Love's Own Reward Read online

  “This way, Miss Carter. I need a picture.”

  “What are you going to do with the money?”

  “Yeah, how are you going to spend it?”

  “Another picture, Miss Carter.”

  “Over here.”

  “What were you thinking when you ran back to that car?”

  Charley shook her head. “Please, I’d rather not—”

  “Did you know who they were when you went back to rescue the parents?”

  That question shocked her, penetrating the film of confusion slowing her brain. She stared up at the reporter who was elbowing close to push a microphone in her face. She met the man’s eyes. They were bright, avid with the morbid curiosity of the general public, searching for a cynical story angle.

  “No,” she managed to mumble. My God, how could he think it would matter? “Please . . .” She tried to turn away from the thrusting hand mike and was instantly blinded by another flash. “Please . . .”

  Faces began to blur. The noise grew to an awful roar. Charley closed her eyes, wishing the press would just go away, that they’d respect her pain, that they’d leave the gruesome facts alone. She heard the click and buzz of the hospital doors opening and the intensity of sound struck her like a physical force. The size of the media tripled as members of radio, television, and newspaper staffs jockeyed to get near enough to shout their questions or snap a picture. The microphones shoved at her claimed an alphabet soup of call letters. She couldn’t hear any one clear question, just a loud babble of discordant voices in ever-increasing volume. It buffeted her into a daze of desperation. The orderly bent to ask her something, but she couldn’t understand him above the clamor of the crowd. Frantically she tried to see through the press of bodies, looking for the means to escape, but there were too many people, all mashing tight to form a solid barrier. From the chair she couldn’t tell if her cab was waiting in the circular drive. She’d have to stand.

  There was no strength in her legs. She had to push herself up using the arms of the wheelchair for leverage. Instantly she felt a reminding jolt of agony as her palms pressed down. She dragged herself up and was immediately engulfed. A heavy camcorder smacked into one bandaged hand. Pain swirled up, blurring her eyes, then was quickly muted by the drugs deadening her system. She managed a hesitant step forward, and all sense of direction was lost.

  “Miss Carter . . .”

  “Over here!”

  “Did you name the amount, or was that what Osgood offered?”

  “WYZ, Miss Carter. Could you tell our listeners—”

  “. . . already dead when you went back for them?”

  Charley’s head swam. She blinked rapidly against the glare of camera lights, against the fogging pull of her medication. I’m going to faint, she thought in a hazy panic. I’m going to be sick right here on national television. Her stomach roiled. A cold sweat broke out on her face, and her limbs began to quiver. And suddenly she couldn’t move. She stood in a glaze of bewildered horror, not knowing which way to go, how to flee the barrage of questions.

  Firm hands cupped her elbows in the same second she feared her legs would no longer support her.

  “Miss Carter? I’m parked right over there. I’ve been waiting for you. Let me get you out of here.”

  Her cab. Thank God! She surrendered control of the situation to the owner of that confident voice. Abruptly she was being moved purposefully through the crowd. Vaguely she heard the annoyed grumbles and the anxious last-minute shout of questions. Weak with gratitude, she glanced around and up to see the face of her rescuer. She got the indelible impression of piercing gray eyes, eyes that could look right into the soul from beneath a slash of brooding brows. Angry eyes.

  That puzzled her. Even through the mist of uncertainty clouding her mind, she wondered why this man was so upset with her. But that was silly. Probably the drugs. What reason could he possibly have to feel one way or another about her?

  Then she felt herself falling into the front seat of a car. Not the back, she noticed in a dreamy blur. The door shut and there was blissful silence. The roar flared briefly again when the driver’s door opened, then there was just the purr of the engine.

  “Where to?”

  Groggily Charley gave her address and let the cottony balm of the sedatives envelop her. She was going home.

  Two

  JESS MCMASTERS studied the entrance of the hospital from the front seat of his car. They’d already started to gather—the curious, the media. The walk was like a snake pit of electrical cables. Every opening of the mechanical doors moved the crowd in a rhythmic tide, surging forward eagerly, ebbing in disappointment. They were waiting for the same thing he was: a chance to talk to Charlene Carter. It didn’t bother him that she wasn’t giving interviews. He wasn’t worried because he knew something they didn’t—he knew the lady.

