Linda O. Johnston - Lawful Engagement

“Of course not, and that’s exactly why I have to—”

“You have to stay here, out of the way.”

Some guys, Mitch figured, would melt into an ugly little puddle of ooze under the fiery glare she turned on him. He merely glared back.

“I’ve got press credentials with me, Deputy Steele.” She pointed to the oversize bag over her shoulder. “You don’t want to be accused of violating the First Amendment of the United States Constitution, do you?”

“And I’m sure you don’t want to be arrested for obstruction of justice,” he said without missing a beat.

“I have no intention of obstructing anything,” she said smoothly. “I want you to solve this case. Fast. And I’ll even help you.” The sound of her melodic voice was as gentle as the evening breeze, caressing his ears, his soul.

Abruptly, to shatter the spell she seemed determined to weave about him, he said, “You’ll help by answering my questions and by staying out of the way. You’ll be invited to any press conferences just like other media representatives, and—”

“I’m not just like the other media people, Deputy,” she countered harshly.

What had happened to the sorrowing, sympathetic young woman of a few minutes ago? She was all business now. He believed her. She wasn’t like other media people. Though he knew there were a lot of reporters as abrasive, stubborn, irritating and challenging, few probably wrapped up those repulsive characteristics in as beautiful a package.

But so what if Cara Hamilton was a good-looking woman, with guts and strength to boot? She was still a witness. Maybe a suspect.

Most likely, though, she had just found the murdered body of a friend. Sure, she’d been shocked and fragile when Mitch had first arrived, but she had not fallen apart. Now she was asserting herself, doing her job. As Mitch was doing his.

If she weren’t trying so hard to get in his way, he might admire her.

“Let’s go back over what happened from the moment you heard from Ms. Wilks this evening, Ms. Hamilton. The forensics technicians should be here shortly, and they’ll need to get your prints for comparison purposes, plus do more testing to eliminate you as a suspect.” Maybe. “And then—”

“Your father, Martin Steele, was the former sheriff of Mustang County, wasn’t he?”

Mitch froze. He knew what was coming next from Cara Hamilton, crime-scene witness—and ace reporter. “Yes,” he replied curtly. “Now tell me, where were you when Ms. Wilks—”

“Why did your father kill himself, Deputy Steele?”

As the look in Deputy Mitch Steele’s eyes, a shade of leonine gold beneath straight black brows, shifted from vaguely suspicious to blank, Cara could have kicked herself.

She had ruined any sliver of hope that he would cooperate as she tried to find out what had happened to Nancy.

And she would do everything necessary to find the person who had killed her friend. Not only for her story, but for herself.

Of course the story she was working on would definitely merit attention, for it went far beyond Nancy’s murder. Maybe even Pulitzer material, for it involved—

“Excuse me, Ms. Hamilton,” Mitch said, looking over her shoulder. She glanced in that direction and saw that a van with the Sheriff’s Department logo had pulled up Caddo Street and was now double parked beneath a streetlight in front of Nancy’s house. The crime-scene technicians, she figured. A good excuse for him to avoid her.

To avoid her question—the one she would take back in an instant, if she could.

“Cara,” she said quickly.

His attention returned to her momentarily as his gaze turned quizzical.

“My name is Cara,” she said, inviting him to use it. Maybe that small intimacy would make him forget what she’d asked, even though she wouldn’t forget it. Because despite regretting that she blurted it due to the consequences it would cause, she still wanted an answer.

“Right. Cara.”

She knew his first name was Mitch, not from his name badge, but she remembered it from news stories about his father. He didn’t invite her to use it and he walked away, toward where the technicians removed gear from their van.

Cara watched his confident stride. Most men looked tall to her because she was only five foot one. But Mitch Steele was tall, at least six feet. He held his head high, his broad shoulders thrown back beneath his khaki uniform shirt, as if in challenge to any bad guys who happened to be watching.

In challenge to the world. Cara knew a little of Mitch Steele’s background, and she was aware that the world had challenged him—or at least his family. She’d no doubt that Mitch, still working for the Sheriff’s Department, had to live every day under the stigma that surrounded his deceased father.

Sheriff Martin Steele was enmeshed in a scandal a couple of years ago—one much bigger than the earlier grumblings of nepotism when he’d hired his son. Before his involvement in the bribery plot was proven or disproved, he committed suicide.

He wouldn’t have done that had he been innocent—would he? And yet his arguments, arguments reported in the Mustang Gazette and other media, had made sense.

Too bad Cara hadn’t worked on that story. Back then she had still been listening to her boss, Beauford Jennings, when he gave her assignments. That had been before Beau had made it clear that to him, too, nepotism trumped merit. And ethics. His nephew Jerry, Cara’s casual boyfriend at the time, had stolen her firsthand, undercover research to write his own article on how local liquor stores, including one owned by a county commissioner, sold alcohol to kids known to be minors. Jerry broke the story and ended the commissioner’s career. That move catapulted Jerry out of Mustang Valley and into the world of big-city news.

Beau’s only regret was that Jerry was gone.

After that Cara didn’t ask for Beau’s opinion. She donned disguises and slung hash in local eateries for her story about restaurants’ cleanliness standards. She’d received applause after her article and surreptitious pictures got a popular place closed down by the local board of health—pictures showing the owner grin as one of his wait staff spat into the food of a patron who’d criticized the service last time he’d eaten there. That was when Beau had finally promoted her out of the copy room to reporter. He’d hinted of further promotions, too.

Score one for our side, Cara had thought. Her idol, the legendary Shotgun Sally, had reputedly once worn flouncing skirts and gone undercover as a dance hall girl to write a story on how it felt to be a fallen woman. She, too, had trounced all over those who failed to take her seriously. At least for her first big story, Cara had only had to put on a lacy apron over a short dress. Oh, and glasses and a wig.

Since her experience with Jerry, though, Cara hated the idea of sharing information with anyone. She’d made it clear to Beau that she would follow her own leads, write her own stories.

Beau had stopped underestimating her, at least when it suited him, but others hadn’t. Maybe it was because she was a woman, maybe because she looked so young. Though she used it to her advantage, she detested it.

Almost as much as she hated anyone to interfere with her getting her story. She’d allowed it once, but never again.

And now, she had even more impetus to get the story. She sighed and glanced back toward Nancy’s house. Her friend had been murdered. Maybe even because she’d been on the way….

Cara swallowed hard as she forced her gaze back toward the dimly lit street.

Mitch turned and preceded the techs back up the walk toward Nancy’s house—and where Cara stood. She half expected him to brush by her. Instead he stopped.