Extreme Exposure
Authors: Pamela Clare
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Romance, #Suspense, #Contemporary
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
EXTREME EXPOSURE
BERKLEY SENSATION / published by arrangement with the author
BERKLEY SENSATION e-edition / August 2005
Copyright © 2005 by Pamela White.
Excerpt from Hard Evidence copyright © 2005 by Pamela White.
Cover photo of couple in bedroom by Chad Ehlers/Indexstock.
Cover photo of office buildings by Steven Weinberg/Getty Images.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Interior text design by Stacy Irwin.
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MSR ISBN: 0-7865-5839-3
AEB ISBN: 0-7865-5840-7
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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This book is dedicated to the more than 1,400 American journalists who’ve died, mostly through assassination and murder, while trying to expose the truth. Their names are inscribed on the Freedom Forum Journalists Memorial in Arlington, Virginia, a landmark to democracy’s often overlooked heroes.
With special thanks and much love to R & K.
Special thanks to Mark Kertz, sommelier and general manager at Laudisio Ristorante Italiano, for his expert advice on sexy wine and food; and to Scott Weiser, for sharing his knowledge of forensics and firearms.
With deep gratitude to Cindy Hwang, my editor, and Natasha Kern, my agent and friend, for opening this door.
Personal thanks to Michelle White, Timalyn O’Neill, Norah Wilson, Kally Jo Surbeck, Vickie McCloud, Sara Megibow, Joyce Farrell, Kelly LaMar, and Amy Vandersall. Your support and encouragement keep me sane.
Additional thanks to Joel Warner, Vince Darcangelo, Stewart Sallo, and
Boulder Weekly.
I wouldn’t be able to pursue my dreams without you.
And as always, thanks and much love to my family and to my sons, Alec and Benjamin. You mean everything to me.
K
ARA
M
C
M
ILLAN
was going to kill her best friend. It was Holly’s fault Kara stood alone, margarita in hand, in Denver’s skankiest meat market, wishing she were invisible. Holly had brought her here—and then deserted her.
This time Holly had gone too far.
“Just go up to a guy who turns you on and start talking,” Holly had said before she’d disappeared into the crowd. “Make it clear you want to get laid, and you’ll find yourself on your back in no time.”
On her back.
Kara hadn’t been on her back for five long years—not since she’d learned she was pregnant with Connor—and the thought of ending the evening with her legs wrapped around some strong, sexy man while he drove himself into her, hot and hard, was almost enough to make her moan out loud.
But she was nothing if not a realist. She’d never hooked up with a man in a bar before, and there was no way she was going to meet anyone worthwhile tonight, no matter what Holly said. Why had she let Holly talk her into this? Was she truly that desperate?
Kara pressed herself farther back against the wall and took a sip of her drink just to have something to do. She stood next to an enormous potted fern not far from the entrance. The fern’s lacy fronds made her feel somewhat sheltered but
allowed her a view of both the bar to her right and the restaurant to her left.
The Rio del Sol, or The Rio as locals called it, was a spawning ground. The air was heavy with pheromones, the bar so crowded it was impossible to walk anywhere without brushing up against someone. Music pumped from overhead speakers but was drowned out by shouted conversation until the bass tones were nothing but a throb against the soles of her feet like a heartbeat, or the pulsing rhythm of sex.
Most everyone wore black—black leather, black Levis, black T-shirts, tiny black dresses that revealed black bra straps. It looked like a funeral, except everyone was smiling, flirting, touching. Kara’s mind flashed on the prairie chickens she’d seen doing their mating dance at a nearby wildlife refuge—a sultry glance, the bulge of a bicep, a bit of exposed cleavage little more than the flash of mating plumage.
In the back corner, one couple had already paired off. They stood against the wall, all tongues and hands and writhing bodies. The woman had lifted her leg, had all but wrapped it around the man’s waist, and he obligingly ground himself into her.
For a moment, Kara couldn’t pull her eyes off them and found herself wondering what it would feel like to be that woman, to have a man maul her with the same kind of intensity. When the man reached up and cupped the woman’s breast, Kara’s pulse skipped.
She looked away, took another sip of her drink, and savored its salty tang. At least the margaritas were good. Signs on the wall said patrons were limited to three, so the drinks must be potent. She took another, bigger sip. If she had to be here, she might as well get a bit tipsy. Tomorrow was Saturday. Holly was driving, and Connor was staying with her mother tonight. She could afford to have a little fun for once—if drinking a margarita with an overgrown fern for company could be called fun.
Just go up to some guy who turns you on and start talking.
