Devil in Disguise (2 page)

“Maybe that’s why the two of you are friends,” Conrad suggested.

“Be nice.” Rachel emerged from the bathroom, not at all surprised to find Conrad stretched across her bed. His long form filled the king-size mattress. She licked her lips, her mind racing for something intelligent to say.

“Did you send them a gift? I know how averse you are to the propagation of the human race.”

“Yes, I sent them a gift.” Rachel narrowed her eyes at him. “Just
because I don’t want children doesn’t mean I can’t be happy for my
friends.”

“Admit it. Even shopping for babies gives you the heebie-jeebies.”

“I’m actually excited about the gift I got them, thank you very much,” Rachel retorted hotly.

“Really? Then I’m dying to know what it is.”

“Something useful,” she hedged. “Now are you going to put this ointment on my back or not?”

Conrad’s lip curled upward; he had the very devil in his eyes. “Sure,” he drawled, standing and motioning for her to climb in bed.

She eyed him warily and he turned his back, allowing her the privacy to shed her robe and lie on her stomach. He surprised her by sitting with one knee on either side of her, lightly resting his weight
on her legs. After so many nights of remembering his touch, she
wasn’t prepared for the actuality of it. Fire shot through every fiber of her being when his large hands began to gently massage the ointment into her shoulders and arms.

Rachel had to fight for every breath. Her eyes rolled back, and
she stifled the urge to moan. The antihistamine was kicking in, tugging
her toward drowsiness even while his touch stirred a volcano
within her. It was a wholly surreal mix.

“Feel better?” he leaned in and asked, his breath skittering across her shoulders.

“Mmmm…” Rachel tried to answer.

“Good.” She could hear the smile in his reply. “You never
answered. What did you get Neena and Charlie for a baby gift?”

“An intern,” Rachel admitted softly, hoping the pillow would muffle her words. Conrad threw his head back and laughed. It was a deep, rich sound. Warmth spread through Rachel. She couldn’t help but respond with a quiet laugh of her own.

“Good choice,” he commended, once he’d regained his composure.

“I thought so.” Rachel’s eyes fluttered closed. The lure of sleep was beginning to outweigh the urge to flip over and have her way with the man who’d stepped out of her fantasy and into flesh. Stupid antihistamines.

“I think you are sufficiently medicated.” Conrad eased off the
bed. Rachel turned to look over her shoulder, immediately feeling
bereft at his absence. He crouched down so they were nose to nose and studied her for a moment. He reached out to wrap a deep golden tendril of hair around his finger. It was a gesture he’d done a thousand times before. She smiled at him in a sleepy haze. His voice rumbled low and deep, “
Bonne nuit, mon amour
.”

Rachel hummed inside. She loved how French rolled off his
tongue. He gently stroked her hair back before kissing her temple. And then he was gone.

The next thing Rachel was aware of was an irritating rapping pulling her out of the blissful darkness. It took a moment for Rachel to register that someone was knocking at her door. She cracked her eyelids open, wincing at the sunlight now streaming through her window and unwilling to relinquish the dream that had pleasantly invaded her sleep. She peeked at her arms; they had returned to their normal honeyed tone.

The knocking didn’t go away. Rachel begrudgingly rose and wrapped herself in the robe that still lay on the floor from the previous night. 
She struggled to separate dream from reality
.

One thing was certain: there was a very real Conrad Langston standing once again in her doorframe. This time he came bearing breakfast and a Diet Coke, and Rachel’s stomach grumbled in appreciation.

He paused for a moment when she opened the door, his eyes seeming to devour her. Rachel self-consciously ran her fingers
through her hair as he cleared his throat.

“I came to check on my patient.”

“I’m much better today, thank you.” She stood aside and motioned for him to come in.

“You look…better.” His pause made her wonder what adjective he’d originally meant to use.

“Thanks again for last night. You were a lifesaver.”

“I am here to serve."

Their eyes locked. Rachel felt she had something to say but couldn’t fathom what. He took a deep breath as if he too had
something to say but merely released the breath heavily instead of the words.

