No Stranger to Scandal Read online

  Hayden Black interview. April 2, 2013.

  Then she beamed up at him. “I’m ready.”

  * * *

  Hayden resisted the impulse to groan and instead called up the neutral expression that was normally easy to find in an interview. Lucy Royall was exactly like her photo, yet nothing like it. Her hair was shiny and blond, but sitting haphazardly around her shoulders, as if she’d stood in a gust of D.C. wind. Her lips were the same as the photo, but were bronze today, and full, sensual, as they moved while she ate the muffin. Despite his intentions, his breath hitched. Her eyes were the same shade of hazel, but in person they shone with intelligence. He knew she was trying to play him, and damned if she wasn’t having some success. And he was unsure if that irritated or amused him.

  But one thing that didn’t amuse him was his unexpected reaction when he’d first opened the door. He’d been thunderstruck. She wasn’t merely beautiful, she was breathtaking. There was a light around her, inside her. A glow that was so appealing, he’d had to focus hard so his hand wouldn’t reach out. And was there a more inappropriate woman on the planet for him to have a reaction this strong to? The daughter of the man he was investigating on behalf of a congressional committee. A woman who, if his guess was correct, was complicit in her stepfather’s illegal activities.

  The woman herself raised her brows, either because his face had contorted with self-disgust or because she was sitting there, pen poised, waiting for him to start the interview while he merely stared.

  Clearing his throat, he thumbed the button to start the recording equipment. “Tell me about your relationship with Graham Boyle.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Graham has been my stepfather since I was twelve years old. He’s a sweet man with a good heart.”

  Sweet? In another setting he may have laughed. The man owned a national cable-news network and was feared by competitors and allies alike. For Graham Boyle, the ends justified the means—he demanded that his reporters do anything to get a story.

  And someone who’d been part of Graham Boyle’s immediate family for ten years couldn’t be completely unaware of his ruthless nature.

  “That’s not the common perception,” he said mildly.

  “Do your parents see you the same way your friends do, Mr. Black? Your girlfriends? Employees? Bosses?” She drew in a breath and seemed to grow taller in her seat. “My stepfather has the type of job where he has to make tough decisions, and people who disagree with those decisions might see him as hard-hearted. But he has been nothing but kind and generous to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But he hasn’t been accused of making tough decisions, Ms. Royall. He’s been accused of authorizing or at least condoning illegal phone hacking to obtain information about the president’s illegitimate daughter.”

  She stilled. The only movement was the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Then she leaned forward, slowly, deliberately. “Let me tell you what sort of man he is. When my mother died three years ago, Graham was devastated. He could barely walk away from the graveside service—he had to be supported by two family friends, he was that riddled with grief. Then, despite the hours his job demands, and his own grief, he made a point of calling me, visiting, bringing me gifts. Making sure I was okay.” She sat back again, but her body remained tense. “He’s a good man.”

  There was something deeply attractive about her impassioned defense of her stepfather. The way her eyes sparked made his breath catch. Made his pulse that much faster—a far from ideal response to an interviewee. Determinedly, he ignored it. He was a professional.

  “Al Capone was good to his family,” he said.

  Her cheeks flushed red. “I resent the heck out of your implication.”

  He flicked his pen between the fingers of his right hand and arched a brow. “I wasn’t implying anything beyond pointing out that being good to his family doesn’t automatically exclude a person from engaging in illegal activities.”

  Lucy held his gaze across the table for long, challenging seconds. He let the silence lengthen. In situations like this, patience was his friend.

  She dropped her gaze to the pad of paper in front of her and her blond hair swung forward a little. An image rose in his mind of threading his fingers through her hair, of tilting her face up to him, of lowering his own until his mouth gently touched hers, of feeling the softness of her plump lips, the passion she—

  Suddenly his shirt collar was too tight. Damn it, what was he doing? In an important investigation like this, he couldn’t afford to be attracted to a witness.

  Get ahold of yourself, Black.

  He drew in a breath and stared at her until all he saw was a woman covering up for a criminal.

  “Have you participated in any instances of illegal surveillance at ANS?” he asked, more harshly than he’d intended.

  “No,” she said, lacing her fingers together on the table in front of her.

  Without missing a beat, he continued. “Are you aware of any instances of illegal surveillance at ANS?”

  “No, I’m not.” Her voice was measured, even.

  “Have you participated in or been aware of any instances of any illegal activity at ANS?”

  “No.”

  “Did you work with former ANS journalists Brandon Ames and Troy Hall when they used illegal phone hacking to uncover the story about the president’s illegitimate daughter?”

  “No.”

  “Were they carrying out orders from your stepfather?”

  “Of course not.”

  “They initially blamed the phone hacking on a temporary researcher, but the researcher was clean. Do you know who it was at ANS who helped them?”

  “As far as I know, no one.”

  “What’s your take on why the accusations have been made against ANS and Graham Boyle?”

  She let out a long breath. “Those who make something of their lives always attract those who want to tear them down.”