It ought to be easy. Kara talked to people all the time. In the ten years she’d been a journalist she’d talked to literally thousands of people—corporate CEOs, government officials, convicted drug smugglers, war survivors, rock stars, even a retired assassin. She’d gotten angry phone calls, hate mail, death threats. None of it fazed her. So why did the idea of approaching an attractive man in a bar seem so overwhelming?
Just go up to a guy who turns you on and start talking.
It was certainly easy for Holly, who was younger, platinum blond, and had the kind of body that rendered men stupid—big boobs, a slender waist, and plenty of booty. Kara had stretch marks on her belly from pregnancy and had never gotten out of a B-cup, except when she’d been nursing Connor. Her only striking asset was her hair, which attracted attention because it was long—that and maybe her eyes.
Even had she been a supermodel, casual sex just wasn’t Kara’s style. Not that she didn’t
wish
it were her style. She’d give anything to have Holly’s confidence and smorgasbord attitude toward men and sex. Kara was thirty-two and in her sexual prime, after all. She hadn’t been with a man for so long she felt her sexual frustration could generate enough electricity to power the entire Denver metro area.
“You’re pathetic, McMillan,” she said to herself. “Pa-the-tic.”
What was she doing here? She should be home snuggling her son and reading
Fox in Sox
for the millionth time, not standing in The Rio drinking by herself while Horny Holly went trolling for sperm.
Cold air rushed in as the front door opened again and more people strode inside. As they streamed toward the bar, one face caught her eye.
State Senator Reece Sheridan.
Though she’d never met him in person, she recognized him from the many photos that had run on the front page of the paper since he’d been elected two years ago. She’d interviewed him over the phone a few times when the bills he was
carrying overlapped with one of her columns or investigative stories. She’d found him smart for a politician and unusually well spoken—which, in Colorado, set him apart.
She took another sip and studied him as he walked closer.
He was, she decided, even better-looking than his photographs. He was tall, easily over six feet. His dark blond hair was cut conservatively—short at the back and on the sides, a bit longer on top for style. His eyes were large with unusually long lashes, his lips firm and full. His square jaw bore a trace of five-o’clock shadow. He wore a gray wool trench coat over a white shirt and gray slacks, his gray silk tie visibly loosened.
He reminded her of a
GQ
model—handsome, well dressed, smooth. She imagined he’d been one of the popular kids in high school. He’d probably been president of his fraternity in college and had no doubt dated sorority girls and cheerleaders, who’d swooned for him—and the sports car he inevitably drove.
Kara could almost hear their annoying squeals.
“Oooh, Reeeece!”
An overgrown frat boy—definitely not Kara’s type.
Kara took another drink of her margarita and was surprised to find she had only ice left. No wonder she felt a bit buzzed. She lifted her gaze back to the senator, remembered what he’d said last time they’d spoken on the phone.
“You’ve got a pretty voice. It’s very feminine.”
She had dismissed the compliment as nothing more than a politician’s attempt to suck up to the press. But she hadn’t forgotten it.
He surveyed the bar area as if looking for someone, slipped the heavy coat from his broad shoulders, and kept moving. He was probably looking for a woman, Kara decided. A man like him wouldn’t go long without one.
He hadn’t seen Kara and had almost passed her by when she heard herself speak.
“Senator Sheridan?” Kara could have kicked herself. Why had she opened her mouth? She didn’t want to talk to him!
It occurred to her to walk quickly away, but it was too late.
His gaze met hers, and she could tell he was trying to place her.
Then he smiled and walked over to her, hand extended. “Kara McMillan?”
Kara took his hand, shook it, and slipped behind the mask of her journalist persona. “Congrats on passing your alternative energy bill.”
“Thanks.” His hand was large and warm, and he held hers a bit longer than was necessary. “Your coverage was one of the reasons the bill made it out of committee.”
Kara shrugged, irritated by the way his compliment warmed her. She wasn’t supposed to care what he thought. “I felt I had to give it some ink. It’s an important issue to our readers.”
“It’s good to meet you in person. I’ve been meaning to call to tell you how much I enjoyed the interview. Of all the journalists who called about that bill, you asked the best questions.”
Her face grew warm, and she was horrified to realize she was smiling. “Well, that’s my job.”
What a stupid thing to say! Of course it’s your job, McMillan!
“I was warned about you.” He smiled. It was the kind of smile that made women melt.
But no way was an overgrown frat boy going to charm her. “Warned?”
“I was told you eat legislators for breakfast.”
The statement was so outrageous it made Kara laugh. “Only when I can’t get a hold of murderers, drug kingpins, or rapists.”
His smile brightened, and he chuckled. “Ouch! I think I’ve been insulted. I need a drink to soothe my wounded pride. Can I get you something?”
