Past Imperfect

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The mention of a bed seemed to stop the flow of air around them. Suddenly, the TV’s volume seemed way too loud, her pajamas much too revealing, her bare feet too vulnerable.

Even standing a few feet away from him felt too close, as if his skin was giving off more heat than she could handle.

“Can I get you something to drink?” She took off toward the sofa and grabbed the popcorn, then veered toward the kitchen, trying to put some distance between their bodies.

Ian followed her with his gaze, a lopsided grin revealing that he knew how nervous she was.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.

After setting the bowl on the counter, she got two bottled waters out of the refrigerator. It was the most harmless beverage she could think of. “So what brings you around? The hearing wasn’t enough for you today?”

“I don’t blame you for being frustrated. It couldn’t have been easy, sitting there and listening to Broadstreet manipulate whatever Westport or Kathryn had to say.” Ian sauntered over to the counter, where he half sat on a barstool that showed a tiny tear on one side. “Just when things were starting to look good, he turned it around. And I don’t think Gilbert was helping by just sitting there and taking Broadstreet’s knocks.”

“We all thought Kathryn’s testimony was going well until Broadstreet started second-guessing Gilbert’s good intentions.”

Rachel urged the bowl of popcorn at him, then uncapped both waters. She took a swig of hers, as if quelling her temper.

Damn Alex Broadstreet. After Kathryn had shed such wonderful light on Gilbert’s caring nature, Broadstreet had tried to make it seem as if the professor had shirked his duty by failing to get his student proper guidance from a “real” mental-care professional. In essence, Gilbert had come off as inept and arrogant.

And, as Ian had pointed out, Gilbert hadn’t even lifted a finger in his own defense. He was guarding his secrets carefully. But why?

As she lowered the bottle, she realized that Ian had been carefully gauging her. Her blood gave a shuddering thump, leaving her heart racing.

“Monday’s another day,” Ian said. “Nate Williams and Jacob Weber are bound to present strong testimony. They’ll give Broadstreet a run for his money.”

She didn’t want to think about next week, because she would be testifying, too. Boy, how would she stand up to the board president? He was going to tear her apart.

Ian must have picked up on her fear, because he reached out, placed his hand over the one she was resting on the counter. The contact sheltered her in warm calm, spiking her skin with tingles.

“You’re surrounded by friends,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice how supportive you are of one another. In fact, afterward, I saw Ella Gardner giving Gilbert a pep talk.”

For a sublime moment, she was almost able to block out reality, to concentrate on his palm covering the back of her hand.

But she had also seen Ella and Gilbert, and the memory intruded upon any comfort she might have felt from Ian’s touch. Ella, who’d been ahead of Rachel in school by several years, had been very close to the professor, too. When Rachel had seen her talking to him after the hearing, she’d been struck by her friend’s pleading gestures, the desperation written on her face. Rachel knew that the pregnant woman had been trying to convince Gilbert to confess that he was the benefactor, but of course, the older man had sat there shaking his head, apparently resolute and clueless to the fact that the rest of the gang was already armed with the truth.

Why can’t he just admit it? Rachel wondered once again. Can’t he see the revelation would only help his cause?

She felt Ian’s hand tighten over hers. Instinctively, she turned her palm upward. His skin was rough, masculine, strong in its reassurance. When he rubbed his thumb near hers, the easy caress took her breath away.

But then she glanced into his eyes—those intense reporter’s weapons. All the questions he was harboring speared into her and, suddenly, she remembered who they both were.

A journalist.

And his prey.

She backed away from him, disconnecting, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why are you here again?”

On the counter, his hand closed, just like the mouth of a predator after it realizes that its last meal has escaped.

But Ian’s posture told a different story. For a moment, he seemed sad, lost in an entirely different way.

“I just…” He straightened in his chair, shrugged. “I wanted you to know what I saw today, what I’m going to report—a man being railroaded.”

Excellent! But…he could’ve phoned her with this news.

Was it possible that he only wanted to see her again, and that’s why he’d shown up on her doorstep?

Before Rachel could get too excited, she dissuaded herself from believing it.

Instead, she looked askance at him. “I thought you were supposed to sit on the fence, to stand back and report the facts.”

“Yeah. That’s how it’s supposed to be. But sometimes it’s impossible to divorce yourself from a story, especially when there’s real injustice. The more I learn about Gilbert Harrison, the more I suspect Alex Broadstreet’s motives.”

Her arms slipped from their protective position across her chest as he continued.

“I’m more surprised at my feelings than anyone,” he said, laughing a little, “but I was getting riled at that hearing. I’ve even had this pinch of…I don’t know what it is…anger?…that Gilbert is going to come out on the wrong side of everything and—you know what? That’s wrong. A Good Samaritan is taking a beating from an authority figure and I can’t stop it.”

