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Past Imperfect
Crystal Green
THE SAUNDERS SOUND-OFFWHERE ARE THEY NOW?SAUNDERS UNIVERSITY KEEPS TRACK OF ITS NOTABLE ALUMNIRachel JamesOnce Miss Popularity and the campus "It" girl, even after surviving a difficult childhood and two dreadful adoptive parents, Rachel's future was finally looking up. Until she dropped out, opting to marry instead of graduate. Widowed too young, she's decided to remain single and save herself from further heartache. But a reliable source reported that lately Rachel's been spotted having secret meetings with a handsome reporter. And when those two are deep in conversation, her eyes are ablaze with possibility…the same flicker from her college days….If you know the whereabouts of your fellow alumni, or are interested in locating someone, e-mail or call your class faculty representative.


Even beneath her beauty—mocha-colored skin and mystifying eyes—something inside Rachel James always glowed. But she traded her dreams for love and ended up widowed and alone. Until journalist Ian Beck reminded Rachel of a persistent desire she’d deemed long gone. And his eyes…it was as if they were seeing a woman for the first time. Now, watching Ian and Rachel fight to uncover the truth about Rachel’s biological parents—opening doors to secrets and deception—I see her old fears surfacing.
I only hope she doesn’t run from the man who’s risked his entire career to mend her heart….
Dear Reader,
If you’re eagerly anticipating holiday gifts we can start you off on the right foot, with six compelling reads by authors established and new. Consider it a somewhat early Christmas, Chanukah or Kwanzaa present!
The gifting begins with another in USA TODAY bestselling author Susan Mallery’s DESERT ROGUES series. In The Sheik and the Virgin Secretary a spurned assistant decides the only way to get over a soured romance is to start a new one—with her prince of a boss (literally). Crystal Green offers the last installment of MOST LIKELY TO…with Past Imperfect, in which we finally learn the identity of the secret benefactor—as well as Rachel James’s parentage. Could the two be linked? In Under the Mistletoe, Kristin Hardy’s next HOLIDAY HEARTS offering, a by-the-book numbers cruncher is determined to liquidate a grand New England hotel…until she meets the handsome hotel manager determined to restore it to its glory days—and capture her heart in the process! Don’t miss Her Special Charm, next up in Marie Ferrarella’s miniseries THE CAMEO. This time the finder of the necklace is a gruff New York police detective—surely he can’t be destined to find love with its Southern belle of an owner, can he? In Diary of a Domestic Goddess by Elizabeth Harbison, a woman who is close to losing her job, her dream house and her livelihood finds she might be able to keep all three—if she can get close to her hotshot new boss who’s annoyingly irresistible. And please welcome brand-new author Loralee Lillibridge—her debut book, Accidental Hero, features a bad boy come home, this time with scars, an apology—and a determination to win back the woman he left behind!
So celebrate! We wish all the best of everything this holiday season and in the New Year to come.
Happy reading,
Gail Chasan
Senior Editor

Past Imperfect
Crystal Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dedication: To Susan Litman, my wonderful editor.
Thank you for all the hard work I put you through and
for all the talent you’ve put to good use on my books!

CRYSTAL GREEN
Crystal Green lives near Las Vegas, Nevada, where she writes for Silhouette Special Edition and Bombshell, plus Harlequin Blaze. She loves to read, overanalyze movies, do yoga and write about her travels and obsessions on her Web site, www.crystal-green.com. There you can read about her trips on Route 66 as well as visits to Japan and Italy.
She’d love to hear from her readers by e-mail through the “Contact Crystal” feature on her Web page!
Dear Rachel,
I’m so sorry you won’t be coming back to school next year—but how awesome that you’re getting married! I’m so excited for you and can’t wait to hear all about your new life with Isaac. Please keep in touch,
XOXOXOXO
Your friend, Cassidy
To Rachel,
We’ll all miss seeing you on campus—you brought joy to everyone you met. I wish you all the best luck in your life and marriage. And always remember, if there is anything you need, you can call on me anytime. It has been an honor to have you in my program.
Professor Gilbert Harrison

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue

Chapter One
The man just didn’t give up, did he?
Rachel James jogged through a local playground in her west Boston neighborhood, keeping her gaze front and center so as not to make eye contact with the reporter she’d been secretly meeting with for weeks now. While huffing out a cloud of oxygen as her breath met the crisp November afternoon, she concentrated on maintaining her pace, blocking out her frustrations with a cleansing rush of adrenaline.
Still…it was inevitable. Every second brought her closer to Ian Beck, who had his arms draped with arrogant patience over the back of the bench he sat on. Stretching his long, jeans-clad legs in front of him, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and grinned at her.
Even though she tried not to look, she did.
Immediately, a zing of—what was it, more adrenaline?—shot through her. Her belly tied itself into electric knots.
Butterflies from a brisk jog?
She really didn’t want to admit to anything more.
“Gorgeous day for a run,” Beck said as she passed him. “Or another interview.”
Instead of answering, Rachel merely held up a hand in a civil yet discouraging greeting. Wrong time to dog her with more questions. She was too nervous about tomorrow, dreading what might happen to her good friend and mentor, Professor Gilbert Harrison, at his board hearing.
Besides, she’d given the reporter enough information already. As it became more and more obvious that the university was out to fry Gilbert, Rachel had taken matters into her own hands by talking to Ian Beck in private, without the knowledge of her friends. Getting their approval for her “rescue Gilbert” plan had seemed much too complicated at the time; it would have been argued and debated to death by committee while Gilbert’s situation grew worse. Rachel had only seen the positives in quietly feeding Ian Beck good news about her former teacher. So she’d told him every heartwarming Gilbert anecdote she could think of. She’d been very vocal about the college administration’s obvious vendetta against everyone’s favorite faculty member, and Ian Beck seemed to eat it all up.
And why not? This was scandal at its best: a former English professor and baseball coach fallen from grace, faced with gossip-worthy charges like “grade changing” and “suspicious fraternization with students,” among other damning claims. Though the conduct board purported the need to “discover the truth” about the ultrapopular professor, Rachel knew what was really going down. The administration wanted him fired.
No two ways about it.
Loyalty to Gilbert had demanded that Rachel and a group of ex-students accept his plea to return to Saunders University, to stand up for him as character witnesses. A few of them had gone even further, attempting to clear the professor’s name by seeking out evidence of the good works he’d accomplished.
But that’s when Jane Jackson, Rachel’s friend and Gilbert’s administrative assistant, had uncovered surprising information about the older man—items that had been locked away in a secret safe. Ledgers featuring cryptic notations. Stacks of highly personal documents about the students he’d helped over the years.
Mysteries.
Jane had delivered one of these personal documents to Rachel without informing Gilbert that it had been taken. For all they knew, he hadn’t peered into that safe in months, and they were hoping it would stay that way until they figured out what to do about all the information they’d uncovered.
As Rachel jogged farther away from the reporter, her pace faltered, her mind filled by the image of one particular document that Gilbert had been hiding. A private document that spun her world upside down and made her wonder if she could ever trust him again.
Her very own adoption papers.
Not for the first time—or, she thought, the last— Rachel wondered just what her mentor was up to and why it was his business to have such intimate information about her.
What was he up to? Was he indeed the kind confidant she’d depended on all these years? Or, if he wasn’t her trusted friend, then who was he and what did he have up his sleeve?
Measuring her breathing, Rachel expelled another huff and tried to shove the disturbing questions out of her mind. But they only swirled around in there, a screaming flock of discomfort.
Part of the reason she didn’t want to talk to Ian Beck today was because she had no idea what she’d tell him about Gilbert now that her adoption papers had been found. Thus, these past few weeks, Rachel had pulled back from the journalist, refusing his requests for more meetings. She was too confused, too shaken by her doubts.