  Unfortunately, he knew that wasn’t where the accusations had originated. Graham Boyle might have a good point or two, might treat his stepdaughter well, but he was still a ruthless jerk who’d hurt many.

  “How do you think ANS came up with the leads that uncovered President Morrow’s daughter? He was a Montana senator before his presidential campaign—it’s not as if no one’s looked into his background before.”

  For the first time, an uncertain line appeared between her brows. “I don’t know. I wasn’t working on that story.”

  He knew he had to push further, but God help him, with that look on her face, he wanted to reassure her instead. To take her hand across the table and tell her everything would be okay. Despite that, the cynical part of his brain knew it was probably an act. He needed to listen to that side of himself more.

  “But you talk to other journalists, surely,” he said, thankfully hitting the skeptical note he’d aimed for. “And this story and its methods are very high profile. You’re telling me you’ve heard nothing about how they got the lead?”

  “Good old investigative journalism—it’s hard to beat.” Her perkiness was forced, but he didn’t get the sense she was lying in an underhanded way. Not like the last woman who’d sat in that chair. This was a woman who didn’t get on with her colleagues, felt excluded from them and was covering up for that. A shaft of unwanted tenderness hit him squarely in the chest.

  But Angelica Pierce had made it clear whose fault that lack of integration was. Feeling sorry for Lucy Royall was a dangerous trap. He rubbed a hand over his face. This interview wasn’t working, wasn’t getting him anywhere. Perhaps the lack of sleep over the past few months was finally affecting his investigative edge.

  Hayden glanced at his watch. Maybe it’d be better to finish early today, pick up his son from the nanny next door and go for a walk in one of D.C.’s parks. He could interview Lucy Royall again when his focus was stronger.

  “Thanks for your time,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “I’ll be in touch when I need to speak with
you again.”

  She tucked her notebook and pen into her bag and stood. “Mr. Black, I understand that you’re just doing your job. But I hope you haven’t already discounted the possibility that Graham Boyle might be innocent.”

  Hayden pushed to his feet and rested his hands low on his hips. “If the evidence shows he’s innocent, Ms. Royall, that’s what I’ll report back to Congress.”

  But his gut instinct never lead him astray, and his gut told him that Lucy Royall’s stepfather was as guilty as they came. It was up to him to prove it.

  He held the door open for her then watched her walk down the hall, her hips subtly swaying. Beauty and a glorious accent had covered surprising strength and determination in his interviewee—and had caught him off guard.

  Luckily, he was even more determined.

  Next time he met Lucy Royall, he’d be ready for her.

  Two

  Lucy quietly slipped through the door to her stepfather’s office—his secretary had told her he was on the phone but to go through anyway. Graham nodded when he saw her, then barked more orders at whoever was on the other end of the line.

  Used to being in the background while he worked, Lucy took the chance to look through his top-floor window at the panoramic view of D.C. She loved this city. She’d moved here from Charlotte, North Carolina, when she was twelve and her mother had married Graham. The town—and Graham—had been good to her.

  From a basket under the desk, Rosebud, his bulldog, lifted her head and, recognizing Lucy, lumbered out to greet her. Lucy dropped her bag beside the chair and crouched down to rub the dog’s velvety, wrinkled face.

  “How’s it going, Rosie?” she whispered and was rewarded with a wide doggie smile, complete with a pink tongue almost curled back on itself.

  With a final terse comment, Graham ended the call and crossed the room.

  “Lucy!” he boomed and held out his arms. She stood and leaned into his bear hug, letting go of all her worries for a few precious seconds. He was the one person she could always count on. Her only family.

  “Hang on,” he said, pulling back. “I’ve got something here for you.”

  She couldn’t help the smile at the familiar words. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Of course I did.” And she knew he was right—it was the way he showed love. In the same way he was her only family, she was all Graham had. They made an odd couple in some ways, but their unusual little family worked for them.

  He opened a door in the sleek cabinets that lined one wall and pulled out a deep blue velvet box. He handed it to her, his grin proud. She opened the lid and took out an exquisite crystal bulldog the size of her palm.

  “It’s Rosebud.” At the sound of her name, the real Rosebud thumped her curly tail on the carpet. “Thank you,” Lucy said and kissed Graham’s cheek.

  Graham smiled with his heart in his eyes, as he always did in these moments, then he cleared his throat and strode back to his desk. He’d never been particularly comfortable with emotions, so the moments, although heartfelt, were always short. “Tell me how the interview with Black went.”

  She sank into an upholstered armchair in front of Graham’s heavy desk. “Shorter than I expected.” She’d puzzled over that on the cab ride back. “He only asked a few questions, really.”

  He flicked his wrist dismissively. “That means he was just taking your temperature. There will be more.”

  “He said he’d be in touch when he needed to speak to me again.” Remembering Hayden’s words—and his deep voice saying them—sent a shiver across her skin. If she wasn’t careful, she’d develop a crush on the investigator, which would be bad on more levels than she could count. But, oh, that man had been delicious. So tall and broad, with a dark, brooding demeanor to accompany his looks. Even his hands had fascinated her—he’d flicked his pen over and under his fingers as he’d considered a point and she’d been mesmerized. They were long fingers with blunt ends, dexterous, lightly tanned. Instead of paying attention to the questions, for one sublime, stolen moment she had imagined his palm cupping the side of her face, those fingers stroking her cheek.

