she and Fred worked for. She only hoped there wasn’t going to be another last-minute story to cover. She was tired and worn, and she just wanted to go back to her apartment and sleep for an hour before she tried to fix herself something to eat. She remembered the engagement party and groaned. Maybe she could find an excuse to miss it. She hated social gatherings, even though she was fond of Mary, the girl who was getting engaged.
She and Fred waved as they passed Trisa, the receptionist, and entered the newsroom. Gaby didn’t even look around; she was so tired that she just dropped into the chair at her computer terminal with a long sigh. Almost everyone on the newspaper staff was around. Johnny Blake came out of his office, his bald head shining in the light, his thick brows drawn together as he listened to Fred’s version of what had happened.
“That the long and short of it, Cane?” he asked Gaby. As she raised her eyebrows, Fred mumbled something about getting the film to the darkroom and eased quickly away.
Johnny glared at her without smiling. “Get the story?” he asked.
“Sort of.”
He stared. “Sort of?”
“It’s your fault,” she told him. “Harrington and I aren’t cut out for police reporting. You made us go.”
“Well, I couldn’t go,” he said. “I’m in management. People in management don’t cover shootouts. They’re dangerous, Cane,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper.
She glared at him. “This, from a man who volunteered to cover the uprising in Central America.”
“Okay, what went wrong?” he asked, sidestepping the remark.
She told him. He groaned. “At least we did get some good copy,” she comforted him. “And I got a shot of the gunman, along with some swell shots of the police in the rain surrounding the building,” she added dryly.
“One shot of the hostage would have been worth fifty shots of the police in the rain!” he raged. “You and your soft heart...!”
“Wilson, from the Bulletin, got lots of nice pictures of the stand-off,” Gaby told her boss, rubbing salt in the wound. “And probably one of the hostage, too.”
“I hate you,” he hissed.
She smiled. “But the police tackled him and broke his camera and probably exposed every frame he shot.”
“I love you,” he changed it.
“Next time, don’t send Harrington with me, okay?” she pleaded. “Just let me go alone.”
“Can’t do that, Cane,” he said. “You’re too reckless. Do you have any idea how many close calls you’ve had in the past three years? You never hold anything in reserve in that kind of situation, and thank God it doesn’t happen often. I still get cold chills remembering the bank robbery you had to cover. I hate asking you to sub for the police reporter.”
“It was only a flesh wound,” she reminded him.
“It could have been a mortal wound,” he muttered. “And even if you aren’t afraid of Bowie McCayde, the publisher is. They had words after the bank robbery.”
That came as a surprise. Aggie hadn’t said anything about it, but she had probably sent Bowie to throw the fear of God into Mr. Smythe, the publisher.
“I didn’t know that,” she said. She smiled. “Well, he’ll never find out about today, so there’s no need to worry... What are you staring at?”
“Certain death,” he said pleasantly.
She followed his gaze toward the lobby. Bowie McCayde was just coming in the door, towering over the male reporters and causing comments and deep sighs among the female ones. He was wearing a gray suit, his blond head bare, and held an unlit cigarette in his hand. He looked out of humor and threatening.
Gaby’s heart jumped into her throat. What, she wondered, was he doing in Phoenix? She hadn’t seen him for two months—not since they’d celebrated Aggie’s birthday at Casa Río. It had been an unusually disturbing night because just lately, Bowie had a way of looking at her that made her nerves stand on end.
Her breathing quickened as he approached, the old disturbing nervousness collecting in her throat to make her feel gauche and awkward. Just like old times, she thought as his black eyes pinned her to the spot while he strode across the newsroom. She was capable and cool until she got within five feet of this man, and then she just went to pieces. It was a puzzle she still hadn’t worked out. It wasn’t really fear—not the nauseating kind. It was more like excitement...
“Hello, Bowie,” she said awkwardly.
He nodded curtly to Johnny and scowled down at Gaby. “I’m taking you out to supper,” he said without a greeting or an invitation, ignoring her soaked clothes and straggly hair. “We’ve got to talk.”
She wondered if she’d heard him right. Bowie, taking her out?
“Something’s wrong,” she guessed.
“Wrong?” He waved the unlit cigarette in his hand. “Wrong?! My God.”
“Is it Aggie?” she asked quickly, her olive eyes mirroring her concern.
Bowie stared at Johnny until the shorter man mumbled an excuse, grinned at Gaby, and beat a hasty retreat to his office. Bowie had that effect on a lot of people, Gaby thought with faint amusement. He never said anything harsh—he just stared at people with his cold black eyes. One of his construction company executives had likened it to being held at bay by a cobra.
“Yes, it’s Aggie,” he muttered. Gaby felt faint.
BOWIE REALIZED BELATEDLY why Gaby’s face had turned white. “No, no,” he said shortly, noting her horrified expression. “She’s not hurt or anything.”
She relaxed visibly and put a hand to her throat. “You might have said so.”
“Are you through here?” He looked around as if he couldn’t see what she had to do anyway.
“I need to file my story before I go.”
“Go ahead. It’ll keep.” He walked back out into the lobby and sat down on one of the sofas. Trisa leaned her chin on her hands and sat watching him shamelessly while he read a magazine. If Bowie even noticed, there was no sign of it.
Gaby had to drag her own eyes away. He was most incredibly handsome, and totally unaware of it.
She turned on her word processor, got out her notes, and spent fifteen minutes condensing two hours of work into eight inches of copy one column wide.
Bowie was still reading when she came out of the newsroom, after calling a quick good night to Johnny.
“I’m ready...oh, no,” she groaned.
Carl Wilson, the Bulletin reporter, was just coming in the door with a Band-Aid over his nose, breathing fire.
“So there you are, you turncoat,” he growled at her. His ponytail was soaked, and Bowie was giving him an unnerving appraisal. He turned his back to get away from that black-eyed stare. “This is the last straw, Cane,” he raged. “I know you’ve got the whole damned police force in your pocket from your old days on the police beat, but that was a low blow. My camera’s busted to hell, my film’s exposed...!”
“Poor old photographer,” she said comfortingly. “Did the big bad policeman hurt its little nose?”
He actually blushed. “You stop that,” he muttered. “You told them to do it.”
“Not me,” she said, holding up one hand.
Bowie had gotten to his feet now and his narrow black eyes were watching closely.