  Jess gave the plastic top of his convenience-store coffee a practiced toss onto the dash. While he sipped the scalding brew, he leaned against the driver’s door and propped one long leg up on the seat. He was used to waiting. Part of his job was waiting—for the right person, for the right moment, for the right story, for the right slant. And here he had it all. Charlene Carter was exactly the kind of item he was known for. For the past two years his features in Metro Magazine covered the gritty and the glittery of the Detroit area. He was respected for his journalistic style. He was feared for his unbending honesty. “Cynicism,” some called it. “Candor” was the term he preferred. His exposés touched on gang violence, political corruption, urban renewal scandals, the nasty and preferably hidden habits of the wealthy and the powerful. So his editor had been understandably surprised by his request to do a story on Charlene Carter. Until Jess explained his angle. Then he could swear he heard the man salivating.

  Charlene Carter was the day’s hero. She’d rushed into the fires of hell to affect one rescue and attempt another. A noble act that had paid off handsomely to the tune of five hundred thousand dollars. That was the value Detroit industrialist Benjamin Osgood placed upon the life of his grandson. Apparently Miss Carter agreed. Because she’d accepted the money. And, in doing so, shattered every cherished belief Jess McMasters had held since the fateful day of the crash.

  It was the bravest damn thing he’d ever seen. She was only a little bit of a thing, so delicate she might have been confused with a girl. He could remember every finely-cut line of her face as she’d dashed in front of his stopped car. So small and yet possessed of a courage that put the rest of them to shame. While others watched, himself included, she’d scrambled into that compact, heedless of the danger, to bring out the little boy. And if that wasn’t enough, she’d gone back toward certain death in an effort to save the kid’s parents. She couldn’t, of course. Jess had known that the moment he saw the fuel ignite. But it hadn’t stopped her from trying. God, she’d fought him like a madwoman when he’d pulled her away, barely seconds before she would have been engulfed in the same fiery ball that consumed the car. Such amazing strength in such a tiny package. He’d been awed by her. Until this event had played out before his disbelieving eyes, he’d shunned stories of heroism. He’d felt the frantic beat of her big, big heart against his chest. He’d felt the helpless trembling of her despair as he held her in his arms. And never had anything touched him so strongly, so powerfully, so tenderly as that moment. As that woman.

  Why had she taken the money?

  Dammit, why had she failed him? He saw so much ugliness, so much greed. He wanted to believe unselfish goodness was possible. He wanted to believe the tears he saw on her face were genuine, for her anguish over others instead of her own pain. He wanted to hold on to the emotions that filled his soul with such poignant possessiveness as he’d cradled her close and tried to give her comfort. In that brief slice of time she’d reached inside him and torn out his heart. And then broke it by proving all his illusi
ons false. Charlene Carter wasn’t a saint willing to throw down her life to save another’s. She’d been quick to snap up the fee for her bravery. In his jaded eyes that made Miss Carter a mercenary, not a Samaritan. And Jess hated her for it. Because he’d wanted to believe.

  Jess had followed the details with a bitter interest. She’d met Ben Osgood from her sick bed and had taken his reward. Then she’d closed herself off from the opinions of the world by refusing all calls, by turning away all visitors. As if she felt she didn’t owe them any explanation for her greed. Well, dammit, she owed Jess one! And he was going to get it. Then he was going to shout to her adoring public how she’d manipulated a child’s tragedy and a grandparent’s grief and gratitude into financial gain. Because they had a right to know that they’d been tricked, just as Jess had been tricked into thinking Miss Carter was something special.

  From the commotion in front of the hospital, he knew all their waiting had paid off. He cranked down the window and pitched out the remains of his cold coffee. The Styrofoam went over the seat back. Jess turned the key to bring his engine to life. And he watched.

