Flash and Fire Page 11
Pierce knew that as soon as he went in, Maurice would go through the Dumpster and retrieve the food he had just thrown away. And be sick before morning. Pretending to go in, Pierce turned and watched the man start to dig in the trash.
Sighing, Pierce cut the distance between them. Maurice jumped back and put his hands in front of his dirty face when he saw Pierce approaching. He said nothing, only whimpered.
“Here.” Pierce reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a bill. Ten dollars, he noted as he held it out. It wasn’t much, but it could buy Maurice a little food, or a bottle. Whichever gave him more comfort and saw him through the night.
His wild eyes fixed on Pierce’s face, Maurice snatched the bill out of the reporter’s hand. He curled his dirt-creased fingers around it and scurried away like an escaping rodent.
Pierce blew out a breath as he shook his head. There but for the grace of God...
He walked into the studio.
The soundstage where all the news programs at K-DAL were taped was on the first floor. It was a hub of activity, with all its energy aimed at the center, where the five o’clock news anchors sat. Ryan, as always, looked as if he’d been pressed directly out of the pages of GQ. Amanda looked cool and composed in an ice-blue suit that echoed the color of her eyes.
Pierce wondered if she’d had second thoughts about Whitney’s bombshell, whatever it was. Had she had a last-minute change of heart about winging it alone, or told Grimsley about it?
Judging by the atmosphere around him as he made his way to the perimeter of the show, the answer to both questions was no.
The station manager, as always, was in the production booth. His murky, piglike eyes darted back and forth as he watched several monitors at once. A tall, hulking man at six three and well over two hundred and fifty pounds, John Grimsley had a florid face that was set in a perpetual frown.
Grimsley ruled the various news teams like a despot who couldn’t be bothered with trivial things like benevolence. If he liked someone, he or she was in. If he didn’t, for whatever reason, he made that person’s life a living hell. He was not above petty jealousies and callous dismissals that came in the form of pink slips, which were always effective immediately. Grimsley left it to the legal department to iron out the particulars. The owners of the station let him have his way because the ratings were excellent.
It was well known that Grimsley intensely disliked Amanda.
Pierce decided to observe Grimsley’s reaction firsthand when Amanda made her announcement on the air. He slipped quietly into the control booth.
Grimsley’s eyes flicked over Pierce before returning to the bank of screens before him. A technician sat in front of each screen, nervously monitoring the cameras for anything that might be unexpected and affect the broadcast negatively.
The station manager grunted a greeting in Pierce’s direction. “What are you doing here, Alexander? You’re not due until ten-thirty.”
She photographed well, Pierce thought, glancing at two of the monitors capturing Amanda’s profile. He shrugged casually. “Busman’s holiday. It’s been a dull day, newswise.”
The wide, beefy shoulders lifted and fell. There was nothing Grimsley liked better than some sort of newsworthy turmoil, whether it was a cruel act of nature or an out-of-work college professor avenging himself on society by going berserk with an automatic weapon in a public area. He thrived on other people’s tragedies, firmly believing that the world had a right to witness them in living color.
“Can’t have overthrows every day.” The station manager’s tone was mournful.
Grimsley watched as they switched to camera three, away from the sportscaster and back to Amanda. His frown deepened.
Pierce saw Amanda pick up a piece of paper from her desk. Her clear, confident voice came over the microphones. “And now, for this late-breaking story.”
Grimsley’s brow puckered, drawing together in a single furrowed line. “What late-breaking story?” he demanded. “Someone hand her something without telling me?” His dark eyes swept over the crew.
“I didn’t see anyone,” the thin woman on the end ventured timidly.
“What the hell is she talking about?” Grimsley’s voice rumbled like a summer thunderstorm.
No one answered. Amanda’s voice was the only sound in the booth.
“Turn up the volume,” he ordered.
All eyes were trained on Amanda. Though the camera didn’t reveal him, her co-anchor, Ryan was staring at her, dumbfounded.
