she covered her face with both hands, pressing her fingertips hard against her temples. He couldn’t blame her if she had a headache. Learning ugly things about the person you’ve given unconditional loyalty to could be enough to make anyone sick.
“Hey.” Leaning across the table, he caught hold of her left hand and pulled it away. “Let’s forget about this for a while, okay? Let’s just enjoy our dinner and each other’s company and deal with the rest of it later. Okay?”
Kylie kept her eyes closed a moment, focusing her attention on his hand. His palm was callused, his fingers strong, his touch gentle and warm. Just that little contact, and her breathing was easing, her tension lessening. If he really touched her—pulled her close, slid his arms around her, stroked her body—she just might melt…or shatter.
Finally she opened her eyes, carefully withdrew her hand from his and called up a practiced smile. “How did you get into the newspaper business?”
His grin was crooked and charming. “You did check me out.”
She’d been checking him out since the moment she’d first seen him.
“My mother married a man who owned three small-town papers, along with a ranch. I had a choice between castrating cattle and shoveling manure or working at the paper. Like many males, I get a little squeamish about castration, so I opted for the paper.”
“Where you still had to deal with plenty of manure.”
He nodded.
“Why did you start writing this kind of book? Why not fiction?”
The waitress approached before he could answer. After she left their food, he salted his fries, squirted ketchup onto his plate, then took a bite of his hamburger before facing her again. “Someone I was very close to was the victim of a crime. Writing about other victims seemed a reasonable way to deal with it.”
He was choosing his words carefully. Because losing that person still hurt? Because he didn’t like discussing his grief? And yet he expected other people to discuss theirs.
Not fair, Kylie admitted, at least in this case. The people who’d grieved in this case were Therese Franklin, Charley Baker and his family. They were willing to talk with Jake. It was the ones who’d made their careers off the case who wanted it kept buried.
It was her father.
Swallowing hard, she pushed all thought of the senator to the back of her mind. “Are you married?”
Jake looked offended. “Would I have said what I did today if I was married?”
You know I’m attracted to you. Desire feathered through her belly. Pure lust. She hadn’t felt it in such a long time.
“Some men don’t take their wedding vows seriously. I don’t know you well enough to say.” Just enough to know that she wanted to fall into bed with him. She probably wouldn’t, but the wanting was there.
“I’m not married—have never come close. I do date, but there’s no one serious and hasn’t been for a long time. I’m thirty-two. I live in Albuquerque, though one of these days I plan to move out of the city and up into the mountains. I went to college for a couple years but quit when I realized it wasn’t going to help me do what I wanted to do—write. This is my sixth book, and I’m under contract for one more. I’ve considered writing fiction and will probably give it a shot before too long—mysteries, probably, or thrillers. And I would never come on to one woman while I was involved with another.” He took a breath, then fixed his dark gaze on her. “Your turn.”
She delayed by taking a bite of her hamburger, then following it with a couple of fries. Finally she shrugged. “I’m not married either, though I did come close. He would have made a great son-in-law for the senator but not such a great husband for me. I’m twenty-seven, I live in Riverview and Oklahoma City and I don’t plan to move anywhere. I began working for my father when I was fifteen, and after I graduated from Oklahoma State I continued to work for him. The pay is good, the hours are flexible and I like my boss. For a time I wanted to go into politics myself, but not anymore. I was raised to be a good politician’s daughter and, someday, a good politician’s wife. So far, I’ve succeeded at one and have no interest in the other. And I would never get involved with a man who was with another woman.”
“So will you get involved with me?”
His whiskey-smooth voice made the word sound intimate and naughty and conjured up all sorts of images in her mind. Naked, hot, needy, wicked. Her clothing suddenly seemed too tight, too warm. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t…couldn’t.
“You know you’re attracted to me,” he pointed out.
Her hand trembled as she reached for her glass, then took a cooling drink. “I do?”
His grin this time was pure charm—no brashness, no arrogance. “You know how you’re looking at me…it’s the same way I look at you. There’s something between us. Something…”
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