If Winter Comes (6 page)

“I’ll get my shawl,”
she said, turning to retrieve the lacy black creation from her big armchair.

With apparent interest,
Moreland was studying a fantasy landscape done by a friend of hers. He turned,
eyeing the tastefully decorated apartment with its floral furniture and dark
brown carpet. “Earth colors,” he murmured.

She smiled. “I like the
outdoors.”

“So do I. I have a farm
out in the metro area,” he replied, and she thought how that explained his dark
tan. “I’ll take you out for the day one weekend.”

“Do you have cattle?”
she asked him on the way down to the street in the elevator.

“Only a hundred head or
so,” he replied. “Purebred, mostly, a few crossbreeds. I do it for amusement. My
grandfather ranched out west.”

“It must take an
awfully big horse,” she murmured absently, measuring his big, husky frame with
her eyes.

A corner of his mouth
lifted. “It does. Can you ride?”

“It’s been a long
time,” she admitted, “but I think I could still hold on.”

“I’ve got a gentle
little mare you’d like.”

“Dogs?” she asked as
they walked out onto the sidewalk under the lofty streetlights and neon lights.

“One. A shepherd. The
caretaker and his wife look after him for me when I’m here.”

“You don’t live there?”
she asked, amazed.

“I have an apartment a
few blocks from my office,” he replied. “Some nights I don’t finish
untilmidnight . It’s an hour’s drive to the farm, but that seems like swimming
an ocean after a rough day.”

She followed him to a
low-slung Jaguar XKE and gaped as he unlocked the passenger side. It was black
and sleek and looked as if it could race the wind.

He caught the
astonishment on her face and smiled faintly.

“What did you expect? A
sedate domestic vintage with an automatic transmission? I’m not that old,
honey,” he said amusedly.

“I wasn’t thinking
that,” she said, dropping down into the plush leather bucket seat. It even
smelled expensive. “It isn’t conservative.”

“Neither am I,” he said
softly. He closed the door for her and went around the hood to get in behind
the wheel. For such a big man, he managed to slide in gracefully.

The statement was easy
to believe when she got on the dance floor with him in the very exclusive disco
restaurant and went wild trying to keep up with the intricate steps that he
managed effortlessly.

“I thought you knew how
to do this,” he teased when the music stopped momentarily.

She only laughed. “So
did I. I’m not in your league!”

“I cheated,” he
replied. “I took lessons.”

She was ashamed to
admit that she had, too. Always graceful on the dance floor, he made her look
as if she had two left feet.

But the music was
invigorating, and he made dancing fun, so she danced until her legs throbbed
with weariness.

Later, he took her to a
quiet little bar down the street where they sat sipping drinks over a table
where a single candle in a red lamp danced.

“Tired?” he asked.

She nodded with a
smile. “Deliciously. It was fun.”

He lit a cigarette and
smoked quietly. “How did you get into reporting?” he asked.

She watched him leaning
back against the booth, and her eyes were drawn involuntarily to his unbuttoned
jacket, where the silky shirt was pulled tight across his massive chest. A
shadowing of hair was just visible through the thin fabric.

“My father told me not
to,” she replied in all honesty, keeping her wandering eyes on her glass.

“He didn’t want you to
follow in his footsteps?”

“He was afraid to let
me,” she said. Her slender hands fingered the frosty glass. “Dad liked a fight.
He wasn’t afraid to take on anyone. Crooked politicians, policemen on the take,
inept lawmen…anybody. He was threatened a lot, he had tires slashed and windows
broken, and once he even got shot at. He’s been lucky. He was afraid I might
not be.”

“Are you afraid?” he
asked in a quiet voice.

She didn’t dare look
up. “A little, sometimes,” she admitted. “Controversy is always frightening.”

“Why bother with it?”

She smiled. “It’s
news.”

“Do you bleed ink?” he
asked conversationally.

“I’ve never cut
myself,” she replied saucily.

“Any brothers or
sisters?” he probed.

She shook her head and
shot him a grin. “They were afraid to try again: they might have had another
one like me.”

His bold, slow eyes
studied her intently from the waist up. “From where I’m sitting, that would
have been pretty nice.”

She took a long sip of
her drink and tried not to blush. He made her feel like a naïve
fifteen-year-old.

“What about you?” she
asked. “Do you have a family?” Her face blushed as she remembered. “Oh, my…!”

“Don’t,” he said
quietly. “I told you not to walk on eggshells with me. Someone told you about
it?”

