The Stranger: The Heroes of Heyday (Harlequin Superromance No. 1266) (10 page)

Her voice was fairly steady, but Tyler heard the hollow tone, and he knew how terrible that must have been. A time of horrors. No wonder she hated him. He must have seemed like the instrument of Armageddon.

“I don't think she really meant to succeed. We found her in time, thank God. But while she was in the hospital, I went into her room. I found it then. I don't know why she kept it.”

Tyler hesitated. “She had one of the whips?”

Mallory shut her eyes and nodded. “I knew, then, of course. I knew what it meant.”

Thanks to Tyler's stories, which had laid out the details of the Heyday Eight's strict club rules,
everyone
knew what the whip meant.

Because Heyday was a town born from a circus escapade, and was ripe with circus themes, the Heyday Eight decided to bill themselves as animal tamers. Each initiate was given a black plastic whip, the kind sold at every annual Heyday Ringmaster Parade. The men who bought their services understood that, because they were
bad, bad men,
a light whipping would have to be endured before they got the sex they had paid for. For some of them, the whipping was enough, and they went away mildly sore but completely satisfied.

As each girl entertained more customers, bringing money into the club's coffers, colored ribbons were threaded into her whip, creating a cat-o'-nine-tails effect.

White meant she'd slept with only one customer. Pink meant five; green meant ten. At twenty-five, the girls got gold ribbons, and had a tiny whip tattooed on the small of their backs.

When any member had serviced fifty men, she was promised a tiger brooch, solid gold with diamond eyes. Only one girl, the leader, Greta Swinburne, wore the little gold tiger. Somehow she made it look as bewitching as the Holy Grail. Everyone in the Eight yearned for one of their own.

And, weirdly, she had been so proud of it that she'd been glad to show it to Tyler. It had made a wonderful series. No one had been surprised when he won the Pulitzer.

“What color was the whip?” He asked the question without inflection, as he always did. But he felt abnormally tentative, as if, instead of conducting an interview, he were probing a bullet wound, trying to find the festering metal.

“White.” Mallory looked at him over her lifted chin. “Just once, that's all, with a man named Dorian Swigert. But it was enough to nearly kill her.”

Once. That must be why he hadn't been able to unearth her name. Greta Swinburne had been about to graduate. Mindy must have been her replacement. Once the eight girls had been caught, they obviously had conspired to keep Mindy's name clear.

Interesting. He wouldn't have thought there would be such honor among…animal tamers.

“Well, now you know.” Mallory's voice was harsh. “Now you've got your scoop. Are you happy?”

He frowned. “I'm not a daily journalist anymore, Mallory. I'm not on anyone's payroll. I don't need
scoops.
”

She laughed, or tried to. “Are you saying you won't use this information? If not in tomorrow's newspaper, then at least in your wonderful book?”

He didn't answer for a long minute. He knew what she wanted to hear. But could he promise that he'd never reveal her sister's involvement? What if it became necessary to expose the blackmailer?

And she was right. What about his book? He'd contracted to tell the full, honest story of the Heyday Eight. Could he withhold Mindy's name and maintain any authorial integrity at all?

“I'll try not to,” he said. “That's all I can promise right now. If I can possibly keep her secret, I will.”

Finally the tears began to spill. She picked up her napkin and lowered her head, covering her face with the cheap white paper.

“Mallory.” He reached out and touched her arm. To his shock, it was burning. Her fever must be well over a hundred.

“Mallory, you're sick,” he said. “We have to get you home.”

Tyler had, in his urgency, spoken too loudly. The
biker had noticed them. He was still sitting by the jukebox, but he was scowling toward their booth. He pointed one triangle of grilled cheese at Tyler firmly.

“Hey, you. Don't you go making that lady cry.” The biker's eyes were as red as Mallory's. He must have had some recent personal experience with crying. “You tell her you're sorry, you hear? Right now. You tell her you're goddamn sorry you made her cry.”

Tyler didn't bother to respond. He stood, moved to Mallory's side of the booth, and gently pulled her up, into the crook of his arm.

