Sweet Anger(72)

She rubbed the tears off her cheeks. “It’s all or nothing, then?”

His shoulders heaved with his sigh. “Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m saying. I love you.”

“I know that.”

“But I’ve come to you for the last time. The next time, if there is one, you’ll have to come to me.”

“I know that, too.”

At the door she glanced at him over her shoulder. She called herself a fool and wanted to run back to him, wrap her arms around him, and beg him to hold her for the rest of her life. But she couldn’t entrust her life into his care. She had to learn to stand alone before she leaned on anyone else.

She left the office and walked down the deserted hall.

She was already lonely.


The news staff of WBTV welcomed her back, as did the viewing audience. After her first week on the air, letters came pouring in. The viewers were glad to see her again. She was flattered. Usually a television audience’s memory was short, their allegiance fickle.

Pinkie’s comments on her first three stories were reserved, but she knew he was pleased. She produced a story on a family of aerial artists who, despite the fact that several of them had died from falls, continued to perform in the circus. While Pinkie was watching it, his cigarette burned down without his even knowing it. If she could hold his jaded attention, she could surely capture the viewers’.

Her nights were spent quietly at home. She lost count of the number of times she reached for the telephone to call Hunter. If she called and he came over, she knew what would happen. They would go to bed. And they would be right back where they had started. He would want her commitment to marriage and she would be unwilling to give it.

Or what if she called him and he wasn’t at home? She would go crazy wondering where he was and whom he was with. So it was better not to call at all.

She yearned for him. She missed his keen sense of humor, his intelligent observations. She even missed his temper. If she allowed herself to think about it, her body ached for the feel of his against her. Before loving Hunter, she had been ignorant of the array of sensual experiences one could enjoy. She had never had the small of her back kissed before, or the backs of her knees, or the soles of her feet. She blushed to think of all the erotic pleasures he had acquainted her with, but she burned to experience them all again.

She was making strides forward. Each day she felt stronger and more sure of herself as an individual. But she hadn’t reached the level of confidence she aspired to. When she did, Hunter McKee would find her on his heels.


“Is this Kari Stewart?”

“Yes.”

“I need to—”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to talk louder. I can barely hear you.”

Was this a breather? It wasn’t unusual for her to get an obscene phone call. When she first started doing on-air work, the calls terrified her. Now she took them more or less in stride. She had received an untold number of illicit propositions and twenty-three proposals of marriage. This caller had the gruff, breathy voice of the perverted type.

“I can’t talk any louder,” he said. “I have a story for you. Are you interested or not?”

She was accustomed to this, too. Wackos called to report everything from Russian invaders in the Laundromat to spaceships in the schoolyards.

“I’m always interested in a story,” she said mechanically. A harried assistant producer rushed into her cubicle and thrust a script at her. “Cut it fifteen seconds,” he mouthed. She nodded and gave him the okay sign. “I’m very busy right now,” she said into the telephone. “Why don’t you give me your name and number? I’ll have our assignments editor call you tomorrow.”

“No, I can’t do that. It can’t wait.” There was no denying the fear in the voice. Kari’s red pen abruptly ceased its slashing track across the script. “I wanna talk to you or nobody.”

“About what? Tell me.” She forced herself to sound calm, though her heart had accelerated. Maybe this wasn’t a nut.

“You know those babies that are being stolen from the hospital?”

Over a period of fifteen months, three newborns had mysteriously disappeared from one hospital nursery. It was assumed they had been kidnaped, though since there had been no ransom notes, the FBI hadn’t been called in. The case was still baffling police, who hadn’t been able to find a trace of evidence. “Yes, what about it?” She reached for a pad and pencil and waited, poised to take down any forthcoming information.

“A friend of mine might know something about it.”

Not a friend. Him. Or her. She wasn’t sure which. It sounded as though her caller was speaking through a handkerchief placed over the mouthpiece. “Why are you calling me? I’d like to talk to your friend.”