She broke the spell. “What did you bring me for breakfast?”

“Who says it’s for you?” he teased, even as he began unpacking the eggs and bacon.

“How have you been?” She ignored the ribbing and slid into a chair across from him.

“About the same.” He shrugged. “How have you been?”

“Good.”

“Your career seems to be really taking off.”

“It is.” She nodded. “How do you like Jersey?”

“It’s cold. But I like the ocean.”

“You could always move somewhere warm with an ocean.”

“Maybe.”

Rachel wondered what she was supposed to make of the look in his eyes. What was he trying to tell her?

“I’m surprised you haven’t found a Mrs. Langston. You seemed pretty set on marriage when we parted ways.”

Conrad dropped his fork and gave her an incredulous look. “I didn’t want just any Mrs. Langston.”

They fell silent. He was mad at her, and she had no clue what to say to him.

“I think it’s going to snow today,” she finally spoke, appalled that weather was the best topic she could come up with.

Conrad chuckled ruefully. “Looks that way.”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t go home for Christmas.”

“It’s okay. I volunteered to work last night.”

“Why?” Rachel couldn’t imagine Conrad passing up a chance to celebrate the holiday with his family. Unlike her relatives, his liked one another. When his sister had been journeying through hell, he’d raised his niece for years. Even though Gabrielle now lived with her mom and stepfather, surely Conrad would want to see her.

“Neena is painfully happy. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it this year.”

“Given all she’s been through, I would think her happiness is a good thing.” Rachel studied him from across the table, not sure what she was seeing in Conrad’s eyes. Something had changed since she’d last seen him.

“It is. I just didn’t want to ruin their celebration with my sour mood. Look, don’t make me regret bringing you breakfast.”

“Why did you bring me breakfast?” Rachel didn’t mean for it to sound as harsh as it did but couldn’t take the words back once they were out.

“Beats the hell out of me.” Conrad dropped his fork and rose,
seeming suddenly dark and menacing. Rachel wanted to reach out to him—to apologize, to wipe away whatever hurt was gnawing at him. But the image of her mother throwing herself at the feet of man
after man came to mind, stilling any movement Rachel might have made.

Instead, she lowered her gaze. “Thank you for breakfast. It was good to see you again.”

He stood over her for a moment more before turning to stride toward the door.

“Conrad?” Rachel began, but faltered.

He paused, turning slightly to her.

“Merry Christmas,” she offered feebly.

“Merry Christmas,” he growled back. He was gone again before she could begin to process what to say.

What had happened to the warm and fiercely loyal man she knew? Her appetite for breakfast and a day at the spa gone, Rachel
showered and headed home. At least her cat would be happy to see her.

JULY 3

THE ODD ENCOUNTER WITH CONRAD
had bothered her, but
she’d handled it the same way she would anything else: she’d
thrown herself into her job. It had worked to some degree, but even now, six months later, an image of Conrad flitted through her mind as she sat in her office, twirling her pencil and staring absently at her view of Rockefeller Center.

A tap at the door interrupted her thoughts before they could spiral too far out of control. She looked up with a charming smile just as the station’s assignment editor settled himself into the chair opposite her desk.

“You swiped the Springsteen piece from Brian, didn’t you?” he asked without preamble.

“Jacob, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I merely worked an angle for the best interest of the station.”

Jacob Bailey arched an eyebrow in an expression Rachel knew well. It said quite plainly he wasn’t buying it. “Have you ever heard of a little thing called journalistic ethics?”

“Did you want to lose the interview to Stewart?”

“He’s not even a real news show.”

It was Rachel’s turn to arch an eyebrow that said she wasn’t buying it.

“Admit you have a thing for him,” Jacob goaded.

“I do not. He’s married. Cute, but married. And you’re changing the subject. I had a finite window of time to lock in an interview with Bruce Springsteen,” she said, emphasizing the name for effect, “so I did what I had to do to close the deal. The man leaves for Europe soon, and you know he only has time for a handful of interviews right now — and  even fewer on-air interviews.”

