If Winter Comes (5 page)

He lifted a heavy
eyebrow. “I don’t gamble, drink to excess, or support organized crime. But I do
have this one vice, and you’ll notice that the room is quite well ventilated. I
don’t intend giving up a lifelong habit for the sake of one interview.”

She had the grace to
blush. Her eyes moved from the tablecloth to the street outside, where autumn
leaves blazed in a tiny maple tree embedded in concrete, a small colorful
reminder of the season. The wind was tumbling fallen leaves and she watched
them with a sense of emptiness. She felt as though she’d been alone for a long
time.

“What else did you want
to ask me?” he cut into her thoughts.

“Oh!” She dug her pad
and pen out of her purse, moving them aside briefly as the waitress brought
china cups filled with freshly brewed imported coffee, fresh croissants and a
saucer of creamy butter. “I wanted to ask about your administration. What was
the city’s financial situation when you took office, what is it now, what
improvements have you made, what goals do you have for the rest of your term in
office—that sort of thing.”

He stared at her
through a soft cloud of gray smoke. “Honey, I hope you’re not doing anything
for the next two weeks, because that’s how long it’s going to take me to answer
those questions.”

She smiled wryly, her
pale green eyes catching his. “Couldn’t you manage to do a brief summary in an
hour or so?” she teased.

“Not and do it
justice.” He leaned back in the chair, letting his forgotten cigarette fire
curls of gray smoke up toward the ceiling while he took silent inventory of her
facial features. “How old did you say you were?” he asked.

“Twenty-three,” she
muttered absently, fascinated by his dark, quiet eyes.

“And fresh out of
journalism school?” he probed.

“I got a late start,”
she explained, crossing her booted legs. “My mother was in poor health. She
died.” Her eyes went sad at the admission. Two words to describe that long,
painful process that ended in death. Words were inadequate.

“A long illness?” he
asked, reading her expression as if he could read her mind.

She nodded. “An
incurable disease of the central nervous system. There was nothing anyone could
do. My father very nearly went under. He had a breakdown, and I had to run the paper
until he got back on his feet.”

“Quite an experience
for you.”

“Oh, yes, I learned a
lot,” she recalled with a dry smile.

“Like what?”

She looked at him
sheepishly. “Never misspell a name on the society page.”

“What else?”

“Read the copy before
you write the headlines. Don’t leave out names in school honor rolls. Never put
anything down, because you’ll never see it again. And especially never go to
aCountyCommission meeting when they’re discussing a new site for the sanitary
landfill.”

Both eyebrows went up,
and he smiled faintly. “Lynch mobs?”

“Lynch mobs. I saw in
one meeting where sixty people surrounded the sole county commissioner and
threatened to shoot him if he put it in their community,” she recalled. “I
don’t suppose you have that kind of problem?”

“No,” he admitted,
“just dull things like street employee strikes, garbage piling up on sidewalks
and into the streets.”

“Why not start a
campaign to get everyone in the city to mail their garbage to relatives out of
state?” she suggested.

“Honey, you start it,
and I’ll personally endorse it,” he promised. “Eat your roll before it gets
cold.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied
politely.

He glared at her. “I’m
not that old.”

She peeked at him over
the rim of her coffee cup. “Now I know why you brought me here.”

He glowered at her.
“Why?”

“Real napkins,” she
explained, “and real cups and saucers. No wasted paper products to fill your
garbage trucks!”

He shook his head. “How
did you wind up in the city, little country mouse?”

“Dad sold the newspaper
and took off on a grand tour of the Orient,” she sighed. “I didn’t want to go
with him, so I caught a plane and came up here to ask one of his former
employees for a job.”

“And got it, I
suppose,” he replied, as he took a bite out of his buttered roll.

“Actually, I didn’t,”
she told him between bites of her own roll. “It was the editor of the Sun, and
he didn’t have an opening. He sent me to the
Phoenix-Herald
, and I guess
they just felt sorry for me. After I told them about my ten starving children
and the lecherous landlord…”

“Ten children?” he
prompted.

Remembering the tragic
death of his daughter, she felt a strangling embarrassment lodge in her throat,
and a wild flush stole into her cheeks.

“Don’t walk on eggs
with me, Carla,” he said, using her given name for the first time. “There’s
nothing to be embarrassed about.”

She took a sip of her
coffee. “Can you read my mind?” she asked in a small voice.

“Look at me.”

She raised her eyes to
his and felt them captured, held for ransom by a gaze with the power to stop
her heart in mid-beat.

“You have a very
expressive face, little one,” he said gently. “Readable. Vulnerable.”

“I’m as tough as used
boots,” she murmured.

