Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1
Travis McVicker plunked his laptop case onto his desk at the Boston Chronicle and began sorting through a stack of mail. He'd just returned from Africa, where he'd gone with his brother, Chase, in the hopes of a great story. They'd been held hostage and threatened with death, and now he couldn't even write the story since it involved a small group of tribal people trying to eke out a living. If he wrote about the scavenging for gold tailings after mines were shut down, Big Corporate would post guards and the tribes would become even more impoverished than they were now.
He let out a sigh as he dropped into his chair. Hell, he would have written the story anyway, if not for Katie Jo, Chase's new wife, who was the basic reason for the trip in the first place. She wouldn't allow him to endanger people, who at one time, had been her father's friends.
"Oh, well," he said to no one in particular, "there'll be other stories that'll get me the Prize."
Travis only took the toughest stories Ned Chancy dished out at the weekly assignment meetings in the editorial office of the Boston Chronicle. The reason? There was nothing Travis wanted more than to win the Pulitzer Prize for journalism.
Nothing, that is, until he looked across the newsroom when the elevator dinged and Morgan Gentry walked back into his life.
Flashback to his senior year in high school. He had the hots for her so bad, he had almost gotten kicked off the football team because he spent his time watching her at cheerleading practice, instead of paying attention to the coach. But she had never seen past the fact that he was a whiz at algebra and could help herpass.
Now here he was, nine years later, staring at her again as she walked into Chancy's office; again fantasizing about what he'd like to do with those long legs and voluptuous breasts. She looked better than he remembered, even in his dreams. What had she been doing since high school? He tried to see past a potted palm in the editor's office so he could read their lips. And what was she doing here?
It wasn't long before he found out. Chancy, news editor at the Chronicle for the past hundred years or so, walked Morgan out of his office and directly toward Travis. For once, he wished he had worn something other than a ratty tee shirt and holey jeans. If his current story didn't depend--
"McVicker, Morgan Gentry," Chancy boomed as if TJ couldn't hear. "She's new; been working at the LA Sun. Show her around." With that, he returned to his office. Chancy talked like the news--who, what, when, where, and why--just the basic facts in as few words as possible.
Travis rose from his chair and leaned over his desk to offer his hand. She looked at him as though she knew him, but couldn't place him. Travis decided not to remind her of the geek with glasses who all but stalked her nine years ago.
"McVicker? That name sounds familiar. Have we met?" She accepted his hand and Travis noted how soft and smooth hers was. He also felt a frisson of excitement burst inside his chest at her touch.
He watched her eyes. Yep, she felt it, too. She tilted her head, and he knew she was trying to assess him; trying to pick up the intangible information everyone gives off through their body language. It was an attribute of a good reporter, and not everybody had it.
"Hello?" Her voice brought him back to the newsroom.
"Sorry. I was contemplating your question. I'm sure I would remember if I had met you recently." He bent the truth because he didn't want her to know he had fantasized about her for years. "Name's Travis, but my friends call me TJ."
"Mr. Chancy said I was your desk mate. That's not exactly a word I've heard before. Would you mind explaining?"
Travis shrugged. "Just that our desks face each other--saves space and all." He wasn't going to tell her that it also meant they were reporting partners. Chancy knew he preferred to work alone. He'd have to talk to the boss before he let loose with that information.
"How long have you worked here?" Morgan asked as she sat down, shifting the pencil holder, the scrap paper and the computer mouse to better suit her. She dropped her purse in the side drawer.
"Looking for a story?" Travis asked. The trouble with having her sit across from him was that he couldn't see her legs, which he had noted were bare beneath the knee length straight denim skirt she wore. Her pink blouse was a standard oxford style, except on her, it looked sexy as hell. She had the back of the collar up and two buttons were undone so when he tilted his head to the side just right, he caught a glimpse of cleavage.
She smiled at his question, removing the clip from her hair and shaking her head to let down waves of glorious blonde hair. Her gesture was wanton and seductive and Travis immediately got a hard-on. She combed her fingers through the shoulder length strands and with an effective twist, had it reclipped in a knot. Damn, he wished she had left it down.
"Just being neighborly. I'm sure there are more interesting topics to find for stories." She turned to the computer, flipped it on, and began typing.
Talk about a put-down. Travis sat there and looked at her, thinking nine years from high school had made her more beautiful, but she still ignored him like he was eighteen. And he still had the hots for her body. Damn.
His phone rang, giving him something else to think about. It was one of his informants, trying to make money giving him information that was old news to Travis.