But as he guided her out to the car, a little voice inside him was saying the same thing over and over.

I am,
it said.
I'm sorry.

T
HANKS TO
Tyler's vigilant care, her fever went down in about twenty-four hours. After that, Mallory actually enjoyed her minivacation in bed.

Tyler had insisted on staying in her apartment, sleeping on the sofa, and at first she had been just too tired to argue. Then she began to like having someone around.

He didn't hover. She often heard his laptop clicking away, and he held muffled conversations on his cell phone. Obviously he couldn't suspend his own life, but somehow he seemed to be nearby whenever she needed aspirin or a drink of cool water.

Even better, he had mobilized her part-time workers, Wally and Lara Gilbert's mother, Karla, to keep the bookstore covered. What shifts they couldn't handle, he took himself.

She could hardly believe it. Karla and Wally—that was fine. But whenever she imagined Tyler standing behind her cash register, it seemed like a fever-induced hallucination.

Tyler? Tyler selling
Roar, Little Rhino
and
The Colic
Chronicles
to Mary Beth Singer, who was due in three days and was convinced that everyone wanted regular updates on precisely how many centimeters she was dilated?

Tyler selling
Alien Probes: Truth or Fiction?
to Mack Beanstaff, a retired air force major who firmly believed there was a patch of Heyday out by the abandoned railroad tracks that should be named Martian Interplanetary Airport?

If laughter was really the best medicine, no wonder Mallory was getting better fast.

The store closed early on Sunday, so Mallory was hoping she'd see Tyler soon. At 6:05 p.m. on the dot, she heard his code knock on the front door of the apartment. Eager for company after a dull day watching nature shows on TV, she rolled over and touched the alarm-release button. Then she heard his key in the door.

She lay back on the pillows with a tired smile, trying to figure out exactly how she'd gone from wanting to kill him to giving him a key to her apartment.

Four days ago, even this temporary truce would have seemed impossible. And yet somehow they'd drifted so easily back into the rhythms of quiet friendship they'd established three years ago. He was such good company—smart, witty, with a knack for soft silences in which it seemed their minds were doing the talking.

She tried not to remember how badly that earlier “friendship” had ended. Maybe he was using her.
Maybe he just wanted more information for his book. Well, fine. She wanted something, too. She was tired. And she was tired of being alone with her fears. Just until she got well, she wanted relief from the stress of the past few weeks.

By unspoken agreement, they'd avoided talking about Mindy or the Heyday Eight or his book. What was there to say, anyhow? He had discovered her one big secret, and, in a move that shocked Mallory, he had said he wouldn't expose it unless he absolutely had to.

Now all she could do was wait and see whether he would keep that promise.

In the meantime, it was lovely to be pampered. All pampering in the Rackham household had always been showered on poor, unhappy Mindy. Sensible, competent Mallory had been expected to soldier on like one of the adults.

As Tyler passed the door to the bedroom, she caught the aroma of Aurora York's chicken soup. “Hi,” she said. “Something sure smells good.”

“Aurora sent dinner,” he said over his shoulder as he went toward the kitchen. “You feel up to some?”

“I think so.” For the first time, she did feel a little hungry. She'd eaten nothing all day Friday except those crumbs of dry toast at the diner. On Saturday Tyler had insisted she take a few spoonfuls of broth and drink a few swallows of clear soda, but mostly she'd slept. Today her systems seemed a little more alive.

After a very few minutes, he came in with a tray.
She propped up her pillows and scooted over to make room for him to sit on the edge of the bed.

He put the tray down across her legs, then reached out and felt her forehead with the back of his hand.

“Good,” he said. “Still normal.” He chose a sandwich off the pile, arranged himself at the foot of the bed and smiled. “So did you get plenty of sleep?”

“Too much. I feel lazy. I haven't taken two whole days off since I was sixteen.”

“Then you're overdue,” he said. “Did you watch some TV?”

“Four nature shows in a row. I learned some amazing stuff. Want to know why wildebeests have overdeveloped forequarters?”

