Read Storm Over the Lake for Free Online Page A

finger to her lips, amazed that he’d remembered that long-ago conversation…
    â€œYou used to,” he said quietly. “We stood here in the garden and talked about myths, and I told you I was past the age of believing in them. And you said that you did.”
    â€œThat was a long time ago.”
    â€œThree years?” He drew the cigarette to his broad, chiseled mouth. “Long enough. Has reporting made you cynical, little girl? Has it made you bloodless, painless, invulnerable?”
    She shuddered, although the night was warm, hearing that rescue worker’s voice in her mind as she’d heard it for six months, “What the hell are you people, vultures?! My God, you’re making a carnival out of it…!”
    â€œNO!” The word broke from her, and she clasped her hands around her shaking body and turned away from him, with a knife-like pain in her heart. She took a deep breath.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Meredith?” He moved closer. “Did I hit a nerve?”
    She closed her eyes. “I…finished the invitation calls,” she said, businesslike and calm again. “Do you have anything in particular for me to get out tomorrow, sir?”
    He drew a sharp breath, as if he didn’t like the change of subject, and turnedaway. He started rattling off chores, and her mind wandered briefly away to the sound of angry voices and weeping and yelled commands…
    â€œâ€¦need that letter out first thing in the morning,” he was saying as she forced her mind back to the present. “And cancel that Rotary Club speech, I don’t have time. Think you’ve got all that, Meredith?” he asked gruffly.
    She nodded. “Yes, sir. What about Mr. Samson? He was supposed to meet you for a drink after the Rotary meeting.”
    â€œEfficient, aren’t you?” he growled, his dark eyes narrow and angry in the soft white moonlight.
    â€œYou pay me to be efficient, Mr. Devereaux,” she said primly. “What about Mr. Samson?”
    â€œTell him I’ll meet him for lunch Friday at the country club.”
    â€œYou can’t,” she reminded him. “You have to be in Chicago Friday to discuss the Shore contract.”
    â€œThen Monday.”
    â€œYes, sir.” She turned away.
    â€œMeredith?”
    â€œYes, sir?”
    There was a hesitation, about the space of a heartbeat. “Walk with me.”
    Confused, she turned and fell into step beside him, his behavior making her mind spin. From anger to companionship in seconds, his lightning mood changes stunned her. He wasn’t a tall man, she thought, noticing that he was barely half a head taller than she was in her three-inch heels. But he was so big, so broad and leonine, that he seemed to tower over people. Warmth and power radiated from him, a dark, strong warmth that made her want to feel the strength in his arms…She flicked her eyes toward the house, trying to ignore the buried longings that his company was resurrecting.
    He took a long draw from his cigarette. “Why reporting?” he asked conversationally. “Why not fashion or advertising?”
    She watched the shimmer of moonlight on the dewy grass. “Because I could write. I never wanted to do anything else. At first,” she recalled, smiling, “I wanted tobe a novelist. But I found out that a lot of people wanted to be novelists, people with more talent than I’d ever have. So I settled for truth instead of fiction.”
    â€œTruth?” he asked quietly.
    She withdrew, like a child that had stretched its hand toward a warm, welcoming flame, only to have it burned. “I’m sorry.”
    He laughed mirthlessly. “You cost me a fortune. And you’re sorry.”
    She closed her eyes against the hurt. “I tried to tell you that I didn’t leave the word out. It was there, on my copy, when the magazine came out…!”
    â€œWas it?” he