In fact, she couldn’t even summon the courage to talk to her once-beloved teacher about any of it.
She rounded a corner, leaping over a pile of dead burnt-orange leaves that had gathered on the sidewalk. Autumn surrounded her, painting the sky gray, forcing her into sweats, long johns, gloves and a knit cap. As the sound of children playing on a swing set caught her attention, Rachel slowed her speed, grasping the chance to finally get her mind off Gilbert. She softly smiled at the way the mothers hugged their infants, at the way it all seemed so natural for some families….
But before she knew it, there were footsteps hitting the pavement behind her. Another jogger or—
She glanced over her shoulder.
Yes, Beck was persistent.
Turning all the way around, she still kept walking, but backward this time, facing the guy head-on even as she moved away from him.
“Listen,” she said, gasping for air. Her lungs and skin felt on fire, and she worked off her gloves, stuffing them into her sweat jacket’s pocket. “I’ve got no comments about Gilbert, all right? Shop’s closed today.”
As he sauntered nearer to her, she was once again lured by the ice-blue of his gaze. He had the face of a handsome pugilist, an old-time fighter you might see in the movies, with eyes that pierced right into their target, a nose slightly flattened by either life or a well-aimed punch from someone who didn’t appreciate his tenacity. He wore his brown hair cut short, but his smile was long and slow, the better to draw her in closer for the final punch, my dear.
Since he was panting a little, she guessed that he’d kept pace with her, hoping to catch up.
“Rachel, you’ve been my best source until now,” Ian said. “What’s going on?”
He took a step closer, and a flare of that same unwelcome attraction lit through her body, heating her in places that had been laid to rest years ago.
That’s the other reason she’d been avoiding him, she thought. Because of the scary nudges of awareness, the sparks of possibility.
She turned around and started to walk off the effects of her jog. It was time to wind it up, anyway.
“Okay,” he said. She could hear Ian starting to follow her. “Then I suppose it’s not a good time to ask you out for drinks or dinner. Not that you ever accept, anyway.”
Boy, she was still heated up. Her skin—the half-black, half-white shade of café au lait that had always made her too self-conscious for her own good—was probably flushed red by now. She flapped a hand in front of her face to cool down, but then realized how counterproductive that was.
He waited out her silence for a moment.
“Is that yet another no?” Ian asked from behind her.
She couldn’t help smiling. He was ruthless in his pursuit of a story, and she admired the quality. She’d always wanted to be the same way: Determined. Bulldogged. Steadfast.
Ever since his newspaper, the National Sun, had scented a scandal and assigned him to stir up more dirt at the university, the reporter had haunted the area. Mainly, he was after the former students who’d been asked to come back in order to save Gilbert’s reputation—and job. That’s why Rachel had chosen to talk to him—because in spite of his paper’s recent reputation, his articles hinted at a humanity she hoped might fully sway the public to the professor’s side.
“If you’re hungry,” she said while walking at a quick clip, “go and eat. There’s a good Thai place down the street.”
“You like Thai?”
This guy really didn’t give up. “When the mood hits me. But what I’d really like right now is to be left alone. You can respect that, can’t you?”
Ian darted in front of her and blocked her progress, hands held out in supplication, that devastating smile sideswiping his lips.
“A brief chat, Rachel,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
“…said the Wolf to Little Red Riding Hood.” Rachel forged ahead, heading home. “I told you. I’m not on the market today.”
“Okay. Then what if it wasn’t an interview?”
He had a glint in his eyes, and Rachel sucked in a breath. Her heart danced, and a tiny pulse in her throat wavered, just like today’s fleeting determination to avoid him.
But wasn’t that always the case with her? Wasn’t her whole life an unlinked chain of joining and quitting, abandoning the promises she’d made?
What a drama queen.
“What are you saying?” she asked Ian.
She stopped in her tracks, and he halted, too. Wind whistled through the trees, fluttering a leaf to the ground beside them.
“Let’s just enjoy each other’s company.” He grinned again, making it seem so easy. “No headlines or quotes involved.”
Protectively, Rachel crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not a big dater, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
He glanced at her bare hand, where her wedding ring would’ve been if she still wore it. “Why?”
While she searched for an answer, pain winged over her conscience and settled on the edges of instinct, just as it always did when she thought of Isaac.
Not that she had ever talked with Ian about her dead husband, a tender-hearted man with laughing brown eyes, beautiful dark skin and a talent for charming a smile out of anyone.
Ian’s voice grew softer. “Would you be insulted if I told you I’ve done basic research about all my sources? I know that Isaac has been gone for five years now, and you haven’t remarried. And as for boyfriends…”
She’d stopped listening, Isaac’s name lingering in her mind. A man she’d loved until he’d succumbed to cardiovascular disease and left her much too early.
“Hey.” Ian bent down and caught her lowered gaze.
Even though the tears didn’t come as freely anymore, she still cried every once in a while, especially during cold nights when the rain tapped at her windows and she didn’t have anyone to cuddle next to in bed. She missed waking up in the morning to find him reading the paper at the kitchen table, missed how he’d come home from his construction work to wrap her in a bear hug. Missed the unconditional love she’d been craving her whole life—something she’d never really felt from the African-American parents who’d adopted her.
All in all, she guessed she missed the knowledge that he’d always be there for her. It clawed at her to know that she’d already gotten her big chance for love and it was gone for the rest of her days. After all, who found that sort of connection twice in a lifetime?
“Everything’s okay.” Rachel glanced up at Ian again. “But I don’t date much. I’m…too busy, you know?”
The journalist nodded, but she couldn’t say he was convinced. He still had a knowing look about him. “I’m up on your schedule. Three days a week working for Nate Williams as a paralegal. The rest of the time you’re helping the professor by rounding up evidence…. Check that. You were helping the professor.”
Rachel swallowed at the mention of it. So he’d noticed the way she’d pulled away from Gilbert. You couldn’t fool someone who made a living digging into places his nose didn’t belong.
As she started walking again, Ian fell into step with her. He was tall enough so that she had to lift her head to steal a peek at his face, but he wasn’t too tall.
Good kissing height, she thought, her lips tingling as she glanced at his mouth.
She saw him forming more words, heard them through her filter of loneliness and yearning.
“I noticed,” he said, “that lately you haven’t been very social with your friends, either, Rachel.”
“Told you.” She tore her gaze away from him and focused on the steamed window of a bakery, pastries and cakes decorating the display. “I’ve been busy.”
Oddly accepting, Ian merely nodded. Had he somehow gotten wind of what her friends were saying about her? Fellow Gilbert-admirers such as Sandra and David Westport who often asked her why she’d recently retreated into herself?
The adoption documents. The secrets of her life held in a safe.
As she and Ian continued moving past the boutiques and bookstores, she thought of all the rumors constantly circulating around Gilbert—questions about his relationships with some students, speculations about the tone of his friendly office meetings where the kids would hang out to shoot the breeze and get a good dose of optimism and counseling.
Dammit, Rachel thought. She should know better when it came to her mentor. He’d been nothing but caring and supportive with her, so how could she doubt him so much now?
She and Ian approached the Thai restaurant, and he slowed down, jerking his head toward the entrance.
“Come on,” he said. “Just a snack.”
Rachel brushed a hand over her flat belly. She’d grown up listening to parents who’d told her that she wasn’t worth the food they fed her, so, more often than not, she’d gone without the extras.
It was a pattern, she thought. Something to cling to.
“I’m not really hungry,” she said, even though her stomach was a little flitty. But maybe that wasn’t because of the lack of grub.
Maybe it was a different kind of hunger altogether.
Her heart thudded once again. Ian Beck.
Pure junk food.
