Sweet Anger Read online

  “I’m sorry, Kari—”

  “Mrs. Wynne,” she hissed, “and please let go of my arm.”

  “I want to explain.”

  “There’s nothing to explain.” Her eyes were hot with anger. “Thomas served this city for more years than you’ve been out of law school. He was a scrupulous, conscientious businessman and public official. He would never …” She halted to draw a deep breath when her air ran out. “Your allegations are wrong and will be proven so. Let me go.”

  She wrenched her arm free, but his hand flattened wide on the door. His arm was held ramrod straight and had the support of his hard body behind it. She couldn’t open the door against such strength. Furious, she glared up at him.

  “Sit down,” he ordered softly. “I have some questions to ask you. You may have an attorney present if you wish.”

  Her chin went up. “Certainly not. I have nothing to hide and neither did Thomas.”

  “Then you won’t mind answering a few questions,” he said smoothly.

  She had backed herself into a corner and the only way to save face was to brazen it out. Forcibly she relaxed her posture but not her hostility. “What do you want to know?”

  “Will you sit down? Please.” He was all kindness and good manners again. He placed his palm beneath her elbow, but she jerked it away. She returned to the chair under her own power and rigidly sat down on its edge.

  He returned to his chair behind the desk and consulted his files. “Did Mr. Wynne ever travel to San Francisco?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said flippantly.

  His brows lowered. He peered at her from behind the lenses of his glasses and she knew the first taste of fear. He was serious about this. “Did he?” he repeated.

  She swallowed. “Yes. Occasionally.”

  “How often?”

  “That’s hard to say.”

  Again she was subjected to a hard suspicious stare. “Why?”

  “How often is often?” she cried. Judging from his impassive expression that he still wasn’t satisfied, she said on a long-suffering sigh, “He traveled to San Francisco with some frequency.”

  “Can you name specific dates?”

  “Of course not! Thomas had many business interests. I didn’t keep track of them.”

  “He traveled extensively?”

  She made a hopeless gesture with her hands. “I suppose you could say that. He went out of town twice or three times a month. Do you consider that extensive?”

  He didn’t answer her question, but fired another of his own. “To San Francisco, New Orleans, New York, Puerto Rico?”

  “Yes, maybe, I guess so. As I said, I didn’t keep track.”

  “You never knew where your husband was when he went out of town?”

  Her lips narrowed angrily and her eyes flashed at him. “Yes, I knew. He called me every night when he was away.”

  She thought McKee muttered something vulgar under his breath, but she couldn’t be sure. He was riffling through the papers in the file. “Do you have any idea what your husband’s annual income was?”

  “No.”

  His head came up. “No idea?”

  “I know we didn’t lack for anything. We lived well. But I had my own bank account.”

  “Money that he gave you?”

  “Money that I earned,” she snapped. “Are you done, Mr. McKee?”

  “With you, yes. I only wanted to know if you were privy to your husband’s dishonesty.”

  Hot color surged to her cheeks as she jumped out of her chair. “He was not dishonest.”

  Hunter, too, got to his feet and leaned across the desk to speak directly to her. “I have the documentation. I’ll get a conviction on the other two with or without your help. I’d appreciate your help, though. If you could remember dates, names—”

  “Go to hell,” she said, whirling away from him and storming toward the door.

  He went after her, this time managing to wedge himself between her and the door to block off her escape. She was quaking with fury. How dare he accuse a man like Thomas Wynne of something as despicable as misusing public funds!

  “Let me call a court reporter to take your deposition,” he said. “If it’s as you say and you don’t know anything, then that will be that.”

  “I don’t want to be any part of your shoddy investigation, Mr. McKee.”

  “Like it or not, as Wynne’s widow, you’re already a part of it.”

  “A wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband.”

  “Your husband isn’t on trial. His co-conspirators are. Tell me what you know and I won’t bother you again.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Then testify to that in a deposition. However, you might know more than you’re aware of, some small fact that you consider insignificant. Let me ask you some pertinent questions.”