“Brian isn’t happy. He was looking forward to doing something lighter for a change.”

“He has all the fun. Come on, Jacob, throw me a bone here.” Her eyes pleaded.

“I’ll talk to him,” her friend and colleague conceded. “No promises, though. And stop taking the man’s stories. I’d hate to have to fire you.”

Rachel’s Cheshire grin said she knew she’d won. She couldn’t help needling her old friend just a little more. “You can’t fire me, and you know it. America loves me. You love me.”

He changed topics, obviously knowing he’d lost. “Are you going home for the Fourth?”

“I guess, since you’re abandoning me for the wilds of Michigan.”

“Unlike you, I enjoy visiting my family.”

“That’s because you might as well have been a Walton. How many of you are there? Fifty? Sixty?” Rachel smiled at the thought of Jacob in the midst of a 1970s television series.

“Slightly less, I think. And I assure you not one person will utter ‘Goodnight, John Boy’ the entire time I’m home.”

“I don’t believe you. And you just got a new nickname.”

“You are not going to start calling me John Boy.”

“You think?” Rachel’s grin was devilish. She loved teasing Jacob and had to admit some part of her was pouting ever-so-slightly that he’d gone and gotten himself engaged. Her relationship with the boyishly cute forty-five-year-old had never been more than platonic,
but they’d been bound by their dedication to career and truth. They’d been bound by their solitude. She was officially down her
dinner buddy.

“You should be nice to your family while you’re there. Your mother is proud of you.”

“My mother is a pill popper who goes through men like
they’re a box of Kleenex,” Rachel snapped uncharacteristically.

“Your sister looks up to you.”

“You mean the fourteen-year-old who rarely pulls her nose out of the Internet, only to smart off when she does? Gee, I can hardly wait to see that precious gem.”

“You’re nothing but sunshine and lollipops today. I think I’ll slink off while I still can. Oh, and you’d better hurry if you plan to be on time for the interview you stole. Try to be nice to him at least.”

“Sorry,” Rachel apologized miserably to Jacob’s retreating back.
He waved without turning, a gesture Rachel recognized as
forgiveness. She had no idea why she was suddenly being such an insolent brat.

But none of it mattered at the moment. It was time to put on the face America loved and get her butt over to Asbury Park to meet her idol, her unsettled soul hidden beneath the smooth polish she’d honed over the years.

She sincerely hoped that same polish did half as good a job
hiding her little-girl nervousness over meeting the one person her family didn’t argue over. The interview was supposed to take place at a cozy little bar just off the boardwalk. She was waiting out front when the Boss himself parked his black Escalade and strolled across the
street, greeting her as if they were old friends. The place was just
opening
up, so they snagged a table in a dimly lit corner. He ordered a
Heineken with a shot of Jack; she didn’t trust herself with anything stronger than a soda.

It didn’t take long for Bruce’s easy manner to put her at ease. He tended to stammer a bit and chuckle a lot. Rachel found it reassuring that a man as musically brilliant as the one across the table from her was human too.

“Did you get everything you need for your interview, or did you just give up on me?” he asked as she dismantled the small camera and tripod she used for these interviews. She could have requested a crew, but she liked the cozy feel of the smaller camera and a more natural setting.

“No giving up here. You were perfect,” she assured him, surprised at the humility rolling off the man despite several decades of intense fame.

“Excellent.” He motioned the waitress for another drink, then for her to bring Rachel the same.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Rachel shook her head at the liquor that had just been set on the table. She’d made it this far without making a fool of herself; she saw no reason to start now.

“Nonsense. Stewart won’t be here for half an hour. We have
plenty of time to chat.”

“Great.” Rachel forced a smile. Stewart never did on-sites; he was obviously going to great lengths to get this particular interview. She should have known she couldn’t scoop him; he’d probably find a way to make sure his piece ran before hers. She’d never buy that he wasn’t a real newsperson; the man was brilliant and well-connected. He reported better news than any of their competitors. He just did it with an ornery little grin and a healthy dose of acerbic wit.