“Don’t give me excuses,” he said, tugging on her jacket. “Let’s go inside. It’ll be warmer.”
She protested, but he wasn’t listening. No, instead she found herself easily giving in—yeah, like she put up a real fight—and followed him down a small stairway into the spicy aromas of the restaurant. Five tables clustered around a bar, where a lit menu offered dishes such as panaeng nuea and tom yam goong.
He got the pad thai and turned to her expectantly, blue eyes shining. “You like it hot?”
Somehow, she got the feeling he was referring to more than food. Her face flushed, and she returned his saucy grin. Heck, why not? Miss Popularity—that was her. But, honestly, she was tired of fretting and could actually use a laugh with the reporter—even if she was dangerously close to flirting with him.
“I’m really not in the mood for anything heavy,” she said, hoping he understood her meaning on more than one level. Then she spoke to the counterperson. “Just an iced tea and a glass of water, please.”
“Oooh. Push that envelope.” Ian dug in his back pocket for a wallet, producing several bills that would cover the total.
Rachel told him that she didn’t have any money on her, and Ian answered that it was his treat. Still, she knew she wouldn’t have been able to afford even this tiny bonus splurge on her budget, anyway. Ever since Isaac had fallen ill, she’d been burdened with financial troubles. It had even gotten to the point where she was ready to sell her home to pay all the outstanding medical bills. Thank God for her boss, Nate Williams, who had worked up a payment schedule when she’d refused his offer of assistance. Thank God for Gilbert, too, because he’d mailed her small loans on occasion over the years, even if the two of them hadn’t been as close as they’d been during her college days.
Before she’d let him down by dropping out.
Consequently, she swore she’d pay Gilbert back once she lifted herself up again, swore she’d become the type of person who could handle life on her own, even if it killed her. She would’ve liked to have accomplished this by her thirtieth birthday, but even that had passed by without success.
But what was new?
Ian retrieved a plastic marker with their order number on it and led Rachel to a table by the high window. Here, the two of them could see everyone’s feet as they walked by on the sidewalk: Ugg boots, business shoes, high-fashioned heels and Timberlands, just like the ones he wore.
With a flippant exhalation, he leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs again, showcasing his boots as he ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up.
“So, Spike,” she said, gesturing to his careless coif, “this is it, then? We’re just hanging out, getting heart-burn, oohing and aahing over noodles?”
“If you were eating anything, I’d be all for it.” He flashed another smile at her, and a slow beat of silence fluttered between them.
“What?” she asked, fidgeting, taking off her knit cap and adjusting her hair. It fell down to her shoulders in the usual tangle of dark curls.
“I’m just…” Ian leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’m wondering about you, Rachel James. I can’t quite figure you out yet, and that’s pretty rare.”
“Do more research.” She smiled at the waitress who set the beverages and food on the table.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get to more than the basics about this whole story.” Ian dug into his meal as soon as the waitress left. Plastic fork halfway to his mouth, he said, “As far as you go, though, I know about Isaac, obviously. And your job and schedule, because I like to keep tabs on where my sources are when I need them.”
Wow, how heady, she thought as she downed most of her water. I’m his source, in spite of this incredibly intimate snack break and everything.
Not exactly a heart-pounding, fantasy-inducing revelation.
But it was better this way, business-only. Right?
While Ian stuffed noodles into his mouth, Rachel finished her water and began to sip her tea. It was thick and sweet, laden with cubes of ice.
Funny how they didn’t have much to talk about when he wasn’t trying to get a headline out of her. Was now a good time to get personal? Even at first sight, she’d wondered about the details of him: the way one ear was slightly higher than the other, the scuffs on his leather jacket, the been-there-done-that shade of his gaze. The occasional shadow that passed over his eyes during their interviews.
But…no. She didn’t have the gumption.
Instead, to cover the awkward pauses in conversation, she resorted to babbling, even though she’d made it clear that she didn’t want to talk about the hearings. But Gilbert was all they had in common, and it beat not talking at all, she supposed.
Still, in the back of her mind, she wondered if he was working his reporter mojo on her, even though her wariness didn’t stop her mouth from moving.
“So tell me,” she said, “when is that first article coming out?”
He washed down his food with the beer he’d ordered, then said, “My editor wants to start the series this coming Monday. It won’t be news so much as a column chronicling how the hearing affects the community. Each following installment will cover what happened the day before and—”
“And how the proceedings stir up the drama and mayhem with all the tawdry details. Jeez. That’s why I agreed to talk to you in the first place, Ian, because Gilbert doesn’t need theatrics. I’m doing damage control and trying to spread the good word about him.”
“Hey.” He set down his glass bottle. “I’ll be respectful of the situation.”
She considered the articles she’d recently seen in his paper and didn’t respond. He seemed to read her mind.
“Did it ever occur to you that, unlike the others, I’m not into the muckraking business?”
“Yes. But lately your paper is.”
A muscle in his jaw constricted. So did his fingers as they wrapped around the beer bottle. He seemed to be fighting himself about something. Those shadows in his gaze told her as much.
But just as soon as the emotion had appeared, it evaporated. He dug his fork into his noodles again, carefree as ever. “I report the facts as I see them, that’s all.”
“And how do you see them in this case?”
He paused, set down his fork, grinned. Yet this was no ordinary Beck-smile. No, this was partially feral, a twist on his charming act.
Rachel’s breath caught in her chest, but she still held his stare. She’d spent a lifetime backing down, backing away. And she was done with it.
Even so, she had the nagging feeling that, as soon as she left Ian, she’d go right back to hiding, ducking confrontation. Odd how she was empowered to stand up for herself only when she was around this particular guy. Somehow, he seemed to nonchalantly encourage her, bringing out what little strength she had.
In fact, it seemed that he rather enjoyed getting a rise out of her.
“I see it this way,” he said. “The administration believes that your Gilbert is ‘old fashioned’ and behind the times. They say he’s too much of a friend to the students, and would love to replace him with someone new.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I don’t have the luxury of believing anything.” Ian rested his arms on the table, still dangerous. “As I said, I only report the facts.”
“You know those aren’t facts at all.”
“Who can be sure? That’s why there’s going to be a hearing tomorrow.”
“Hearing. Huh.” Even though things weren’t going smoothly with Gilbert right now, Rachel rose to the occasion, paying her mentor back for everything he’d done over the years, protecting him from the bottom of her heart. “It’s more like a witch hunt. Surely you’ve found that the administration has an agenda.”
For a spine-tingling moment, Ian’s gaze blasted into her. A hunter’s eyes.
Then he sat back again, apparently satisfied. “Smart man, that Gilbert, calling on the right people to defend him. All his favorite students from the past.”
“Not just ‘students,’ Ian. You’ve seen the list. Nate, our notorious defense lawyer. Kathryn, who was a model before that awful car accident. Jacob, an esteemed fertility specialist… Should I continue? Because I can.”
He took her bait, highly engaged by the fire he’d lit under her. “Please do.”
“An assistant to an ambassador— You know, it’s not going to be hard to show that Gilbert produced success in our own lives and for the world at large. The board is going to come off badly when we’re done with it….”
She stopped, suddenly aware that she wasn’t one of those successes she’d listed. She’d left Saunders during her junior year to marry Isaac, and it’d broken Gilbert’s heart. He’d bemoaned the education she was deserting, reminded her that she was just leaving before she could finish what she’d started. Truthfully, Rachel had suspected there’d been more to it than that. That her mentor had been grieving the loss of their relationship, knowing it would never be the same once she married and put Saunders behind.
Ian was watching her, a sympathetic light in his eyes. God, no wonder he was so damned good at getting his story. He really knew how to work his subject.
“It must’ve been hard,” he said, voice soft.
