar was still her own secret, though.
“Can I ask a personal question?” she blurted.
“All questions should be personal. Otherwise they’re a waste of air,” Robin declared.
Right. Marni grimaced.
“You want a drink?” Robin offered after a few seconds of pained silence as her niece tried to figure out how to word her nosy question so it didn’t come out like a waste of air.
Tequila would be nice.
Marni settled for ice water.
And used the couple of minutes while her aunt was gone to pull herself together. She wasn’t a sucky reporter, dammit. She was just an emotional mess after leaving the man she loved. She was pathetic, not talentless. There was a difference. This was an interview, not a desperate plea for some answer that would paint a clear path for her own life.
Treat it like a biography, she decided. She was writing Robin Clare’s life story. What information did she need to tell it right?
With that perky little pep talk ringing in her head, Marni lifted her chin and offered a bright smile of thanks when her aunt returned.
“So, my question is about relationships. You’ve achieved so much with your career. The stories you’ve broken, the places you’ve traveled, they’re remarkable for anyone, let alone a woman who began reporting when it was a completely male dominated field.”
“World’s still dominated by men, girly. Don’t let anyone tell you different,” Robin broke in.
Marni made a mental note that her aunt still faced gender bias, wondering if it was as strong now as in the past, or if her views were a by-product of years of fighting prejudice.
“Did you feel you had to choose between your career and your emotional life?” Grimacing, she wet her throat with her ice water, then reframed that. “What I mean is, did you ever have a man who wanted more from you? Who resented your career?”
That wasn’t quite the same as asking if she’d ever screwed over the man she loved for a hot story. But Marni figured that was the kind of question you eased into.
From the knowing look on her aunt’s face, she’d picked up the subtext without much trouble, though.
“I made a decision early on that my career was my priority,” Robin said slowly. As if each word were a bomb she was carefully setting on the painted concrete floor between them. “Because of that, all of my relationships have been based on a framework of distance. On the knowledge that I’d need to pick up and go at a moment’s notice. That when I’m focused on a story, it gets all of my attention. I’ve had plenty of wonderful men in my life. But none took precedence over the story.”
Marni looked at her hero. In her forties, Robin had seen and done everything Marni dreamed of. Except maybe that jumping out of the airplane thing. And now she was facing the rest of her life without the emotional accomplishments the rest of the Clare clan deemed mandatory. Family, marriage, children.
She didn’t seem to mind.
“Do you regret it?”
“Regret it?” Robin’s eyes rounded in shock, as if Marni had just asked if she’d offered blow jobs in exchange for inside scoops. “Girly, I love my life. I have success, travel, money. I’m living in one of the most exciting cities in the world, I mingle with the famous. I have lovers when I want, and privacy when I’m through with them.”
“I take it that’s a no.”
“Not just a no. That’d be a hell no.”
Misery settled in Marni’s stomach.
She wanted to hear that it sucked.
That the life of an ambitious reporter, totally focused on chasing stories, on climbing the career ladder, was empty. Was lonely. Heck, she’d been hoping for a little sorrow.
“Seriously? It’s that great?” she asked.
“Seriously.” Robin gave her a rueful smile. “I can tell that’s exactly what you were hoping to hear.”
Marni’s own smile was a little weak around the edges.
“I guess I’d hoped you’d tell me that giving it all up was a mistake. That family, a relationship, love, that they all trump ambition.”
“Can’t tell you what I don’t believe.” Robin paused, watching Marni over the edge of her own glass as she sipped her drink. “But I can give you a little advice if you want it.”
That’s why she was there, wasn’t it? Even as her shoulders sank despondently, Marni made a bring-it-on gesture with one hand.
“Your climb up the ladder is yours. Not mine. You get to choose your baggage. And you might be better at carrying certain things. A relationship, kids, all that stuff isn’t at odds with a great career. I’ve interviewed plenty of people who have both. I’ve worked with a few, too.”
Hope was like a tiny seed trying to sprout against all odds. Marni had never before thought it possible, but suddenly she wanted to believe she could do it all. That she was strong enough, clever enough, dedicated enough to balance the successful career of her dreams with other things. Things like kids, family. Love.
