“You look like you’re having doubts about me kissing you.”
Jake smiled and lifted one hand from the roof of the truck. Just the tip of his index finger touched Kylie’s cheek, and the incredible urge to rub against him shot through her. Slowly he drew that fingertip to her chin. He tilted her head back so she couldn’t look anywhere but at him, his gaze dark and intense with hunger. He wanted to kiss her, needed to. He leaned closer, and she tried to close her eyes but couldn’t break his gaze.
“Aren’t you?”
His smile was faint and rueful. “I could fall for you real easily.”
“But you’re not sticking around.”
“And we’re adversaries.”
“Partners,” she corrected.
“Maybe we should leave it at that. No complications. No broken hearts,” he murmured.
And then he kissed her anyway.
More Than a Hero
Marilyn Pappano
MARILYN PAPPANO
brings impeccable credentials to her career—a lifelong habit of gazing out windows, not paying attention in class, daydreaming and spinning tales for her own entertainment. The sale of her first book brought great relief to her family, proving that she wasn’t crazy but was, instead, creative. Since then, she’s sold more than forty books to various publishers and even a film production company.
She writes in an office nestled among the oaks that surround her home. In winter she stays inside with her husband and their four dogs, and in summer she spends her free time mowing the yard that never stops growing and daydreams about grass that never gets taller than two inches. You can write to her at P.O. Box 643, Sapulpa, OK 74067-0643.
Dear Reader,
Love at first sight—I’m not sure I believe in it precisely, but I’m living proof that you can know pretty darn quickly when you’ve met “the one.” That was exactly how I felt soon after meeting my husband, Bob. Within a few weeks we were engaged, and in less than five months we were married. Now we’re closing in on thirty years together, and never once did I doubt that he was “the one.”
The senator’s daughter and the writer start out as adversaries, but it takes them mere days to realize that they’re meant to be. Fate, destiny—in the beginning, Jake’s not sure what to call it, but by the end, he and Kylie both realize that it’s not how long you’ve known each other that matters, it’s how well. And that, in their case, fate and destiny are just other words for the real thing: love.
Hope you enjoy their journey!
Marilyn Pappano
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Chapter 1
If Jake Norris had ever had a shy bone in his body, six years of interviewing people about traumatic events in their lives had chased it away. He was never at a loss for words and didn’t mind asking tough questions with tough answers. He was skilled at getting people who didn’t want to talk to do just that and he hadn’t yet met the person he couldn’t persuade to tell him something.
Until now. Who would have guessed that person would be a teenage girl whose chin barely topped his belly button?
“Look, I just want to talk to Senator Riordan for a couple minutes—five, tops.” That was probably about how long it would take Riordan to figure out who he was and throw him out of his office.
“You don’t have an appointment,” the girl said for the third time.
“I know. I didn’t know what time I’d be getting into town today.” First lie. He’d spent last night in a motel on the northeast side of Oklahoma City, slept in late and made the final hour’s drive into Riverview that afternoon. “But if the senator’s not busy—”
“The senator only sees people who have appointments.”
“Oh, come on. He’s a senator. If his constituents drop by to have a little chat, don’t tell me he turns them away.”
She fixed her gaze, enormous behind a pair of thicklensed glasses, on him. “You’re not one of his constituents.”
“No,” he agreed. “I’m not. But pretend I am. Does the senator have a few minutes to see me?”
“No. Not without an appointment.”
Was that Riordan’s usual policy? Or had it been instituted sometime in the past week—on Wednesday, maybe, right after Jake had tried to make an appointment with Harold Markham, retired judge and Riordan’s good friend? “Can I make an appointment?”
The girl pulled a business card from the holder on the desk and offered it to him. “Call that number anytime between eight and four.”
He glanced at the card. “This is the office number. It rings right here at your desk.”
She looked at the phone as if it might ring at any moment and prove him right. “I don’t do appointments. I’d better get…” Her voice trailed off as she scurried away from the desk. When she disappeared behind a door at the end of the hall, he sighed and turned away.
He’d driven from his home in Albuquerque to Riverview to conduct interviews, do research and take photos for his next book. He wrote true-crime books, and the subject he’d chosen for his sixth book was one of the town’s few claims to fame, along with Senator Riordan and the aforementioned Judge Markham. It was, no doubt, something most of the town would rather leave forgotten in the past—but they weren’t still paying for it every day of their lives.
Charley Baker, who woke up every morning behind the walls of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester, was. He said he was innocent. Every inmate Jake had ever met said the same thing. But there was a difference: he believed Charley.
Charley didn’t have an affair with Jillian Franklin. Didn’t kill her. Didn’t kill her husband. Didn’t leave their three-year-old daughter alone in the house overnight with her parents’ bodies. Didn’t send his ten-year-old son in the next morning to “discover” them. Didn’t deserve to have spent twenty-two years in prison.
Despite his own bias, Jake’s plan for this project was to write an accurate account of the Franklin murders. He just wanted the facts. He wanted to study the details, to know that the authorities had done their jobs fairly, without any agendas of their own. Whatever the evidence told him, that was the story he would write.
If the evidence told him Charley hadn’t been wrongly convicted…
His fingers knotted into a fist.
“Can I help you?”
He turned to find himself facing the munchkin again. Standing beside her was a woman—make that a goddess—in blue. She was tall, slender, with blond hair pulled up and back in a kind of sensual mess, with pale golden skin, pink lips and brown eyes. He’d always had a weakness for blondes with brown eyes. Her dress was simple and elegant, her heels low and sensible, and her legs were damn fine.