Rebecca Winters: The Toddler's Tale

Anthony, a muscular, out-of-work actor who displayed a controlling personality and cruel streak her mother chose to ignore, had moved into the mansion that was Chelsea’s home.

The leering looks he gave her were so indecent they made her skin crawl. Soon she was doing everything in her power to avoid him. But the more she tried to keep out of his way, the more he behaved like a guard dog, always lurking, always lying in wait for her to arrive home from school.

She didn’t want to think about those hellish years. They were long since behind her. She was a different person now. From the moment she’d gone to work in television journalism in the Los Angeles area until she’d carved out her career as a talk show host for “Tattle Today TV” in Austin, she made certain the men she met gave her a wide berth. But Max Jamison wasn’t intimidated by her. Worse, she resented him for reminding her of her nightmarish past.

Suddenly he made an unexpected turn onto an unfamiliar country road. Good! Her noncombative tone must have soothed the savage breast. It appeared he’d relented enough to circle and head back the way they’d come.

As she relaxed against the seat, she saw a run in her hose that hadn’t been there when she’d driven to the Lord ranch earlier. She hoped her assailant choked on the growing bill “Tattle Today TV” would present him for lost and damaged goods.

With fabricated nonchalance she crossed her left leg over her right to hide the run from view. If she smoked, this would have been the perfect moment to light up.

Not for the first time did Max notice those elegant legs out of his periphery, but right now he was still reacting to her implication that he had been let go from the police force.

Nothing could have been further from the truth!

He’d become a PI by choice, but he wasn’t about to explain his reasons for resigning from the police department in order to satisfy Chelsea Markum’s insatiable curiosity.

Before he’d taken on Maitland Maternity Clinic as a client, and found himself chasing Ms. Markum off the premises, the relentless reporter had caused Max grief on the Bobbie Stryder case, which was still pending with the courts. The woman’s mere presence spelled disaster.

Now that she was his captive audience, he could deliver the long-overdue lecture he’d been saving for a moment such as this.

“Are you aware that some of the good citizens of Austin call you the black widow of television?”

The bluntness of the message, delivered in his deep, compelling voice, caught Chelsea unaware.

She blinked. Black widow?

“There’s no question the female is one of the most beautiful spiders in existence. She performs her deadly work by making several punctures in her victims, then proceeds to suck out their lifeblood. She lets nothing stand in her way, not even her partner, whom she eats after they’ve mated.”

The unflattering analogy would have hurt at any time. To hear it from a man Chelsea couldn’t intimidate made it all the more devastating.

“No. I didn’t know that.” She stared straight ahead, dry-eyed. Another clap of thunder cannonaded across the rolling hills. “Thank you for letting me in on that fascinating piece of unsolicited information. I’ll file it away for future reference.

“In the meantime, if we want to reach the Lord ranch before the storm catches up to us, may I remind you we’re headed in the wrong direction? No one dislikes back-seat drivers more than I do, but in your righteous zeal to keep me apprised of public opinion, you seem to have forgotten our destination. Before this day is out, I still have a story to put together for my show.”

The truck continued to distance them from Austin. “Nothing fazes you, does it.”

She fought to get past the asperity of that remark. “A good journalist tries to deliver despite any obstacles.”

“You think that’s what you are? A good journalist?”

A tight band constricted her breathing. “My boss tells me my show has the highest ratings in Austin as well as many other parts of Texas. Can all of the people be fooled all of the time?”

“High ratings don’t necessarily have a hell of a lot to do with the kind of worthy reporting the majority of people are hungering for.”

“But are they?” Though deep inside she agreed with him—another reason for her perturbation—she enjoyed throwing out a challenge. No man of her acquaintance frustrated her quite the way he did. That was because she’d seen him in action as a cop and a PI. He was tough. If he had a vulnerable spot, she hadn’t found it yet.

“When you’re not busy abducting someone else, Mr. Jamison, I’ll be happy to show you the disparity in the ratings between the sensational coverage of Princess Diana’s death and the grassroots footage on that of Mother Teresa.”

She heard his sharp intake of breath and rejoiced. He’d had it all his way since he’d carried her off the ranch in that humiliating firefighter’s lift in front of an audience. No amount of twisting had effected her release.

“Having said that, you think it excuses you from blame?” Max bit the question out. “Do you have any idea the grief you’ve caused, not only to the Maitland family, but to countless other people in this town who shrink in fear when Chelsea Markum gets wind of a possible scandal?

“The voracious gossipmonger of Tattle Today who manages to be in ten places at once, bribing people to the tune of fifty thousand dollars, creating chaos out of something private and painful, something never meant for public consumption.”

Thank heaven she hadn’t heard about the kidnapping of Connor O’Hara’s son, Chase, from the clinic day care! Max thought. By now Janelle and her partner, Petey—the man Max and the others referred to as the fake Connor—were probably long gone from Austin with the cute little guy.

It was likely the only news story Ms. Markum had ever missed out on since working for Tattle Today. As soon as Max had delivered his ultimatum, he’d drive her to her car, then follow her into town to make sure she went straight home before he met with Michael Lord, head of security at Maitland Maternity, to help pick up the con artists’ trail.

Heat stormed her face once more. “Well, well. Now I’m Medusa as well as the black widow. Make up your mind.”

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Another stiletto stab to the wound he’d inflicted earlier. Chelsea could taste blood.

“I think I’ll take it as a compliment that you’ve managed to make me sound bigger than life. But in case you’ve forgotten, I have a boss who gives me orders, and I’m not the only one on stage. Let’s be generous, shall we, and give the other networks, including the cable channels, at least a modicum of credit for the part they play in what you view as the whole nefarious business of reporting the news.”

Without warning he stood on the brakes. His action killed the engine. Wonderful! They were out in the middle of nowhere.

On her side of the truck lay miles of ranch land. On the other side of the road, beyond his broad shoulders, she could see a dilapidated construction site, but there weren’t any workmen about. No vehicles.

Next door to the site she spied a small ranch-style house set among a stand of pecan and cottonwood trees. In the dead grass stood a For Sale sign. Both the excavation site and the house stood about a hundred feet away from the road and appeared uncared for. It never occurred to her he might be cruel enough to make her get out here and find her own way home.

She dared a glance in his direction.

When he turned his powerful male physique toward her, she noticed a nerve throbbing at one corner of his mouth. His handsome features had hardened into a grim facsimile of the flesh-and-blood man who made her pulse race faster than she deemed healthy.