But today Derek didn’t have to worry about rain. From the looks of that sunrise, there wouldn’t be a cloud in the sky and he’d be able to get his landscaping and yard work assignments completed.
Taking another sip of the strong coffee he’d brewed earlier, Derek closed his Bible and reached down past the deck chair to rub the nose of his faithful companion, a German shepherd aptly named Lazarus because Derek had literally saved the dog from being put to sleep a few years ago.
“Ready for our run, boy?”
The black-and-tan animal jumped to attention, his big tongue hanging out in a drooling acknowledgment. When that didn’t bring his master to his feet, Lazarus barked and wagged his tail in the air.
“Okay, okay. Sorry I’m moving kinda slow this morning. I had a late night, you know.”
Lazarus tried one more trick. He flopped down on the planks of the big deck, then rolled over for a belly rub, his black eyes filled with what he obviously hoped was sadness and despair.
“You’re pathetic,” Derek said, grinning as he, too, plopped down on the deck next to the dog, then proceeded to rub Lazarus for all he was worth. “How’s that?”
The dog seemed content to stay that way all day.
“Now look who’s lazy,” Derek replied. Bringing his hand up to the dog’s long neck, he absently continued scratching and rubbing the coarse fur.
“I met a woman last night, Laz,” he said, knowing he could tell the dog anything and it wouldn’t get repeated. “A woman I see every night on the evening news.” He shrugged against the deck planks. “Actually, she’s all over the place, everywhere in Atlanta, on billboards, on the sides of buses, in ads in the newspaper, a well-known face. And unfortunately, I had to run upon her near a dark alleyway while she tried to fend off two thugs twice her size.”
To save a helpless, homeless man, Derek silently reminded himself. Stephanie Maguire had been trying to help a stranger. And because of that one brave act, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind.
Not through the long, tiring wait in the emergency room of Grady Hospital, not through the endless paperwork and the necessary questions later at the police station, and certainly not through the long trip back home a couple of hours ago.
She was beautiful. Every man in metro Atlanta and the surrounding counties could see that. And they all got to view her lovely face each night as she reported the news across the airwaves. Her hair was long and wavy, fluffed out around her face and shoulders in a feminine style that somehow didn’t match her hard-hitting attitude when she delivered the news each night. Stephanie Maguire always looked a little windblown, as if she’d just come rushing in off the street to deliver her piece. Which she probably had. But she delivered with precision and accuracy, her stories in-depth, her eyes wide open.
And about those eyes.
Derek knew all about those eyes. Blue green and big, as mysterious as the lake waters, and just as rich and full of depth. As the old saying went, a man could drown in those eyes.
But not this man. No, sir.
Derek pushed himself up off the deck, then whistled to Lazarus. “C’mon, boy. Let’s get that run started. We’ve got lots of work ahead of us today.”
And lots of turmoil to work off on a long, tough jog.
Derek just hoped that Stephanie Maguire would heed his warning and keep him and his so-called heroic deed off the evening news. He didn’t need or want the publicity. He didn’t want people nosing into his life, or second-guessing his motives.
He’d had that once, but never again.
Not even for beautiful, popular newshound Stephanie Maguire.
As usual, the World Network Television newsroom was buzzing like a well-oiled machine. Stephanie glanced around at the action—people busy talking on the phone, busy arguing with leads and checking out sources, or arguing with editors and producers—her adrenaline kicking in with each screech of the newswire, with each beep of the humming computers, with each beat of her heart.
She loved her work. Loved it with a passion that bordered on obsession, loved it because it brought her life and hope and a sense of accomplishment.
But this morning she had to admit she was tired. It had been a late night last night. Hours after she’d left the scene of the mugging, she’d lain awake in her downtown efficiency apartment, the sounds of never-ending traffic soothing and steady way down below, wondering if that old man was all right. Wondering who Derek Kane was and why he refused to be acknowledged as a hero.
And wondering why Derek Kane had gotten to her so much.
The homeless man’s name was Walter Griffin. He sometimes stayed in a shelter not too far from where he’d been attacked, but with spring just around the corner, Walter had ventured back out onto the street to sleep. And he’d been almost beaten to death because of it.
She’d already interviewed him early this morning from his hospital bed, a camera crew taping his every word. Even though Mr. Griffin could barely remember what had actually happened, he’d be all right. But he’d have to stay in the hospital for a few days due to a concussion, two cracked ribs and several lacerations to his face and hands.
Stephanie had promised to check back with him, but in the meantime, she also wanted to find Derek Kane. She needed his comments to finish out the story. And she needed to know more about him.
“You look like you’re onto something,” Claire Cook said as she leaned over Stephanie’s cluttered desk to hand her a bagel and a latte from the coffee shop downstairs. “Your eyes are positively sparkling.” Pushing lightly at Stephanie’s navy wool jacket, she said, “C’mon, give it up, Maguire. What are you working on?”
“Nothing,” Stephanie admitted as she tore the plastic lid off her double latte, then poured the frothy mocha contents into her favorite Do It Now coffee mug. She refused to drink out of foam cups. “Exactly nothing.”
“Exactly something,” Claire retorted. Scooting into a nearby rolling desk chair, she pulled up beside Stephanie, her green eyes bright with anticipation and her short red hair standing on end across her head. “I know that look.”
Stephanie tore off a hunk of blueberry bagel, then sighed before popping it into her mouth. Between bites she said, “I thought I had a story—I was involved in a mugging last night—”
“Oh? Are you all right?” Claire scanned her face, obviously checking for bumps and bruises.
“I wasn’t mugged, but I saw it happening. An old homeless man named Walter Griffin—these two young boys, juveniles with previous truancy and vandalism records, according to the police report, were beating him to a pulp right there off Peachtree.”
“And you intervened.” It was a statement, based, Stephanie guessed, on the fact that the veteran news producer knew her reporters well.
“I had to,” Stephanie said, shrugging her shoulders by way of defense. “Nobody else would—including your wonder boy, Jonathan Delmore.”
Claire perked up considerably, her head coming up so fast her multifaceted turquoise-and-silver earrings
