Debra Regan - Reluctant Hero

“Your date won’t appreciate you canceling at the last minute,” he said.

“I’m not canceling,” she promised.

“Oh?” Bill chuckled. “Even better. He’ll love watching you google another man between bites of hors d’oeuvres.”

She laughed with him. Better that than letting him know how close to the mark his teasing struck. “A personal life is essential to true happiness,” she said. She’d written the reminder on a sticky note and kept it on her mirror where she could see it every morning. “Send it. I’ll sort it out after my date. We can go over everything in the morning.”

“Fine. I’ll give Mr. Former CO another fifteen minutes and then I’m bailing. I’d rather give the Lawton tree another shake anyway. Maybe money will fall on my head.”

“If he tries to bribe you, you’d better share.”

Bill laughed again. “Not a chance,” he said, and ended the call.

Bill was as effective and persistent as a bloodhound when he caught the scent of a story. Producing for him had taught her a great deal about how to piece together clues, unravel a background and identify the essential nature of what wasn’t said in an interview. She liked to believe he’d benefitted from working with her as well. She enjoyed making sure her reporters came across with compassion as well as reliable authority for the audience. Unlike many of their competitors, they never broadcast a story until they knew they had the facts, and she used her specific skills to create a show that kept viewers coming back week after week.

They were definitely onto something with this gold theft story. She added highlighter strategically around her eyes and swept a shimmery powder just above her neckline while her mind sifted through the public records and recent articles on Lawton and his business.

They’d started the research file with the obvious and easily accessible details on each of the names listed by the source. Last known addresses, employers, positive or negative publicity, etc. Returning to civilian life as a security expert wasn’t a big stretch for Lawton, who’d served in the army for twelve years. A stash of stolen gold in his pocket would have made it easier to set up shop in the Bay Area, to be sure.

She poked through her makeup bag, seeking the perfect lipstick for the evening. Finding a tube of her favorite soft peach color, she slowly dragged it over her lips. Her mind drifted to Parker Lawton’s publicity shot. His thick brown hair had plenty of waves, despite the short cut. The photographer had captured a savvy glint in those serious dark brown eyes. Considering his chiseled jawline, she figured if the man hadn’t stolen any gold, he’d definitely stolen more than one heart along the way in his thirty-two years.

Her front door buzzer sounded and she capped the tube of lipstick, dropping it into her evening clutch. Time to make another attempt at refining the rather abstract concept of her personal life. Whether or not the evening went well, it was a plus to have a hot date to an A-list party. She’d even convinced herself she wasn’t offended that her date had probably only asked her out in hopes that he’d get an inside track to her well-known father.

She opened the door without looking through the peephole and found herself face-to-face with the man she’d been daydreaming about—Parker Lawton, accused thief. For a moment she gawked at him. She decided the photographer had been a hack to only catch the glint in his eyes. The man’s allure drew her in despite his casual khaki work pants, faded blue zippered sweatshirt and black ivy cap. In her heels, she was nearly eye level with him, and the intensity in his dark chocolate gaze muddled her thoughts.

“Pardon me—”

She pushed the door closed on his greeting and he stopped her, wedging his booted foot into the space. “You’re not welcome here.” She gritted her teeth and put all her weight into the effort of squishing his foot.

“Steel-toed,” he said calmly. “Can’t even feel it. I just want to talk.”

“Not tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Pardon my skepticism. You haven’t returned any of my calls or emails. Can I have five minutes?”

“No.” She shoved at the door again. “I’m on my way out.”

“With this guy?”

He stuck a cell phone through the space and showed her a picture of her date at the elevator downstairs.

“What did you do?”

“Bought myself five minutes.”

The stunt only confirmed that he was willing to fight dirty. “You have no right to be here.” She leaned into the door again, despite the lack of progress. “How did you find me?” She had an unlisted number and the apartment was rented under the network’s corporate account.

“It’s what I do,” he replied. “Look, I’ve heard someone is trying to cause trouble for me and some friends. Can you just confirm if you’re working up a story on me and the men I served with in Iraq?”

Working up a story? Her temper caught like a match to paper. They dealt with facts, not fiction. “I’m a producer, not a reporter,” she replied with the last thread of professionalism.

“Not buying the obtuse routine, red.”

Red, ha. As if he was the first to try and get away with that nickname. She was far more than the hair and freckles, and many a man had learned that the hard way. “I’ll be smarter tomorrow. At the office,” she added, clipping each syllable.

He leaned into the door, making it clear he could force his way in at any moment. “Tell me who told you to look into my team.”

“Never,” she vowed. “That’s Journalism 101, Mr. Lawton. I will not reveal a source.”

“You’re a producer, not a reporter.”

“Still applies.”

The elevator at the end of the hall chimed an arrival on her floor. “Guess your time’s up, Mr. Lawton.”

His boot was gone and without it the door snapped shut before she finished the sentence. She opened it again to find the hallway empty except for her date, striding forward with an eager smile.

Clutching her evening bag, Becca did her best to match his pleasant expression while she willed the heat of temper to fade from her cheeks. Her date chattered aimlessly as she locked her door and they walked down the hall. She slid her hand into his at the elevator, knowing Lawton had to be close. Telling herself it wasn’t misplaced paranoia didn’t change the sensation that the man was watching her. He knew where she lived and she didn’t trust him not to try something else.

She clung to the fact that soon she’d be out of his view and his reach. No sane man would dare make a move while she was with her date and surrounded by people at the awards gala. And afterward? The idea of coming home alone sent a little shiver of trepidation down her spine.

Well, she’d cross that bridge when she reached it. For now, she would focus on her personal life. Beaming a high-wattage smile at her date, she set out to enjoy the evening.

* * *

OH, THAT SMILE on her face irked Parker. He hadn’t found anything during his recon of Rebecca Wallace, award-winning producer, that indicated a romantic attachment worthy of that heart-stopping dress and killer heels.

He waited until they were gone to move out of the alcove near the stairwell. He was an idiot for confronting her at her door. But he was getting desperate. The bizarre blackmail note had arrived yesterday, claiming media outlets had been notified last week, and granting him five days to make restitution for the gold he and his team stole from an Iraqi family or the men listed at the bottom of the single page would be killed one by one.

Theo Manning, Jeff Bruce, Franklin Toomey, Matt Donaldson and Ray Peters were more than soldiers. They were friends. The six of them shared a bond forged on several challenging assignments during Parker’s last deployment. Together they’d handled a sensitive intel-gathering mission near the Iranian border. While it might have been easy to learn they’d all served in Iraq, it shouldn’t have been as easy to connect them as part of the same team on that operation.