Rising Heat (48 page)

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have time,” she replied impatiently. “You’re a smart man, Blake. Why is it you didn’t see what Celine was doing? You have a good head for business…”

She paused a moment and I forced back my grin when I saw the flush of embarrassment rise in her cheeks at her choice of words. She pressed forward.

“You have good business sense, and you negotiate with people from all over the country, and probably the world. How was it that one woman was able to fool you so completely? Were you blinded by her beauty? Her allure? Her—”

“The heart wants what the heart wants, or at least it thinks so,” I interrupted and scrubbed my hands over my face. “It was mostly my fault,” I continued. “I hadn’t known her long, and for a while she seemed genuine. Maybe I was blind to a lot of the stuff that happened before we got married, but we all make mistakes, don’t we?” She frowned, and I could just imagine her thinking that I was intimating that last night was a mistake. I wasn’t sure it was. “One thing I do know, when Celine didn’t get what she wanted, all hell broke loose.”

Misty didn’t say anything for several moments, eyeing me carefully. What did she see when she looked at me, I wondered.

“Did Celine know about your past?”

I shifted in the chair. I should’ve known the topic would come up. “Not more than anybody else does, I suppose.”

“Then why dredge it up now? What does she hope to gain from all this? The innuendo, the rumors. Why don’t you slap her with defamation or a slander lawsuit?”

I sighed. “Because that would just draw more attention to it, give credence to her claims. I’m not about to do that.” I grew impatient and frustrated. Why did my past matter so much to people? For that matter, why did my marriage? I wasn’t a saint, and I wasn’t about to promote myself as one, but people deserved a bit of privacy, didn’t they? Today’s social environment and the fact that everyone walked around with their noses buried in their cell phones, tweeting about themselves, taking selfies, and thinking that anybody else was interested, was ridiculous. My life was not fodder for the amusement of others. I told her as much.

“I’m just trying to understand,” she said.

“Understand what? Or are you just like the rest? Digging at the bones of my past, thinking that you’re going to unearth, deep, dark, dangerous secrets?”

She scowled at him. “Am I?”

“Are you what?”

She looked up at the ceiling and growled. “We all have skeletons in our closet. Do you really think I’m like the rest? I wouldn’t know much about that. I haven’t read any other interviews that have been done about you, you know.”

“Why not?” I asked, curious.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I didn’t even know you existed until I got this assignment. And I think I’ve mentioned before, or I probably should have if I didn’t, that I don’t read gossip magazines. I don’t support the spread of gossip, innuendo, and rumors.”

I watched her for several moments. And believed her. A flash of pain, or perhaps regret, flashed over her features. Something in her own past that she wanted to keep secret? Then again, like she said, everyone had a skeleton in the closet. Some of the skeletons were scarier than others. Some could be considered stupid skeletons, while others were a lot more serious and quite a bit more damaging when it came to a person’s reputation.

“Here’s the thing, Misty,” I said. “And you can write this down. I don’t want to be judged about something that happened in my past, when I was a teenager. Something that I had no control over. Can you understand that? Can’t anybody?”

She leaned forward, her gaze intent. “Then why allow the past to hang over your head like a black cloud? You do know that people will keep pestering you about it. It’s human nature.”

“And you’re going to perpetuate it.”

“No! I don’t want to. I want to help you put it behind you, forever.”

“It will never be behind me.” I rose from the chair. “I’m going to make some coffee. You want some?”

She didn’t say anything so I turned and headed to the kitchen. These questions were definitely getting uncomfortable. I didn’t get the impression that Misty was asking because she wanted to, but because it was her assignment. That should make a difference, shouldn’t it? At least in the way I felt about her? And yet, I wasn’t about to let my guard down. The plain truth of the matter was, I
was
wary. How could I not be?

I prepared coffee, reaching into the cupboard to grab a coffee filter, placing it in the machine, then scooping coffee into it without measuring. I filled the reservoir with water and turned the machine on, staring blankly at the pot as it began to spurt and gurgle. A thin stream of coffee began to trickle into the pot as I stared, mesmerized at it.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Blake.”