She stared at her tea. The creamy shade of brown reflected everything she’d hidden from all her life. The color of mixed skin that never quite belonged, a tint that had set her apart from family and community.
“What’s hard?” she asked.
“Coming back to find Gilbert, seeing he’s changed from the energetic, positive man you used to know.”
Gilbert. Because of his plea to return to Saunders for this hearing—and her great need to make up for all the disappointment she’d caused him—Rachel had seen him in person for the first time in months. Usually, they caught up with each other over the phone, but that hadn’t prepared her for the light that had gone out of his gaze, the wrinkles that had invaded his once-firm skin. But what hurt the most was seeing those proud shoulders slumped under the weight of all these heinous accusations. He’d been protecting so much, she thought, especially when it came to the biggest secret of all—his status as an anonymous benefactor who’d helped so many students during their worst days. Only one of the few who knew about this, Rachel was straining to stay silent, to make Gilbert believe that she and most of her other friends didn’t know about this bombshell.
Now, Rachel nodded to Ian, unable to deny the shock of Gilbert’s recently degraded appearance, the sadness of her friends who also loved the professor.
“Yes,” she said, voice choked, “it was hard seeing him this way. But that’s why we’re back, to bring him around again. Just like he did for us.”
“And just like someone else did,” Ian added.
Rachel froze while he eased out his notepad.
She should’ve seen this coming, but she wasn’t as good as this pro. He’d definitely been doing his research.
“Rumor has it,” he said, “that there’s been an anonymous benefactor who’s helped select students on campus for many years at their moment of greatest need. And guess what?” Ian offered her yet another cocky grin.
She stared straight ahead, giving nothing away.
“Those students just happen to include most of your friends,” Ian added. “Any comment?”

Chapter Two
Even the next morning, as Ian strolled over one of the manicured lawns that covered the Saunders campus, he couldn’t believe he’d been so blunt with Rachel James.
Kid gloves, he reminded himself. This particular woman required a little more finesse than most.
When he’d busted right out with that benefactor query, he’d been going for the shock effect, the pure second of truth in an interviewee’s eyes as he or she absorbed the question. Rachel hadn’t been any different than the other countless subjects Ian had ambushed for a story—it was just that her unguarded reaction had gotten to him this time. She had bent his heart as if it were heated steel, reshaping it until his pulse had finally cooled hours later.
It bothered him to be treating Rachel James like another cog in the wheel of his career, and this shocked Ian, a man who wasn’t so used to regret.
In fact, her reaction had caused him to really look at himself in the mirror this morning…and he didn’t like what had peered back at him: a man with the flint of self-loathing in his gaze.
Maybe he just felt bad about the way she’d left the little Thai restaurant without another word to him, slipping on her knit cap and walking out of the place with a dignity Ian could only wish for. Or maybe he was getting soft in his skills, just as his new editor had muttered last week.
Remorse. Emotional second-guessing. Hell, his job didn’t allow him those sorts of perks. Nope. His profession—damn, that was sure a noble word for digging up crud and slinging it over a page just to make a buck—demanded that he chase Rachel down again.
Yet, frankly, he had the sneaking suspicion that she knew something about the “mysterious benefactor” of Saunders University, so he had every reason to pursue the matter, anyway.
A looming clock tower struck eight times, the bells ringing through the cool air. Ian fixed his gaze on Lumley Hall, the maple-shrouded red-brick building where Professor Gilbert Harrison’s hearing would be held. Students wearing scarves and nosy frowns were loitering outside, and Ian’s reporter sense prodded him to ask a few questions, just to establish the tone for today’s proceedings.
Were these kids here to support the professor? Or did they, like the administration, have an ax to grind?
Somehow Ian doubted they did, based on the information he’d gotten so far. Everyone seemed to love Gilbert Harrison—except for the old stodgies in charge.
While passing one of many bike racks that dotted the campus, Ian scanned the crowds again, locking in on a single person who stood outside of the hall.
Rachel James, the one-time queen of the campus.
Although she was clearly included in a cluster of friends, she was standing on the fringes, arms crossed over a long, camel-colored coat that had seen better days. Her black hair fell to her shoulders in a cloud of rough curls, and she had a wool scarf wrapped over the bottom half of her face, hiding the full lips Ian had entertained more than a few wicked thoughts about.
He took a couple of seconds to appreciate her, this serene woman who obviously had so much more going on beneath the surface than she would reveal. He could tell by the troubled depths of her almond-shaped brown eyes, by the way they often reflected a level of sadness that he wanted to understand.
Damn, he thought, ambling closer to her. It was all pretty interesting, this new side he was discovering about himself. He didn’t really stick around women long enough to develop anything beyond the superficial warmth of a morning-after glow, not that his job allowed him to do more than that, anyway. Still, he always seemed to find willing-enough partners who understood what they were both getting into.
Would a woman like Rachel James…?
What? Agree to eat local cuisine, drink some wine and come back to his hotel every night until he checked out and moved on to the next assignment, the next affair? Not likely. Not someone sweet and earthy like her.
It didn’t matter, though. She was only a misguided tickle to his sex drive, encouraged by any number of things: the slam-in-the-gut rush of the first time he’d identified his beautiful source on campus and talked with her, going beyond their all business phone conversations. The willingness she’d shown to talk to him further—albeit secretly—even though her friends weren’t nearly so accommodating. The way she watched him—as if she expected more of him than muckraking.
How could one assessing look from her make him reevaluate the growing compromises of his job, the sleazy need to uncover scandal, the negativity that his editor emphasized more every week?
Wiping away a twinge of guilt that was recurring far too much lately, Ian boldly approached Rachel, donning his give-me-some-info facade once again: the persuasive smile, the relaxed frame of his body.
“Morning,” he said, nodding at her, then at all her friends.
They gave him an assessing glance, said hello, then discreetly—and not rudely—huddled into themselves, closing their circle against him.
But Rachel didn’t step into it. Instead, she tugged the scarf off her face and subtly gestured to a spot beneath a lone oak tree, indicating with an angry gaze that he should meet her there.
Well, he thought. Looks like she’s still a bit put out by yesterday’s impromptu interview.
A thrust of desire heated Ian’s belly as he followed in the wake of her jasmine perfume. She had his libido’s number, with that smooth, light brown complexion, those long eyebrows winging over dark, liquid eyes, those high cheekbones and lush mouth. Even though she had the delicate features of an exotic pixie, he could sense a woman’s blood—hot and alive—pulsing under her skin.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He glanced around, as if flummoxed. “I heard there’s a trial going on.”
“A closed trial.”
Ian’s journalistic ambition kicked awake. “Not according to the president of the college board of directors. Alex Broadstreet invited the press.”
She merely stared at him for a moment. Her eyes resembled open wounds that bled dark frustration.
His first instinct was to touch her, to let her know that she’d get through this all right. But Ian checked his guts, reminding himself that he’d only be asking for trouble.
“Broadstreet can’t do that,” she finally said. “He can’t bring a private hearing to the public.”
Ian made a mental note to get hold of the campus’s conduct-hearing guidelines. But since Broadstreet was the Grand Poo-Bah in charge, Ian suspected he could mold the rules to his own advantage pretty easily.
When Ian glanced at her again, the pain hadn’t gone away. It was too much to stand.
“Rachel.” He battled with himself, then reached out to casually tug on the lapel of her coat, thinking it wasn’t much of a come-on and, therefore, nothing to worry about. “Broadstreet is doing it, whether you like it or not.”
“Damn him.” She huffed out an exasperated breath, then absently caressed the patch of worn wool he’d touched. “He’s bound and determined to do anything to disgrace Gilbert. This isn’t right.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. She was still holding the tips of her fingers against the material, her head tilted, eyes wide with so many questions he couldn’t answer. It was as if, among other things, he’d bewildered her with his halfway playful gesture.
