Sweet Anger(35)

Her gaze was expectant, and he knew she was silently asking if he’d seen her story the night before. He dragged his eyes away from her face, nodded curtly, and turned to the front of the courtroom again.

Damn! he cursed to himself. He was faced with a challenging case to prove in court and his mind was centered on what throbbed with an aching hardness between his thighs.

This juvenile infatuation couldn’t continue. Besides being physically uncomfortable and damned embarrassing, it was dangerous. As long as Kari Stewart had been hostile and vituperative, he had been safe from letting his emotions run free. But this docile Kari, this Kari who half smiled at him, was a threat he couldn’t combat. With her looking at him like that, he would never be able to concentrate on the task before him, a task his whole career hinged on.

As soon as the judge entered the court, Hunter rose to his feet. “Your Honor,” he said politely, “I request that the courtroom be cleared of all distractions, particularly those created by the video tape cameras.”

Kari gasped in disbelief. “That bastard!” she said under her breath. She had fallen for his convincing insincerity. Once again he had proved just how cold-hearted and manipulative he was.


After viewing her story on one of the newsroom monitors, Pinkie pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “You’ve really gone and done it this time, sweetheart.”

After the debate that had followed McKee’s request, the judge had ruled in his favor. Much to the annoyance of every television reporter, the video tape cameras had been evicted. The judge had consented to let sketch artists remain so the reports wouldn’t be totally without visuals for their stories.

Kari’s story strongly hinted that the banishment of cameras was an attempt on McKee’s part to keep the public in the dark about his political machinations.

“It wasn’t libelous.”

“Just short of it.” Pinkie pulled on his stained polyester sport coat. “I’m getting tired of it, Kari.”

“Tired of what?”

“This childish game of yours.”

“It isn’t a game.”

“Call it whatever you like. It’s unprofessional and reeks of the shoddy kind of journalism I never could stomach.”

Coming from Pinkie, her staunch friend and ally, that hurt. “I’m sorry you see it that way.”

“So am I.” He headed for the door. “I feel like hell. I feel so bad I may ask Bonnie to get drunk with me.” He shuffled out.

Kari had never felt so alone in her life. She drove home wondering why she was feeling depressed instead of elated. She had bested McKee again, but since there was no one to celebrate the victory with her, there was no joy in it.

She unlocked her front door and stepped inside. In one fluid motion she flicked on the lights and tossed her purse onto a chair. Then she came to an abrupt halt.

Hunter McKee was sitting in an easy chair across the room. His moss-colored eyes glowed with satisfaction at having captured his prey so effortlessly.

His coat was lying across the back of her sofa. His vest was unbuttoned, as were the first two buttons of his dress shirt. The knot of his tie had been loosened and his cuffs were rolled to his elbows. His slouching posture indicated that he had been waiting for a long time. There was an unfinished drink in his hand. His hair was even more mussed than usual.

He eased out of the chair to a standing position, keeping his eyes riveted on hers. He downed the last of his drink and meticulously set the glass on the coffee table. Stepping around it deftly, he came toward her.

“How did you get in here?” She was breathless and suddenly frightened by the determined set of his jaw and the intimidating power of his body. He exuded a masculine anger that had been aroused and that wasn’t going to be easily appeased.

“I majored in criminology.”

“But the security system …”

“I disengaged it.”

“Is it that easy to tamper with?”

“In fact, it’s a very sophisticated system.”

“But you managed to disarm it.”

“Yes. It’s working again by the way.”

He was standing close to her now. Too close. She could feel his body heat, taste the whiskey-flavored breath that fanned her face and neck, smell the citrusy flavor of his cologne. Her heart began to race.

“What do you want, Mr. McKee?”

“That’s a trifle formal, isn’t it? Don’t you think that as intimately as you’ve hated me, you could bring yourself to use my first name? Say it.” He filtered the angry words through his teeth, and she jumped back slightly.

She’d never seen a man more furious. A vein ticked in his temple. He said he’d majored in criminology. Maybe he knew how to commit the perfect crime, the clueless murder.