  “Forget it. I’m leaving.” She fumbled near her hip for the doorknob.

  He grabbed her wrist and yanked her hand hard against his chest. “Then I’ll have to subpoena you. You’ll have to testify in court.”

  “I’m sure you won’t shirk your duty, Mr. McKee.” Ineffectually she tugged on her imprisoned wrist.

  “I don’t want you to be hurt!”

  They had been engaged in a shouting match. But at his last sentence, her head came up and she stared at him. He had spoken with an earnestness that she couldn’t ignore, with a soft emphasis that was more puissant than his raised voice had been.

  He was bending over her closely. He had tossed his eyeglasses on his desk and the eyes that looked down at her now were dark. His face was resolute and hard, but …

  Compassionate? She shook her head. No. Not compassionate. That was impossible. How could he be compassionate toward her and intend to malign Thomas? That was one and the same as insulting her personally.

  She gained control of her voice and said levelly, “I’ve already been hurt, Mr. McKee. It hurt to identify my husband’s body as the victim of a needless, grotesque accident. He was a wonderful man and now you want to … Oh, God!” she groaned as she felt the prickle of tears behind her eyelids. “Just let me out of here.”

  She didn’t want to cry. Not in front of anyone. Certainly not in front of him. But tears of rage and anguish filled her eyes. She ducked her head to hide them.

  He couldn’t bear it. He had known it wasn’t going to be a picnic, but he couldn’t stand being the villain of the piece. Why must he be the one to bring her more pain when she’d suffered so much? She looked so utterly helpless and forlorn.

  Damn Wynne! Why had that crooked sonofabitch died and gotten off the hook, leaving her to suffer the consequences of his double dealings? Had Wynne still been alive, Hunter couldn’t have held him in more contempt than he did now as he gazed down at the halo of blond hair on his widow’s head.

  He was alarmed to see that his fingers were strained white around her wrist. Immediately he relaxed them, but didn’t let go. The hand she had squeezed into a tiny fist flexed at the lessening pressure. He studied that hand. More than anything he wanted to press the inside of her wrist to his lips and hold it there until the pulse slowed down. He wanted to open her hand and lay his mouth against the palm.

  With his other hand he unthinkingly reached out and let one errant blond curl wind around his finger. It was as silky as it appeared. He wanted to crush each curl in his hand, bury his face in a mass of them, feel their caress against his lips.

  Instead he lowered his hand without her ever knowing of his touch. He was sure she would have flinched with loathing. For, whatever her husband had been, it was evident that she had idolized him.

  He, Hunter McKee, was the man who was going to knock that idol off his pedestal. And where would that leave him in her opinion? It was common knowledge what happened to the bearer of ill tidings.

  “I didn’t want you to be hurt.” He hadn’t intended to repeat the words, especially with such heartfelt regret and in such an intimate whisper and with
his thumb lightly grazing her inner wrist.

  But she heard him and raised her head to glare up at him, condemning him more with the eloquence of her green eyes than she could have with shouted insults.

  “Good-bye, Mr. McKee,” she said coldly. This time when she pulled on her hand, he had no choice but to release it.

  His mouth formed a grim line as he moved aside and held the door for her. Tossing back her hair and proudly straightening her shoulders, she marched past him.

  He followed her into the corridor and watched her go.

  If he had fashioned her himself, she couldn’t have been more perfect. Just the right size. Slender, but feminine. Her derriere was gently rounded beneath her skirt; her breasts filled out the bodice of her dress. Oh, yes. He had noticed them, too, and cursed himself all the while for being a lecher while he was noticing. Forbidden thoughts about shape and color and texture and taste had also filtered through his mind.

  Her legs were long and shapely in their high heels and silk stockings. He knew they were silk. If he imagined hard enough, he could feel their texture against his palms and the way the curve of her calf would fit his hand.