Strangely embarrassed for some reason, Ian took a step back.
Out of self-preservation, he once again assumed the role of unbiased reporter, even though there was a niggling poke of ethics in his gut that was agreeing with Rachel.
In an effort to fully distance himself, he said, “Can I quote you on your disgust regarding the hearing’s parameters?”
He couldn’t have chosen a colder thing to say.
She shot him a look—the kind every man feels sorry about receiving—then started walking back to her friends. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t grown used to this sort of reaction. In his line of work, he didn’t exactly endear himself to people.
So why did this particular brush-off sting?
He watched as she situated herself in back of Jane Jackson, Gilbert’s secretary. Next to Jane stood her fiancé, Smith Parker, a campus maintenance worker. Ian suspected that the two, along with Rachel and Sandra Westport, had investigated Gilbert’s situation themselves on the quiet.
As Rachel whispered into the redheaded Jane’s ear, Ian was interrupted by the arrival of Joe his photographer.
“Ready to do some damage?” asked the short, squat shutterbug.
Ian tried not to flinch, especially with Rachel standing only yards away. Somehow, she made him too conscious of what his editor had instructed him to do: sell more papers with salacious details.
“If damage involves the truth,” he said through a clenched jaw, “then I want it.”
Joe chuffed and shifted his cargo. “You’re talking like we’re back in the golden days of journalism, Beck. Remember, the Sun don’t report actual news much now. We’re in to…what does the boss call it? Titillation. Red ink. Dirt.”
Once again, the term tabloid stabbed at Ian, even though his newspaper had ridden the coattails of a more prestigious reputation for the last few years. But that’s all it was—a reputation that was slowly crumbling with the addition of what the new editor called “selling points.”
Ian gestured toward the growing throng of students who were waiting outside the hall. “Joe, let’s start off by taking the temperature over there, then we’ll set up inside.”
“Will do.”
And, as Ian Beck went about his work, he tried to avoid Rachel’s gaze, which had settled on him like an invisible hand that was guiding him away from the demands of his job and toward something that resembled ethics.
A hand that a fly-by-night reporter like him had been spending way too much energy trying to dodge lately.

“Earth to Rachel?”
She whipped her attention away from the retreating Ian Beck and focused on Jane Jackson, whose pale green eyes were narrowed in speculation.
With an innocent smile, Rachel controlled the thrum of her heartbeat, then focused on a man who was speaking decisively into a cell phone. Nate Williams, her boss and fellow Saunders alumni.
An attorney who was on fire with the news Rachel had just given him.
“I need access to the Saunders board’s hearing guidelines,” he was saying. “I’ll be back in the office after Katie’s testimony, so have everything ready for me to tear Broadstreet a new… Yeah, you’ve got it. Thank you.”
Rachel knew that he was having one of the paralegals do the grunt work. Normally, Nate depended on her to be his right hand, but since they were both involved in the hearing and she had rearranged her days off to be here, that was impossible.
As he ended the call, he grumbled, “It’s not bad enough that Broadstreet scheduled this on a Friday, knowing the hearing would go for more than one day and Gilbert would have to stew over the weekend. Now he has to invite the world. Bastard.”
His girlfriend, Kathryn Price, a former model whose incandescence wasn’t at all marred by scarring from an awful accident, laid a comforting hand on Nate’s arm. The powerful lawyer, so revered in the courtroom, practically melted under her gentle touch.
Rachel had to glance away, deeply affected by the sight. Once upon a time, she’d had love, too, and she knew how easily it could disappear, stranding you.
“Rachel?” Jane repeated her name. “Kind of distracted today, huh? But…what am I saying? You’ve been a walking zombie lately.”
Pulling her coat tighter around her body, Rachel anticipated Jane’s next question, which would no doubt contain the words what and is and wrong.
“I just wish Gilbert would get here,” she said, finding a decent explanation for her spaciness. “I want this hearing to be done and over with.”
“Don’t we all.” Jane paused, then jerked her chin toward Ian Beck, who was mingling with the students over by the hall’s entrance, chatting them up. “You and the reporter were having some kind of exchange back there.”
Rachel shrugged, trying to play it cool, to deny her association with Ian. “He was getting my reaction the news about Alex Broadstreet and how he’s found yet another way to mess with Gilbert. That’s all.”
“Oh.” Jane paused. “I thought maybe it was something else. You know, like hormones.”
“Jane.” Rachel didn’t mean to sound like a first-grade teacher talking to a kid who was about to dump a bottle of finger paint onto the table, but she had to dispel that notion before it got out of hand. “He’s just doing his job. That’s it.”
“Ri-ight.”
“Don’t give me that grin. I’m serious.”
“Of course you are. When he touched your coat and gave you that hot look, it was all business.”
Hunger waved down Rachel’s body, even as she searched for a comeback. But, thankfully, the conversation was cut short by the arrival of Sandra and David Westport.
The ex-athlete and his blond, blue-eyed wife, a local reporter in her north end neighborhood, hugged Rachel in greeting, as if she were a prodigal child they hadn’t seen for years. Silly, really, because she’d just run into them on campus the other day. Granted, she’d made an excuse to leave right away, but it wasn’t like she was…
Okay, yeah. She was avoiding them. Those adoption papers from Gilbert’s safe had thrown Rachel into a tail-spin, jetting her back into the confusion of her youth—a time when her adoptive parents had made her feel so isolated, so confused. A time when she’d been taught that retreat was the safest option.
And now with Ian Beck asking questions about the benefactor…
Sandra kept her arm around Rachel’s shoulders. Was her friend restraining her in case she ran away again?
“We were thinking,” Sandra said, “that, after the hearing, some of us would go down to Brewster’s for a recap.”
“Or a nightcap,” David, her husband, added.
Jane smiled. “Or, in our case, it’ll be an afternoon cap.”
The attempted joke made them laugh softly, but the sound was stilted, colored by the anxiety they were all feeling for Gilbert. Rachel had already told Jane about Ian’s benefactor queries, and she knew that this tavern meeting would just be another group discussion about what to do with their secret information regarding Gilbert. As usual, the meeting would go nowhere, because no one wanted to pile more stress on their mentor by revealing what they knew. In fact, the gang would probably spend more time asking Rachel what was wrong than anything else.
So why should she go?
Instinctively, Rachel patted Sandra’s arm and started to remove herself. “I can’t. I’m…”
Before she could say “Busy,” she saw the looks on everyone’s faces. The traded I-told-you-she’d-refuse glances.
She didn’t bother to finish the excuse.
Instead, she changed the subject. “Where’s the rest of the crowd?”
David glanced at his watch. “Jacob and Ella are running late because of the little bun in the oven, but they’ll be here. Eric and Cassidy are bringing Gilbert. They went over to his place early, just to steady him.”
Biting her lip, Rachel held back a rush of sorrow. She should have been the one who volunteered to drive him, to perk him up.
And from the way everyone was watching her, Rachel knew that they knew it, too. Knew that they were all dying to ask her what had happened to make her so standoffish.
Only you and I know, Rosemary, she thought, addressing the woman whose name had been burned into Rachel’s memory. The name of a woman Gilbert, the benefactor, had no doubt helped along the way, too.
Rosemary Johnson, her birth mother, a woman Rachel had never known. Was she dead? Alive? All Rachel wanted was to find out more about the mysterious lady, even if she might not like what she discovered. But she didn’t have the courage. How could she when Rosemary had deserted her in the first place? And what about the empty spot on those papers, the glaring space where her birth father’s name should have been?
Rachel could imagine the worst—Rosemary, single and pregnant, relieved to give up the unwanted baby that had been forced upon her. It wasn’t as if finding Rosemary and learning the truth was going to bring happiness to Rachel’s life.
