“We’d be sure to mention that Denton Uncovered’s investigation into the situation is ongoing,” Frank coos on the tail of my words. “But facts are facts. And, headlines.”
“These aren’t the facts,” I snap, my eyes flashing at Frank.
He waves a copy of the crime report. “Seems factual to me.”
“Context matters, Frank. It—”
“It’s the story I intend to run,” Frank says, cutting me off. “That’s all there is to it. Arnie can argue context from the podium all he likes. Unless, of course, he’d like to get ahead of the issue.”
Drawing a breath, I shore up the guts to check the other men’s faces, finding carefully closed expressions across the board. If I had any doubts before, they’re gone now. Frank has us over a barrel. All of us. Not only me and the Tridents, but Arnie Jackson too. Every one of us is fucked. Royally.
Brazenly, Frank turns to look at the police chief. “I assume we have an understanding. Isn’t that right, Arnie?”
“You could say that,” the chief says evenly, with a type of dignity I wish I had. I’ve sunk this ship for us, but for some reason, the chief is still maintaining his ground.
Frank smiles and gets to his feet.
“Sit your ass down, Peterson,” the chief says. “To start with, I’d like to point out that it’s very difficult to run any headline from a jail cell. More to the point, your last three months of headlines included proposals of Natural Foods Mart Adds Minced Rat to Angus Beef, Local Vet Hospital Hosts Illegal Dog Fights, and Police Wiretap Couple to Listen to Shower Nookie Sessions.”
I glance at Cullen at this last reference, the word shower bringing up all sorts of delightful memories. Cullen snorts and, without having the decency to even blush, quickly hides his amusement behind a trained stony façade, while the chief of police continues unperturbed.
“So you’ll understand if my concern for Denton PD’s reputation is less tied to your paper than to the facts.” Twisting his chair to get a better line of sight to me, the chief leans forward, bracing his forearms on the edge of the table. “You said your investigation is not yet complete, Ms. Reynolds?”
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. I mean, yes, it’s not complete.”
“Would it help your accuracy if you had unfiltered access to all our call logs, records, and mileage reports?”
Wait, what? I open my mouth, close it, then finally find my words. “It would, of course. But I don’t understand.”
The chief taps his finger on the stack of papers. “This is important work, Ms. Reynolds. Either my officers are not responding as they should, in which case there’s going to be a readjustment of my force to stamp out this nonsense, or else they’re doing the right thing but an important segment of our community is unaware of the facts. Either way, the situation needs to be corrected, and I cannot think of a better writer to get to the bottom of this.”
Frank’s jaw slackens.
Getting to his feet, the chief claps Cullen’s good shoulder. “I can see why you like this one, Hunt. We’re responsible to the people we protect—and journalistic integrity helps get us there. Thank you for what you do, Ms. Reynolds.” Pulling out a set of handcuffs, the chief walks around to seize Frank’s arm. “I’ve changed my mind about wanting to help you out, Peterson. We’re done here.”
“Remind me again why I’m having to don this fancy nightmare?” I ask Cullen from the gleaming white marble bathroom of New York’s Carlyle Hotel. I may not be moving back to the Big Apple anymore, but that hasn’t stopped my mother’s—and Greg’s—insistence that I visit. Padding to the doorway, I scrutinize Cullen from his place in front of the double mirrors, and—unlike me—what I see is a sight to behold.
Cullen’s blond buzzcut and mossy-green eyes are set off by the simple black lines of his tux, the formal white shirt beneath it a dazzling contrast. I’m so lost in the stunning handsomeness, I forget my own question until he walks over and takes the dress out of my hands.
“Because Dr. Greg Andrews, also known as your stepfather-to-be, is opening up a new hospital with a couple of his heart surgeon buddies on the Upper East Side. Showing up to dinner and ribbon cutting in rock-climbing gear tends to be frowned upon.”
Right. Turns out Mom’s latest sugar daddy may actually be, well, just a good man in love. One who truly cares about my mother—enough to have proposed to her last weekend. Apparently, his insistence on my visiting was part of his romantic plans, but he finally couldn’t wait. Sometimes, miracles do happen.
“Plus,” Cullen adds, holding up the velvety black-and-azure gown with a crisscross design which dips low in the front and even lower in the back, “I need to know how this looks on you. I fear this isn’t the last high-profile event you’ll be forced to attend.” Leaning down, Cullen presses his mouth over mine, the demands of his lips lifting me to my toes and leaving me wanting as he breaks it off. “It’s the hazard of being with me.”
I shift my tingling thighs to relieve the sudden tension.
He gives me a wolfish grin. “Before you do that, though, do you know how to tie this damn thing?” He waves at his bowtie, not wincing at all as he moves his shoulder. Dr. Yarborough removed his shrapnel four weeks ago today, and the incision and internal damage is largely healed now. “Catherine usually does this for me.”
I bat his hands away and rescue the expensive cloth from his grip. “In fact, I do. You’ll find I’m full of surprise talents. Wearing dresses not being one of them.”
“Mmm. Nothing that can’t be trained.” Before I can bat at him the same way I did at his hands, Cullen wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me down and to the side as if doing the tango.
I can never seem to get over how easy this is with him now. How easy we’ve become over the past month since getting together. Truly and genuinely together. While Cullen may always be a hard man in some respects, with me, he’s softer. Especially when it counts. Even returning here to New York City, the location of my greatest humiliation and trauma, feels different with him. I feel different. Confident. Grounded.
And, at the moment, half naked. Realizing that it’s either the dress going on or my underclothes coming off, I glower at the clock and let Cullen hold the zipper open for me.
Twenty minutes later, I loop my arm through Cullen’s elbow as he leads me down to the reception Greg and his colleagues are holding below the twenty-four-karat gold ceiling at the iconic hotel’s Bemelmans Bar.
“When Greg finds out you own a hospital network, he may try to corner you,” I warn Cullen, doing my best not to trip in this ridiculously tight skirt. It’s something Jaz referred to as a mermaid cut, which means I have to take teeny tiny footsteps to walk in the stupid thing. “Also, there will be press here, so please don’t do anything you wouldn’t want on the front page. No, scratch that. Don’t do anything Trident Medical’s board of directors wouldn’t want on the front page.”
Cullen scoffs. “Greg will want nothing to do with me, Reynolds. I’m no heart surgeon. That would have been my father. They have a very different notion of success, trust me.”