Rachel refused to comment. Had Ian found proof that Gilbert was the benefactor? No. He couldn’t. He would’ve come right out and said it by now. He was only talking in generalities.

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” he added. “Hell, but what do I know? Gilbert won’t agree to an interview, so I have no basis for a personal opinion.”

Rachel’s heart crashed to the tile. “Ah. So that’s it. You want me to set up an interview with him.”

Of course. That was the reason for Ian’s home invasion. He wanted to work his wiles on her in person, probably knowing she was a sucker where Gilbert’s well-being was concerned.

Ian ran a finger over the rim of the popcorn bowl, his brow furrowed. “Even though I’d like nothing better than to talk with him, that’s not why I’m here, Rachel. I…” He shook his head. “Damn, I’m not sure why I came.”

She chanced a look at him, finding that he was doing the same. When their gazes locked, her pulse paused…stretched…popped, forcing her to glance away.

The room seemed entirely too small with him in it. Alarmingly, space only seemed to shrink more and more with every tick of the clock on the fireplace mantel.

But the last thing she wanted to do was acknowledge the taunt awareness, the sensual snap in the air.

This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t he see the barriers between them…his job, the color of her skin?

“Who would’ve thunk it?” she said, evading the moment. “You’re actually a crusader, Ian Beck.”

“Not me.” He sighed, grinned, grabbed some popcorn and rattled it around in his closed hand. The cavalier journalist had returned, thank goodness. “I haven’t been a pen-wielding warrior for a while. But if Gilbert manages to get his fat pulled out of the fire, I wouldn’t mind seeing it.”

As he tossed the food into his mouth, he seemed much too casual. Was he lying to her? Did Ian Beck really have a softer side? Not that he’d admit to it.

Still, this new possibility prodded her to talk—really talk—about what was happening. More than anything, she wanted to spill her doubts and fears about Gilbert, to lean on someone else’s shoulder in order to take the burden off of her own.

Be careful, she told herself. This man is an investigative reporter. Don’t you think he’s used this act before? Don’t you think this is how he gets his dirt?

Even so, the thought of revealing everything to a person who wouldn’t be around for much longer was tempting. After he was gone, her confessions would leave town with him, too, as if she’d never spoken at all.

A stranger, she thought. A temporary haven.

Then reality slapped her upside the head. The last person she wanted to blab to was a journalist, for heaven’s sake. But if he were any other friendly companion, she knew she’d really give some serious thought to allowing a man like Ian Beck to give her some relief.

And maybe even in more ways than one.

Fleetingly, she imagined leaning her head against his chest, closing her eyes as he enveloped her with his strong arms, breathing easy as he stroked her back, his hands slipping under her shirt to caress her bare skin.

Warmed by the fantasy, she smiled at him, then tentatively walked closer, reaching in to the bowl for a handful of popcorn.

Unexpectedly, he did the same thing.

Their fingers brushed, sending giddy shivers up her arm, through her skin, down to her belly.

“If you want,” he said softly, keeping his hand near hers, “I can show you my rough draft tomorrow. You can give me your thumbs-up before my deadline.”

Wow, he was really trying to earn her trust and reel her in.

Curiously, she skimmed her finger over his as she picked up a kernel, acting as if the contact was an accident, even if they both knew it wasn’t. As she brought the food to her mouth, he didn’t look at the popcorn so much as her lips.

She allowed herself to rest the snack against her mouth, enjoying his frank interest, still thrown off balance by it, too. “Thank you. I’d really like that.”

Pushing the snack into her mouth, she knew what he was probably thinking: that she wasn’t merely liking the chance to preview his reporting.

That there were so many other things for her to like about him.

Things that just might get her through these troubled times.

After polishing off the popcorn last night, Ian had offered to take Rachel out for a more substantial dinner, but she had declined, saying that she planned to get up early for a painting class at the local learning center.

Even though he knew there was a current of attraction running between them like a live wire, he’d accepted her excuse, thanked her for the snack and made arrangements to meet her at the art shop the next morning.

Back in his hotel room, he’d burned the midnight oil, punching out his story on his laptop, satisfied enough with the results to get a few hours of shut-eye.

Morning didn’t come soon enough. But when it did, he shined himself up, sent an e-mail to a loop he’d created for his nine nieces and nephews and, by the time eleven o’clock rolled around, traveled by subway to meet Rachel.

Her class was located in a shop on a quiet, tree-lined block that included knitting and crocheting boutiques, a small Italian restaurant and an antique emporium. Thank God the place was tiny enough so that he could see the students through the lettering of the front window. Ian didn’t go into these kinds of stores unless he was chasing a story. And it’d have to be a damned good one, at that.