Amanda’s fingers left damp marks on the paper as she read from it, but her voice never hinted at her anxiety. “In a rare public statement to this reporter, Whitney Granger, president of Contemporary Vehicles, confessed today that one year ago, when his corporation was experiencing major financial difficulties, he was forced to manipulate certain funding sources in order to keep the company from going bankrupt and sending thousands of people onto the unemployment lines.”
Pierce thought Grimsley’s eyes were going to pop out of their diminutive sockets.
“What the hell is she talking about?” Grimsley roared again. “Where did she get that story?”
Trust Amanda to paint Granger in the light of a martyred saint, Pierce thought wryly. She’d be a good person to have in your corner if you ever needed a friend. But then, he wasn’t in the market for friends. Dependence of any sort wasn’t his style.
His arms crossed before him, Pierce listened as she went on with a few more particulars about Granger’s statement. But most of his attention was focused on Grimsley now. He wondered whether her independent action would get her fired.
Knowing the way Grimsley operated and the way the station manager felt about her, Pierce couldn’t understand why Amanda hadn’t attempted to clear it with the man before going on. Everything that went on the air went through Grimsley first, who had made it absolutely clear from day one that he didn’t tolerate autonomous actions of any kind.
No one was answering Grimsley’s question. Pierce leaned over and said, “I think she said Granger gave the story to her.”
Even in the dim lighting within the booth, Pierce could see that Grimsley’s complexion had reddened considerably. Veins were standing out in his thick neck.
“I don’t give a shit if the Archangel Gabriel trumpeted it into her ear personally, she should have come to me with it!”
Pierce found himself in the odd position of playing Amanda’s defender. Without examining his motivation, he calmly pointed out to Grimsley that he appeared to have an exclusive.
Grimsley turned on him. “What do you know about it?” Suspicion flared in his eyes like a blowtorch suddenly turned on high.
Pierce remained calm. He’d faced worse people than Grimsley during his stint as foreign correspondent. Hell, he’d faced worse people growing up. None of them could hurt him anymore, and neither could Grimsley. And Grimsley knew it.
“Same as you, except that I was at her house when Granger called.”
The director was signaling a fade-out. The broadcast was over and the seven o’clock team was about to come on. Amanda slowly rose from her chair. Her legs felt like cotton. The copy editor came rushing at her and snatched the copy from her hand.
“This authentic?” he demanded, the light gleaming off his bald head.
She nodded. “Absolutely. We have Granger’s permission to use it.” The man was already running to confer with the six o’clock anchor about working it into the broadcast.
Grimsley burst out of the control booth like a cannonball. Everyone knew who his target was.
Amanda saw him coming and braced herself. She was surprised to see Pierce emerging behind him. How did he figure into this? Had he gone directly from her house to talk to Grimsley? Alexander didn’t strike her as some sort of a stooge or suck-up, but she’d been wrong about people before.
Using his bulk as a weapon, Grimsley attempted to back Amanda into a corner. She sidestepped him. “Since when do you take over the news?”
His dark eyes bored holes into her. “Missy, there is always time to tell me. You’re not getting away with this,” he threatened. “I’ll teach you to yank me around by the balls.”
“Mr. Grimsley,” Amanda said sweetly as she maneuvered her way around him. “I wouldn’t touch your balls if my life depended on it.” With that, she turned and walked away from the set.
Pierce noted that there was a minor wave of suppressed laughter. Everyone was too afraid to laugh out loud. Grimsley’s wrath was nothing to take lightly. A year ago, he’d found a way to ax a popular anchorman for making a joke at his expense at a public function. When last heard from, the man was doing the news on an obscure cable network. As long as the owners backed him, Grimsley would continue to rule ruthlessly.
Grimsley looked ready to tear after Amanda and rip her to shreds with his bare hands.