Right?
For the next few minutes, everyone made small talk, giving Rachel peace. Then Eric Barnes and Cassidy Maxwell arrived, holding hands as they followed Gilbert.
Professor Harrison, neatly dressed in a long tweed coat and scarf, was accepting a lot of love from the young students who flanked him, students who adored him as much as Rachel did.
Students who were still fresh-faced and eager to listen to all his advice.
For a second, Rachel saw him as the man he used to be: filled with enthusiasm and pep, his brown eyes sparkling with wit and affection. But then he glanced over at her, and she saw the reality: the bent shoulders, the gray in his hair, the fading energy.
Still, Rachel’s emotions overwhelmed her, bringing a brilliant smile to her face as she chanced a wave at her beloved mentor.
He brightened at this, and she realized how much she affected him, how happy she made him when she was around.
Yet she’d always known that, ever since the day she’d quit college and he’d practically begged her to come back.
Just as she was about to take her first hesitant step toward Gilbert, the press surrounded him. In their ranks she saw Ian Beck, his pen poised above his notebook as he observed Rachel.
She could tell he knew that she was hanging back, too riddled with doubts to go to Gilbert.
Turning aside from the journalist’s measuring gaze, she entered Lumley Hall with her friends, feeling as if they were about to step into a fighting ring.

The spacious lecture hall was filled with observers and echoing with Alex Broadstreet’s voice as he spoke into the standing microphone. He was reading the board’s charges against Professor Gilbert Harrison, his tone as rich and full of crap as a senator on the campaign trail.
Ian was tuning the man out because he was more than familiar with Broadstreet’s complaints. Instead, he inspected the faces.
That’s where the real story was—in the people, not the unproved speculations.
Next to him, Joe took another picture of Broadstreet’s grandstanding. The flash caught a real headline moment, the spit-polished president pointing his finger in the air, his brows raised in righteous indignation.
Broadstreet was forty-two, sleek as a political machine, smooth and polished in a creased gray suit. From the get-go, Ian had gotten a bad vibe from him, and he trusted his instinct implicitly. It had served him well over the years in every hard-hitting assignment from Bosnia to Iran, from Sudan to the urban ghettos of America. But those had been the days of real news, and sometimes Ian feared that he’d lost his edge during recent stories like this one, where the intention was to shock instead of illuminate.
As the president gabbed on, Ian took another opportunity to peek at Rachel James, who had a front-row seat along with the rest of her friends. Late arrivals Dr. Jacob Weber and Ella Gardner had sneaked into their nearby seats just moments ago, giving Ian an excuse to train unfettered attention in Rachel’s direction.
But it was almost as if she was stridently avoiding him. Was it because she was questioning his part in the proceedings?
Hell, he couldn’t blame her.
The audience stirred as Broadstreet called David Westport as the first character witness for Gilbert, then retreated to his seat behind a long table. He was surrounded by the nine other faculty members and ten students who composed the board.
The people who would be deciding Gilbert’s fate.
At the other end of the table, Professor Harrison sat by himself. Ian noticed that the older man kept glancing at Rachel, as if measuring something about her.
There was a real story somewhere. Beneath all the dirt, there was definitely something else blooming.
By now, David Westport had taken his place at the other end of the table. A former college jock, he looked daunting with his flashing green eyes, coal-black hair and all-pro shoulders. As he sat, he sent Broadstreet a glare of pure distaste—not that it fazed the president—then turned the tables and winked at Gilbert.
Cameras flashed, causing Ian to once again notice how much of a circus Broadstreet had constructed. The president really had something against Gilbert, and from what Ian knew, he suspected it all had to do with running the college like a dictator.
And a lot to do with personal jealousy.
For the next half hour, Broadstreet allowed the witness to praise Gilbert, to expound on the professor’s exemplary guidance skills and giving nature. It was a good start.
Until the president dove in.
“Mr. Westport,” he began, “thank you for the testimonial.”
“Anything for Professor Harrison,” David said, smiling.
“Yes. Yes, you know, that seems to be our problem.” Broadstreet shuffled some papers while clearing his throat. “Or, should I say, the professor’s willingness to do anything for his students is the real sticking point.”
From the very first, Ian had been bowled over by the sense of loyalty Gilbert inspired in his students, former and present. Now, as his attention drifted to the professor—a beaten version of the savior he was supposed to be—Ian’s heart actually went out to him. Quickly, he sketched the older man in his notepad, wanting to capture the weariness, the lines of exhaustion mapping his face.
Then, it got ugly.
Broadstreet began questioning David Westport about his poor high school grades, clearly catching the big guy off guard in light of how the proceedings had been going so far. It seemed that, in spite of his academic woes, Westport had received an athletic scholarship, and the president hounded him on how this could’ve possibly happened.
During all of this, Ian kept glancing at Rachel, noting how pained and baffled she appeared.
There’s something deeper going on in her head, Ian thought. Something that was rooted below Westport’s academic record.
And as Broadstreet revealed that Gilbert Harrison had been instrumental in securing this scholarship for David Westport, the hall was silenced.
Temporarily victorious, the president turned to Gilbert. “What’s your response to this, Harrison?”
The audience stirred, clearly noticing how Broadstreet had already stripped Gilbert of his title.
The older man sighed, offering a weary smile and spreading out his hands. “I have no comment, other than to say that even if David seemed to be an undeserving candidate for the scholarship, he’s since proved his worthiness.”
He wasn’t directly defending himself? Why?
Without thinking, Ian scribbled notes. Westport had worked with kids after college, strengthening their self-esteem through the creation of a sports camp. Maybe that was all the defense Gilbert thought he needed.
As if to prove that theory, a smattering of light applause came from the crowd at the mention of Westport’s eventual success, but Broadstreet held up a hand, silencing them.
The president went on from there, hardly cowed.
He ripped into Professor Harrison, saying that there was no way of knowing whether or not Westport was worthy of the scholarship, seeing as no one could’ve foretold the future back then.
All the while, Gilbert Harrison refused to defend himself further.
With a flurry of penmanship, Ian wrote, “Why the refusal to answer?”
After that, the president went on to attack Gilbert, painting a picture of a scheming professor who didn’t think twice about going behind the administration’s back. Unfortunately, even though Westport did his best to remedy the situation by sticking to his testimonial and saying how Gilbert had affected his life for the good, Broadstreet hammered away at Gilbert’s failure to defend himself, encouraging a heavy silence after Westport was finally dismissed.
Broadstreet had managed to definitely turn the tables on a promising start, and during the break, his smug grin bore testament to that.
Things will all go downhill from here if Gilbert doesn’t speak up, Ian thought. When he risked a glance at Rachel, he found her distraught, biting her lip and shaking her head.
He itched to sit next to her, to offer words of comfort or…
Who was he kidding? That wasn’t his job.
Ian got back into reporter mode—where he damn well belonged—when Broadstreet reconvened the proceedings and called Kathryn Price to the table for Gilbert.
It was as if the entire hall scooted to the edges of their chairs, waiting to glimpse the statuesque golden girl who’d suffered such pain and tragedy. Murmurs provided a processional for the scarred ex-model as she lifted her chin and made her way to the hot seat. Once there, she smiled at Nate Williams, who returned the affection.
Unable to stop himself, Ian slid another gaze to Rachel, hearing Broadstreet speaking the usual opening greeting to Kathryn.
But then things took a turn.
“You’re another character witness who plans to save Gilbert’s career?” Broadstreet made it sound like an accusation, as if she would fail to help Gilbert as spectacularly as David Westport had done.
Because the professor wasn’t exactly helping himself.
“Yes,” she said. “And I’ve got plenty to say. I hope you’re comfortable in that seat.”