Hunter’s love. She swallowed hard against the painful lump in her throat.
“Would you put a story aside if you knew it’d cause a problem for someone you cared about? Ever?”
Could she set aside this story, sit on the news that Beverly Burns was still alive, no thanks to her husband? Could she ignore the information she’d discovered that proved Charles Burns had tried to blow up his wife, along with that building? But that a sexy, dedicated FBI agent had dragged her out of there before she’d been decimated? Could she pretend the FBI wasn’t hiding the rumored late Mrs. Burns away, in exchange for as much dirt as they could get on her husband?
Marni wanted to think she could.
For love.
But she wasn’t sure.
“Set aside a story for a man?” Robin mused, her face screwed up as if she’d just tasted something nasty. “I’ve never met a man who made me ask myself that, girly. If I did, though, I have to think he’d make the question moot. Because if he was the man for me, he’d know I couldn’t take that path. The story, the truth...it’s everything.”
Not for the first time in the past couple of days, Marni was beset by doubts. Her stomach churned, misery making her ill. What did it say about her ambition, her dedication, if she wasn’t willing to break a story because it might upset someone?
Shoulders as heavy as concrete, she wondered if she’d been fooling herself all these years. Because now, when faced with a shot at the biggest story of her life, she didn’t want to take it. Not because she was afraid of success. But because she didn’t want to betray Hunter.
“You’ve got some big choices to make,” Robin observed quietly.
Marni met her gaze with her own troubled one, comforted by the sympathy in her aunt’s blue eyes.
“You make them while worrying about how others will live with your decision, and you’ll never be happy.” The older woman set her glass aside, then after a visible hesitation, got up and crossed the room to sit by Marni. “You make them by asking yourself if you can live with them. Then, whatever others think, you’ll know you’ve done what’s right for you.”
“Even if it hurts someone?”
“Girly, we all get hurt. That’s life.”
* * *
HUNTER CLIMBED THE STEPS of the federal court building, his briefcase in one hand, coffee in the other.
His gut burned as he downed the dregs, and he found no satisfaction from crushing the cardboard cup and spiking it into the trash.
He was getting used to that dissatisfaction. Caffeine and fury had fueled his past forty-eight hours, and as far as he could tell, the rage roiling in his gut wasn’t going to dissipate anytime soon.
It was a toss-up what had infuriated him more.
Waking to find the train had arrived in San Francisco and Marni had disappeared. Not a word, not a note, nothing.
Or finding out she was a reporter.
So far, she’d turned in jack, though. At least, his sources hadn’t been able to dig up a whisper of any story, except for that initial call to her editor that Murray had filled him in on.
Didn’t mean she wasn’t writing one.
The question was, what did she have to fill the pages? Supposition? Public knowledge?
He hadn’t said anything about the case.
She hadn’t asked diddly.
But his instincts, those vital intuitive flashes that not only saved him from disaster, but often gave him the brilliant insights that put his case close rate at the top...those instincts said she had plenty.
Hunter shoved the heavy glass door open with enough force to send the oak bouncing against the marble wall and earned himself a few glares. He ignored them as he stormed his way through security and to the courtroom.
He tried to argue down his instincts. There was not one exchange between them that involved what he called business. Not directly, not overtly, not discreetly. The only interest she’d shown was in his body. Not his job.
Stopping in front of an eight-foot oil painting of the East Bay, he gritted his teeth. Well, hell. Had he just crossed over into his-ego-doth-protest-too-much land? It wasn’t as if he’d never been pursued for a case. Or as if he’d ever thought a woman was more interested in him than she really was.
He stared blindly at the blur of land beyond the Golden Gate, forcing himself to face reality. None of those times mattered. Not on the job, not off.
Because, dammit, this was the first time it’d hurt.
And if she broke that story, it’d hurt a hell of a lot more than his embarrassingly fragile emotions. It’d send his career into a tailspin, ruining everything he stood for. Everything he’d dreamed of, worked for, his entire life.
“Special Agent Hunter, good to see you.”
