me, publicly, or worse, and they’re using you to do it?”
He handed the phone back to her. “I don’t think that’s the case.”
“So, who’s your source? I have a right to know who is saying these terrible, false things about me.”
He flashed a disarming smile. “Now, you know a good journalist doesn’t reveal his sources.”
“Who says you’re a good journalist?” It was a low blow, and though she was fed up with Griffin Benedict and his lying source, she immediately regretted her words. Griffin Benedict might be tenacious, and he might be distractingly sexy, but he appeared to be a good journalist.
So far.
“I guess you’re not a fan,” he said, not seeming troubled by the fact.
“The funny thing is, I am. I mean, I’ve read a few of your articles. Although the stories you pursue are…out there, and your writing style is…irreverent, you don’t strike me as careless or foolhardy. You don’t pander. I would go so far as to say you don’t even go for sensationalism.
“So why this story? It doesn’t seem your style.”
“Anything that involves human emotions, human weaknesses, is my style. I’ve found that subjects intriguing to me also draw in my readers. For whatever reason, I find you and your possible ethics violation highly intriguing.”
“Well, your publisher isn’t going to be so intrigued when the Telegram gets slapped with a libel suit. And don’t start with your ‘public figure’ nonsense.” Public figures had to prove malice in order to win a libel claim—a pretty high standard. “I’m not a public figure. I’m simply doing my job. I have never sought fame or publicity.”
“Even if you were a public figure, I wouldn’t print anything that wasn’t a provable truth. You have my word on that.”
His word. As if that counted for anything. She didn’t even know the man. Yet, for some reason, his promise did reassure her slightly.
Oh, man, where was she going with this? Could a handsome face and a charming smile disarm her to the point she could no longer use her brain?
“I’m happy to hear you won’t print lies about me. Now, then, about this phone bill. I have a theory.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“If that’s Leo Simonetti’s number, then this isn’t really my bill. Someone got a copy of my bill and doctored it, adding in this suspicious phone number. It’s incredibly easy to do. We have a guy on our staff, Mitch Delacroix, who specializes in all kinds of computer and document fraud. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that can be done with a good graphics program.”
“Nice try.”
“I’m serious. And if I’m right, I can prove it. I just paid this phone bill. I have it filed away. We can go to my apartment, and I’ll show it to you.”
Benedict’s eyes lit up. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll drive.”
Griffin could hardly believe his good luck. Raleigh Shinn had just invited him to see inside her home. He could learn all kinds of things about a person by seeing what they surrounded themselves with, what was important to them. Family pictures displayed on the mantel, mail left carelessly on a table, trash in a wastebasket all could speak volumes. Even a subject’s housekeeping habits were revealing about character.
But his excitement over Raleigh’s invitation was tinged with unease. What if she was right? Obviously his anonymous source had an ax to grind with either Raleigh or Project Justice. But what if the ammunition they were using was bogus? Manufactured? And he’d fallen for it?
Not only had he fallen for it, he’d bet his career on it. If he called Pierce Fontaine and told him the story was a nonstarter, he could kiss the anchor job goodbye.
He tried not to think about that. Surely Raleigh hadn’t expected him to call her bluff, go to her apartment and look at her phone bills. Surely at the last minute, she wouldn’t be able to locate the pertinent bill.
“Turn right at the light,” Raleigh said. She had spoken a bare minimum to him since they’d climbed into his Mustang. Smart lady. Most people, when being nailed to the wall by a reporter, tended to talk too much, digging their graves deeper and deeper.
This subject, at least, knew when to keep her mouth shut.
Or maybe she simply couldn’t stand him and didn’t want to talk to him.
He didn’t like that idea. Yeah, his reporting made plenty of people mad. But a woman, he could usually charm. Women liked him, even when he was putting them through the wringer. A smile, a wink, a touch of sincere interest, and they spilled their guts. Some of them seemed relieved to release their burden of secrets. He had learned more dirt by spending time with some guy’s wife or girlfriend than by any other method.
His charms didn’t seem to work on Raleigh. He couldn’t deny he felt something there, some spark of sexual recognition. The fact she was such a hard nut to crack made her even more appealing. But she wasn’t going to slip up and admit anything. She was too skillful with her words for that. He bet she had seen all the ways a criminal can mess up, and learned from their mistakes.
Raleigh finally broke the silence. “Next block. The tall white building with the—oh, wait, you already know where I live. Hard to find street parking this time of day.”
“I’m lucky when it comes to parking.”
If he was really lucky, he would leave her building with something he could run with. She had no idea how dangerous he could be, let loose in her home. And if he was really lucky, they would take a looooong lunch…
Hell, he had no business thinking like that. The CNI people were watching his every move. A sexual liaison with the subject of his story, or even a background source, would be just the sort of thing they didn’t want to see.
Still, his fantasies persisted. He would take off those glasses, unbutton the suit jacket, which was far too warm for this mild day. He would slide his hands inside that silky blouse—
“You just missed a parking space.” Raleigh sounded exasperated.
Griffin slammed on his brakes. He waited until traffic cleared and put the car in Reverse.
“You’re going to get a ticket, driving like that on a busy downtown street.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” He got lots of tickets. The Houston police knew his car on sight. Fortunately, he had a lady friend who was a judge. Even though they were no longer involved, she usually made his tickets disappear.
“So, how do you like living downtown?” he asked, just trying to get the conversational ball rolling. He wouldn’t have pegged her as a downtowner. She seemed more the type to live in a cushy condo in Memorial or the Galleria area. “What made you move here?”
“The path of least resistance,” she said, more under her breath than to him. She got out and, quarters already in her hand, started pumping them into the meter.
“I can do that.”
“My idea to come here, I’ll pay the parking fee,” she said. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to write that I’d accepted payment from you.”
Touché.
“What do you mean, the path of least resistance?” he asked as they climbed the stairs to the ornate, brass front door.
“I needed a place to live. I found this one at a good price, close to work, so I took it. No big mystery.”
But it was. He sensed she wasn’t telling him the whole story.
The lobby of her building was 1920s Art Deco splendor, with vaulted ceilings, square columns, potted palm trees and brass accents. The old-fashioned elevator was trimmed in brass, with one of those inner metal doors that had to be