“Don’t bet on it.” He
finished his coffee. “You realize that damned labor meeting’s polished off my
dinner invitation?”

“That’s all right,” she
murmured courteously.

“Is it, really?” he
asked in a deep, slow voice that sent wild shivers down her straight spine.

She met his searching
gaze squarely. “No,” she managed shakily, “it isn’t.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

She nodded, and the
rush of excitement that made wild lights dance in her eyes was something she
hadn’t felt since her early teens, her first date.

“I’ll call you, in case
something comes up.” He frowned. “There isn’t a boyfriend?”

Her heart went wild;
her mouth parted, trembling slightly, drawing his intent gaze before it darted
back up to catch the hint of fear in her pale eyes.

“No,” she whispered.

Something relaxed in
his leonine face, and he smiled at her, an action that made his eyes soft and
tender.

“Come on, country
mouse. We’ll talk on the way back, but I’ve got a budget meeting at eleven and
a luncheon at twelve, followed by a visiting oil magnate at two. In other
words,” he said as he rose, “I’ve got to go bridge my credibility gap.”

“Thanks for the
coffee,” she said, moving slowly beside him to the counter.

He glanced down at her.
“Your party piece?” he asked softly. “I’m not trying to wheedle any favorable
copy out of you, little one. But don’t make the mistake of thinking this is
just a moment out of time. This is a beginning, Carla.”

The way he said it, and
the slow, sweet appraisal his eyes made of her emphasized the underlying
comment. She started to speak when she felt his big, warm hand catch hers and
press it warmly. And the music danced within her.

Four

S he was busily working
on the story about the city’s new clerk when Bill Peck ambled in and threw
himself down in the chair behind his desk.

“God, I’m tired,” he
groaned. “A delegation of home owners came to the commission meeting to protest
a proposed zoning ordinance. It was the hottest meeting I’ve covered in
months.”

“Did the ordinance
pass?” Carla asked absently as she studied her notes.

“No way. Mass protest
does have its advantages,” he laughed. “How’re you coming on your great
exposé?”

She hated the mocking
note in his voice and gave him a freezing stare. “I don’t make fun of your
stories,” she said accusingly.

He sighed. “Okay, I
won’t make fun of it. But you’re going to have hell pinning anything on the
city hall crowd.”

“You know!” she burst
out.

“I know what you got
the tip on, that’s all,” he replied. “Your mysterious caller got to me last
night. But don’t make the mistake of taking that kind of tip for gospel. Fired
employees tell tales, and I just happened to recognize that one’s voice. He’s
Daniel Brown, a police sergeant who was fired recently for taking payoffs.”

“Allegedly taking
payoffs,” she corrected. “I think he’s innocent.”

“God, what a babe in
the woods you are,” he scoffed. “Little girl, don’t trust people too far. The
city’s just full of wolves waiting to pounce on little lambs. I wouldn’t put
much credibility in Brown’s story, either, if I were you.”

She didn’t mention that
she’d already taken her information to the paper’s editor and chief counsel and
that she had approval from the top to check out that tip. Bill had been a
tremendous help to her, boosting her low confidence, building her insight,
teaching and encouraging. But he tended to be just the least bit lax in his
efforts, and Carla was full of vim and enthusiasm for her job. So she only
smiled and agreed with him.

“I hear you had
breakfast with the mayor,” he said.

“Gosh, news travels
fast!” she gasped. “Did you hear that I pushed him under the table and raped
him?”

“No, did you?”

She sighed.
“Unfortunately the tables are extremely small. But it was a very informative
breakfast. For instance,” she said, leaning on her typewriter to peer at him
solemnly, “did you know that slums account for over fifty percent of city
services while they only pay about five to six percent of real-estate taxes?”

He sighed, slumping
down in his chair. “Oh, no, not again,” he groaned. “I’ve heard Moreland’s slum
removal song until I can sing all twenty choruses!”

“Now, Bill…”

“I don’t want to hear
it,” he pleaded.

“But, it’s so
fascinating,” she said, and went over to sit on his desk. “Now just let me lay
some statistics on you. For example…” and she spent the next fifteen minutes
describing the downtown revitalization project, only stopping when the city
editor stuck his head around the door and reminded her that the deadline was
twenty minutes away.

Moreland picked her up
at six-thirty for their dinner date, immaculate in his dark evening clothes and
a white ruffled shirt that, on him, looked anything but effeminate. He looked
sensuous and more than a little dangerous.

Carla smoothed her
burgundy velvet dress down over her hips as he closed the door behind him. “I…I
hope I’m not underdressed,” she murmured.

“You’re fine,” he said,
and his bold eyes added extra approval to the comment.