Glad for the interruption, more than happy to sideline his obsessive mental circles, Hunter blinked the concern off his face and turned to greet the prosecuting attorney.
“Denton,” he said to the dapper blond man with a nod. They’d worked together on a few cases, and Hunter knew that beneath the cordial smile and frat-boy looks was a shark with an ambition addiction. There was nobody he’d rather have arguing this case.
“The opposing counsel is meeting with the judge now. We’ll know of their decision within the next fifteen minutes.”
When presented with the extensive additional charges two days before, Burns’s team had been faced with the option to take their chance trying the case with the new charges. Or call for a mistrial and let their guy stay in jail while they regrouped and gave the FBI enough time to keep digging through suspicious information until they found solid facts. Aka, searching for bodies that’d turn those suspicion of manslaughter charges to murder one. Either way posed a risk. To Burns, that was.
Hunter wanted this case moving. Now.
He was one hundred percent sure that the feds would get the proof they needed to take Burns down if it was put on hold.
What he wasn’t one hundred percent on was what his sexy little roommate knew, or what damage she could inflict on the outcome of the case, or quite possibly the life of Beverly Burns.
Focus, he mentally snapped. Worry did no good. Second-guessing and prognosticating was a waste of time. Set it aside and focus on the damned job.
“What’s the temp?” he asked the attorney, wanting to gauge the chances that the lawyers would choose to move forward with the trial.
“Burns isn’t liking his current accommodations. He’s cocky enough to know that suspicion of murder isn’t proof.” Denton shrugged, as did Hunter, his gaze locked on the courtroom door. “My money says we’re eating crappy courtroom cafeteria lunch today.”
It didn’t take more than five minutes before they were called into the courtroom. Denton spoke with the leader of the pack of lawyers flanking Burns, then nodded. His face was passive, but Hunter could see the look in his eyes. Countdown to shark attack. Looked as though they’d be sticking around for cafeteria jello surprise.
Then, and only then, did Hunter let his eyes shift to the crime boss. Broad and badass, the guy sported an iron buzz cut, a sharp jaw and a suit that’d cost Hunter a month’s pay. Cocky and confident, Charles Burns didn’t show an ounce of concern.
Perfect.
More than ready to take on Burns, his fat-cat attorneys and, hell, the entire criminal justice system if necessary, Hunter dropped to his seat and gave the crime boss an ugly smirk.
Yeah. This was war.
Six hours later, after a hearty lunch of that jello surprise and a questionable burger, Hunter took the stand.
“State your name for the records.”
“Special Agent Michael Hunter, FBI.” With that, Hunter raised his hand, recited his oath and settled into the game.
The questions were softball at this stage. Establishing his authority, outlining his role in the investigation. The defense wasn’t stupid enough to try and take a hatchet to his reputation. They were going to try to limit his effectiveness, make his testimony irrelevant.
At ease, his expression and body language making it clear he was as comfortable as if he were lounging in his own living room, Hunter rarely took his gaze off of Burns.
Finally, while Denton and Burns’s head shark yammered over a point of procedure, Hunter let his gaze wander.
It landed on a pretty blonde in the back of the room, seated behind a huge mountain of a guy, seemingly trying to hide.
He should have kept looking at the crime boss.
It was as though the floodgates burst. All the fury, the anger and frustration that’d been dogging him for the past two days pounded through his system again.
His responses became clipped. His attention split.
The chilly distance that was his usual testimony style took a hit as that anger started sparking at the edges.
Burns shifted in his seat.
His attorneys started scribbling a lot faster.
Murray frowned.
Denton tried to hide his grin.
Hunter didn’t give a damn about any of that. He met Marni’s wide-eyed gaze across the courtroom.
He watched her gulp. But brave little reporter that she was, she stood her ground. Or given that she was seated on one of the hard wooden benches, sat her ground. Lifting her chin, she met his glare with a calm look of her own, then probably because she couldn’t resist, she fluttered her lashes.
He was torn between fury and laughter.
Over the top of that, though, was the dueling need to storm across the courtroom, grab her curvy butt and toss her over his shoulder. Whether he’d verbally rip into her or physically dive into her when he got them to privacy was the only question.