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She tried to swallow, but was literally scared spitless. “What?”
“Your reason for being inside my house.” He nudged her breast, lifting it slightly with the rifle. “Well?”
“I arrived last evening. You weren’t here, so I waited for hours on your porch. It got dark and cold. I was sleepy. The door was unlocked. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Well, I do.”
“My name is Barrie Travis.” His eyes narrowed fractionally. She would have sworn that he recognized her name, although he didn’t acknowledge it. “I came all the way from Washington, D.C., to see you.”
“Then you’ve wasted a trip.” He swung the rifle up to his shoulder. “Since you know where the door is, you can see yourself out.” He moved aside so she could stand up.
Barrie slowly uncoiled and came meekly to her feet. Then she hauled off and slapped his cheek hard. “How dare you point a gun at me! Are you crazy? You could have killed me.”
&n
bsp; His jaw knotted. “Lady, if I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. And I wouldn’t have made a mess on my couch in the process.”
In one smooth motion, he bent down and picked her satchel off the floor and flung it at her. “Get out, and take your lousy reading material with you.”
Before leaving Washington, she had compiled a library of all the tabloids carrying banner headlines about his rumored affair with the First Lady. They were junk, but it made her angry that he’d helped himself to the contents of her satchel. “You went through my bag?”
“You’re the trespasser, not me.”
“That’s not my reading material of choice, Mr. Bondurant. It’s research. I’m a reporter.”
“All the more reason for you to get out.”
Assuming she would do as he’d ordered, he turned and went into the bedroom.
Barrie welcomed a moment to collect herself. She’d had some pretty harrowing experiences in her lifetime, but she’d never before been held at gunpoint. Certainly not at point-blank range. Gray Bondurant was as frightening as she’d been led to believe, although she didn’t think he would have shot her.
It had been a scare tactic, nothing more. He’d hoped to frighten her into leaving. Well, she wasn’t yet ready to wave the white flag.
She smoothed her hair, straightened her clothing, and cleared her throat. “Mr. Bondurant?” His failure to respond didn’t discourage her. She stepped into the open bedroom doorway. “I—Oh!”
He had removed his shirt. Body fat, zero. Everything else, ten. A definite ten. Hair grew in a V shape across his chest and down his tapering torso. There was a nasty but intriguing scar on one of his ribs.
All the tabloids had printed the same grainy snapshot of him, apparently the only picture that was available. His dark aviator sunglasses had comprised most of it. A granite chin and jaw, a narrow slash of a mouth, windblown hair off a high forehead, and the sunglasses. That was it.
Those two-dimensional features in the photograph were quite something else when seen in the flesh. She tried not to stare. “Mr. Bondurant, I’ve waited hours to see you.”
“That’s your problem.”
“The least you could do—”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
Stalling, she asked, “What time is it?”
“Around four.” He tugged off one boot and sock and let them fall where he stood.
“In the morning?”
“Did you come all the way from D.C. to ask me the time, Miss Travis?” Off came the second boot and sock.
“No, I came all the way from D.C. to talk to you about Vanessa Merritt.”
That arrested him. He fixed a hard-as-diamonds glare on her. “You’ve come a long way for nothing.”
