If Winter Comes (2 page)

She shuddered. “How
distasteful.”

He nodded. “I’d sure
give him indigestion, wouldn’t I, lovely?” he asked the blonde, who smiled
back.

“Never mind,” Carla
told her companionably, “we’ll flatter him by pretending we don’t think he’s a
tough old bird.”

“Don’t listen,
Blanche,” Peck told the blonde.

The blonde winked at
Carla. “Okay, sugar, I won’t.”

When they finished the
lavish meal, the tall young presidential adviser, Joel Blackwell, took the
podium and Peck and Carla produced pads and pens. It had been Peck’s idea to
let Carla cover meetings such as this, to give her a feel for it, but he took
his own notes as well, as a backup, and wrote his own copy to compare with
hers. She was proving to be an apt pupil, too. He was grudging with his praise,
but she was beginning to earn her share of it.

Most of the speech was
routine propaganda for the administration: pinpointing the President’s interest
in his fan mail and highlighting some less known aspects of his personal life.
When he finished, he threw the floor open for questions, and foremost on the
audience’s mind was foreign relations. Domestic problems had a brief voice,
followed by some questions on what a presidential adviser’s duties consisted
of. Carla took notes feverishly, blissfully unaware of Peck’s indulgent smile
as he jotted down a brief note here and there.

Finally, it was over,
and the guests were gathering jackets and purses for a quick exit. Carla threw
her lacy shawl around her shoulders and stood up.

“Well, I’ll see you at
the cocktail party,” she told Peck and his girl friend. “I wish it were
informal. My feet hurt!”

He gave her tight
sandals with their high, spiked heels a distasteful glance. “No wonder.” He
caught Blanche by the arm, and drew her along through the crowd. “In the
office, she kicks off her shoes and walks around barefoot on the carpet,” he
whispered conspiratorially.

“Can I help it if I’m a
country girl at heart?” Carla laughed. “I’m still adjusting to big-city life.”

“You’ll get used to
it,” Peck promised her.

She sighed, smothering
in perfume and cologne and the crush of people. “Oh, I hope so,” she said under
her breath.

Two

T he cocktail party was
far more of an ordeal for Carla than the dinner had been. She stood by the long
bar that featured every kind of intoxicating beverage known to man, plus ice
and shakers and glasses, trying to look sophisticated and nonchalant. Around
her, expensively dressed women wearing jewels Carla couldn’t afford time
payments on were discussing new plays and art exhibits, dripping diamonds and
prestige. A tiny smile touched Carla’s full mouth. How horrible, she thought
wickedly, to be that rich and have to worry about having your diamonds stolen.
Or to have a swimming pool and all the bother of getting leaves cleaned out of
it every fall.

The mind boggles, she
told herself as she idly glanced around the room. Ironically, the first person
she recognized was the mayor.

Bryan Moreland was
unmistakable, even with his broad back turned. Carla studied him from across
the room, her dancing eyes curious. She’d seen the big man often enough on
television, not to mention in the flesh, but every time she was around him he
seemed to be bigger and broader and darker than he looked before.

His hair was dark,
threaded with gray, and thick and straight. His complexion was very tanned, as
if he spent a lot of time in the sun rather than in an office, and her eyes
were drawn to the hand holding his cigarette—a darkly masculine hand with long
fingers and a black onyx ring on the little finger. His suits looked as if they
had to be tailor-made for him, because he was well over six feet tall. He had
an athlete’s build, and he moved like a cat, all rippling muscle and grace as
he turned abruptly and strode toward the bar.

Carla started at the
suddenness of the move. She almost stepped away, but she wasn’t quick enough.
He saw her, and since her face was one he knew, he headed straight for her.

His dark eyes narrowed
as he stopped just a couple of feet away and glowered down at her, pinning her.
She felt apprehension shiver through her frozen body before he spoke, and her
hand tightened on the glass of cola she was drinking instead of liquor.

“That was one hell of a
mistake in your morning edition,” he said without preamble, his voice deep and
slow and cutting. “My phone rang off the hook all day and I had to get on the
damned evening news to get the noose off my neck.”

“I’m sorry,” she began
automatically, “but it wasn’t my…”

“The next time, check
your facts with me before you run back and print some pack of lies!” he
growled, his deep voice reverberating like thunder. “What the hell do you
people do with news down there, make it up as you go along?”

She licked her lips
nervously. She wasn’t usually intimidated this easily. Being attacked went with
the job, and most of the time she handled it well, diplomatically. But it
wasn’t easy to be diplomatic with a steamroller, and that was what Moreland
brought to mind.

“It was the…” she began
again.

“Why don’t you go back
to journalism school and learn how to verify information?” he growled. “My God,
children are taking over the world!” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’ll
expect not only a retraction, but an apology.”

“Mr. Moreland, I’m
really sorry….” she whispered unsteadily, feeling about two inches high.

He poured himself a
drink—Scotch, she noticed—with incredibly steady hands, his face like granite,
and she wondered idly if anything ever rattled him. He would have made a
fantastic racing driver or doctor, she thought suddenly, with those steady
hands and nerves.

