“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t have insisted she appear in court. Why would she do that to herself?”
“She didn’t want to lose face with you,” Pinkie replied bluntly, watching for Hunter’s reaction.
His blank expression showed his incredulity. “Why?”
“Because you attacked Wynne and she was crazy about the man.”
Hunter looked like he had taken a blow on the chin. His head went back slightly and he sank down into the cushions of the chair. “I see,” he murmured, his eyes no longer on Pinkie but staring vacantly at the roses. “Then, there was no getting around hurting her, was there?”
Pinkie felt that itch again. Right between his shoulder blades. He was in administration now, but a field reporter never got rid of that sixth sense, that radar that tells him something’s out of sync, something’s amiss, something’s not all it appears to be.
And, worried as he’d been about Kari this morning when he found her in that office with this man, he had begun to itch the moment he entered the room.
Wild horses wouldn’t be able to drag what had transpired in there out of Kari. And Hunter didn’t seem the type to rap about his personal dealings with women.
Pinkie would probably go to his grave curious about what had happened in that office before he appeared on the scene. But as sure as God made little green apples, something had happened. If his guess was right, it had had nothing to do with what had gone on in the courtroom. And whatever it was, it had knocked the socks off both of them.
Otherwise why had Kari retreated into herself and barely spoken a word for hours afterward? And why would a D.A. come bearing flowers to a witness he had had to run through the gauntlet?
In his opinion, the man looked gut-sick in love.
Pinkie braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward in his chair. “Why did you come here tonight, McKee?”
“I want to see her and apologize.”
“That’s out of the question, Mr. McKee.”
At the ringing sound of his name, Hunter launched himself to his feet, barking his shin on the edge of the coffee table and sloshing his drink. If he had thought Pinkie Lewis was intimidating, he was totally unprepared for the sour look on Bonnie Strand’s face when she saw him. She could have been smelling last week’s garbage.
Pinkie made the introductions. Bonnie’s concession to them was a cool nod. “You’re the last person she wants to see, Mr. McKee,” Bonnie said tartly.
Pinkie was beginning to think McKee deserved the benefit of the doubt. Besides, he resented Bonnie’s interference. “How do you know what Kari wants?” Pinkie demanded of her.
“I know,” Bonnie retorted.
“Well, maybe you ought to mind your own damn business,” Pinkie shot back.
Tossing her head, Bonnie looked at Hunter. “Did you bring the roses?”
“Yes.”
She sized him up with a critical eye. “She doesn’t hold you in the highest esteem, and frankly neither do I. Not if the accounts of what happened this morning are true.”
Hunter wondered if she could know what he’d done in the office and decided that she was referring strictly to the courtroom scene. Kari wouldn’t have told anyone that they had kissed. “I’m afraid the accounts are true, though I didn’t know Ms. Stewart’s physical condition when I put her on the stand. I hope to prove to you and her both that I’m not a complete monster.”
The faintest of smiles curved his lips, but it was enough of a smile to make Bonnie’s heart flutter. After all, she was a woman, and the first word that came to her mind after this close-up look at the charming good-looking D.A. was “hunk.” Humility was always appealing in a man so strong. But Bonnie was too jaded to be put off by a pair of broad shoulders and a set of white teeth and a self-effacing manner. “I don’t want her upset again,” she said by way of warning.
“I swear to you that if she shows the slightest hint of getting upset, I’ll leave immediately.”
Bonnie cast a glance at Pinkie, who shrugged in answer to her silent question. Making up her own mind about the man, she moved from the doorway leading into the hall and said, “Second door on your right.”
“Thanks,” Hunter said. He picked up the roses and made his way to the door. He glanced back at Bonnie. “Is it all right if I just …?”
“Yes, go on in. She’s in bed, but she’s still awake.”
Hunter garnered all his courage and opened the door. The room was shadowed. Only one small lamp burned on a glass-topped rattan table beside the bed. The headboard of her bed was also rattan. The walls of the room had been painted a dark cream color. There were splashes of navy and cinnamon in the print bedspread, in baskets of dried flowers, in the Oriental rug on the floor. Oversize pillows covered in a ropy unbleached cotton were piled in one corner in front of a natural wicker screen from which hung belts and scarves and one huge straw hat. A ceiling fan with caning blades was suspended from the ceiling. The room looked exactly like her, neat and tidy on the surface, but hinting at the possibility of an intriguing mystery beneath.