  And her hair, and her face, and those animated expressions were so exactly what he had always wanted in a woman. And her scent and her eyes and her mouth. God! Don’t even think about her mouth. He was already aching.

  When she left the building by way of the front door, he closed the door to his office and returned to his desk. “Hellfire and damnation,” he sighed, sinking into the chair and running a hand through his hair.

  She was a widow of three months. And even if it had been three years, she would hate him forever for what he must do to her husband’s memory.

  Still, how did one turn off desire, desire stronger than any ever felt before? He hadn’t arbitrarily turned it on. He hadn’t picked her out of a crowd to be the recipient of his desire. Because of the situation, she would have been the last one he would have willingly selected. He hadn’t asked to be attracted to her, it had just happened. Now what the hell could he do about it?

  The whole thing was insanity, lunacy of the highest caliber, political and professional suicide, yet like a sap he had gone and done it anyway.

  He had fallen in love with the enemy.

  Chapter Three

  WHEN KARI RETURNED TO WBTV, THE NEWSROOM WAS buzzing. Some big story had just broken and she had a fair idea what it was. As she passed clusters of people conversations ceased. Covert, speculative glances were cast at her. Everyone already knew.

  She went to her cubicle and carried on as though nothing were wrong. Let them talk, she thought. Hunter McKee, in his attempt to win public approval, would make a monumental fool of himself. Accusing Thomas Wynne of misappropriation of community funds was preposterous! Everyone would laugh at McKee, scorn his petty unfounded allegations, just as she had.

  “Hi, baby.”

  She had a smile ready; albeit a stiff one. “Hi.”

  Pinkie glanced over his shoulder. Private conversations were hard to come by in the beehivelike room. “It’s no longer a mystery why McKee wanted to see you.”

  Her chin tilted at a proud angle. “No.”

  “Word just came down. They arrested Parker at home, Haynes on the golf course. ’Course they’ll be out on bond in a matter of minutes. Still, helluva mess for city hall.” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Helluva mess for you.”

  “Why?” she asked defensively. “If there was a scam, Thomas certainly wasn’t involved.”

  “Is that what McKee told you? That Thomas wasn’t involved?”

  Pinkie’s eyes were as fair as the rest of him, a pale, almost transparent blue. They could be compelling. As they were now. She looked away from them. “No. He thinks Thomas was in on it. The man’s a fool.”

  “Foolish maybe, but chivalrous. I never heard of a public official warning the kinfolks beforehand that someone in the family was about to be zapped.”

  “Nor did he. He wanted me to give him information.” She stood and began to pace the small cubicle that was barely large enough to contain her desk and chair. “He actually thought I would help him get a conviction on the others. Can you believe that? The gall of the man? He wanted to have a court reporter take my statement so he wouldn’t have to subpoena me.”

  Pinkie fanned out the match he had just used to light his cigarette and dropped it into the wastebasket. His eyes never left Kari’s face. “So he was extending you a courtesy.”

  “Like hell he was,” she said acerbically. “He probably thought that as an emotionally weakened widow, I’d break down, blubber out all Thomas’s dark secrets. What he doesn’t understand is that Thomas didn’t have any secrets, dark or otherwise. He’ll find that out soon enough and then he’ll look like an idiot.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “That he’ll be made to look a fool?”

  “No. That Thomas didn’t have any secrets,” Pinkie said quietly.

  Kari spun around to face him, ready to do battle. For several tense seconds she stared at him defiantly, daring him to expound on that theory. Finally Pinkie looked away. Kari dropped into her chair and gave him her back.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. We’ve all been thrown out of whack. This is a sonofabitchin’ thing to happen to you so soon after …” He laid his hands on her shoulders and administered a gentle massage. Her muscles were knotted with tension. She had just begun to get a handle on things. Now this. He didn’t know whom he would rather strangle first, Wynne for doing whatever the hell he had done, or McKee for making his widow pay for it. “Why don’t you go home? We’ll fill your segment with a human interest piece tonight.”