The director panicked. “John, John, we’ve got an exclusive.” His thin hands fluttered soothingly along Grimsley’s shoulders, like butterflies trying to select a place to land. Ratings, he knew, had a way of placating the man. “We’ve got all sorts of calls coming in already. The phones are going crazy. The rival stations want to know if our source is accurate.”
Grimsley snorted, glaring after Amanda’s retreating back. Later, he promised himself. Later he and the bitch would have a showdown. And only he would walk away from it. “Send Farrantino to Granger’s to get some film.”
There was no doubt, Pierce thought, that Grimsley enjoyed scooping the other networks. And no doubt that he was plotting his revenge against Amanda.
Chapter Fifteen
“Hey, Amanda, wait up.”
Pierce’s voice trailed after Amanda as she hurried down the hall. She refused to stop until she reached the sanctuary of her small office. It might have seemed as though she were running away from any further confrontation with Grimsley, but in truth she was running from herself. Running from what she had just been forced to say on the air about a man who had meant so much to her for so much of her life.
All she wanted was to be alone for a few minutes, to gather her composure and her purse and get the hell out of there. She had heard Pierce calling after her in the hall. She had wanted to cry out, “Please leave me alone. I’ve been through enough. I can’t handle any more right now.”
But she hadn’t, and as he entered the room behind her, it didn’t appear that she was going to get her wish. He wasn’t about to leave her alone.
She looked at Pierce coldly. She’d noted the way he had stood next to Grimsley in the booth. Had the station manager sent him to bring her back? Well, they were both going to be disappointed. She didn’t feel like putting up with a Texas version of the Spanish Inquisition. She’d had about all she cared to put up with today.
“Are you part of the firing squad?” Not waiting for Pierce to answer, Amanda picked up her purse from the desk and began to make her way past him to the door.
Pierce lightly laid a hand on her shoulder, impeding her progress.
“I’m not part of anything.” He would have thought that she knew better than to lump him with someone like the dictatorial Grimsley. Maybe not. “I thought you might need a cup of coffee.”
The offer was wrapped in a show of friendship that she couldn’t bring herself to totally trust. But humor tugged at her mouth.
“Did Grimsley give you poison to put into it when I’m not looking?”
“I’ll keep my hands on the table at all times.” Pierce raised them, fingers reaching toward the ceiling, for emphasis. He continued walking with her toward the back exit. “Unless you request otherwise.”
“Are you for real?” Shaking her head, Amanda laughed in spite of herself.
His mouth curved just the slightest bit. She had the sensation of being softly, seductively touched all over, even though he hadn’t moved a muscle.
Pierce’s voice was as sultry as the air outside. “Very, very real.”
Amanda shrugged in an attempt to maintain an air of flippancy. At this moment, she felt completely vulnerable. She could use some support, even if it came from him. She had no doubt that Pierce possessed a predatory instinct that could detect her need and act on it. She had to disguise her condition as best she could. It was her only chance against him. She felt agitated, and going straight home to Carla’s sneezing and Christopher’s exuberance certainly wouldn’t help. She’d probably snap at Carla and make her cry again. Neither one of them needed that.
Still, walking straight into the lion’s den wasn’t exactly an intelligent move either.
“I’ve got my car—“ she began, not completely certain what she was going to say after that. It was the beginning of a protest that didn’t have a great deal of conviction behind it.
“No problem.” He produced his car keys. “I’ll follow in mine.”
“I didn’t think you were any good at following,” she muttered.
With a gallant flourish, Pierce opened the door for her and stood aside as she walked through. It was a terribly exaggerated gesture and would have annoyed her if it hadn’t been for the obvious grin on his face. Pierce knew what he was doing and knew that she knew. He was good, she thought grudgingly.
He fell into step next to her easily, as if they had always belonged together like this at the end of her day. “I’m good at everything,” he volunteered.