I hadn’t heard her come into the kitchen. I turned around, leaned against the counter and crossed my arms over my chest. Classic defensive mode, I knew, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“What exactly are your intentions?” I asked without preamble.

“My intentions?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

I felt an increased sense of frustration. “What is your ulterior motive?”

She frowned. “I don’t have an ulterior motive,” she said, bristling. “I’m here to do a job—”

“No matter what?”

She shook her head. “I’m a journalist, Blake,” she said, striving for patience. “This is an interview. You knew that. What did you expect? Do you think I enjoy making you feel uncomfortable?”

“Do you?”

“No, I don’t,” she snapped.

She stared up at me, her gaze searching mine. I had the overwhelming desire to pull her into my arms, although if someone asked me why, I wouldn’t be able to explain. Maybe it was that sense of frustration, the sexual tension between us that had me feeling on edge and off-kilter. Normally, I brushed off personal questions with no more emotion than I swatted a fly. And yet with Misty…

“Blake, you only allow me to get so far before you shut me down,” she said. “But I want you to know that I think you’ve been given a raw deal.”

“What do you mean?”

Her eyes fell from my eyes, to my lips, then to my chest. “I’m sorry that you had to experience such a tragedy in your past. I’m sorry that people are so focused on it. I’m sorry that now I’m even a part of that.” Her eyes met mine again, wet with unshed tears. “But you have to understand. This is my job. This is my assignment. If I don’t complete my assignment to the satisfaction of my editor, it could be a very black mark on my career aspirations.”

Now it was my turn to frown. Was that all I was to her? An assignment? A stepping stone? I shook my head, chagrined. I was acting like a scorned woman. What did I care? I never had before. All I had to do was refuse to answer her questions. It was as simple as that. While I didn’t want to see her get fired or lose her opportunity to advance, it wasn’t my problem.

Behind me, the coffee machine gurgled loudly for several seconds, and then grew quiet as the familiar aroma filled the kitchen. I said nothing, but turned around and reached for the cupboard door. “Sure you don’t want any?”

No answer. I turned to glance over my shoulder and realized that she had left the kitchen. I reached for a mug, poured myself a cup, and stood for several moments, not quite sure what to do next. I knew what I
wanted
to do. I wanted to go into the living room, sweep her into my arms, carry her upstairs, and make mad, passionate love to her, or so the saying went. The idea made me grin. More than likely, she would slap me for sure. Maybe that was a good idea. Knock some sense into me.

When I returned to the living room, coffee mug in hand, my emotions slightly under control, I found her standing in front of the fireplace, her back to me. When she heard me enter the room, she turned on me.

“I suppose I can understand your attitudes regarding journalists,” she said, arms akimbo. “But you’re lumping us all into the same basket. Just like people are making assumptions about you. Rather unfair, don’t you think?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but she cut me off.

“Not all women are conniving bitches,” she continued. “Not all women have ulterior motives. I’m sorry that things have happened the way they have, but you seem to have come out of it okay, or at least you give that impression. But you should know something. Everyone has something to regret in their past. Everyone has pain, loss, and grief. Some have been accused of doing things that they didn’t, and vice versa. So what makes you so special?”

I paused with the coffee mug halfway to my lips.

“And I can see by the expression on your face right now that you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Misty, what—”

“I can’t believe you! Why can’t you just get it over with? You
do
know that reporters are going to continue to hound you until you give them what they want, don’t you?”

I frowned and lowered the mug to set it gently on the table. “My past is my damned business, Misty, and if I’m not mistaken, I have a right to keep my privacy, don’t I?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about here,” she replied, her voice tinged with frustration.

“I’m not trying to be deliberately obtuse, but what are you trying to say?”

She made a face, rolled her eyes again, and flung her arms out to her sides before allowing them to flop against her thighs. “Don’t you realize you’re perpetuating—” Her eyes widened and she stared at me, her chin tilted slightly to the side as if an idea had just struck her. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Doing what on purpose?” I asked impatiently. My God, I could hardly keep up with her train of thought.

