Lucky Shot. B.J. Daniels

knew it was Sarah, but he hadn’t become the journalist he was by assuming anything.

      He couldn’t have asked the woman, though, without blowing his cover. Not to mention, she probably wouldn’t have helped him anyway. He’d seen her expression when she’d asked him if he was a reporter. He had a feeling that she wouldn’t have talked to him if he’d admitted it.

      Fortunately, he’d managed to get her talking—it usually wasn’t hard to get people to open up in small towns—and she’d told him about Kat Hamilton.

      He went back to his computer and searched for a Kat Hamilton, photographer. He found her website and let out a low whistle as he studied the self-portrait photo she’d taken of herself. She didn’t look terribly approachable. Her long dark hair was tightly pulled back from her face and wound into a knot at the base of her neck. Her piercing gray eyes looked into the camera as if in challenge. Everything about her told him she was a difficult woman and one he should probably stay away from.

      While he seldom took his own good advice, he might have this time if he hadn’t seen that she was going to be having a one-woman exhibit at a gallery in Bozeman. Feeling the need to verify that the blonde he’d photographed was indeed Sarah Hamilton before he tried to sell the shots, he headed for Bozeman.

      The gallery was on Main Street in a narrow building with old brick walls and lots of spot lighting. The moment he walked in, the owner came out of the back.

      “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” she asked.

      “I understand Kat Hamilton will have an exhibit here soon?”

      She instantly looked wary.

      “I saw one of her photos.” He described one he’d seen on her website. “I was interested in buying it.”

      The shop owner seemed to relax a little. Bozeman, because of the university there, had an almost Bohemian feel to it. So he fit right in, even looking as he did. “We don’t have that particular one here...” She led him over to a black-and-white photo taken in a rainstorm. Max knew enough about photography to realize the moment he saw the photo that it was nothing short of amazing.

      “You like it?” she asked, even though she’d clearly seen his reaction.

      “I love it. I can’t wait to see more of her work. That’s an incredible photograph. I do a little shooting myself. I’d love to pick her brain as to how I can improve my photos, but I’m sure she gets a lot of that.”

      “She’ll be here for her exhibit. It’s coming up soon.” She rattled off a date near Christmas.

      Not soon enough. He sighed. “I’m not sure I’ll be in town then. Maybe I can catch her some other time. I definitely am interested.” He looked again longingly at the rain photo.

      The woman seemed to hesitate, and he knew he had her. “You know...I’m expecting her later today. She said about four. She’s coming in to do some work to get her photographs ready for the exhibit. Maybe you could catch her then.”

      He couldn’t wait to meet Kat Hamilton.

       CHAPTER THREE

      MAX MADE A few calls to see what kind of interest there was in the photos of Senator Buckmaster Hamilton with his first wife, the back-from-the-dead Sarah Johnson Hamilton. There was always skepticism with something this big. But not one of the people he called told him to get lost.

      “Where can you be reached?” they each asked in turn. “I’ll have to get back to you... Is there any chance of getting an exclusive if these photographs...?” The questions came.

      Not one to count his chickens before they hatched, Max still couldn’t help feeling as if the money was already in his pocket. He could already taste the huge steak he planned to have as soon as he got Kat Hamilton to verify that the photos he’d taken were of her long-lost mother.

      Then it was just a matter of waiting for the calls to start coming in and the bidding to begin. All he had to do was wait around until four for Kat.

      He’d parked his pickup down the street so he could watch the art gallery, and see who came and went. A little after four, he spotted Kat Hamilton. She looked just as she had in her photo on her website. He watched her climb out of a newer model SUV, pull a large folder from the back and head across the street toward the gallery.

      As he got out of his pickup, he admitted that he was flying by the seat of his pants. He wasn’t sure how he was going to play this. He just hoped that the Max Malone charm didn’t let him down. Passing a shop window, he caught his reflection and stopped to brush back his too-long hair. He really needed a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t hurt either, he thought as he rubbed a palm along his bristled jaw.

      Well, too late for any of that. He straightened his shirt, sniffed to make sure he didn’t reek—after all, he’d spent the night sleeping under the stars in the back of his truck. He smelled like the great outdoors, and from what he could tell, Kat Hamilton might appreciate that. Most of her photographs he’d seen were taken in the great outdoors.

      Still, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Kat Hamilton wasn’t just a rich, probably spoiled artist. She was a rich, probably spoiled artist whose daddy was running for president and whose birth mother was possibly unstable. He had no idea what it was going to take to get what he wanted from the unapproachable Kat Hamilton.

      When he pushed into the gallery, the bell over the door chimed softly and both women turned in his direction. The gallery owner looked happy to see him. Kat? Not so much. He saw her take in his attire from his Western shirt to his worn jeans and boots. He’d left his straw cowboy hat in the truck, but his camera bag was slung over one shoulder.

      “This is the man I was just telling you about,” the shop owner said.

      Kat’s gray eyes seemed to bore into him as he sauntered toward her. Mistrust and something colder made her gaze appear hard as granite. She was dressed in an oversize sweater and loose jeans, that approach-at-your-own-risk look welded on her face.

      “Max Malone,” he said extending his hand. “I’m a huge fan of your work, but I’m sure you hear that all the time.”

      Her handshake was firm enough. Her steely gaze never warmed, just as it never left his. “Thank you.” Her voice had an edge to it, a warning. Tread carefully.

      “I was especially taken with your rain photo,” he said, moving in that direction, hoping she would take the hint and follow.

      “You should show him your latest ones you brought in today,” the gallery owner said.

      Kat didn’t jump at that.

      “Would you mind if I took a photo of this? I want to show it to my wife. This would be perfect for her office.”

      “That would be fine,” Kat said, clearly not invested in his company. He was reminded that she came from a wealthy family. She didn’t need to make money from her photographs.

      He snapped the shot of her rain photo and then walked back to where he’d left her standing. Every line of her body language said she’d had enough of him. He felt as if he was chipping away at solid ice. Charm wasn’t going to get what he wanted. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to buy one of her photographs. The prices were a little steep, and he doubted cash would warm her up.

      He was tempted, though, to buy the one she’d taken of the pouring rain. There was something about the shot... “I hate to even show you the photo I took, ” he said, stopping next to her to show her a scenery shot he’d taken on his camera while he’d been waiting for her to show up at the gallery.

      She gave the photo a cursory glance and started to turn away when he flipped to the one he believed to be of her mother.

      Kat Hamilton froze. Her gaze leaped from the camera to him. She took a step back, her gray eyes sparking with anger.

      “I’m