Cathy Thacker - Miss Charlotte Surrenders

“I met Isabella at the Poplar Springs Public Library. I was doing some research on farming methods in Mississippi. But enough about me and my work.” Hand on her shoulder, he propelled her into the adjacent kitchen, which to Charlotte’s surprise was extremely neat and tidy. He picked up a pot and poured coffee into a stoneware mug. Wordlessly, he offered it to her. Although she was dying for a cup after her long drive, she declined. No way was she drinking that noxious brew.

“So. What do you do for a living, Miss Charlotte?”

She wondered why he was asking. Deciding she’d better try to find out why he was so curious about her, Charlotte played along cautiously. “I’m a reporter for Personalities, the gossip magazine.”

“Gossip, huh?” He lounged against the counter. Seemingly unable to take his eyes from her face, he asked innocently enough, “What happens if you don’t find any dirt on a person? Do you make something up?”

“No, of course not,” Charlotte snapped indignantly. Beginning to feel a little too attracted to him again, she prowled the kitchen restlessly. Had it always been this small? She hadn’t noticed before. “Besides, there’s always something to find,” she continued with an airy wave of her hand.

He quaffed some of the awful coffee, grimaced as it hit his taste buds, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So how come you aren’t working on a story now?” he asked curiously.

“I am working on a story,” Charlotte explained, wishing he didn’t look and smell quite so good. Having someone this handsome and mischievous underfoot could prove quite distracting. “As a matter of fact, I’m hunting someone down as we speak,” she finished, telling herself she could handle being temporarily cooped up in here together if he could.

His blue eyes focused on hers contemplatively. “Well, now, that sounds ominous,” he drawled.

Charlotte did not consider either her work or her conversation with the hunky new caretaker inconsequential. Her shoulders tensed as her defenses slid back into place. “It often is for my quarry,” she admitted seriously. “Remember the treasury secretary scandal and the Bel Air madam? Those were both my stories, and I broke them.” She was unable to keep the pride from her voice. There was nothing like the satisfaction she felt when she exposed corruption or deceit of any kind.

Evidently deciding he’d had enough of the poison he’d been drinking, he tossed the remains in the sink and began washing out the pot. Charlotte watched as he set about efficiently making a fresh pot, using vanilla-almond beans.

He had great hands, she thought absently. Large, square, capable ones with nimble fingers and neatly trimmed nails.

“So…who is this person you’re hunting down?” he asked conversationally.

He certainly was presumptuous. Charlotte tossed her head. Dark, silky hair flew in every direction as she narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “Why are you asking all these questions? Are you trying to steal my story?” she prompted, only half kidding. There were a lot of gossip reporters tracking down Sterling. It was possible their handsome new caretaker was one of them.

He grinned. “Why do you ask?” he bantered back lazily as the dimples on either side of his mouth deepened sexily. “Are you afraid I will?”

Charlotte lounged against the opposite counter and folded her arms in front of her as the delicious aroma of coffee filled the room. “Not at all,” she said with a confident lift of her pretty chin. Her eyes zeroed in on his, letting him know she meant every word. “No one beats me to a story.”

“Ah, I see. And what happens when you catch up with this person you’re trying to interview?” he challenged bluntly.

Charlotte shrugged, all too aware he was watching her every movement. “Then I find out what the person is hiding and write the story,” she said.

He regarded her tolerantly. “How do you know this person you are currently chasing is hiding anything?” he asked in a deep, faintly amused voice.

Charlotte pursed her lips together in aggravation. “Call it instinct.”

“And that’s all you have to go on?” he asked incredulously.

Charlotte had learned the hard way how to sniff out a fraud. “This person I’m hunting down is a celebrity who has worked hard to achieve his fame and yet he doesn’t want any publicity, period,” she explained. “In fact, he’s downright paranoid about it. That strikes me as odd and tells me there is a story there.”

Seeing the coffee had finished brewing, he reached for two mugs and filled them. “I see your point.”

Their hands brushed as he handed her a mug, and again, she tingled when they came in contact.

“On the other hand, if this guy wants to preserve his privacy, he ought to be able to do so, celebrity status or not, don’t you think?” he said reasonably.

Charlotte could see the sinewy imprint of his shoulders and the tautness of his chest beneath the soft cotton of his sweatshirt. “Only if he’s not involved in something fraudulent,” she stipulated firmly. And that had yet to be determined. “Have you read any of the work of Stephen Sterling?”

He rummaged around in the cupboard and brought out a tin of butter cookies. He opened it and Charlotte took two. He took one himself, set the box on the small kitchen table and motioned her to a chair. “Has he written anything on dirt farming in the western hemisphere?”

Charlotte sat down opposite him only because she was tired of standing. As their knees touched accidentally, she felt goose bumps break out. “No. And why would you ask that?”

He shrugged. “Because dirt farming is what I’m doing my dissertation on, and books on farming are about all I’ve read recently.”

Somehow, Charlotte just didn’t buy that, either. But she had no chance to pursue it, as he was already asking another question.

“Back to Sterling. What kind of books does he write?” he asked.

Charlotte helped herself to another cookie and sat stiffly in her chair. No way was she letting their knees come into contact again. “He writes adventure novels. So far he’s only published three, but all have been on the New York Times Best Sellers List.”

Noticing he’d nearly drained his cup, he got up to retrieve the coffeepot. He brought it back to the table and retopped both their mugs. “Lots of authors make the bestseller lists. What’s so special about this guy that you have to hunt him down?” he asked, his eyes lasering in on hers.

“It’s not just his readers who don’t know who he is. No one in the entire publishing world knows, either. His real identity is so hush-hush that not even his publisher knows who he is. All his manuscripts come through an attorney, Franklin Dunn, Jr., and he isn’t talking.”

She had even hired on as a temp in Dunn’s office, but didn’t have any luck finding anything. She still had hopes, though, of getting the information from Dunn’s personal secretary, Marcie Shackleford.

“So you’re getting discouraged?”

Ha! Charlotte thought. “Not on your life,” she said with a determined scowl. “There’s a mystery here and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it.”

He shook his head. “Why are you so hell-bent on doing something that clearly looks impossible?” he asked.

“Because finding Sterling and unmasking him to the world would be a real coup.”

He savored that for a moment. Then apparently discarded her motivation as unsound. “What about the poor schmuck who writes the books?” he asked argumentatively, his dark brow furrowed in concern. “Doesn’t he have a right to privacy?”

Charlotte sighed and leaned forward urgently. “Look, if Stephen Sterling wanted privacy, he shouldn’t have written three bestsellers and earned millions of dollars. He’s the one who wanted people to buy his books, and now they’re understandably curious about him.”