The Reluctant Hero. Lenora WorthЧитать онлайн книгу.
a grin then. “No, it hasn’t. That’s why I’m putting together the story, with an anonymous hero as my focus. I hope we can run it tonight at six and eleven. And in the meantime, I’ve got research digging to find all the Derek Kanes listed in Atlanta and the surrounding vicinity. I intend to track him down and find out why he doesn’t want to be in the limelight.”
“Intriguing,” Claire said, maneuvering her chair back to the desk across from Stephanie’s. “A man with something to hide is forced into the role of a Good Samaritan, huh?”
“I’m beginning to think that,” Stephanie replied. “And if Derek Kane is hiding something, I intend to be the one to find out what it is.”
“Tell me something, kid,” Claire said, leaning a hip against the corner of Stephanie’s desk. “Was this Derek Kane young and attractive, or old and feeble?”
“He was…gorgeous,” Stephanie blurted out before she could catch herself. Quickly she added, “Of course, it was dark and he stayed in the shadows for the most part, but—”
“But you’re interested?”
“No, no. Not in him as a man. He was too snarly, too…” She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something awfully familiar about Derek Kane, besides the way his actions had reminded her of her sweet father. And that something had been eluding her all night and morning. Maybe that was why she had such an incredible urge to find the man and get to the bottom of his story.
“So what did he look like?”
Stephanie crossed a long navy-stockinged leg, then watched the wide pleats of her matching skirt settle over her knee. “Dark hair—kind of shaggy, leather jacket, cowboy boots, jeans…and from what I could tell…the most incredible gray eyes—deep gray.”
“Wow.” Claire stared down at her, her green eyes shifting like a cursor on a computer screen. “Our man Kane does sound intriguing. Maybe he’s a movie extra or stunt man, or maybe even a movie star. Hollywood is always making films on the streets of Atlanta.”
Stephanie shook her head. “Oh, no. This man definitely shuns the spotlight. I doubt he has anything to do with Hollywood. Maybe…maybe he’s a detective! He did say he’d been to a lawyer’s office nearby.”
“Honey, from your description, I’d say he’s dangerous, at any rate.”
“Yes, you can be sure of that,” Stephanie told her boss as she uncrossed her legs and pushed her chair back from her desk.
“Too dangerous?” Claire asked, rising to get on with her busy day. “I mean, too dangerous to consider getting to know on a personal level, of course.”
“Yes. Tall, dark and definitely dangerous. And not my type.”
“Sounds exactly like your type.” Claire threw the comment over her shoulder as she waved. “Keep me posted—on the story, that is.”
“I will,” Stephanie promised, ignoring Claire’s suggestive look. And I will find Derek Kane and I will find out what he’s hiding.
She told herself it was all about getting the story. That was her goal, after all. To get the story, find out the truth, expose corruption, save the day.
But you couldn’t save your father, could you, Stef?
No, because she’d been too young to understand how to save him, to even to begin to understand his death.
Putting those thoughts out of her mind, Stephanie looked at the Bible verse her mother, Vanessa, had cross-stitched for her the Christmas after her father had died.
“The just shall live by faith.”
Romans, chapter one, verse seventeen.
Stephanie read that verse each time she sat down at her desk, but she remembered that justice didn’t always seem fair. But, as Vanessa would remind her time and time again, she didn’t have to depend on justice alone, as long as she had her faith, too.
“My father lived by faith,” she whispered now. “And he died trying to bring about justice.”
Where was the fairness in that? Stephanie had to wonder. Her mother believed faith and justice could work hand in hand. Stephanie still had her doubts.
But it had worked last night. She’d tried to save Walter Griffin. And she’d asked God to send her a hero, someone strong and true, as her father, Donald, had always been.
But then along came Derek Kane.
A reluctant hero.
And a man she couldn’t seem to get out of her mind.
Because of the story.
Or because as Claire had sensed, there was more to the story. Much more. Stephanie had to admit she was intrigued by much more than just the facts. She wanted to know what had made Derek Kane so bitter, so antisocial, so unwilling to be recognized for his good deed.
“And I won’t stop until I find out what it is,” Stephanie told herself as she booted up her computer. “There can’t be that many men in Atlanta named Derek Kane. He should be easy to track down.”
Chapter Three
Derek slowly tracked the shovel through the rich, moist loam of the flower bed he was building for Miss Nadine Hamilton. Miss Nadine, as she had graciously suggested he address her the first time they’d met years ago, was eighty years old, petite and so loaded with old Atlanta money that Derek doubted the woman even knew how much she was really worth. She came from a lineage that dated back to well before the Civil War, and her hair was a silvery blue, as blue as her blue blood, Derek guessed.
On second thought, Miss Nadine probably knew down to the penny how much money she had, since she scrutinized each and every flower, shrub and bag of manure Derek had ordered to finish her spring garden in time for the annual Azalea Pilgrimage her church group had organized many, many years ago as a means of “helping those less fortunate.”
Derek liked working for Miss Nadine. She was one of his favorite clients. She kept him busy, kept him on his toes and always managed to lighten his day with her words of advice or her analysis of life in general. She could quote whole passages of Shakespeare, and whole books of the Bible, but she spoke only when she felt the need to get her message across.
Derek heard one of the tall French doors of the house opening and looked up to find Miss Nadine coming toward him. Her morning inspection of his work, no doubt.
“Land sakes, Mr. Kane—” she insisted on calling him Mr. Kane “—when did the price of fertilizer go up so high?” she called out, her tiny veined hands on her hips, her wrinkled pink face twisted in a frown of disapproval.
Derek dropped his shovel, then, to peek up at her, lifted a cluster of the ageless Confederate jasmine trailing along a pretty latticework arbor. She was standing above him on the elaborate circular brick veranda that bordered the back of her twenty-room mansion in one of the oldest, most prestigious neighborhoods in Atlanta—Buckhead.
As she petted Lazarus on the head, she pointed with the other hand to the nearby bags of fertilizer he’d picked up at the local nursery earlier. “I can’t afford much more of this stuff, and still be able to pay you, too, you hear me now?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Derek called, waving a hand. “I’ll try to keep things under budget.”
“Well, see that you do.” Cooing to Lazarus, she added in a huffy voice, “And don’t let this overgrown mutt mess up any of your handiwork, you hear?”
Derek had to grin. Miss Nadine knew his one stipulation—Lazarus came to work with Derek, and that was that. The dog was trained to stay where he was told. Besides, he was too lazy to go digging for bones. He wouldn’t dare venture into any flower beds.
And both Derek and Miss Nadine knew that.
Even though Miss Nadine looked as stern