“I didn’t go to Ed Hart
this time,” he said, tossing the publisher’s name at her. He speared her with
those demon eyes. “But if it ever happens again, I’ll have your job.”

He walked away without
another word, and she wanted to stand there and cry. The party had been ruined
for her. Being blamed for a mistake was fine, if it was hers. But to get stuck
with somebody else’s, and not be given a chance to defend herself, now, that
hurt.

She took a long sip of
her drink and set it back on the bar, moving slowly, quietly, toward the
ladies’ room. Tears were welling in her eyes, and she didn’t want the
humiliation of shedding them in public.

She darted into the
empty bathroom, locked the door, and leaned back against the wall, her eyes
unseeing on the spacious, fully carpeted room with its lush champagne and gold
decor. Tears ran silently down her cheeks. Why Moreland could affect her like
that, she didn’t know. But he seemed to have some inexplicable power to reduce
her to the level of a wounded child.

She wiped at the tears
with an impatient hand. This was ridiculous, she told herself. She couldn’t
afford to let people or things get to her like this. Hard knocks went with the
job, and it was either get used to a little rough treatment or spend the rest
of her life in tears. She’d have to toughen up. Her father had told her that at
the beginning, the day she announced that she’d entered journalism school at
the university.

She found a washcloth
and tried to erase the telltale marks from her flushed young face. When she
finished, her eyes were still red-rimmed, but all traces of tears were gone.
She straightened her dress and ran a comb through her long, gently waving hair.
Her pale green eyes surveyed the result coolly. It wasn’t a pretty face, but
her eyes were big and arresting, and her face had a softly vulnerable look
about it.

She turned, adjusting
the V-neckline of her dress with cold, nervous hands. She’d rather have been
shot than go through that door, but there was no way around it. Running away
solved nothing. She’d learned that much, at least, in twenty-three years.

As she went back into
the spacious living room, ironically, the first person she saw was Bryan
Moreland. He stared over a shorter man’s head at her, and his narrow dark eyes
caught hers at once. She raised her chin proudly and gave him her best south
Georgia glare.

Amazingly, as she
watched, a slow, faint smile turned up his chiseled lips as if that silent show
of rebellion amused him.

Carla turned, purse in
hand, and made her way through the crowd to Bill Peck and Blanche.

Peck’s eyes narrowed
thoughtfully on her face. “He got you,” he said immediately.

“Uncanny insight, Mr.
Peck,” she replied with a wan smile. “I didn’t get the chance to plead my case.
He must be absolute hell in a courtroom.”

“You’d think so if
you’d ever seen him in one,” the older reporter agreed. “I’ve seen prospective
witnesses cringe when they saw him coming. Was it rough?”

She shrugged,
pretending a calm she didn’t feel. “A little skin’s missing,” she said with a
laugh.

“Sorry,” he said. “That
was my hiding you took.”

“The rewrite man’s,”
she corrected. “Don’t worry about it. It goes with the job, remember? That’s
what everybody tells me.”

“Amen.”

“Well, I’ve gritted my
teeth and made my appearance,” she added. “I’ve got my notes in my grubby
little hand, and I’m getting out of here before His Honor takes another bite
out of me. See you in the morning.”

“Don’t brood on it,” he
cautioned.

“I won’t.” She smiled
at the blonde. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Blanche
smiled back. “Don’t sweat it, honey, we all get our lumps occasionally,
deserved or not.”

“Sure,” she said.

She wound her way
through the crowd to Senator White and thanked him for the invitation, then she
turned and moved quickly to the door. Just as her hand touched the doorknob, a
large, warm hand covered it, effectively stopping her, and before she turned,
she recognized the black onyx ring on the tanned, masculine hand.

“Peck told me what
happened when you darted out of the room,” Bryan Moreland said quietly, and she
had to look up a long way to his face, despite her two-inch heels and her
formidable five feet, seven inches of height. So that was why Bill had looked
so unconcerned.

“Did he?” she asked
wanly, meeting the darkness in his eyes with uneasiness.

“I like to place blame
where it’s due,” he said in his deep, lazy voice. “Why didn’t you tell me you
weren’t responsible for that story?”

Her eyes flickered down
to his burgundy tie. “You didn’t give me much of a chance, Mr. Moreland,” she
said.

“Mister?” His heavy
eyebrows went up. “God, do I look that old?”

“No, sir.”

He sighed heavily. “Not
going to forget it, are you?” he taunted.

She raised her eyes to
his with a faint grin. “Not going to apologize, are you?” she returned.

Something kindled in
his dark eyes, making them velvet soft, sensuous. A hint of a smile turned up a
corner of his wide, firm mouth. She found herself blushing and hated the way
she felt: young and gauche and very much outmatched.

“I haven’t had much
practice at it,” he admitted.

“Always right, huh?”
she asked.

“Cheeky little thing,
aren’t you?” he challenged.