de Foi to resurrect Savannah—and nail him to the wall—all in the name of journalism. "You stood there on the porch last night, smiling, when all along you knew you were here to crucify me?"
The first trace of nervousness flitted across her face. "I'm not here to crucify you."
"Then what would you call it?"
"Research," she said with that stubborn tilt to her chin. "I'm here to see if there's a story to tell."
"A story?" The word, the simplicity it implied, sickened. He'd seen the show, after all, and he knew there was nothing simple or innocent about the scandals it exploited. "This is my life you're talking about, not some sordid little it-was-a-dark-and-stormy-night tale."
"I'd think an innocent man would welcome the opportunity to clear his name."
"Trust me, cher ," he said very quietly, with absolutely no emotion to his voice. "You can't clear my name."
She staggered back from his words, as though he'd pummeled her with fists and not the truth. "No?" Determination glowed in her eyes. "Why not?"
He stared down at her, at the way her hair tumbled from her face, revealing skin ridiculously beautiful and flawless for a woman her age. The blast of lust was obscene—and dangerous as hell. He had no business being attracted to this woman, not when she was out to destroy his life.
"I don't owe you any explanations."
"Is that what you'll say when I have a camera trained on you?" she asked with equal directness, sounding exactly like the reporter he now knew her to be.
"Rest assured," he said. "There will be no cameras."
They stood that way a long moment, locked in a fierce battle neither wanted to lose. Now, at last, he understood why she'd disturbed him upon sight, why he'd been unable to quit thinking about her.
"Was it all a lie?" he asked harshly. "Did you even know Savannah?"
Her mouth trembled slightly before she answered. "I would never lie about that." Emotion flooded her expression. "That's why I'm here," she said in an oddly thick voice. "Because of Savannah—I know enough to make me want to know more."
He stepped closer. "Reporters aren't welcome in my town."
Finally she backed away from him, but the massive mahogany armoire stopped her retreat. "I'm not a reporter."
He reached toward her, his hands framing, but not touching, her flushed cheeks. "Then what would you call it?"
"A researcher."
"And just what, goddamn it, is the difference?"
"A reporter reports the news. A researcher explores the unknown."
The heat radiating from her robe seared through him, bringing the unwanted temptation to press her against the armoire and teach her firsthand about exploring the unknown.
"So somebody else can report it," he said instead, his hands settling against the warmth of her cheeks.
She flinched, didn't twist away. "Not report. Share. Milton Leonard is a respected journalist. He treats each story with care and respect."
"Care and respect?" He almost choked on the words. "I've seen the show, cher . The more sex, violence and scandal, the better."
Her eyes flared. "Like you said, your life."
The burn started low, spread fast. "And I intend to keep it that way— my life is not for public consumption."
"I don't want to consume anything, Cain. I just want the truth. Does that really frighten you so much?"
He stared at her a long moment before answering. He should be furious. This woman wanted to tear apart his life, and yet there was something about the way she stared at him, that ridiculous glint in her eyes and the slight part to her lips, that overrode the darker emotions, replaced them with something even more dangerous.
"You really want to know what frightens me?" he asked with a slow, lethal smile.
"Yes."
The spurt of enjoyment was so damn wrong. "You," he said in a rough, quiet voice. "You frighten me." The shock on her face felt better than it should have. "The fact that despite everything you've told me, all I can think about is what it would feel like to put my mouth to yours." He leaned
The first trace of nervousness flitted across her face. "I'm not here to crucify you."
"Then what would you call it?"
"Research," she said with that stubborn tilt to her chin. "I'm here to see if there's a story to tell."
"A story?" The word, the simplicity it implied, sickened. He'd seen the show, after all, and he knew there was nothing simple or innocent about the scandals it exploited. "This is my life you're talking about, not some sordid little it-was-a-dark-and-stormy-night tale."
"I'd think an innocent man would welcome the opportunity to clear his name."
"Trust me, cher ," he said very quietly, with absolutely no emotion to his voice. "You can't clear my name."
She staggered back from his words, as though he'd pummeled her with fists and not the truth. "No?" Determination glowed in her eyes. "Why not?"
He stared down at her, at the way her hair tumbled from her face, revealing skin ridiculously beautiful and flawless for a woman her age. The blast of lust was obscene—and dangerous as hell. He had no business being attracted to this woman, not when she was out to destroy his life.
"I don't owe you any explanations."
"Is that what you'll say when I have a camera trained on you?" she asked with equal directness, sounding exactly like the reporter he now knew her to be.
"Rest assured," he said. "There will be no cameras."
They stood that way a long moment, locked in a fierce battle neither wanted to lose. Now, at last, he understood why she'd disturbed him upon sight, why he'd been unable to quit thinking about her.
"Was it all a lie?" he asked harshly. "Did you even know Savannah?"
Her mouth trembled slightly before she answered. "I would never lie about that." Emotion flooded her expression. "That's why I'm here," she said in an oddly thick voice. "Because of Savannah—I know enough to make me want to know more."
He stepped closer. "Reporters aren't welcome in my town."
Finally she backed away from him, but the massive mahogany armoire stopped her retreat. "I'm not a reporter."
He reached toward her, his hands framing, but not touching, her flushed cheeks. "Then what would you call it?"
"A researcher."
"And just what, goddamn it, is the difference?"
"A reporter reports the news. A researcher explores the unknown."
The heat radiating from her robe seared through him, bringing the unwanted temptation to press her against the armoire and teach her firsthand about exploring the unknown.
"So somebody else can report it," he said instead, his hands settling against the warmth of her cheeks.
She flinched, didn't twist away. "Not report. Share. Milton Leonard is a respected journalist. He treats each story with care and respect."
"Care and respect?" He almost choked on the words. "I've seen the show, cher . The more sex, violence and scandal, the better."
Her eyes flared. "Like you said, your life."
The burn started low, spread fast. "And I intend to keep it that way— my life is not for public consumption."
"I don't want to consume anything, Cain. I just want the truth. Does that really frighten you so much?"
He stared at her a long moment before answering. He should be furious. This woman wanted to tear apart his life, and yet there was something about the way she stared at him, that ridiculous glint in her eyes and the slight part to her lips, that overrode the darker emotions, replaced them with something even more dangerous.
"You really want to know what frightens me?" he asked with a slow, lethal smile.
"Yes."
The spurt of enjoyment was so damn wrong. "You," he said in a rough, quiet voice. "You frighten me." The shock on her face felt better than it should have. "The fact that despite everything you've told me, all I can think about is what it would feel like to put my mouth to yours." He leaned
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