“You
want
people talking about you, don’t you? You want the rumors to perpetuate? That makes you more mysterious, more enigmatic, doesn’t it? That draws attention, and that’s ultimately what you want, for the success of your properties, isn’t it?”

I froze. She really thought that was why I didn’t want to talk about my past? Because I
wanted
the attention? I felt the emotional shields going up. I felt drained, empty. Disappointed. I felt no anger, no resentment, nothing. Just cold inside. And that was the sad part. “You have no idea what you’re saying.” The words held no emotion.

“Don’t I?” she said, taking a step toward me. “You’re not doing anything to put a stop to these rumors. You say you don’t want to draw more attention to yourself, to the innuendo, but in fact, your very silence is doing just that. Don’t you get it? Or is this a carefully orchestrated plan on your part?”

I felt like I’d just been slapped in the face. How could she think that of me? Then again, why shouldn’t she? We didn’t know each other. She didn’t know shit about me, but whose fault was that? Nevertheless, just the idea of her thinking so little of me filled me with a nameless emotion.

“I’m sorry you feel that way about me, Misty,” I said, my voice emotionless and stiff. “Perhaps I underestimated you.”

Turning my back on her, I headed for the stairs.

“Blake…”

I didn’t turn around, but continued upward. “We’ll be leaving in the morning. Six o’clock. If you’re not out there by the helicopter on the dot, I’ll leave without you.”

I reached the balcony, and in a few long strides entered my room and slammed the door shut behind me.

Misty

I
f my first morning at the Rocking J with Blake had been awkward, this second morning was even more so. I had set the alarm on my iPhone for five o’clock and then five-fifteen, just in case. No way was I going to be left behind. His reaction to my questions last night had startled me, but I supposed, after I thought about it for a while, I couldn’t blame him for feeling that way.

Even more so, and this was the hardest to admit to myself, I didn’t want to leave him. Not just yet. I felt like I was walking a tight rope and didn’t know which way to go. I felt stuck in the middle, not a good place to be on a tight rope that was for sure, but I couldn’t explain it.

I was attracted to and hesitant around Blake Masters at the same time. How was that possible? Not that there was anything frightening or off about him per se, but perhaps possibly that uncomfortable feeling I got around him was due to the lack of self-confidence I felt about myself in his presence. Which threw me off balance.

While I’d never been particularly self-conscious, so uncertain, I didn’t think the feelings projected from him. No, this was more on me. These were my shortcomings, these feelings of inadequacy, these thoughts of putting myself down, feeling that maybe I wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, or smart enough to attract someone like him.

But why did I want to? The minute I began thinking that way, I scolded myself. There was nothing between us! Wouldn’t ever be, so why was I even worried about how he felt about me? I shouldn’t give a damn, but I did. As I stared up at the dark ceiling last night waiting to fall asleep, I seriously considered that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t cut out to be a journalist. If I couldn’t ask the questions that needed to be asked and damn the consequences, how could I do the job?

I didn’t want to turn into one of those cutthroat reporters who asked the stupidest questions. Like the woman I’d seen on television one time after a school shooting. One of the reporters first on the scene had the audacity to ask a parent whose child had been shot and taken to the hospital, currently in surgery, how she felt. How the hell did the journalist think the mother of the injured child would feel? I didn’t want to become one of those journalists who sniffed blood in the water and then went after it like a great white shark.

Couldn’t there be a balance between investigative journalism and compassion? Perhaps not with people like Angela and those like her at the helm. Like the old saying went, “If it bleeds, it leads.”

While I often admired the journalism chops of some of my past heroes and heroines when it came to getting in-depth interviews, I also wondered if they had been bothered by their intrusive questions. How did they feel digging into the tragic pasts of many of their interviewees? While on the one hand, I realized that digging beneath the surface was part of my job as a journalist, doing it to someone like Blake, especially in regard of the circumstances, just seemed cruel.