Fire Brand. Diana Palmer
despite the press sticker, because I parked in front of a fire hydrant. Then I get tackled and my film is ruined...it’s somebody’s fault!” he added with a pointed glare.
Gaby grinned. “God must be mad at you,” she told him. “He’s getting even with you for the Garrison story you conned me out of last week. You do remember having your crony at City Hall send me out to the parking lot while you got the final word on the new landfill site?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “That was in the line of duty. We’re rivals.”
“Yes, and some of us hit below the belt,” she added with a meaningful stare. “But I didn’t have the policeman tackle you. You should know better than to walk through a hail of bullets. Policemen get nervous about that sort of thing.”
“You should know,” Wilson muttered. “Didn’t you get shot in the last stand-off, after the bank robbery?”
She cleared her throat, aware of Bowie’s thunderous expression. “This time, I was safely behind some police cars—not taking a stroll in front of the sniper.”
“Is that so.” Wilson pursed his lips. “Well,” he said slowly, “I might be persuaded to forgive you—if you can spare a shot of the victim.”
“No chance.”
“Okay, I’m easy. How about the police surrounding the building? Come on, Cane, my job’s on the line,” he coaxed.
“If Johnny finds out, mine will be, too,” she assured him. “Do what the rest of us do. Go and beg from the News-Record. They go to press every Tuesday, so this story will be old news by the time their next edition comes out. They’ll share with you.” She grinned as she said it. The News-Record was a small weekly newspaper, but its reporters were always on the spot when news broke, and they didn’t mind sharing one of their less important photos with the big dailies—as long as their photographer got a credit.
He sighed. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Okay, doll, thanks anyway.”
He started to bend down to kiss her cheek, but she stepped back jerkily. “You’ll give me Bulletin germs!” she exclaimed, making a joke out of it.
He shook his head. “Leave it to you. Thanks anyway, Cane.” He chuckled, and walked out the front door whistling.
Bowie hadn’t said anything. He had a cigarette in his hand, and he was watching her like a hawk. “Bullets?” he asked, moving closer.
“A robbery. The perpetrator got twenty dollars. He killed a store manager and took a pregnant woman hostage, and threatened to kill her. They had to drop him.” She lowered her eyes. “He was little more than a boy. The police reporter is out sick, so I had to cover the story. I don’t do the police beat anymore,” she added, trying to ward off trouble.
“Bullets?” he repeated, his voice deeper, rougher this time.
She looked up. “I’m twenty-four years old. This is my job. I don’t need your permission to do it. It was just this one time...”
“Count your blessings,” he said curtly. He glanced toward the receptionist, who smiled at him, and turned away uncomfortably. “Let’s go.”
Gaby winked at Trisa as they passed her, but Bowie kept his eyes straight ahead, pausing only to open the door for Gaby and lead her to his black Scorpio.
She sank into the soft leather seat with a sigh, and let her eyes wander over the dashboard. It was a honey of a car. She wished she could afford one.
He got in beside her, making sure her seat belt was fastened before he clicked his own into place and started the car. “Does your receptionist make a habit of staring at people that way?” he asked irritably as he pulled out into traffic. “I was beginning to feel like a museum exhibit.”
“Look in a mirror sometime,” she murmured only half humorously. “I used to have girlfriends by the dozen in college until they learned that you didn’t live at Casa Río. It rather spoiled their dreams of the perfect weekend vacation.”
He gave her a cold glance. “I hate being chased.”
“Don’t look at me.” She held up her hands in mock horror. “I’m the last woman you’ll ever have to beat off.”
“So I’ve noticed.” He eased the car into another lane. “You still don’t like being touched, I see.”
“Wilson is a womanizer,” she murmured. “I don’t like that kind of man.”
“You don’t like men, period. You’re damned lucky that Aggie doesn’t know what a hermit you are. She’d have you on the guest list of every party that featured even one single man.”
“I know.” She sighed and glanced at his perfect profile. “You won’t give me away, will you?”
“Have I ever?”
She ran a hand over the back of her neck. “We don’t see that much of each other, so how do you know about my social life?”
He lit another cigarette. “You’re soaked. Do you want to go to your apartment and change before we go to the restaurant?”
“Yes, I’d like to, if you don’t mind.” Then she thought about Bowie in her apartment, and something inside her retreated.
He saw that hunted look out of the comer of his eye. “You’re safe with me, Gaby. I hoped you knew that without my having to say it.”
She swallowed. He read her all too well. She stared at her slender, ringless fingers. “I know. I’m just a little shaken by this afternoon. I don’t do police news anymore, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anybody shot.”
“What a hell of a line of work you chose,” he said.
“I like it, most of the time.” She clasped her fingers, because reaction was beginning to set in. It always amazed her how calm she was while she was getting a story, but after covering this kind of story she went to pieces after the numbness wore off. Sometimes she had nightmares and there was usually nobody to talk to about them. She couldn’t tell Aggie, because the older woman disapproved of her work anyway and had tried to get her to quit. She had no close friends.
“You said you aren’t still on the police beat?” he asked conversationally.
“No. Because after Aggie had you tell Mr. Smythe to take me off it even though I asked Johnny Blake to put me back on he wouldn’t.” She glanced at him. “I don’t miss it anyway. I love political reporting.”
“That’s reassuring,” he said dryly.
“Aggie did put you up to it, didn’t she?” she asked. “Speaking of Aggie, what’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you over dinner.” He parked the car in front of the apartment building where she lived—a sprawling white complex with a swimming pool and tennis courts and security people.
“I’ve moved since you were in Phoenix last,” she said suspiciously. “How did you know where I live?”
“Come on. You’re soaked.”
She threw up her hands. “Do you ever answer questions?”
“You’ll catch cold if you don’t get out of those wet things,” he replied nonchalantly, still sidestepping her queries—as usual.
He got out of the car, opened her door, and let her go first in the slight drizzle. It was getting dark already, and she was too tired to pursue it.
Her apartment was done in whites and yellows, with oak furniture, Mexican pottery, and a few modem paintings. It was bright and open and sunny, and she had plants growing everywhere.
“It looks like the damned Amazon jungle,” he observed, staring around him.
“Thank you.” She took off her raincoat. “I’ll only be a few