Read The Stranger: The Heroes of Heyday (Harlequin Superromance No. 1266) for Free Online Page B

speak. She just looked at him, as if she were hypnotized by his litany of misery.
    â€œI know that Sander Jacobson’s loony wife set fire to the Ringmaster Café, illogically blaming your family for her husband’s sins. And I know that, after the fire, your mother had a stroke. A stroke from which she hasn’t yet recovered.”
    Again he paused.
    Mallory’s eyes were bright, but her chin was high. “Is that all?”
    He thought about Dilday Merle and the mysterious blackmailer. But he wasn’t free to talk about that. “Seems like enough, doesn’t it?”
    Was it his imagination, or did she seem relieved? She certainly took a deep breath, and when she spoke, her voice was steadier.
    â€œImpressive,” she said. “I knew you spied on us when you were in Heyday. I had no idea you had continued to do so from Washington, D.C.”
    â€œI just followed the story. I follow all my stories. And this one is particularly important to me.”
    She laughed harshly. “Why? I hope you aren’t going to say it’s because of me, because we were‘friends.’ I quit believing in that fairy tale three years ago. Although I have to admit you had me fooled pretty thoroughly for a while there.”
    Again that slight sting of conscience. Had he gone too far back then, while he was digging for the story he suspected was buried in her innocent little café? Had he played the role of friend and confidant so convincingly that he had actually hurt her?
    He hadn’t meant to. Ordinarily he knew just where the ethical lines were drawn. Sometimes, though, he had forgotten it was a role. Sometimes, while he sat at the counter late at night and ate her amazing blueberry pie, he had forgotten that he was a reporter. Sometimes, when she had hinted at how unhappy her home life was, he had been forced to fight the urge to take her hand across the counter.
    Sometimes he had almost forgotten to take notes.
    Almost.
    But he’d done plenty of soul-searching back when it happened. And he’d decided that, though he might have touched the line with his toe once or twice, he hadn’t ever actually crossed it.
    He wasn’t going to cross it now, either. Even if it made the reporting more difficult, he was going to play it straight with her this time.
    â€œNo, it’s not because of you,” he said. “It’s because I’m writing a book about the Heyday Eight. For that, I’m going to need all the information I can get.”
    â€œYou’re writing a—” She swallowed, and, as if her fingers had gone limp, the book dropped to the woodenfloor. She didn’t seem aware that she no longer held it. “A book? About those poor girls? Why? ”
    He retrieved the mangled paperback, which he saw was a copy of The Great Gatsby. “It’s what I do, Mallory,” he said quietly. “I’m a writer.”
    She looked at him. She opened her mouth, as if she were about to say something. And then, without another word, without even taking her book from his hand, she moved past him and went out the side door. He heard her footsteps disappearing fast along the stairs.
    Well, hell. What exactly was that all about?
    He’d known that seeing her again would be awkward. He’d expected her to be angry that he was going to tear up her town again when the book came out.
    And she had been angry, damn angry, at first. But then, after he mentioned the book…
    He stared at the empty rectangle of light for a long moment, trying to sort through the signals his instincts were sending him. He had talked to a lot of people about a lot of difficult things, and he had learned to read them pretty well.
    Unless he had completely lost his touch, Mallory Rackham wasn’t merely angry anymore.
    She was flat-out scared.
    Â 
    A WEEK LATER , Mallory was on her way to the Windjammer Golf and Country Club. She was going too fast, and her thoughts were so