between them, and that night, physical sparks had flown as well. Gaby had seen him in a different light that one night, and she let months go by afterward before she went to Casa Río. After that, Gaby began to concentrate more than ever on her studies, and on the job she’d taken after classes at the Phoenix Advertiser. Between work and study, there had been no time for a personal life.
Now the job took most of her time. In a city the size of Phoenix, there was always something going on. When she began to work full time, the excitement of reporting somehow made everything worthwhile; she was alive as she never had been before. But the surges of adrenaline had awakened something else in her. They’d prompted a different kind of ache—a need for something more than an empty apartment and loneliness.
She was twenty-four years old now, and while the job was satisfying, it was no longer enough. She hungered for a home of her own and children, a settled life. That might be good for Aggie, too. The older woman had been lonely since Copeland’s death eight years before. Gaby helped her to cope after it happened. Bowie had resented even that, irritated that his mother had turned to her adopted child instead of her natural one. But now Aggie was globetrotting, and even though Gaby only spent the occasional weekend at Casa Río, she was missing the small, dark-eyed woman whose warmth and outgoing personality had brought a frightened teenager out of a nightmare.
That bubbly personality was one that Gaby had developed when she had begun to work with the public. Inside, she was still shy and uncertain, and she found it difficult to relate to men who looked upon casual sex as de rigueur. In her upbringing, sex meant marriage. That was what she really wanted from life, not an affair. It helped, of course, that she’d never been tempted enough to really want a man. Except Bowie.
She pulled her mind back to the present and drove up in front of the building that housed the newspaper she and Fred worked for. She only hoped there wasn’t going to be another last-minute story to cover. She was tired and worn, and she just wanted to go back to her apartment and sleep for an hour before she tried to fix herself something to eat. She remembered the engagement party and groaned. Maybe she could find an excuse to miss it. She hated social gatherings, even though she was fond of Mary, the girl who was getting engaged.
She and Fred waved as they passed Trisa, the receptionist, and entered the newsroom. Gaby didn’t even look around; she was so tired that she just dropped into the chair at her computer terminal with a long sigh. Almost everyone on the newspaper staff was around. Johnny Blake came out of his office, his bald head shining in the light, his thick brows drawn together as he listened to Fred’s version of what had happened.
“That the long and short of it, Cane?” he asked Gaby. As she raised her eyebrows, Fred mumbled something about getting the film to the darkroom and eased quickly away.
Johnny glared at her without smiling. “Get the story?” he asked.
“Sort of.”
He stared. “Sort of?”
“It’s your fault,” she told him. “Harrington and I aren’t cut out for police reporting. You made us go.”
“Well, I couldn’t go,” he said. “I’m in management. People in management don’t cover shootouts. They’re dangerous, Cane,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper.
She glared at him. “This, from a man who volunteered to cover the uprising in Central America.”
“Okay, what went wrong?” he asked, sidestepping the remark.
She told him. He groaned. “At least we did get some good copy,” she comforted him. “And I got a shot of the gunman, along with some swell shots of the police in the rain surrounding the building,” she added dryly.
“One shot of the hostage would have been worth fifty shots of the police in the rain!” he raged. “You and your soft heart...!”
“Wilson, from the Bulletin, got lots of nice pictures of the stand-off,” Gaby told her boss, rubbing salt in the wound. “And probably one of the hostage, too.”
“I hate you,” he hissed.
She smiled. “But the police tackled him and broke his camera and probably exposed every frame he shot.”
“I love you,” he changed it.
“Next time, don’t send Harrington with me, okay?” she pleaded. “Just let me go alone.”
“Can’t do that, Cane,” he said. “You’re too reckless. Do you have any idea how many close calls you’ve had in the past three years? You never hold anything in reserve in that kind of situation, and thank God it doesn’t happen often. I still get cold chills remembering the bank robbery you had to cover. I hate asking you to sub for the police reporter.”
“It was only a flesh wound,” she reminded him.
“It could have been a mortal wound,” he muttered. “And even if you aren’t afraid of Bowie McCayde, the publisher is. They had words after the bank robbery.”
That came as a surprise. Aggie hadn’t said anything about it, but she had probably sent Bowie to throw the fear of God into Mr. Smythe, the publisher.
“I didn’t know that,” she said. She smiled. “Well, he’ll never find out about today, so there’s no need to worry... What are you staring at?”
“Certain death,” he said pleasantly.
She followed his gaze toward the lobby. Bowie McCayde was just coming in the door, towering over the male reporters and causing comments and deep sighs among the female ones. He was wearing a gray suit, his blond head bare, and held an unlit cigarette in his hand. He looked out of humor and threatening.
Gaby’s heart jumped into her throat. What, she wondered, was he doing in Phoenix? She hadn’t seen him for two months—not since they’d celebrated Aggie’s birthday at Casa Río. It had been an unusually disturbing night because just lately, Bowie had a way of looking at her that made her nerves stand on end.
Her breathing quickened as he approached, the old disturbing nervousness collecting in her throat to make her feel gauche and awkward. Just like old times, she thought as his black eyes pinned her to the spot while he strode across the newsroom. She was capable and cool until she got within five feet of this man, and then she just went to pieces. It was a puzzle she still hadn’t worked out. It wasn’t really fear—not the nauseating kind. It was more like excitement...
“Hello, Bowie,” she said awkwardly.
He nodded curtly to Johnny and scowled down at Gaby. “I’m taking you out to supper,” he said without a greeting or an invitation, ignoring her soaked clothes and straggly hair. “We’ve got to talk.”
She wondered if she’d heard him right. Bowie, taking her out?
“Something’s wrong,” she guessed.
“Wrong?” He waved the unlit cigarette in his hand. “Wrong?! My God.”
“Is it Aggie?” she asked quickly, her olive eyes mirroring her concern.
Bowie stared at Johnny until the shorter man mumbled an excuse, grinned at Gaby, and beat a hasty retreat to his office. Bowie had that effect on a lot of people, Gaby thought with faint amusement. He never said anything harsh—he just stared at people with his cold
