In his mind, Hunter said a foul expletive. Would he ever stop feeling guilty? Rationally he knew that nothing he’d done had caused her to lose her baby. At least, not directly. But every time he thought about it, he became sick to his stomach. The topic should be left alone, but like a sore tooth, he kept going back to it, probing it just to see if any of the pain had diminished.
“Did your husband know about the baby?”
“No. I didn’t find out I was pregnant until several weeks after Thomas … died.”
She must have become pregnant during one of their last nights together. Jealousy pumped through his system like poison. It was irrational and downright stupid. But he couldn’t stand the thought of her making love with another man, even her husband.
It occurred to Kari that this conversation was too personal to be having with a stranger. Or was he a stranger? Why did she always feel that he knew what she was thinking?
It must be the intent, penetrating way he sometimes looked at her. Like now. It made her uneasy. She pushed her unfinished drink aside. “Mr. McKee, I appreciate your concern over my health, but I can’t believe you made this appointment to discuss just that.”
Her sarcasm irritated him. How could she be so damn hostile when all he could think about was how much he wanted her? What if they were lovers meeting for a drink before going upstairs to a room, where they would make love for the rest of the evening?
Ah, that would be a different story. She wouldn’t be frowning; she would be smiling the mellow smile of a woman who knows her lover is dying to have her. They would be sitting close, nuzzling, exchanging small, pecking kisses. Maybe, just maybe, her hand would be riding the top of his thigh. Maybe, just maybe, he’d accidentally-on-purpose graze her breast with the backs of his fingers. She’d act astonished at his boldness, playfully swat his hand away, but her eyes would be shining with heightening desire.
What was he trying to do? Drive himself insane? But, God, he wanted to be deep inside her. He wondered what she’d do if he pulled her into his arms and kissed that vexed tightness off her mouth, kissed it until her lips parted and worked over his hungrily.
Probably shoot him, he thought grimly and forced himself back to the business at hand.
“You’re right,” he said tautly. “I didn’t invite you for coffee to discuss your health. I came to ask you to bury the hatchet.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” she said coolly.
“The hell you don’t.” He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “I know why you don’t like me. I regret it, but I can accept it. Only this time you’re going too far. You’ve become an obstruction to the wheels of justice.”
“The wheels of justice!” she exclaimed. “Where’d you get that phrase? Perry Mason reruns?”
He was trying to sound stern and had ended up sounding trite and foolish. So he would appeal to her reason. “You claim that all your stories are unbiased.”
“They are.”
“Do you call a tearful interview with the mother of an accused killer unbiased?”
“I drew no conclusions.”
“You didn’t have to. The viewers did that on their own. But you failed to mention how that woman had stood by year after year and let her husband beat the kid until he became what he is. You didn’t ask her why she failed to seek psychological help for him when he was brought in on an attempted rape charge. He was twelve at the time.”
She knew he was right, but she couldn’t admit it, even to herself. “I didn’t know that.”
“And you didn’t make it your business to find out.”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job!”
“Exactly my point. I don’t act as your critic, so please desist in acting as mine.” Their voices had risen to an angry pitch. They became aware of it simultaneously and both glanced worriedly toward the men at the bar. One winked and saluted Hunter with his highball glass.
Hunter looked back at Kari. The last thing he wanted to be doing was arguing with her. He wanted to be weaving his hands through that mass of blond hair and nibbling on the pearl in her earlobe.
“Your colleagues are going to be very upset if we close that courtroom to cameras,” he said quietly.
“Meaning that’s what you’ll do if I don’t depict you as a white knight?”
He sighed. So much for reasoning and friendly persuasion. “Meaning that that’s what I’ll do if you continue to make the accused out to be a victim, no matter how subtly you do it.”