  “Not on your life,” she said tightly and stood up abruptly, throwing off his comforting hands. Her eyes were brilliant and fierce. “I don’t want to give Mr. McKee the satisfaction of thinking he’s frightened me. He’ll be watching tonight and my smiling, shining face is going to be on that television screen. I’m not guilty of anything and neither was Thomas. And if Mr. McKee thinks I’ll skulk around as though we were, he has another think coming!”

  Kari had deluded herself into believing that if she bluffed her way through it, ignored it, it would go away. She hadn’t counted on the scope of the scandal. It rocked the foundations and rattled the rafters of city hall. That evening’s Denver Post carried the full story, disclosing the estimated amount of money involved based on figures provided by the D.A.’s office.

  Apparently Pinkie had warned the station’s reporters to lay off her, but other media reps weren’t so restricted. As she left the building, she was swarmed by reporters from the newspapers and other television stations. She said nothing, only shoved her way to her car. Anger and fear were warring forces inside her. Her hands trembled as she drove home. Her heart was pounding.

  Once at home and safely inside, she forced herself to calm down. This kind of anxiety couldn’t be good for the baby. She mustn’t panic. She must remain composed and give this thing time to die down, as it surely would within a few days.

  Another delusion. She had underestimated McKee’s diligence. The story continued to sprawl over the front pages of the daily newspapers. Every newscast on every television station seemed dedicated to fanning the fires of the scandal. McKee won an indictment for Parker and Haynes from the grand jury and a trial date was set.

  McKee was highly visible. Kari watched or read every interview, hating him more by the day. Her eyes were blinded to him as an aggressive D.A. She saw him only as the adversary who would drag Thomas’s name through the mud, who would destroy her, who would threaten the future of her child.

  During the day, she drove herself like a Trojan, burying her distress in work. At night, she tossed and turned restlessly, trying to think of something she could do to clear Thomas’s name.

  She was convinced that if he were guilty at all, it was only by association. Did she have something in her possession that would exonerate him? A file, a letter, a memo? Was
there something she should remember that would absolve him?

  If such a thing did exist, or if she could recall something, she would have gladly swallowed her pride and taken it to McKee. Futilely she searched. But her efforts produced nothing. She felt helpless.

  The pressure began to tell on her. She hoped she didn’t look as bad as she felt. There was no worry that her pregnancy might begin to show and give her away before she was ready to announce it. She was rail thin.

  Pinkie found her in the small makeup room adjoining the studio where she taped her segments for the newscasts. She was dabbing cover-up as thick as putty on the dark circles under her eyes. Over her shoulder, he peered at her image in the theatrical mirror.

  “Why don’t you let this be your final telecast for awhile? You’ve been put through hell these last three weeks since that story broke.”

  “I’m fine.” She ran a brush through her hair and whisked more powdered blush across her gaunt cheeks.

  “You’re not fine, Kari.” Pinkie’s patience snapped. “The situation’s far from fine. You look like death warmed over. I’ve seen pounded crap that looked better than you do. Take a few days off. Don’t be so damned brave about this.”

  Unaffected by his tirade, she stood and picked up her script. “They’re waiting for me on the set.” Pinkie caught her arm as she went past him. Seeing his concern, she let down her guard and laid an affectionate hand on his cheek.

  “Everyone’s hassling me, Pinkie. The D.A., the press. I’ve been hounded for weeks. Please don’t you hassle me, too.” She kissed his balding head and made her way into the studio.

  Pinkie let out a string of colorful oaths. He admired her courage, but he questioned her common sense.

  The telephone was ringing as Kari inserted the key in the lock of her front door. She hurried into the apartment and yanked it up. “Hello,” she said breathlessly.

  “Ms. Stewart?”

  She recognized his voice instantly. “Yes,” she said coldly.