Diamond in the Rough. Marie Ferrarella

smiled broadly. “Too late, Miranda. I don’t believe you.”

      Her stomach tightened when he said her name, and she didn’t like it. She really needed to get going.

      Miranda shook her head. “That has no bearing on the situation.”

      As she began to leave, Mike stunned her by doing exactly as he’d proposed. He fell to his knees right in front of her, impeding her exit. He caught hold of her wrist—preventing her from just walking around him to the front door.

      “Please.” The entreaty seemed to vibrate from every pore of his body.

      She was acutely aware that people were watching them. Her father’s daughter when it came to drawing undue attention, she felt uncomfortable as the center attraction.

      “Get up,” she blurted, trying unsuccessfully to disengage herself. “People are going to think you’re proposing.”

      He’d rattled her, Mike thought. Good. Maybe he’d get her to see things his way after all. “If that’s what it takes to get an interview with SOS…” Mike’s voice trailed off.

      Her eyes widened. Just her luck to champion her father’s cause with a man who was mentally deranged. “You’re crazy. You realize that, don’t you?”

      Mike rose to his feet, still holding on to her wrist. “Look, I’ve tried to get an interview with SOS half a dozen times—if not more—and he won’t return any of my calls.”

      She could well believe that. Not wanting confrontations or to get into a discussion as to why he wouldn’t do an interview, her father would simply just ignore the call altogether.

      “He likes to keep to himself,” she told him.

      “But he’s obviously opened up to you.” And where Shaw could do it once, Mike was positive the pitcher could do it again.

      “I wouldn’t call it that.” And technically, she was telling the truth. Getting information out of her father— any kind of information—took a great deal of time, as well as patience.

      Again, Mike saw it for what it was. He prided himself on being able to read people, a combination of body language and attitude. “Look, I get it. You’re trying to protect the man. That’s really commendable of you. But you also feel that Shaw’s gotten a raw deal—”

      “He has,” she interjected. Then she looked down at her wrist, still caught in his grip. “Am I getting my hand back anytime soon?”

      “That depends,” he answered.

      “On what?”

      “On whether you bolt and run the second I let go of it.”

      Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t appreciate these kinds of games, but it was her own fault she was here in the first place. Marlowe certainly hadn’t sought her out, she’d come gunning for him.

      “I won’t ‘bolt and run,’” she promised.

      Slowly, he spread his fingers out from around her wrist, his eyes remaining on hers. When she continued to remain where she was, he went on.

      “Okay, let’s say I’m willing to reexamine my position in print. You have to admit that I’d need to talk to the man to do that—which means an interview.” He looked at her pointedly. “Can you get me one?”

      “And if I did—not saying that I can,” she qualified quickly, “how do I know you won’t use that to do a hatchet job on him?”

      Part of Mike took offense, but he knew where she was coming from. From time to time, Shaw’s past transgression drew articles and speculation out of the woodwork. So, he decided to keep his defense simple. “You’ve read my columns?”

      She’d read him faithfully for the last few years, ever since he began to write the column. But to say so might make him feel he had the advantage. “Yes.”

      “Anything there—before the article on SOS—to make you think that I’m biased or that I have some kind of an ax to grind? Or that I’m laboring under some preset agenda that I’ve set up for myself?”

      She blew out a breath, then shook her head. His columns had always been fair. “No.”

      Miranda didn’t sound a hundred percent convinced. “Ask around if you want to. Anyone in the business’ll tell you that I call it the way I see it and I’m nobody’s lackey.” He’d laid his cards on the table and he held his breath. “Now, do I get an interview with the man?”

      Even if she wanted him to have it, she couldn’t make that kind of promise. “That’s not up to me, that’s up to him.”

      “So you do have some influence.”

      She’d walked right into that one, hadn’t she? Miranda upbraided herself. Another mistake. But, try as she might, she couldn’t work up any anger against the sportswriter. “I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

      “What are you, his assistant?”

      The time for denying that she knew her father was obviously over. Inclining her head, she gave him a non-answer. “I’m whatever he needs me to be.”

      The simply stated affirmation stopped Mike in his tracks for a second. What she said could be interpreted in a number of ways, some of which he found himself not exactly happy about. If she was saying what he thought she was saying, that made her out of bounds. If she was romantically involved with the former major-league pitcher, he wasn’t about to act on any of the impulses he’s been entertaining for the last few minutes.

      In his opinion, Miranda whatever-her-last-name-was was far too young for Shaw, but then, this day and age, anything was possible. Besides, it really wasn’t any of his business.

      “I see.” Mike focused on what was important. “So, you’ll ask him?”

      “Do you promise if you do get to talk to him, you’ll write a fair article?”

      “I promise.” Like a boy taking an oath, Mike swiped his index finger across his heart, making an X. An amused smile played on his lips. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

      In contrast, Miranda’s smile was sharp and devoid of humor. “You lie to me, and you will.”

      This Shaw had to really be something else in private to arouse that kind of loyalty. He was going to get an interview, he thought, hardly able to believe his luck.

      “So when can I meet him?”

      “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” she pointed out. “I didn’t say I’d ask him—and even if I do ask him, there’s probably a very good chance that he’ll say no. He doesn’t like reporters,” she explained honestly. Reporters were like vultures, he’d once told her, except that they didn’t wait until the victim was dead before they started stripping off the flesh.

      “I’m a journalist,” Mike corrected.

      How was that different? “A rose by any other name…” Miranda let her voice trail off as she eyed him pointedly.

      He needed leverage. Mike decided to share something with her.

      “Would it further my case for you to know that when I was a kid, SOS was my hero? That I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing the day I heard about the betting scandal and that he’d been banned from baseball for life?” He paused for a second, debating, then added, “I cried myself to sleep that night. Not even my brothers know that.”

      Yes, it helped, she thought. If what he said was true. If so, then he’d be more likely to want to find a way to get the public to come around. And wasn’t this what she’d wanted all along, someone to champion her father’s case in print? Who better than an established sportswriter who’d once been a devoted fan?

      Slowly, she nodded in response to his question. “I’m sorry you lost your hero.”