She nodded miserably.

“The wounds are still
there, but not nearly as fresh as they were,” he told her. “Sometimes talking
about it helps. I loved my daughter very much. I hate to remember how she died,
but that doesn’t mean I want to forget that she lived. You understand?”

“Yes,” she said. “I
think I do. Did she look like you? Was she dark?”

A corner of his mouth
curved up. “No. She was fair, like her mother. All arms and legs and laughter.
Not a sad child at all. She had promise.”

Her fingers reached out
and touched his, where they rested on the white linen tablecloth. “You miss
her.”

“Yes,” he said simply.
He studied her fingers and turned his hand abruptly to catch them in a warm,
slow clasp. “Your hands are cool.”

“Yours are warm,” she
replied, feeling the effects of that sensuous clasp all the way to her toes.

His thumb caressed her
palm. “We’d better go,” he said abruptly, dropping his hand. “It’s late, and
I’ve been stuck with a visiting politician first thing in the morning. She
wants to see my ghetto.”

“I’d kind of like to
see your ghetto, too,” she remarked.

He smiled at her. “Be
in my office at nine-thirty.”

“Really?”

“What’s your city
editor going to say? This is the second interview in as many days,” he said
with a wicked smile.

“He’ll probably think
I’m trying to seduce you,” she replied smartly.

He studied her in a
sudden, tense silence, and she regretted the impulsive teasing as his eyes dropped
pointedly to her mouth.

“I don’t think you’d
know how,” he said.

She got to her feet,
red faced. “You might be surprised.”

He moved in front of
her, forcing her to look up into dark, steady eyes. “You wear your innocence
like a banner,” he said in a soft, deep voice that reached only her ears.

She tried to answer
him, but the words caught in her throat. He seemed to read every thought in her
whirling mind.

“I’ll get the check,”
he said, and turned away.

The strained silence
was still between them when he pulled up in front of her apartment building and
cut the engine.

“Thank you for a lovely
evening,” she said as she reached for the door handle.

“I’m coming up with
you,” he said abruptly.

He got out and opened
her door for her, eyeing her speechless stare with dawning amusement.

“Don’t panic,” he
teased. “I’m only going to see you safely to your door. I know this city a hell
of a lot better than you do, and I just got the revised homicide statistics
yesterday.”

She turned and went up
the steps with him on her heels. “Bill Peck was furious at me for not doing a
story about the night you rescued me from those punks.”

“Any other reporter
would have,” he reminded her.

She went into the
elevator with her green eyes flashing. “There is such a thing as personal
privilege.”

“Not in the eyes of the
media,” he said, joining her. He pressed the sixth-floor button and leaned
back. Only the two of them had boarded the conveyance, and she felt very young
as he watched her.

“You’re nervous,” he
commented.

She ran her tongue over
her dry lips. “Am I?”

One heavy eyebrow went
up over dancing dark eyes. “I almost never rape women in deserted elevators.”

Her face went
poinsettia red. “I wasn’t…”

“Yes, you were,” he
mocked. “I’m aware of the dangers even if you aren’t, little girl. I didn’t
plan to pounce on you at your front door.”

She studied his face,
trying to figure out the enigmatic statement, but it was like reading stone.
“Mr. Moreland…”

“My name isBryan ,” he
corrected, standing aside to let her off the elevator as it stopped on her
floor.

“Yes, I know,” she
murmured, “but it sounds so presumptuous…”

“I won’t be ninety for
fifty more years,” he reminded her.

She laughed in spite of
herself. They were at her door now; she turned, looking up at him, and some
vague longing nagged in the back of her mind as her eyes swept over his hard,
chiseled mouth. She couldn’t help wondering if its touch would be rough or
tender, and she was suddenly, dangerously, curious….

“Don’t forget,” he was
saying. “Nine-thirty, my office.”

“Can I bring a photog?”
she asked huskily.

“Bring the whole
editorial staff, if you like,” he replied amiably. “It’s my favorite story, and
I love to tell it.”

“Thanks again for
tonight.”

“My pleasure, country
mouse,” he said with a quiet smile. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she
replied nervously.

His dark eyes dropped
to her mouth, then slanted up to catch the mingled curiosity and apprehension
in her shy gaze. He smiled mockingly just before he turned and walked away.

She lay awake half the
night wondering why he hadn’t kissed her. It would have been the normal end to
an evening. It was customary. But he’d only smiled, and left her, not even
bothering to brush a kiss against her forehead.