  The sight of her was like a fist to his gut. So small. As small as he remembered. And looking dangerously fragile in the wheelchair with her hands swaddled in white. Quickly she disappeared in the rush of newspeople and Jess was relieved. It gave him a chance to take a steadying breath, to quiet the sudden thunder of his heart.

  “Get a grip, Jess,” he muttered through the achy fullness in his throat. He couldn’t afford to forget what this woman was. Hauling hard to drag up every vestige of his professional objectivity, he put the car in gear and edged up the circular drive into the center of the circus. She’d played them just right. By refusing information, she’d whetted the press’s need to know. He could well imagine her holding queenly court from her wheelchair, milking their sympathy for all it was worth. How he hated hypocrisy. Nosing his bumper toward the curb in front of an Eyewitness News van, he got out and shouldered his way through the tightly-woven throng. No one paid him any attention. Everyone was focused on Charlene Carter.

  Again she knocked his logic out from under him. She wasn’t in the wheelchair playing to the press with her taped hands. She was on her feet, tottering like a newborn foal, her wide, dark gaze sweeping the ring of faces, brushing by his without recognition. Her eyes were glassy with shock, and she was panting like a woodland animal run to ground. That look cramped his emotions up in a vise of protective fury. Couldn’t they see they were scaring her? No way did she deserve this after all she’d been through. He could still remember the frail feel of her bones, the scurrying beat of her heart when he’d held her. She’d been so helpless yet so amazingly brave. That same fascination skewed his reason now, a tender compulsion to wrap her in his strength when hers was at a weary ebb. He found himself barging forward, ignoring the muttered curses of those he elbowed out of his way.

  What if she wouldn’t come with him?

  When he cupped her elbows, he could feel her trembling, and that shivered right through to his guarded soul. He spoke to her, pitching his voice low and steady, a life preserver of calm in the sea of insanity around them. And she grabbed for it in desperation. She was so weak and disoriented that it was easy to steer her where he wanted. She made no protest.

  Then she looked up at him, through eyes dark and luminous with relief, and he felt his heart take a hard ricocheting glance off his ribs. At that instant he wanted the reward of her gratitude more than he needed his next breath. And it was crazy. He knew it. But he couldn’t control it. She held some compelling charm over his sterner sensibilities, and it shook him right to the core.

  “Hey, J.T.! Let us have a taste of your exclusive, will ya?”

  Jess didn’t respond to the shout from the crowd of his compatriots, but it did serve as the necessary shock to bring him back to reality. To who he was and who she was. He couldn’t forget again.

  At least until he slid in behind the wheel of his car and looked over at the small figure crumpled in his passenger seat. She mumbled her address, then sank into oblivion upon a trusting sigh. She was too out of it to do up her own belt, so he reached across to strap her in. As metal clicked in metal, he glanced up into her face and was arrested by what he saw. Her eyes were softly closed, her lips gently parted as if in a deep natural sleep. This was how she would look if he woke up next to her in the morning. His insides took a nasty turn. Damn, she was beautiful. Dark auburn strands framed skin of porcelain quality in casual disarray, making his fingers itch to brush them back into place. Her finely-etched features had been branded on his memory since the first time he’d seen her. Flawless. Delicate. Without artificial enhancement. But more than that. There was a vulnerable sweetness to her that pushed every button of his male guardian instincts and made him want to shelter her for the rest of his days and nights.

  You’re losing it, Jess.

  He drew a deep, tight-chested breath and straightened away from her. Angrily he started the car. It screamed away from the curb, scattering reporters like hens in a chicken yard. He took no satisfaction from their looks of begrudging defeat. He felt no victory in snatching their prize feature out from under them. He was too busy trying to put a lid on the frantic scramble of his emotions.

  Charlene Carter rattled him right down to the foundations. And that scared the hell out of Jess McMasters.

  COFFEE.

  Charley could ignore the tease of sunlight and the sound of rattling pans but not that rich, full-bodied aroma of freshly ground beans. She breathed it in, letting the scent tantalize her nose and stir her sluggish brain. A jump-start of caffeine was exactly what she needed.