He grimaced. “No. Want to know why Verna Myers believes knapweed is good for running sores?”

“No!” She shut her eyes and shook her head. “I'm so sorry. I know the customers must all be driving you crazy.”

“Actually, they're kind of interesting. In Washington, everyone wants to look and sound and act like everyone else. Around here, it's a badge of honor to invent a brand-new psychiatric disorder. I'll probably be bored when I go back.”

“Have you decided when that'll be?” She didn't look at him. She stirred her soup, releasing the warm, salty scent and breathing it in. She wasn't sure what answer she hoped he'd give.

“Not yet. The property situation is even more tangled than I realized. And as for the book—” He chuck
led. “As you can imagine, I'm having a little trouble getting some of the interviews I need.”

She smiled wryly. “Have you tried bringing them chicken soup?”

“I could bring these people bars of pure gold bouillon, and they'd still refuse to open the door. But that's okay. That's why it's called
investigative
journalism.”

Her smile deepened. “Is that what it's called? I thought I remembered hearing…something different.”

“Hey, now. If we're going to exchange insults, I could tell you what people are saying about
you.
”

She looked up quickly.

“Well, not
people,
exactly,” he amended with a grin. “Linda Tremel.”

“What is Linda saying about me?”

“She told me, purely off the record, that you and Bryce McClintock once had a thing. Apparently you're brokenhearted now that he's engaged to Lara.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake.”

Tyler raised his eyebrows. “Not true?”

“Definitely not true.” She sipped her ginger ale. “Not that Bryce isn't fantastic. McClintock men are just plain—”

She stopped, wishing she could dive into this bowl of soup and drown. How could she have forgotten, even for a second, that Tyler was a McClintock, too?

“Go on.” He grinned. “McClintock men are just plain what?”

She gave him a dirty look. “Well, for one thing, they're all just plain too conceited to live.”

He chuckled, but she knew she hadn't fooled him. He'd have to be blind not to know how devastatingly good-looking he was, with that rugged McClintock jaw topped by the most sensual pair of lips she'd ever seen. And those blue eyes…

He also knew she was attracted to him. She'd never been very good at hiding it—not three years ago, and not today.

He was still looking at her, with a heated gaze that made her think her fever might be coming back. Flustered, she went for another spoonful of soup and, of course, dribbled it onto her chin like a baby.

He leaned over, picked up her napkin and rubbed the warm liquid away. She clenched her fingers hard around the spoon, trying not to react.

But the flush she felt in the pit of her stomach must have radiated out, all the way to her cheeks. He tilted his head and brushed the tips of his fingers across the burning skin under her eyes.

For a long minute he didn't speak. He just looked at her, a frown between his brows.

“Damn it, Mallory,” he said finally. He let his fingers drift to her hairline, just above her ear. “For ten years I've had an immutable rule against mixing my job and my personal life. You almost made me forget that once before.”

She didn't pull away, although shivers trickled down like a silver star-fall from his fingertips. She didn't want him to know how vulnerable she still was to his touch.

He was looking at her lips. “I'm dangerously close to forgetting it now, too.”

She lifted her chin. “Well, you might be,” she said. “But
I'm
not.”

He didn't drop his hand, didn't pull away, as she'd assumed he would. Instead, for a moment she thought he might try to prove that she was lying.

And she
was
lying. She was close, couldn't be closer, to forgetting all the hard lessons he'd taught her three years ago. She was close to forgetting his book and the blackmailer and everything that existed even two inches beyond these crisp, blue-flowered sheets.

He leaned in, and she wondered whether, if he lowered his lips to hers, she'd be able to turn away. She remembered that, in their only kiss, his lips had been firm and warm. She remembered that he had tasted so familiar, like blueberries and coffee—and yet so strange, too, like potent, nameless spices they didn't have in places like Heyday.

Against her will, she'd dreamed of that kiss. She wondered what it would be like today. Would it still blend the tastes of gentle berries and exotic mysteries? Or would it be bitter now, laced with the knowledge of deceit?