She had no doubt that he was. But she was in no frame of mind to find out firsthand. She felt far too vulnerable at the moment. She could still, if she concentrated, taste his kiss on her lips.
Amanda considered that a warning.
Despite his words, Pierce took the lead. He brought Amanda to a place that was located a mile away from the studio, in the heart of downtown Dallas. The Sin Pit was a bar with a restaurant added onto it and had been owned by the same family for twenty-six years. Pierce considered the craggy man behind the bar an occasional source of information and someone to talk to during the rare times when he felt like it.
Right now he had someone else to talk to.
His hand lightly touching her elbow, Pierce guided Amanda to the first unoccupied table that didn’t bear the remnants of someone else’s meal. He caught the waitress’s eye at the same time as they reached the table and held up two fingers.
“Two, Sally. Lace them.”
The woman nodded and moved to the rear of the restaurant.
Amanda looked at Pierce quizzically. Just what was she getting into? “Lace them?”
“Irish coffee. Just a little whiskey,” he assured her. “Not nearly as lethal as the taste of your mouth.”
Amanda pretended to ignore his words and the memory they conjured up. She slid into her side of the booth and looked around. The large room was loud and noisy.
At least he wasn’t going to try to seduce her, she thought in relief. Even he wouldn’t do it in a place like this, which was a good thing, because she wasn’t completely certain she would be able to turn him down. She had known that the broadcast would drain her, but she hadn’t anticipated that it would do it to this degree.
The woman he’d referred to as Sally came over with two steaming cups of coffee. She looked a lot older to Amanda close up than she had appeared from across the room. At this distance, Amanda could see how heavily the woman’s makeup was layered. Her skin was leathery from too many Dallas summers. The peasant blouse dipped low, exposing more than ample cleavage as she bent over to serve Pierce. Amanda saw appreciation flicker in his eyes. Second nature, she decided.
“Charming place,” Amanda murmured as soon as the waitress had left.
Pierce shrugged, taking no offense at her intended criticism. “It suits my needs.”
“I’ll bet it does.”
“The coffee, Amanda. I meant the coffee.” He raised the cup for emphasis, his mouth curved in amusement. “It’s surprisingly good.” He brought t
he cup to his lips and sipped as he studied Amanda quietly for a moment. “Grimsley’s really out to get you now.”
Amanda cradled her cup in both hands. She took a long drag and felt the whiskey’s kick almost immediately, reviving her as it joined forces with the caffeine. Her stomach was empty. She’d been so agitated about the broadcast that she hadn’t eaten all day.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Okay.” He leaned closer. Too close, in her estimation. The room was beginning to fade into shadows for her. “I think you’ve got a hell of a lot of spirit.”
“No lines, Alexander,” she pleaded wearily. “I’m too tired.”
Someone had fed quarters into the old-fashioned jukebox and Mick Jagger began to wail that he wasn’t getting any satisfaction.
That makes two of us, Jagger, Pierce mused, but there was no acrimony in the thought.
He watched her eyes as he spoke. “No lines, Mandy, just an observation. Most people bow and scrape in front of Grimsley.”
She knew she shouldn’t let his words please her, but they did. “You don’t.”
He shrugged carelessly, but made no move to lean back. The small space in the booth had become exceedingly intimate.
“I’m not most people. I give him his due,” he said easily. “Grimsley is the boss. And as long as he’s not too unreasonable, I can play along. It makes no difference to me who’s king of the hill. But I won’t be pushed. He knows that. And if I lose this job, there’ll be another.” He thought of the long road behind him. ‘There always has been.”
His eyes shifted back to her face. Who are you, Mandy, and why do I want to know? “But I think you want to make a mark.”
Was he criticizing her? She rallied to the challenge. “And if I do?”
Pierce smiled. Lights entered her eyes when she was bracing for an argument. He found that entertaining. And exciting. “Antagonizing John Grimsley is not the way to do it, at least not if you want to stay at K-DAL.”