That brought a chuckle from the audience, and Broadstreet shot them the stink eye. If they were laughing at the slightest excuse from Kathryn, they were doing it to offer aid to Gilbert.
Ian kind of dug that.
Automatically, he noted that Rachel had even perked up. It sent a tiny thrill through him, reawakening the nerve endings on his skin, his sharp awareness of her.
Before Broadstreet could regroup, Kathryn was off and running. Tucking a strand of glossy brown hair behind her ear, she said, “Really, I’m surprised at the board, calling Gilbert out like this. He’s helped a lot of students during those awful, horrifying office hours that he holds. You know—where the kids gather and generally find some acceptance and understanding. He’s not the leader of a cult or staging evil activities under the administration’s nose—not like you’d love to think, President Broadstreet. He’s changed lives, and to fire a man who can bring out the best in people and help them to see their potential…”
Broadstreet tried to interject, but Kathryn merely held up a finger to quiet him, continuing.
“As a rule, I don’t talk about this, but during one of those office hours, Professor Harrison listened to me as I told him about a sexual assault. My own assault. So I know the wonders Professor Harrison can work.”
The oxygen seemed to leave the room. It certainly left Ian.
“I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, Ms. Price.” Broadstreet did look genuinely sorry, though Ian wondered if it was because his momentum had been destroyed.
But Ian decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
And he could afford to because, suddenly, as Kathryn emotionally related how Gilbert had counseled her out of depression, Ian started to see the light.
Maybe the professor really was a damned hero, just like Rachel had always said. Persecuted by the system, the victim of a misguided man’s power trip.
He was someone Ian could relate to, being a true believer in bucking authority himself.
His heart rate picked up speed.
God, what if…
Yeah.
These were times for heroes to emerge, Ian thought, blood pounding in his ears. Forget the dirt, the drama, the damage.
What if he could uncover what was really going on, show the country that, somewhere on earth, there were still good people? Mentors who came to the rescue. Protégés who would stand up for someone they loved and believed in. Patchwork families who came together in hard times to fight for what was right.
In an age that could use a hero or two, Ian had stumbled upon one at the most unexpected time.
Wouldn’t it be great if someone could show this reunion to the rest of the people out there who needed some real news and positive truth?
Someone like…
Energized, Ian watched Gilbert Harrison shine a look of astonishing affection on Kathryn, who smiled back at him with adoration.
Someone like Ian himself. Someone who would uncover what was really going on and report the truth.
It was a headline that might not sell a lot of papers, but one that could—maybe—save his own soul.
If it wasn’t already too far gone.

Chapter Three
That night, Rachel took a shower, then slipped into some cozy flannel pajamas to eat a popcorn dinner and watch TV. Her friends had indeed met at the tavern after the hearing, but a phone call from Jane had informed Rachel that the gang still disagreed about telling Gilbert that they knew about him being the benefactor.
Why upset their mentor right now? they’d decided yet again. Gilbert didn’t need to know that they were all aware of his secret, especially since Ella Gardner, the only person who was supposed to know, could talk him into going public herself.
Besides, if they all kept their mouths shut, Ian Beck would have less of a chance of discovering Gilbert’s business. After all, the professor had kept his benefactor status under wraps for years. No one knew why, precisely, but he’d obviously been intent on maintaining his privacy.
More remorseful than ever about avoiding another gang meeting and going behind their backs with Ian, Rachel sat down on her couch, popcorn bowl on her lap, and found her favorite old Hitchcock movie on cable. She was trying to escape again, but it wasn’t any use.
The next time my friends ask for my company, she thought, I need to go. I miss them.
As if in answer to her musings, a knock sounded at her door.
She tiptoed over the worn carpet, coming to peek out of the lace curtains by the door. Oh, no.
Bathed by the porch light, Ian Beck saw her spying on him, a smile lighting over his lips as he raised his hand in a friendly wave.
Rachel darted away from the window, thrown off guard. “What in the world…?”
She glanced down at her faded yellow pajamas, the flannel design featuring waddling ducks. Yeesh, there were even dialogue balloons with the word “Quack!” in them.
Her first instinct was to run to her room for a robe, but the darn thing was so raggedy that it made her pajamas look like J-Lo’s newest Academy Awards ensemble in comparison.
Ian knocked again. “You still there?” he asked through the door.
“Yes.” She paused. “I’m not really dressed for company.”
“Oh, the duck pajamas. I saw them when you just looked through the window. They’re cute.”
So much for fooling old X-ray eyes. But why did it matter? Was she really out to impress this guy?
An unbidden blush answered that for her.
In response, Rachel unlocked her door, determined to prove herself wrong. Maybe duck pajamas would kill the tension or…whatever it was between them. Flannel wasn’t exactly the new lingerie.
She opened the door a crack, letting in a stream of chilled air. Ian was breathing plumes of smoke, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his face reddened by the weather.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You want another interview.”
“Not…exactly.” He shuffled around, doing a subtle cold dance.
She was going to have to invite him in, wasn’t she?
Opening the door the rest of the way, she ushered him over the threshold, anxiously tugging at the bottom of her pajama top as if that would turn it into a fashionable sweater.
“Damn, it feels good in here, and it smells like popcorn,” he said, peering around her modest home, absolutely unaware that she was considering putting it on the market by the end of the month.
Or maybe, she thought, I could get a full-time job, a second job or… Or what? Debtor’s prison?
After closing the door, she gestured toward the bowl of popcorn on the couch. “I’m settled in for the night.”
“That’s what you do on a Friday?” He shrugged out of his jacket and allowed her to drape it over a dining chair. “You’re a homebody.”
She’d developed the habit with Isaac. On Fridays after work, he would stop by the video store and rent kung fu videos, buying one per month to add to his collection. Sonny Chiba, Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan—she was well acquainted with the boys, but watching those kinds of flicks didn’t appeal to her anymore. They’d only been fun with her husband around.
Still, the homebody habit remained, especially nowadays, when she could make herself feel better just by hanging out alone. So much for being the belle of the social scene anymore.
“I outgrew the weekend bar thing a long time ago,” she said. “I’d rather hole in and get to bed early.”
The mention of a bed seemed to stop the flow of air around them. Suddenly, the TV’s volume seemed way too loud, her pajamas much too revealing, her bare feet too vulnerable.
Even standing a few feet away from him felt too close, as if his skin was giving off more heat than she could handle.
“Can I get you something to drink?” She took off toward the sofa and grabbed the popcorn, then veered toward the kitchen, trying to put some distance between their bodies.
Ian followed her with his gaze, a lopsided grin revealing that he knew how nervous she was.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.
After setting the bowl on the counter, she got two bottled waters out of the refrigerator. It was the most harmless beverage she could think of. “So what brings you around? The hearing wasn’t enough for you today?”
“I don’t blame you for being frustrated. It couldn’t have been easy, sitting there and listening to Broadstreet manipulate whatever Westport or Kathryn had to say.” Ian sauntered over to the counter, where he half sat on a barstool that showed a tiny tear on one side. “Just when things were starting to look good, he turned it around. And I don’t think Gilbert was helping by just sitting there and taking Broadstreet’s knocks.”
“We all thought Kathryn’s testimony was going well until Broadstreet started second-guessing Gilbert’s good intentions.”
Rachel urged the bowl of popcorn at him, then uncapped both waters. She took a swig of hers, as if quelling her temper.
Damn Alex Broadstreet. After Kathryn had shed such wonderful light on Gilbert’s caring nature, Broadstreet had tried to make it seem as if the professor had shirked his duty by failing to get his student proper guidance from a “real” mental-care professional. In essence, Gilbert had come off as inept and arrogant.
And, as Ian had pointed out, Gilbert hadn’t even lifted a finger in his own defense. He was guarding his secrets carefully. But why?
