The Full Story. Dawn Stewardson

quietly and that was a solid-core door.

      “So check out her reputation in general,” he continued. “And specifically contact some of the other celebrities she’s done these articles on. See if anything appeared in print that she assured them wouldn’t.”

      “No problem,” Lydia said again, her tone amused this time—letting him know that she didn’t need him telling her how to do her job.

      And she didn’t, of course. All of the research operatives at Risk Control International were good, but she was the best.

      “I need to hear back soon,” he added, although he probably didn’t have to tell her that, either.

      “You’ve got it, Dan. I’ll call and let you know whatever I can learn fast. Then, if it’s necessary, I’ll start digging more thoroughly.”

      “Good. Thanks, Lydia.”

      “That’s what I’m here for.”

      Dan clicked off and started back to where he’d left Mickey in the kitchen.

      He was feeling marginally better, but only marginally.

      Oh, hell, who was he trying to kid? He was still fit to be tied.

      As clichéd as that phrase might be, it was the best one he could think of to describe how he was feeling—although downright homicidal was certainly a strong contender.

      He didn’t recall ever having seriously considered murdering someone before, not even any of the low-life he’d dealt with during his years as a cop. But right this minute he could cheerfully strangle Mickey Westover.

      She was trying to blackmail him into agreeing to what she wanted—regardless of how she put it. And as much as he disliked the idea of agreeing to a damn thing…

      Ken Heath had been right. The odds were low that whoever was stalking Billy had caught this morning’s Sherry Sherman Show.

      However, if news about a hit man being after Billy went online it would immediately be picked up by every TV and radio station in North America.

      And it was far too easy to picture Billy’s would-be killer driving through the mountains, almost here, when the car radio told him that he was heading straight into a trap—because Mickey had included that information in her story.

      Yes, downright homicidal was definitely right up there with fit to be tied.

      Eyeing Mickey’s slender throat, he imagined his hands wrapped around it.

      All that did, though, was start him thinking that if her pale skin felt as smooth as it looked, then once he’d touched it, strangling her would be the last thing on his mind.

      He told himself to lose that thought.

      Mickey Westover might be a good-looking woman, and he’d admit there was something awfully sexy about her, but she was annoying as hell.

      Of course, she was just trying to get ahead, which wasn’t something he’d fault her for under different circumstances.

      And now that he’d had time to consider, he realized that she didn’t really represent a serious problem. Not short-term, at least.

      At the moment, all he had to do was prevent her from calling her boss back. Or using her computer to e-mail him.

      But sending her packing wasn’t the way to handle things. Even if he confiscated her laptop and cell phone before showing her the door, she’d find a pay phone.

      So he’d have to negotiate, to use her term. He only intended to negotiate a little, though.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ONCE DAN GOT BACK to the kitchen, Mickey eyed him expectantly.

      “Okay,” he said. “Here’s the deal I’ll go for. If the killer shows up, you get your exclusive this afternoon. If he doesn’t, if I have to go to New York and find Billy, you don’t breathe a word about any of this until the situation is resolved. Then, you get your exclusive.”

      She looked suspicious, so he added, “Either way, you win.”

      “And what if you end up in New York and another journalist gets wind of what’s happening?” she said. “Where would my exclusive be then?”

      “Don’t worry about that, because this will be over and done with today. Now, give me your laptop and purse.”

      “Pardon me?”

      “Your laptop and purse,” he repeated. “Just for a minute.”

      She hesitated, then handed them over.

      “Oh, and one other thing,” he said.

      “What?”

      “When you get down to writing your story, you can report the facts of what happens. And Billy’s a public figure so he’s fair game. But my name doesn’t show up in print.”

      “Then how do I refer to you?”

      “Mr. Brent’s bodyguard will do. And there can’t be any mention of the company I work for, either.”

      “You mean you don’t work for Billy?”

      “Only indirectly. At any rate, those are the other ground rules. And before we go any further, I want your word that you won’t break them.”

      She nodded, although she clearly didn’t like having additional parameters. But since there was a lot about this he didn’t like, it only seemed fair.

      “Oh, and I should tell you,” he continued, “that a lot of important people deal with my company. People who like the fact that it’s low profile.

      “So if you did happen to make any mention of me—or it—you’d be done at the Post. And you’d never get a job with a decent paper again.”

      “Are you threatening me?”

      “No. I’m only negotiating a deal.”

      When he began rummaging through her purse, she said, “What do you figure you’re doing?”

      “Just taking your car keys and phone.”

      “I don’t think so!”

      Sticking the keys into his pocket, he tossed her purse back, then started across the kitchen with her phone and computer.

      “Give me my other things,” she demanded.

      Ignoring her was immensely enjoyable.

      After dumping the newspapers out of the recycle box, he took a minute to check the surveillance monitors.

      They still weren’t picking up anything unusual. And even though he hated the idea of leaving them unmanned again, he hated the thought of Mickey getting in touch with the Post even more. Which meant that the best thing he could do was just get this over with as quickly as possible.

      He put her laptop, cell phone and keys into the box, then picked it up and began making his way from room to room with it—her on his heels—unplugging each phone he came to and adding it to the box.

      “I don’t believe this,” she finally muttered. “I simply do not believe you’re doing this.”

      “You told me you wanted to stay,” he reminded her. “So you don’t need your car keys right now. And you haven’t got the story yet, so you don’t need your computer.”

      “Well I certainly need a phone. I promised my boss I’d call him back.”

      “He’ll understand. In the long run.”

      Apparently, she couldn’t think of a response to that. She followed him silently into the last room, a huge, windowless theater that could seat twenty.

      He unplugged the phone in there and topped up the pile with it, then said, “Okay. You stay here. If you hear any