with precision and accuracy, her stories in-depth, her eyes wide open.
And about those eyes.
Derek knew all about those eyes. Blue green and big, as mysterious as the lake waters, and just as rich and full of depth. As the old saying went, a man could drown in those eyes.
But not this man. No, sir.
Derek pushed himself up off the deck, then whistled to Lazarus. “C’mon, boy. Let’s get that run started. We’ve got lots of work ahead of us today.”
And lots of turmoil to work off on a long, tough jog.
Derek just hoped that Stephanie Maguire would heed his warning and keep him and his so-called heroic deed off the evening news. He didn’t need or want the publicity. He didn’t want people nosing into his life, or second-guessing his motives.
He’d had that once, but never again.
Not even for beautiful, popular newshound Stephanie Maguire.
As usual, the World Network Television newsroom was buzzing like a well-oiled machine. Stephanie glanced around at the action—people busy talking on the phone, busy arguing with leads and checking out sources, or arguing with editors and producers—her adrenaline kicking in with each screech of the newswire, with each beep of the humming computers, with each beat of her heart.
She loved her work. Loved it with a passion that bordered on obsession, loved it because it brought her life and hope and a sense of accomplishment.
But this morning she had to admit she was tired. It had been a late night last night. Hours after she’d left the scene of the mugging, she’d lain awake in her downtown efficiency apartment, the sounds of never-ending traffic soothing and steady way down below, wondering if that old man was all right. Wondering who Derek Kane was and why he refused to be acknowledged as a hero.
And wondering why Derek Kane had gotten to her so much.
The homeless man’s name was Walter Griffin. He sometimes stayed in a shelter not too far from where he’d been attacked, but with spring just around the corner, Walter had ventured back out onto the street to sleep. And he’d been almost beaten to death because of it.
She’d already interviewed him early this morning from his hospital bed, a camera crew taping his every word. Even though Mr. Griffin could barely remember what had actually happened, he’d be all right. But he’d have to stay in the hospital for a few days due to a concussion, two cracked ribs and several lacerations to his face and hands.
Stephanie had promised to check back with him, but in the meantime, she also wanted to find Derek Kane. She needed his comments to finish out the story. And she needed to know more about him.
“You look like you’re onto something,” Claire Cook said as she leaned over Stephanie’s cluttered desk to hand her a bagel and a latte from the coffee shop downstairs. “Your eyes are positively sparkling.” Pushing lightly at Stephanie’s navy wool jacket, she said, “C’mon, give it up, Maguire. What are you working on?”
“Nothing,” Stephanie admitted as she tore the plastic lid off her double latte, then poured the frothy mocha contents into her favorite Do It Now coffee mug. She refused to drink out of foam cups. “Exactly nothing.”
“Exactly something,” Claire retorted. Scooting into a nearby rolling desk chair, she pulled up beside Stephanie, her green eyes bright with anticipation and her short red hair standing on end across her head. “I know that look.”
Stephanie tore off a hunk of blueberry bagel, then sighed before popping it into her mouth. Between bites she said, “I thought I had a story—I was involved in a mugging last night—”
“Oh? Are you all right?” Claire scanned her face, obviously checking for bumps and bruises.
“I wasn’t mugged, but I saw it happening. An old homeless man named Walter Griffin—these two young boys, juveniles with previous truancy and vandalism records, according to the police report, were beating him to a pulp right there off Peachtree.”
“And you intervened.” It was a statement, based, Stephanie guessed, on the fact that the veteran news producer knew her reporters well.
“I had to,” Stephanie said, shrugging her shoulders by way of defense. “Nobody else would—including your wonder boy, Jonathan Delmore.”
Claire perked up considerably, her head coming up so fast her multifaceted turquoise-and-silver earrings jingled against her slender neck. “You were with Jonathan last night?”
“For two excruciating hours,” Stephanie said on a wail of exaggerated pain. “Where did you find that overblown egomaniac, anyway?”
Grimacing, Claire said, “I take it, it wasn’t love at first sight.”
“Not at all. The man is so stuck on himself, he could be patented as the new wonder glue. Anyway, we’d just left the restaurant, thankfully, and I was looking for a cab, when we saw these two overgrown adolescents mugging and beating this old man. I tried to get Jonathan to go with me to help them, but he refused! He went back into the restaurant, he later said to get help, while I called the police and screamed for them to stop.”
“And then you waited from a safe distance?” The question was full of hope, but Claire’s expression said she already knew the answer.
“No, I ran toward them, shouting at them. They were kicking him and pounding him—I had to make them quit.”
Claire took one of Stephanie’s hands in hers. “You’ve got to stop trying to be a hero, honey. You can’t save all of them, you know that.”
Stephanie looked down at Claire’s dainty little wrinkled hand, covering hers. Claire wore several rings of various shapes and sizes. Stephanie focused on a bright topaz pinkie ring, unable to look at her friend’s face. “But I could see it in my mind, Claire. I could see my father all over again.”
“What happened to your father was a tragedy, Stef, but that doesn’t mean you have to throw yourself into every crime that’s committed on the streets of Atlanta. One day, something terrible might happen to you, and then what would your mother do?”
“I know, I know,” Stephanie said, her bagel cold in her hand. “And I’m careful—you know that. I did call the police last night, but I just couldn’t let it happen again. Not to that helpless old man.”
Claire patted her hand, then let go. “Okay, so what happened? Did you stop it, or did the police get there in time?”
Stephanie chewed another bit of bagel, then sipped her lukewarm latte. “That’s when he came out of the shadows, like some caped avenger.” Shaking her head, she looked up at Claire at last. “I tell you, Claire, I’d never seen anything like it. He reminded me of my father—Daddy would have done exactly the same thing.”
“Who? Who helped you last night?”
Stephanie threw down the leftover half of her bagel, then pushed both hands through her unruly hair. “His name is Derek Kane. He’s a man—”
“I gathered that much,” Claire said, a wry smile moving across her freckled face. “And apparently he came to your rescue?”
“He did,” Stephanie admitted, bobbing her head again. “He just stepped out of the shadows and told the muggers he was going to stop them and then…well, after talking to them didn’t work, he rushed one of them and sent him flying. Then he turned around and kicked the other one right in the stomach. The whole exchange lasted less than a minute, and then he had them up against the wall.”
Claire blew a breath up on her spiky bangs, causing them to flutter across her forehead. “Okay, so you two played Starsky and Hutch? So why aren’t you writing the story for the noon news?”
“Because Mr. Kane refused to be interviewed.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“He