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“Will you?” she tossed back at him. Her piece on Crowley came back to her, a series of articles about bribery and special interests. If her sources were correct, the senator not only took care of the few and the wealthy, he also accepted large gifts from corporations in the state of Washington and all along the Pacific Rim.
She was still holding on to Trent’s arm. “Look, Nikki, you can believe what you want about me, I don’t really care, but I don’t want you getting hurt.” His words were soothing, and she stepped away from him, away from the magic of his voice, the seduction in his eyes.
“Don’t start this again, okay?”
“It’s true, damn it!” Muttering under his breath, he dragged her into his arms and she froze. How easy it would be to let her knees and heart give way; to fall against him and rely upon him, to let him make decisions for her, to depend upon his judgment. She wanted to tell him to leave her alone, take his hands off her, take a long walk off a short pier…
But she couldn’t. Bracing herself against the refrigerator door, she turned her head and her curtain of hair fell over one shoulder. He pressed his advantage, his lips brushing the back of her neck. Tingles of anticipation raced along her nerves and his arms wound around her waist, pulling her close, her buttocks wedging against the hardness forming in his jeans. She wanted to melt against him. Her bones were turning liquid as his mouth moved along the bend of her neck and his hands splayed over her abdomen, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts.
“Don’t,” she whispered raggedly.
He didn’t stop.
Swallowing against the urge to fall down on the floor and wrap her arms around him, she pulled his hands away. “Don’t,” she said more firmly, and he reluctantly stepped away.
Turning, she pressed her back against the refrigerator. “Don’t use sex as a weapon.”
“Is that what I was doing?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know damn well what you were doing. And I can’t go along with you on this Crowley thing,” she said, picking up the head of lettuce and tossing it into the sink. “It’s too important.”
“He’s just one crooked senator.”
A hard smile curved her lips. “But one I can take care of.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I must be doing something right, or he wouldn’t have tried to do me in on Salvaje.”
“He’s dangerous, Nikki, and apparently desperate. You can’t take any chances.”
Waving away the argument she saw in his expression, she strode to her computer and snapped on the power switch. “There’s got to be something,” she said, drumming her fingers impatiently as the machine warmed up. “Something in here. If only I can find it.”
Trent gave up arguing, and as she pulled up her chair, he propped his jean-clad hips along the side of the desk, bracing himself with his hands, crossing his ankles and watching her. She felt a rush of adrenaline as she settled her fingers over the keys and started entering commands. She’d been working on the Crowley piece for a couple of weeks behind her editor’s back. Dissatisfied with the turn of her career, she’d decided to take matters into her own hands when she’d been denied, yet again, a chance to write something more interesting than a story about the winners of a local bake fair.
She intended to prove to God himself, Frank Pianzani, that she could work with the big boys. She’d been trained as an investigative journalist and never been able to prove what she could do. Well, this time, people at the Observer were going to sit up and take notice.
Unless she got herself killed first, she thought with a shiver.
She scanned her work files, but nothing showed up. She flipped through the disks near her desk, shoving each one into the computer and viewing the documents on each one. Still a big zero. “Where is it? Where? Where? Where?” she mumbled, biting off the urge to scream in frustration. Impatience surged through her. The story and her notes had to be here. Somewhere.
Unless everything had been conveniently erased. Trent had a key and access to her apartment when she was gone. There were times when she left him alone in this room. When she’d taken a shower, when she’d been at work… She ground her teeth together in frustration. He was a proven liar of the worst order and he would do anything to stop her, for whatever reasons, noble or otherwise.
Her fingers didn’t move as her thoughts clicked steadily through her brain.
“Problems?” he asked, and when she looked up at him she expected to see mockery in his blue eyes, but he seemed genuinely concerned.
“I can’t seem to locate my file.”
Rubbing the stubble on his chin, he said, “Mind if I look?”
“Be my guest.” Warily she rolled her chair away from the desk, stood and stretched her back as he slid in front of the machine. Fascinated, she watched as his long fingers moved quickly over the keys. He was as familiar with her machine as was she, or so it seemed.
“You must have it under some kind of code,” he said, and she left him there, trusting him just a little. While he kept searching, she played the part of a domestic wife, washing the damned lettuce and using the groceries he’d picked up as the start of dinner. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation, but her mind was on the computer screen and her missing files.
She boiled linguine and cooked a shrimp, garlic and cream sauce while her thoughts swirled around Crowley. If he were behind her attack on the island, then good old Diamond Jim, her father’s friend, had tried to kill her. So he knew she was onto him. How?
She glanced at Trent and her throat grew tight. He wouldn’t! She licked the wooden spoon as she thought. What had Trent said—about a leak at the Observer. Connie? No! Frank? Max? “I can’t remember any code,” she said loud enough for Trent to hear. “It’s one of the last foggy details, I guess.” It was frustrating. Damned frustrating. Most of her memory had returned and yet this one important piece of information kept slipping her mind. “Come on, give it a rest. I’ll feed you.”
“Domestic? You?” He cracked his knuckles and stretched out, looking way too huge for her small desk chair.
“I figured I owed you, since you went to the trouble of restocking the larder.” She motioned him into a chair at the small table, where she’d set out place mats and lit candles. “Don’t get used to it,” she teased, but her laughter died in her throat when she remembered that their relationship was only temporary. Surprisingly her heart felt a little prick of pain at that particular thought and she disguised her sudden rush of emotion by pasting a smile onto her face and setting a wooden bowl of salad next to the pasta and sauce.
