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,