She looked down at her pen and clicked it. “Just give me one more moment. I’d rather be fully prepared for an important conversation like this.” She put her bag on the floor again, and wrote at the top of her page,
Hayden Black interview. April 2, 2013.
Then she beamed up at him. “I’m ready.”
Hayden resisted the impulse to groan and instead called up the neutral expression that was normally easy to find in an interview. Lucy Royall was exactly like her photo, yet nothing like it. Her hair was shiny and blond, but sitting haphazardly around her shoulders, as if she’d stood in a gust of D.C. wind. Her lips were the same as the photo, but were bronze today, and full, sensual, as they moved while she ate the muffin. Despite his intentions, his breath hitched. Her eyes were the same shade of hazel, but in person they shone with intelligence. He knew she was trying to play him, and damned if she wasn’t having some success. And he was unsure if that irritated or amused him.
But one thing that didn’t amuse him was his unexpected reaction when he’d first opened the door. He’d been thunderstruck. She wasn’t merely beautiful, she was breathtaking. There was a light around her, inside her. A glow that was so appealing, he’d had to focus hard so his hand wouldn’t reach out. And was there a more inappropriate woman on the planet for him to have a reaction this strong to? The daughter of the man he was investigating on behalf of a congressional committee. A woman who, if his guess was correct, was complicit in her stepfather’s illegal activities.
The woman herself raised her brows, either because his face had contorted with self-disgust or because she was sitting there, pen poised, waiting for him to start the interview while he merely stared.
Clearing his throat, he thumbed the button to start the recording equipment. “Tell me about your relationship with Graham Boyle.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Graham has been my stepfather since I was twelve years old. He’s a sweet man with a good heart.”
Sweet? In another setting he may have laughed. The man owned a national cable-news network and was feared by competitors and allies alike. For Graham Boyle, the ends justified the means—he demanded that his reporters do anything to get a story.
And someone who’d been part of Graham Boyle’s immediate family for ten years couldn’t be completely unaware of his ruthless nature.
“That’s not the common perception,” he said mildly.
“Do your parents see you the same way your friends do, Mr. Black? Your girlfriends? Employees? Bosses?” She drew in a breath and seemed to grow taller in her seat. “My stepfather has the type of job where he has to make tough decisions, and people who disagree with those decisions might see him as hard-hearted. But he has been nothing but kind and generous to me.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But he hasn’t been accused of making tough decisions, Ms. Royall. He’s been accused of authorizing or at least condoning illegal phone hacking to obtain information about the president’s illegitimate daughter.”
She stilled. The only movement was the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Then she leaned forward, slowly, deliberately. “Let me tell you what sort of man he is. When my mother died three years ago, Graham was devastated. He could barely walk away from the graveside service—he had to be supported by two family friends, he was that riddled with grief. Then, despite the hours his job demands, and his own grief, he made a point of calling me, visiting, bringing me gifts. Making sure I was okay.” She sat back again, but her body remained tense. “He’s a good man.”
There was something deeply attractive about her impassioned defense of her stepfather. The way her eyes sparked made his breath catch. Made his pulse that much faster—a far from ideal response to an interviewee. Determinedly, he ignored it. He was a professional.
“Al Capone was good to his family,” he said.
Her cheeks flushed red. “I resent the heck out of your implication.”
He flicked his pen between the fingers of his right hand and arched a brow. “I wasn’t implying anything beyond pointing out that being good to his family doesn’t automatically exclude a person from engaging in illegal activities.”
Lucy held his gaze across the table for long, challenging seconds. He let the silence lengthen. In situations like this, patience was his friend.
She dropped her gaze to the pad of paper in front of her and her blond hair swung forward a little. An image rose in his mind of threading his fingers through her hair, of tilting her face up to him, of lowering his own until his mouth gently touched hers, of feeling the softness of her plump lips, the passion she—
Suddenly his shirt collar was too tight. Damn it, what was he doing? In an important investigation like this, he couldn’t afford to be attracted to a witness.
Get ahold of yourself, Black.
He drew in a breath and stared at her until all he saw was a woman covering up for a criminal.
“Have you participated in any instances of illegal surveillance at ANS?” he asked, more harshly than he’d intended.
“No,” she said, lacing her fingers together on the table in front of her.
Without missing a beat, he continued. “Are you aware of any instances of illegal surveillance at ANS?”
“No, I’m not.” Her voice was measured, even.
“Have you participated in or been aware of any instances of any illegal activity at ANS?”
“No.”
“Did you work with former ANS journalists Brandon Ames and Troy Hall when they used illegal phone hacking to uncover the story about the president’s illegitimate daughter?”
“No.”
“Were they carrying out orders from your stepfather?”
“Of course not.”
“They initially blamed the phone hacking on a temporary researcher, but the researcher was clean. Do you know who it was at ANS who helped them?”
“As far as I know, no one.”
“What’s your take on why the accusations have been made against ANS and Graham Boyle?”
She let out a long breath. “Those who make something of their lives always attract those who want to tear them down.”
Unfortunately, he knew that wasn’t where the accusations had originated. Graham Boyle might have a good point or two, might treat his stepdaughter well, but he was still a ruthless jerk who’d hurt many.
“How do you think ANS came up with the leads that uncovered President Morrow’s daughter? He was a Montana senator before his presidential campaign—it’s not as if no one’s looked into his background before.”
For the first time, an uncertain line appeared between her brows. “I don’t know. I wasn’t working on that story.”
He knew he had to push further, but God help him, with that look on her face, he wanted to reassure her instead. To take her hand across the table and tell her everything would be okay. Despite that, the cynical part of his brain knew it was probably an act. He needed to listen to that side of himself more.
“But you talk to other journalists, surely,” he said, thankfully hitting the skeptical note he’d aimed for. “And this story and its methods are very high profile. You’re telling me you’ve heard nothing about how they got the lead?”
“Good old investigative journalism—it’s hard to beat.” Her perkiness was forced, but he didn’t get the sense she was lying in an underhanded way. Not like the last woman who’d sat in that chair. This was a woman who didn’t get on with her colleagues, felt excluded from them and was covering up for that. A shaft of unwanted tenderness hit him squarely in the chest.
But