Рейчел Бейли – No Stranger to Scandal (страница 2)

She sent the extended list to Marnie, grabbed her bag and ran out the door for her meeting with Hayden Black. If she caught a cab and there wasn’t too much traffic, she’d make it with a few minutes to spare. On the street, she grabbed a coffee and raspberry muffin, stuffed the muffin in her scarlet hold-all handbag and took a long sip of the coffee before hailing a cab. This was one meeting she didn’t want to arrive at late—Congress was wasting time and money on a wild-goose chase, investigating her stepfather for illegal phone-hacking practices at ANS despite already having the culprits in custody. Today was her turn to be interviewed, to defend Graham. He’d been there for whatever she needed for almost half her life; now she would be there for him.

The cab dropped her at the Sterling Hotel, where Hayden Black was staying and conducting his interviews. Apparently he’d been offered an office for his investigation but he preferred neutral territory—an interesting move. Most investigators liked the extra authority afforded by an official office. She sipped the last of her coffee in the elevator and checked her reflection in the mirrored wall—the wind had blown her hair all over the place. The doors slid open as she combed her fingers through the disheveled mess to make it more presentable. First impressions counted, and Graham was depending on her.

She checked the number on the hotel suite door, then knocked with the hand holding the empty paper cup, straightening her skirt with her other. She looked around for a trash can, but turned back when she heard the door open and started to smile in an I’ve-got-nothing-to-hide way.

And froze, the smile only half-formed.

A tall man in a crisp white shirt, crimson tie and neatly pressed dark trousers filled the doorway—Hayden Black. The air shifted around her, became heavier, uneven. She’d met a lot of powerful men in her job, in her life, yet none had had the presence of this man before her, as if his energy somehow flowed out and charged the space around him. The thicker air was difficult to draw into her lungs and she had to struggle to fill them.

Frown lines formed across his forehead. Dark brown eyes stared at her from a lightly weathered face, and they didn’t seem to like what they saw. Her skin cooled. He was judging her already and the interview hadn’t even begun. All her resilience coalesced, snapping her out of whatever flight of fancy had overtaken her for those moments, and she straightened her spine. That was more than fine—she was used to people judging her based on preconceived ideas about her wealth, her lifestyle and her upbringing. An investigator for Congress was just one more to add to the list. She lifted her chin and waited.

He cleared his throat. “Ms. Royall. Thank you for coming.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Black,” she said using the polite voice her mother had taught her to always start with when she wanted to win something. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Lucy.

He extended an arm to show her through the door. “Can I get you anything before we start?” His voice was gruff, unwelcoming.

“I’m fine, thank you.” She took a seat and put the hold-all bag on the floor beside her.

He lowered himself into the chair opposite and granted her a condescending glance. “We’ll run through some simple questions about ANS and your stepfather. If you keep your answers to the truth, we shouldn’t experience any trouble.”

A surge of heat rushed across her skin. The patronizing jerk. If she kept her answers to the truth, they shouldn’t experience any trouble? She was twenty-two, had a degree from Georgetown University and owned one-sixth of the biggest department-store chain in the country. Did he think she would accept being treated like a child?

She gave him her best guileless smile, reached for her large red bag and deposited it on the desk in front of her. Then she combined the sweet voice of her mother with the rapid-fire manner she’d learned from Graham, laying on her North Carolina accent extra thick for good measure. “You know, I think I will have a glass of water, if that’s okay. I’ve got a muffin here I’d like to eat—you don’t mind, do you?—I skipped lunch to make this meeting and I’ll think more clearly with some food in my stomach.”

He hesitated, then murmured, “Of course,” and rose to get her water.

She took a satisfied breath—she’d thrown him off balance. When he put the glass in front of her, she handed him her paper coffee cup. “And could you throw this away for me while you’re up? I didn’t want to put it in my bag in case any residual moisture leaked out, and there wasn’t a trash can in the hallway.” He took the cup, but seemed far from happy about it. She smiled at him again. “Thank you. You’d be surprised how many people refuse a simple request, but then again, you’re a criminal investigator. Maybe you wouldn’t.” She broke off a piece of muffin and popped it into her mouth.

