“Of course, you realize that television is a visual medium. Without visuals, I don’t have a story.”
His smile oozed charm. “Of course.”
She looked away in exasperation. He was admitting that he would do all he could to render her useless. “You tried to have cameras barred once. The judge turned you down.”
“I think he’ll listen this time. If the press swings too far either way, the defense could set up a hue and cry for a mistrial. I don’t think the judge wants to release a killer on a technicality.”
She gathered up her purse. “I hardly want a killer running loose on the streets, Mr. McKee.” She slid from her chair and stood up. He did the same.
“Then, you promise to be less of a distraction in the courtroom?”
“Do I distract you?”
She tilted her head back to look up at him. She had intended to sound flippant, not flirtatious. But the way his eyes lanced down into hers lent another connotation to her question. She would have given anything to recall it.
“Yes. You distract me.”
More disturbing than his eyes was his compelling voice. It was low and husky, raspy and intimate. Though they weren’t touching anywhere, she could feel that voice seeping through her clothes, touching her everywhere.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” she said quickly, wondering why she was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. “I’m making you no promises, but thank you for the drink.”
Hunter watched her go, wondering if he’d gotten his message across. She was damnably high strung.
Damnably desirable.
Sitting at the editing console, Kari did some serious soul-searching. Twice she viewed the unedited tape Mike had shot for her. It was unbiased. The focus of her story would depend on how she wrote her voice track. And it wouldn’t be so much what she said, as how she said it.
Whether he had planned to or not, Hunter McKee had pushed the right button to make her stop and think about what she’d been doing. Her personal feelings for him shouldn’t matter. They shouldn’t dictate the slant of her stories.
In the long run, where would this lead? What would she gain? Perhaps the scorn of other journalists. She was well thought of by her professional peers. Was her vendetta against Hunter McKee worth risking her reputation as a good reporter?
But even more important, what was this vendetta doing to her as a person? She knew her father wouldn’t have approved of her attitude toward McKee. Pinkie was disenchanted and made no secret of it. Was everyone else right and she wrong? Had she misjudged the man?
Looking at it objectively, not taking into account her personal feelings, she supposed that McKee was only doing what his job demanded of him. She still thought he was a scoundrel. She still didn’t like the way he had handled the evidence against Thomas, nor the way he had bullied her in the courtroom. She especially didn’t like the way he talked to her, looked at her, or made her feel when he looked at her.
But, and that was a crucial but, she was a news reporter, not an editorialist. Her professional reputation was as much at stake as his. What else could she do but report impartially?
She felt good about her story an hour later when she handed it to the producer completed and ready for airing. There was a lightheartedness to her step as she left the building for home. She had only one name for the feeling welling up inside her: relief. McKee would no doubt be glad to have her off his back, but she was just as glad to be rid of that compulsion to bring him down.
At his apartment, Hunter watched the evening news. He held his breath as Kari’s report from the courthouse was introduced. When the story was finished, he let out a great long expulsion of air. She had been factual; her attitude toward him had been tempered considerably.
Thank God, he thought. They were over that hurdle. He wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore.
The next morning when he entered the courtroom, his eyes immediately went on a busy search until they located her. Unlike previous days, she wasn’t directing her photographer and causing a commotion among the spectators seated around her.
Today she was sitting quietly holding a notepad on her lap. She and the photographer were talking together. He must have said something amusing. She threw back that mane of hair and laughed softly.
Hunter’s loins responded to the throaty sound of that laugh. When he passed her aisle, he glanced down the row of chairs and caught a glimpse of her leg in its smooth silk stocking. Her dress was green. The demure design only made it that much sexier. She was leaning back in her chair now, speaking over her shoulder to another reporter. In profile, her breast was clearly detailed.
He took his seat at the prosecution’s table and consulted the clock on the back wall. He had a perfectly good watch strapped to his wrist, but the official court clock provided him with an excuse to turn around. His eyes found hers as though by prearranged meeting.