Diana Palmer - Fire Brand

“It was only a flesh wound,” she reminded him.

“It could have been a mortal wound,” he muttered. “And even if you aren’t afraid of Bowie McCayde, the publisher is. They had words after the bank robbery.”

That came as a surprise. Aggie hadn’t said anything about it, but she had probably sent Bowie to throw the fear of God into Mr. Smythe, the publisher.

“I didn’t know that,” she said. She smiled. “Well, he’ll never find out about today, so there’s no need to worry... What are you staring at?”

“Certain death,” he said pleasantly.

She followed his gaze toward the lobby. Bowie McCayde was just coming in the door, towering over the male reporters and causing comments and deep sighs among the female ones. He was wearing a gray suit, his blond head bare, and held an unlit cigarette in his hand. He looked out of humor and threatening.

Gaby’s heart jumped into her throat. What, she wondered, was he doing in Phoenix? She hadn’t seen him for two months—not since they’d celebrated Aggie’s birthday at Casa Río. It had been an unusually disturbing night because just lately, Bowie had a way of looking at her that made her nerves stand on end.

Her breathing quickened as he approached, the old disturbing nervousness collecting in her throat to make her feel gauche and awkward. Just like old times, she thought as his black eyes pinned her to the spot while he strode across the newsroom. She was capable and cool until she got within five feet of this man, and then she just went to pieces. It was a puzzle she still hadn’t worked out. It wasn’t really fear—not the nauseating kind. It was more like excitement...

“Hello, Bowie,” she said awkwardly.

He nodded curtly to Johnny and scowled down at Gaby. “I’m taking you out to supper,” he said without a greeting or an invitation, ignoring her soaked clothes and straggly hair. “We’ve got to talk.”

She wondered if she’d heard him right. Bowie, taking her out?

“Something’s wrong,” she guessed.

“Wrong?” He waved the unlit cigarette in his hand. “Wrong?! My God.”

“Is it Aggie?” she asked quickly, her olive eyes mirroring her concern.

Bowie stared at Johnny until the shorter man mumbled an excuse, grinned at Gaby, and beat a hasty retreat to his office. Bowie had that effect on a lot of people, Gaby thought with faint amusement. He never said anything harsh—he just stared at people with his cold black eyes. One of his construction company executives had likened it to being held at bay by a cobra.

“Yes, it’s Aggie,” he muttered. Gaby felt faint.

CHAPTER TWO

BOWIE REALIZED BELATEDLY why Gaby’s face had turned white. “No, no,” he said shortly, noting her horrified expression. “She’s not hurt or anything.”

She relaxed visibly and put a hand to her throat. “You might have said so.”

“Are you through here?” He looked around as if he couldn’t see what she had to do anyway.

“I need to file my story before I go.”

“Go ahead. It’ll keep.” He walked back out into the lobby and sat down on one of the sofas. Trisa leaned her chin on her hands and sat watching him shamelessly while he read a magazine. If Bowie even noticed, there was no sign of it.

Gaby had to drag her own eyes away. He was most incredibly handsome, and totally unaware of it.

She turned on her word processor, got out her notes, and spent fifteen minutes condensing two hours of work into eight inches of copy one column wide.

Bowie was still reading when she came out of the newsroom, after calling a quick good night to Johnny.

“I’m ready...oh, no,” she groaned.

Carl Wilson, the Bulletin reporter, was just coming in the door with a Band-Aid over his nose, breathing fire.

“So there you are, you turncoat,” he growled at her. His ponytail was soaked, and Bowie was giving him an unnerving appraisal. He turned his back to get away from that black-eyed stare. “This is the last straw, Cane,” he raged. “I know you’ve got the whole damned police force in your pocket from your old days on the police beat, but that was a low blow. My camera’s busted to hell, my film’s exposed...!”

“Poor old photographer,” she said comfortingly. “Did the big bad policeman hurt its little nose?”

He actually blushed. “You stop that,” he muttered. “You told them to do it.”

“Not me,” she said, holding up one hand.

Bowie had gotten to his feet now and his narrow black eyes were watching closely.

“If you didn’t point me out, who did?” Wilson persisted, eyeing Bowie warily as he spoke.

“You were walking right into the line of fire,” she reminded him. “We all saw you.”

He sighed miserably. “First my car gets towed away, despite the press sticker, because I parked in front of a fire hydrant. Then I get tackled and my film is ruined...it’s somebody’s fault!” he added with a pointed glare.

Gaby grinned. “God must be mad at you,” she told him. “He’s getting even with you for the Garrison story you conned me out of last week. You do remember having your crony at City Hall send me out to the parking lot while you got the final word on the new landfill site?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “That was in the line of duty. We’re rivals.”

“Yes, and some of us hit below the belt,” she added with a meaningful stare. “But I didn’t have the policeman tackle you. You should know better than to walk through a hail of bullets. Policemen get nervous about that sort of thing.”

“You should know,” Wilson muttered. “Didn’t you get shot in the last stand-off, after the bank robbery?”

She cleared her throat, aware of Bowie’s thunderous expression. “This time, I was safely behind some police cars—not taking a stroll in front of the sniper.”

“Is that so.” Wilson pursed his lips. “Well,” he said slowly, “I might be persuaded to forgive you—if you can spare a shot of the victim.”

“No chance.”

“Okay, I’m easy. How about the police surrounding the building? Come on, Cane, my job’s on the line,” he coaxed.

“If Johnny finds out, mine will be, too,” she assured him. “Do what the rest of us do. Go and beg from the News-Record. They go to press every Tuesday, so this story will be old news by the time their next edition comes out. They’ll share with you.” She grinned as she said it. The News-Record was a small weekly newspaper, but its reporters were always on the spot when news broke, and they didn’t mind sharing one of their less important photos with the big dailies—as long as their photographer got a credit.

He sighed. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Okay, doll, thanks anyway.”

He started to bend down to kiss her cheek, but she stepped back jerkily. “You’ll give me Bulletin germs!” she exclaimed, making a joke out of it.

He shook his head. “Leave it to you. Thanks anyway, Cane.” He chuckled, and walked out the front door whistling.

Bowie hadn’t said anything. He had a cigarette in his hand, and he was watching her like a hawk. “Bullets?” he asked, moving closer.

“A robbery. The perpetrator got twenty dollars. He killed a store manager and took a pregnant woman hostage, and threatened to kill her. They had to drop him.” She lowered her eyes. “He was little more than a boy. The police reporter is out sick, so I had to cover the story. I don’t do the police beat anymore,” she added, trying to ward off trouble.

“Bullets?” he repeated, his voice deeper, rougher this time.

She looked up. “I’m twenty-four years old. This is my job. I don’t need your permission to do it. It was just this one time...”

“Count your blessings,” he said curtly. He glanced toward the receptionist, who smiled at him, and turned away uncomfortably. “Let’s go.”