The Way Home. Irene Hannon

they were more successful than you’ll be.”

      “Maybe I should resort to strong-arming, like they did,” she replied pertly, getting into the teasing spirit.

      He eyed her speculatively, the quick sweep of his gaze lingering just a bit too long on her shapely, crossed legs. “Unless you’re a black belt, I don’t think that will work. Or maybe you’re referring to something besides physical force,” he countered with a lazy smile.

      Amy stared at him. The man was actually flirting with her! The buttoned-up, stuffed-shirt, play-by-the-rules assistant prosecuting attorney was letting his hair down! The transformation in his demeanor was amazing! Apparently he had a sense of humor after all.

      Or did he? she wondered, her eyes suddenly growing troubled. Maybe he wasn’t teasing. Maybe he was hinting that he might be willing to answer her questions if she cooperated in other ways. He had made it clear that he thought she was attractive. He hadn’t struck her as the type to even think along those lines, but, after all, she hardly knew him. And it wouldn’t be the first time someone had suggested such a thing. She just hadn’t expected it from him, she admitted, oddly disappointed. He seemed somehow to radiate integrity and honor and…well, goodness, corny as that might sound.

      Amy hoped her first impression was right, that his last remark had just been innocent flirting, but in case she was wrong, she needed to clarify the parameters of this date right now. She rose, tilted her chin up and gazed at him levelly.

      “Look, Mr. Richards, don’t get the wrong idea. I—”

      “I thought we were past the ‘Mr.’ stage.”

      “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, and I might be jumping to conclusions, but let me make something very clear. I want to find a way to make my coverage on the Jamie Johnson story stand out. I want that very much. Enough to go to some pretty extreme lengths, including spending five hundred dollars for a date with a man who dislikes me on the slim chance that I might get some piece of information I can use. But I don’t intend to make a…personal…investment in this story. That’s not my style. It never has been, and it never will be.”

      Now it was Cal’s turn to stare. Good heavens, did she really think he was insinuating that for the right “personal investment,” as she put it, he might be willing to offer her a few crumbs of information? What kind of man did she think he was? he thought indignantly. He opened his mouth to set her straight, then suddenly recalled some advice Gram had once offered, which had always held him in good stead: Think before you speak. And put yourself in the other person’s shoes before jumping to conclusions.

      He stifled his sharp retort and instead took a moment to study the woman across from him, looking for the first time past her superficial beauty. There was spirit in her deep green eyes, and intelligence and sensitivity, he realized. Her posture was defiant, but the subtle quiver in her hand as she reached up to brush a stray strand of hair back from her face was more revealing. To the world she might appear brash and assertive and so ambitious that she was willing to push the bounds of ethics for the sake of a scoop, but suddenly he knew better. Amy Winter had principle. And character. Yes, she wanted success. But not at any price.

      He admired her for that, admired her for setting clear boundaries and taking a stand. After all, she really didn’t know him, he reminded himself, and the crime beat was filled with seedy characters. With her looks, she’d probably been propositioned more times than she could remember as a trade-off for information. Once more he felt a surge of anger. Not at her this time, but for her. She’d obviously been subjected to offensive behavior and suggestions often enough to make her suspect his motives.

      Instinctively he reached out to touch her arm, but at her startled jerk, he withdrew his hand immediately. He could feel her tension quivering almost palpably in the room. She was like a young colt, he realized. Skittish and suddenly unsure and ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. It was not the behavior he’d expected from the sophisticated, glib, always-in-control newswoman he’d encountered up until now.

      “Look, let’s sit down for a minute, okay?” he suggested gently.

      She eyed him warily, trying to read the expression in his eyes. The man was like a chameleon, changing from moment to moment. She could deal with the difficult, evasive assistant prosecuting attorney. She was used to that type. She could also deal with men who thought they could barter for favors. Unfortunately, she’d had experience with that type, too. But the way Cal Richards was looking at her now—with compassion and concern and a disconcerting insight—threw her off balance. And for a woman who liked to be in control, that was not a pleasant sensation. After all, she might know that confrontation made her uncomfortable, but she’d always done a good job hiding that from the world. Until now. For some reason, she had a feeling Cal had picked up on it. And that was downright scary. A “danger” signal flashed in her mind, and somehow she sensed that it would be a lot safer if he left right now, if they forgot about this date and—

      “Please.”

      The single word, quietly spoken, and the warmth in his eyes, melted her resistance. Even though she had a feeling she was making a mistake, she did as he asked and gingerly sat on the couch, folding her hands tightly in her lap. He sat beside her, keeping a modest distance between them.

      “I think we need to clear the air here,” he said, his gaze locked on hers. “I was only teasing a few minutes ago. For the record, I do not indulge in, nor condone, physical affection except in the context of a committed relationship. It seems that might be one of the few things you and I agree on. Besides keeping my mugging out of the news, that is.”

      He smiled then, his eyes reassuring and warm, and Amy looked down, twisting her hands in her lap, feeling like an idiot for overreacting. There was no way she could doubt his sincerity, and a flush of embarrassment rose to her cheeks. Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to meet his gaze.

      “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions,” she said quietly.

      “I have a feeling you had reason to.”

      She conceded the point with a nod. “I don’t always meet the most ethical people in my work.”

      “I can imagine.”

      She looked down again. “Listen, why don’t you just go home and get some rest? You’ve been through enough tonight. Just forget about the date, okay?”

      Cal frowned and studied her profile: smooth forehead, finely shaped nose, firm chin, the slender sweep of her neck. At the moment she looked more like a fragile and vulnerable woman than a brash reporter. An unexpected surge of protectiveness swept over him, and his frown deepened. Now what was that all about? He didn’t even like Amy Winter! And she’d just let him off the hook, released him from the obligation to go on the date he’d been dreading. This was his chance to make a quick exit. Except, strangely enough, he suddenly didn’t want to leave.

      When the silence lengthened, Amy glanced up cautiously and tried to smile. “Are you still here? I thought you’d be out the door in three seconds after that reprieve.”

      So had he. Why was he still sitting here? For a man who spent his days finding answers to difficult questions, this one left him stumped. Maybe it was simply his sense of fairness, he rationalized. After all, she’d paid good money for this evening, and he owed her dinner. That was certainly the easy answer—even if he had the uncomfortable feeling it wasn’t the right one. But now was not the time to analyze his motivation for wanting to stay. He could think about that later. In fact, he would think about it later—whether he wanted to or not, he realized ruefully. And he had a feeling that the answer was going to be a whole lot more complicated than simple fairness. Still, it was a good enough response to Amy’s question.

      “I owe you dinner. And I pay my debts.”

      She hesitated. Then, with a little shrug, she capitulated. “We could at least make it another night, if you’d prefer.”

      “Like I said, as long as you don’t mind having an escort who attracts attention, I’m game.”

      With