Minute by Minute. Jo LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
herself, except for her name.
If Meg had done the same thing, Alex was screwed in more ways than one. Not just because they’d be in such close proximity for five days, but because, despite his best intentions, he had expectations. Which was always, always a mistake.
Don’t hope, you can’t get hurt, right? Everyone’s got their own agenda, and the smiles and the handshakes don’t mean shit. He’d been in Washington a long time, and he’d learned not to underestimate the depth of deception in the human heart.
No, he wasn’t going to think about D.C. He’d spent all day wondering how the press was reacting to his latest column. It was either going to be a scandal worthy of congressional investigation, or a blip on the radar, buried somewhere in the back pages. It was out of his hands.
“This is ridiculous,” he said, startling the woman next to him. He gave her a smile, then stepped out to meet Meg. And stopped.
Oh, Christ. She was perfect.
MEG BLINKED. It was him. She gripped the handle of her bag as she stared. He was so much more than she’d pictured. Taller. Darker hair. Brighter smile. And his eyes were filled with a pleasure she could hardly comprehend.
“Wow.”
“I’ll say.”
He laughed, and it did things to her insides. Then he took the few steps needed to be close. Close enough to touch. “Nice to meet you, Meg Becker.”
She grinned. “Nice to meet you, too.”
He looked at her. Really looked. First at her face, his eyes crinkling in the bright sunlight, then slowly down her body. He didn’t pause, but he didn’t rush.
She’d worn a pale green, sleeveless button-down blouse and beige capris. Comfort was her goal, as the trip from L.A. to Florida had been a long one, and then the hop to the island, of course. She’d left her hair down, and it occurred to her that she should have brushed it. Put on fresh lip gloss. At least checked to make sure her makeup hadn’t smeared.
When Alex’s gaze rose again, he didn’t seem displeased. Not if that incredible smile was any indication.
He had to be at least six feet tall. He was wearing a pair of well-worn jeans and the softest looking shirt. The sleeves were rolled up a couple of turns, showing the dark hair, not too thick, on his arms. It wasn’t buttoned all the way up, either, so she could see the suggestion of hair on his chest. It made her want to touch him. Feel if his hair was as soft as the sleek cream shirt. If his chest was as hard as she hoped. Altogether, he was kinda built and surprisingly sexy.
She laughed. She wasn’t even sure why, except, oh, God, here she was on a tropical island with a man she was seeing for the very first time and they’d been together two seconds and already she wanted to plaster herself to his chest.
Alex laughed, too. It was a great sound. Deep, rich. Quite yummy. Lord, he had dimples. Not little teeny ones, but long commas next to the smile lines bracketing his mouth.
“There’s not a flight out until tomorrow,” he said, “so it’s too late to turn back now.”
“I don’t want to turn back.”
“Thank God. How about I take you to see the island?”
“Sounds great.” She stepped closer to him, expecting him to back up and lead her to her baggage, but he didn’t move. His eyes had softened, lost their humor but not their spark, and the smile that had been there since he’d opened the door drifted, leaving him with parted lips and a look that told her that no one was going to be using that loft, after all.
2
CHARLIE HANOVER LOWERED THE POST to his lap as he swung his leather chair around. He had a great view of the Washington Monument from his office and when it snowed like this he’d often sit and stare for long stretches, just letting his thoughts go where they may.
So Alex Rosten had officially gone ’round the bend. Charlie smiled, letting the moment have its due. That bastard Rosten had been a thorn in his side since college. Charlie didn’t care how many times Rosten denied it, he had been the one to start those rumors of plagiarism when they’d both been up for the Balakian Award. It was no coincidence that Alex had won.
Charlie figured he’d be done with Rosten after that, but no. They’d both been up for jobs at the Post at the same time, and, again, no coincidence, Alex had triumphed. But now that Charlie was covering Washington for the New York Times, Alex could kiss his ass. Although he didn’t have to now. With this column, Alex wouldn’t have a source left in Washington, or anywhere else for that matter, who’d give him the time of day.
Picking up the paper, he read the article again. He’d give Alex credit—he focused on his own errors of omission. He’d spilled the beans about Senator Allen’s birthday bash in Hawaii two years ago. The celebration had been an obscene display of wealth, with everything from barely dressed dancing girls to troughs of the most expensive champagne and caviar in the world. The total price tag had been in excess of two million, most of it taxpayer money. That little detail hadn’t hit the papers, even though there had been a large contingent of journalists sipping the bubbly and enjoying the view.
Charlie had been there. Had a great time. He’d gotten a dozen good columns out of that junket, and he had no regrets. You gave a little to get a little. That’s the way it worked in Washington. The way it would always work. But Alex, in a fit of ethical remorse, was now sorry he hadn’t reported about the misappropriation of funds. He admitted that while he’d suspected the money was tainted, he hadn’t dug further. Because, like Charlie, he’d gotten a lot of other juicy tidbits at that shindig. More than just the material for a number of political columns, he’d gotten the biggest single commodity on the Hill—information. The one currency that never loses its value.
According to Alex, he was no longer willing to trade information without full and immediate disclosure to the American people. Noble sentiment. But it would never work. It wasn’t how the game was played. Power was everything in Washington, and no bleeding heart would ever change that.
Charlie put the article away as his secretary stepped inside his office. “Talk to me.”
“Alex Rosten is gone,” Stephanie said. “On vacation.”
“Not surprising. Where?”
She frowned. “This is gonna cost you. I had to promise I’d go to dinner with that slimy creep at the Post.”
“Two three-day weekends?”
“Deal.”
“So?”
“He’s gone to an island in the Caribbean. To a resort called Escapades. And before you ask, I called around. There are no rooms at the inn.”
“Escapades, huh? Don’t worry about it. I know a guy. Get me everything we have on Rosten. I want to be out of here in two hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charlie turned to his computer, to his database. He didn’t know the owner of Escapades, but he had a buddy who did. And that buddy owed him, big time. Which is how the game was played. Only this time, Charlie was going to make sure Alex Rosten went down in flames.
ALEX HAD ONLY BEEN on the island a few hours, but that didn’t stop him from giving Meg a detailed tour. They were in a glorified golf cart, her luggage safely stowed in the back. The island was actually a pretty big place. On one side, the side with the airport, was a full-out luxury resort. They passed a large white hotel, curved and glittering and elegant. Near the hotel were several restaurants, a couple of pools, a spa, tennis courts and more. Everything a person could want, if a person wanted to be around people.
On the other side of the island, where he was taking her, were bungalows. Only twelve, all of them perched either in the seaside palm trees or right over the water. The one he’d booked was over the water. No restaurants, no pools. Just the bluest ocean on earth meeting