At the last minute, he stopped. He drew back slowly. Tilting his head, he met her unflinching eyes, and let his fingers fall to the downy blue comforter.

“All right, then,” he said pleasantly. “I guess one of us needs to be sensible.”

He stood, and the mattress shifted subtly, causing
her soup to quiver. He went over to the sliding glass doors that led out onto the balcony and stared at the last of the pink-and-silver sunset clouds, which were disappearing behind the treetops. It would be dark soon.

After a minute or two, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “Did I ever tell you about how, ten years ago, my journalistic career almost came to an ugly and embarrassing end?”

She couldn't decide whether he was just trying to cushion the conversational transition, or whether he really had something he wanted to tell her. His voice was normal, casual even, but his body was oddly tense.

“No, you didn't,” she said. “What happened?”

He took one last look along the street, then reached out and pulled the drapes, closing them off from prying eyes. It was a big-city gesture, a big-city awareness that, as it grew dark outside, their lighted window would be as clear to passersby as a stage under the spotlights.

Here, in Heyday, she rarely thought about drawing the curtains unless she was changing clothes or sleeping. Here in Heyday the only eyes out in the darkness would belong to your friends and neighbors.

Or your blackmailer.

She realized that the line between Heyday and the “big city” wasn't as distinct as she'd thought.

He came back into the room and sat down. But this time, instead of the bed, he took the armchair in the corner. It wasn't a large bedroom, so the difference shouldn't have been as great as she felt it to be.

“I was twenty-two,” he went on. “I was just out of J school, and I'd landed the job of my dreams at a Washington-area paper. Not
the
Washington paper, you understand, but still. I was on top of the world. I was going to be a star, and I wasn't going to waste any time.”

She had to smile. He might call himself Balfour, but he was a McClintock through and through. They never settled for second best. Apparently it had little to do with Anderson's upbringing. Confidence, force, ambition were encoded in the genes, just like the virility and charm.

“And then?”

He shook his head wryly. “And then I made one of the dumbest mistakes on the books. I got mixed up with an older woman.”

Women.
That was a McClintock specialty, too.

She moved the tray off her legs and sat up straighter. This was a story she wanted to hear.

“Is that particularly dumb?” She crossed her legs and propped her pillow behind her back. “I'd think a lot of twenty-two-year-olds do it.”

“Yes, but this older woman wasn't just your garden-variety lonely housewife searching for someone to
understand
her. This woman was the ex-wife of a local politico. Not national, but high profile. Plenty big enough. She came to me out of the blue. She said she had a story for me. A story that would put my byline on the front page and make me a household name.”

“Wow. You must have been thrilled.”

“Oh, yeah, I was thrilled, all right.” He laughed. “She held out that carrot, and I ran after it with my tongue hanging out. I was so damn full of myself. I thought I was some really hot-shot investigative journalist. And yet I never even asked myself the most important question of all.”

“Which was?”

“Why me?” He raised his eyebrows. “Washington was full of journalists, real ones. Men and women who already
were
household names. Why me?”

Mallory, looking at him sitting there, all grace and gilded lamplight on rugged features, thought there was a simple answer to that question, but she didn't say it out loud.

“She said she'd seen my stories and thought I was a wonderful writer. What a joke. I hadn't snagged any good assignments at all. A few deadly dull zoning-board workshops and a couple of fluff pieces about a Pre-Raphaelite sketch that turned up in a yard sale. I was nobody.”

“So why
do
you think she picked you?”

He rested his head against the back of the armchair. From that angle, the lamplight made his smile look particularly sardonic.

“She was looking for the dumbest sucker on the block. She wanted a new alimony arrangement, and she needed someone to do a hatchet job on her husband. All trumped-up charges. He was cruel, he was violent, he took drugs, he abused her, he killed her cat. God, it was enough to choke a horse, but I was such a
hungry, ambitious idiot. And of course, she was persuasive. She had this sexy-as-hell red-velvet dressing gown.”