As she lowered the bottle, she realized that Ian had been carefully gauging her. Her blood gave a shuddering thump, leaving her heart racing.
“Monday’s another day,” Ian said. “Nate Williams and Jacob Weber are bound to present strong testimony. They’ll give Broadstreet a run for his money.”
She didn’t want to think about next week, because she would be testifying, too. Boy, how would she stand up to the board president? He was going to tear her apart.
Ian must have picked up on her fear, because he reached out, placed his hand over the one she was resting on the counter. The contact sheltered her in warm calm, spiking her skin with tingles.
“You’re surrounded by friends,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice how supportive you are of one another. In fact, afterward, I saw Ella Gardner giving Gilbert a pep talk.”
For a sublime moment, she was almost able to block out reality, to concentrate on his palm covering the back of her hand.
But she had also seen Ella and Gilbert, and the memory intruded upon any comfort she might have felt from Ian’s touch. Ella, who’d been ahead of Rachel in school by several years, had been very close to the professor, too. When Rachel had seen her talking to him after the hearing, she’d been struck by her friend’s pleading gestures, the desperation written on her face. Rachel knew that the pregnant woman had been trying to convince Gilbert to confess that he was the benefactor, but of course, the older man had sat there shaking his head, apparently resolute and clueless to the fact that the rest of the gang was already armed with the truth.
Why can’t he just admit it? Rachel wondered once again. Can’t he see the revelation would only help his cause?
She felt Ian’s hand tighten over hers. Instinctively, she turned her palm upward. His skin was rough, masculine, strong in its reassurance. When he rubbed his thumb near hers, the easy caress took her breath away.
But then she glanced into his eyes—those intense reporter’s weapons. All the questions he was harboring speared into her and, suddenly, she remembered who they both were.
A journalist.
And his prey.
She backed away from him, disconnecting, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why are you here again?”
On the counter, his hand closed, just like the mouth of a predator after it realizes that its last meal has escaped.
But Ian’s posture told a different story. For a moment, he seemed sad, lost in an entirely different way.
“I just…” He straightened in his chair, shrugged. “I wanted you to know what I saw today, what I’m going to report—a man being railroaded.”
Excellent! But…he could’ve phoned her with this news.
Was it possible that he only wanted to see her again, and that’s why he’d shown up on her doorstep?
Before Rachel could get too excited, she dissuaded herself from believing it.
Instead, she looked askance at him. “I thought you were supposed to sit on the fence, to stand back and report the facts.”
“Yeah. That’s how it’s supposed to be. But sometimes it’s impossible to divorce yourself from a story, especially when there’s real injustice. The more I learn about Gilbert Harrison, the more I suspect Alex Broadstreet’s motives.”
Her arms slipped from their protective position across her chest as he continued.
“I’m more surprised at my feelings than anyone,” he said, laughing a little, “but I was getting riled at that hearing. I’ve even had this pinch of…I don’t know what it is…anger?…that Gilbert is going to come out on the wrong side of everything and—you know what? That’s wrong. A Good Samaritan is taking a beating from an authority figure and I can’t stop it.”
Rachel refused to comment. Had Ian found proof that Gilbert was the benefactor? No. He couldn’t. He would’ve come right out and said it by now. He was only talking in generalities.
“It doesn’t sit right with me,” he added. “Hell, but what do I know? Gilbert won’t agree to an interview, so I have no basis for a personal opinion.”
Rachel’s heart crashed to the tile. “Ah. So that’s it. You want me to set up an interview with him.”
Of course. That was the reason for Ian’s home invasion. He wanted to work his wiles on her in person, probably knowing she was a sucker where Gilbert’s well-being was concerned.
Ian ran a finger over the rim of the popcorn bowl, his brow furrowed. “Even though I’d like nothing better than to talk with him, that’s not why I’m here, Rachel. I…” He shook his head. “Damn, I’m not sure why I came.”
She chanced a look at him, finding that he was doing the same. When their gazes locked, her pulse paused…stretched…popped, forcing her to glance away.
The room seemed entirely too small with him in it. Alarmingly, space only seemed to shrink more and more with every tick of the clock on the fireplace mantel.
But the last thing she wanted to do was acknowledge the taunt awareness, the sensual snap in the air.
This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t he see the barriers between them…his job, the color of her skin?
“Who would’ve thunk it?” she said, evading the moment. “You’re actually a crusader, Ian Beck.”
“Not me.” He sighed, grinned, grabbed some popcorn and rattled it around in his closed hand. The cavalier journalist had returned, thank goodness. “I haven’t been a pen-wielding warrior for a while. But if Gilbert manages to get his fat pulled out of the fire, I wouldn’t mind seeing it.”
As he tossed the food into his mouth, he seemed much too casual. Was he lying to her? Did Ian Beck really have a softer side? Not that he’d admit to it.
Still, this new possibility prodded her to talk—really talk—about what was happening. More than anything, she wanted to spill her doubts and fears about Gilbert, to lean on someone else’s shoulder in order to take the burden off of her own.
Be careful, she told herself. This man is an investigative reporter. Don’t you think he’s used this act before? Don’t you think this is how he gets his dirt?
Even so, the thought of revealing everything to a person who wouldn’t be around for much longer was tempting. After he was gone, her confessions would leave town with him, too, as if she’d never spoken at all.
A stranger, she thought. A temporary haven.
Then reality slapped her upside the head. The last person she wanted to blab to was a journalist, for heaven’s sake. But if he were any other friendly companion, she knew she’d really give some serious thought to allowing a man like Ian Beck to give her some relief.
And maybe even in more ways than one.
Fleetingly, she imagined leaning her head against his chest, closing her eyes as he enveloped her with his strong arms, breathing easy as he stroked her back, his hands slipping under her shirt to caress her bare skin.
Warmed by the fantasy, she smiled at him, then tentatively walked closer, reaching in to the bowl for a handful of popcorn.
Unexpectedly, he did the same thing.
Their fingers brushed, sending giddy shivers up her arm, through her skin, down to her belly.
“If you want,” he said softly, keeping his hand near hers, “I can show you my rough draft tomorrow. You can give me your thumbs-up before my deadline.”
Wow, he was really trying to earn her trust and reel her in.
Curiously, she skimmed her finger over his as she picked up a kernel, acting as if the contact was an accident, even if they both knew it wasn’t. As she brought the food to her mouth, he didn’t look at the popcorn so much as her lips.
She allowed herself to rest the snack against her mouth, enjoying his frank interest, still thrown off balance by it, too. “Thank you. I’d really like that.”
Pushing the snack into her mouth, she knew what he was probably thinking: that she wasn’t merely liking the chance to preview his reporting.
That there were so many other things for her to like about him.
Things that just might get her through these troubled times.

After polishing off the popcorn last night, Ian had offered to take Rachel out for a more substantial dinner, but she had declined, saying that she planned to get up early for a painting class at the local learning center.
Even though he knew there was a current of attraction running between them like a live wire, he’d accepted her excuse, thanked her for the snack and made arrangements to meet her at the art shop the next morning.
Back in his hotel room, he’d burned the midnight oil, punching out his story on his laptop, satisfied enough with the results to get a few hours of shut-eye.
Morning didn’t come soon enough. But when it did, he shined himself up, sent an e-mail to a loop he’d created for his nine nieces and nephews and, by the time eleven o’clock rolled around, traveled by subway to meet Rachel.
Her class was located in a shop on a quiet, tree-lined block that included knitting and crocheting boutiques, a small Italian restaurant and an antique emporium. Thank God the place was tiny enough so that he could see the students through the lettering of the front window. Ian didn’t go into these kinds of stores unless he was chasing a story. And it’d have to be a damned good one, at that.

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