He sat back in his chair and stared at her, hard. Seemed he’d regained his balance. “Ms. Royall—”

Swallowing, she reached into her bag and came out with a notepad. “I’m going to take notes on what we talk about. I always find it’s best if everyone remembers exactly what’s said in interviews, whatever kind they are. Helps everyone keep their answers to the truth and that way we shouldn’t run into trouble.” She broke off another piece of her muffin and held it out to him. “Raspberry muffin?”

His eyes narrowed and she wondered if she’d pushed too far. But he simply said, “No.” Albeit with a stern finality.

“It’s a very good muffin.” She slipped the piece into her mouth and reached into her bag again for a pen.

“Are you ready?” he asked in a tight voice.

She looked down at her pen and clicked it. “Just give me one more moment. I’d rather be fully prepared for an important conversation like this.” She put her bag on the floor again, and wrote at the top of her page,

Hayden Black interview. April 2, 2013.

Then she beamed up at him. “I’m ready.”

Hayden resisted the impulse to groan and instead called up the neutral expression that was normally easy to find in an interview. Lucy Royall was exactly like her photo, yet nothing like it. Her hair was shiny and blond, but sitting haphazardly around her shoulders, as if she’d stood in a gust of D.C. wind. Her lips were the same as the photo, but were bronze today, and full, sensual, as they moved while she ate the muffin. Despite his intentions, his breath hitched. Her eyes were the same shade of hazel, but in person they shone with intelligence. He knew she was trying to play him, and damned if she wasn’t having some success. And he was unsure if that irritated or amused him.

But one thing that didn’t amuse him was his unexpected reaction when he’d first opened the door. He’d been thunderstruck. She wasn’t merely beautiful, she was breathtaking. There was a light around her, inside her. A glow that was so appealing, he’d had to focus hard so his hand wouldn’t reach out. And was there a more inappropriate woman on the planet for him to have a reaction this strong to? The daughter of the man he was investigating on behalf of a congressional committee. A woman who, if his guess was correct, was complicit in her stepfather’s illegal activities.

The woman herself raised her brows, either because his face had contorted with self-disgust or because she was sitting there, pen poised, waiting for him to start the interview while he merely stared.

Clearing his throat, he thumbed the button to start the recording equipment. “Tell me about your relationship with Graham Boyle.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Graham has been my stepfather since I was twelve years old. He’s a sweet man with a good heart.”

Sweet? In another setting he may have laughed. The man owned a national cable-news network and was feared by competitors and allies alike. For Graham Boyle, the ends justified the means—he demanded that his reporters do anything to get a story.

And someone who’d been part of Graham Boyle’s immediate family for ten years couldn’t be completely unaware of his ruthless nature.

“That’s not the common perception,” he said mildly.

“Do your parents see you the same way your friends do, Mr. Black? Your girlfriends? Employees? Bosses?” She drew in a breath and seemed to grow taller in her seat. “My stepfather has the type of job where he has to make tough decisions, and people who disagree with those decisions might see him as hard-hearted. But he has been nothing but kind and generous to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But he hasn’t been accused of making tough decisions, Ms. Royall. He’s been accused of authorizing or at least condoning illegal phone hacking to obtain information about the president’s illegitimate daughter.”

She stilled. The only movement was the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Then she leaned forward, slowly, deliberately. “Let me tell you what sort of man he is. When my mother died three years ago, Graham was devastated. He could barely walk away from the graveside service—he had to be supported by two family friends, he was that riddled with grief. Then, despite the hours his job demands, and his own grief, he made a point of calling me, visiting, bringing me gifts. Making sure I was okay.” She sat back again, but her body remained tense. “He’s a good man.”