  A leisurely stretch dragged her toes beneath her covers with an unusual ease. In some surprise, she realized she was still wearing her pantyhose. Then came the sharp stab of remembrance through her hands. And contentment parted like the Red Sea.

  Who’d made coffee?

  She sat up too quickly, and the room moved in dizzying waves. Her sheet dropped away, and she was further confused to find herself clad in a lacy full slip and bandages. Not exactly her usual sleeping attire. She pressed swaddled fingertips to her throbbing temples, trying to force-feed logic into a stagnant mind. The hospital. She remembered leaving. The cab. Then nothing. How had she gotten inside? Undressed? In bed?

  And who’d made coffee?

  It came to her all at once with a rush of pleasure. Alan. Of course. Alan had come to take care of her. And a good thing, too, or she might have spent the night sleeping in the foyer of her apartment building. Never again would she take those painkillers full strength. It was like stepping in front of a truck.

  The sound of pots and pans clanking in her kitchen was intriguing enough to coax her from the comfort of her bed. The lingering effects of the drugs made movement slow and concentrated, but she managed to find her terry bathrobe and slip it over the bulky wrappings on her hands. She avoided the mirror on her dresser. Thank goodness Alan wouldn’t mind how she looked. Appearance had never mattered all that much to him. She couldn’t believe he’d take time off work at this most critical point of his study just to be with her. That knowledge warmed her, making up for his failure to visit the hospital. There, she’d had competent others to care for her. Here, she had no one, and his consideration touched her heart.

  She was smiling as she shuffled zombie-like down the hall and took a turn into her narrow galley kitchen. Then drew up short.

  Confronting her was the nicest denim-molded backside she’d ever seen.

  Whoever was rummaging about in the vegetable crisper of her refrigerator, it definitely wasn’t Alan Peters!

  Charley must have made some noise, for the forager called back cheerfully, “Good morning. How do you like your eggs? Over easy or scrambled?” He straightened and turned. With one look at her stunned features, he nodded to himself and said, “Scrambled.”

 
; Charley’s mouth opened and closed several times in soundless wonder. Who on earth was this absolutely gorgeous man taking control of her kitchen with more natural ease than she’d ever managed? She just stared. She couldn’t help it. His untidy brown hair looked finger-combed back from a moody brow and startlingly gray eyes. An overnight stubble darkened his firm jaw and made his mouth appear disarmingly soft in contrast. A white cotton sweatshirt clung to his broad shoulders and exposed very masculine forearms where its sleeves had been shoved up to the elbows. From beneath the hem of the blue jeans she’d already noticed in far too much detail, his feet were bare. “Ruggedly bed-rumpled” was the only way to describe him. And that evoked a more alarming question.

  Where had he spent the night?

  Noting her confusion with a slight lift of that mobile mouth, he turned back to the refrigerator. “How old is this milk?” When she didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—he popped open the spout and sniffed. His head jerked back as if a snake had jumped out at him. “Never mind.” He upended it in the sink. “Why don’t you go sit down? I’ll have things ready in a minute.”

  Obediently Charley stumbled to the breakfast bar and collapsed on one of the high stools. She knew her jaw was sagging. She could feel the slack weight of it as she struggled valiantly for a stabilizing breath of air. She made a half-strangled noise like a sink gurgling.

  “Coffee?” He was already pouring. She stared at the steaming mug in blank amazement. “Cream? Sugar? Though God knows if you have any.”

  “Black’s fine.”

  “Ah, she talks. Good. If your hands are bothering you, that’s your prescription on the counter. I filled it for you last night.” At her distressed shift of expression he soothed, “Don’t worry. You were dead to the world. I figured it would be safer to leave you than to haul you around in a wheelbarrow.”

  Charley’s mind was still laboring. Emotions were dulled. When she should have been having hysterics, she found herself only mildly bewildered. No, she definitely didn’t want to take any more painkillers. She already felt as stupid as a stump. All she could think of to say to him was, “You undressed me.”