  Graham leaned back in his chair and laced his own fingers behind his head, bringing her attention back to the present. And to the gravity of the issue on the table.

  “Our biggest risk here,” he said, eyes narrowed and aimed at a point on the wall, “is that someone with an ax to grind will falsify testimony. Feed Black lies and say they saw something.” He glanced back to her. “Did you get a sense from him that he’s got anything like that?”

  “He played his cards close to his chest. But one thing was obvious,” she said gently, as if she could soften the blow. “He thinks you’re guilty.”

  Graham swore under his breath. “I refuse to sit back and wait for an investigator who’s not objective to ‘find’ evidence to support his theory. We need to expose Black before he does too much damage.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want you to start your own investigation,” he said in his trademark firecracker rhythm. “I’m taking you off all other duties. You’ll run this on your own. No word to anyone else. You’re the only one I can trust one hundred percent not to stab me in the back for the notoriety, or whatever-the-hell reason people frame other people for.”

  None of it was a question, but he was waiting for her response. She reached over and clasped one of his cold hands between hers. “I’ll start right away.”

  “You’re a good girl.” He patted her hands, then released them. “Congress will have vetted him for the job, dug into his past, but we’re better. Find the skeletons in his closet and bring them out to play. We’ll air an exposé as soon as you have enough.”

  Her insides fluttered. This wasn’t a style of journalism that she liked or particularly wanted to be involved in. And Hayden Black being the target made her even less comfortable. She shifted in her chair. The discomfort could have been a result of the stirrings of attraction, but she still didn’t like the idea of targeting him.

  Then she remembered his closed-off expression when she’d left his suite less than an hour ago—he was going after Graham, already convinced of his guilt. Doing an exposé might leave a bad taste in her mouth, but Hayden Black’s own actions made it necessary. Besides, if he had no skeletons hidden away, there’d be nothing to find.

  She nodded, decision made. “You can’t have me on air with this. Everyone knows I’m your stepdaughter. We’ll need someone with a good reputation and a bit more distance from you.”

  “We’ll worry about that when we have the content ready to go. You do the research, get the story, and I’ll bring someone in to host then.”

  Her mind clicked over into journalist mode and she took out a notebook from her hold-all bag. “Who’s our source at the Sterling Hotel?”

  Graham picked up the phone on his desk, dialed, barked an order, then after he had his information, disconnected and looked at Lucy again. “Concierge named Jerry Freethy.”

  “Okay.” She dropped the notebook back in her bag and stood. “I’ll keep you up to date.” She blew Rosebud an air kiss and headed for the door.

  “Lucy,” Graham said gruffly, and she turned. “Thank you.”

  Emotion clogged her throat but she found her voice. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got your back, Graham.”

  * * *

  The next day, at half past one, Lucy saw her target. The concierge had told her Hayden Black liked to take a walk in the park across from the Sterling Hotel with his son on his lunch break, but that the time of the break varied. So Lucy and Rosebud had been wandering the park since just after eleven. Rosebud was panting from the exertion, but thoroughly enjoying her day out meeting random people who stopped to pat her.

  Hayden was striding along a paved path about twenty feet away, talking to an infant he carried in one arm, holding a brown paper bag in the other. The sight of him trapped her breath in her lungs. Wide, strong shoulders th
at tapered to narrow hips. Long legs that walked with confidence and purpose. The masculine grace in the way he held his son.

  She swallowed hard. “Come on, Rosie, I have a little boy I want you to meet.” Rosebud looked up, her curled tongue poking out as she smiled.

  Lucy had spent the afternoon and evening before gathering as much information as she could on Hayden Black. There wasn’t a whole lot available on the web, but then, he was a professional investigator, so it made sense that he protected his own information. She’d found New York newspaper articles about his wife’s death a few months earlier in a car crash, leaving Hayden the single father of a nine-month-old baby, Joshua, who would now be one year old. And currently wearing denim overalls, a bright-blue hat and a cheeky grin.

  As they came closer, Lucy gazed at the trees, their branches heavy with spring flowers, but kept man and child in her peripheral vision. Hayden had his head bent, talking to his son, not paying a lot of attention to where they were, the people rollerblading past or the joggers making their way along the wide path. The hitch in her lungs had smoothed out and now her breaths were coming a little too fast for comfort, which she told herself was excitement about the story, but she suspected had more to do with seeing Hayden Black again.

  When they were only ten feet apart, she heard a squeal, followed by, “Goggie!” Lucy finally glanced up to see Hayden had stopped midstep, and probably midsentence, given the way his mouth was open, as if forming a word he’d since forgotten.

  She’d never paid much attention to men’s mouths—shoulders and biceps had usually caught her attention first—but Hayden’s mouth was a thing of beauty. Sensual lips that she could almost feel tracing a path along the side of her neck. Her skin heated and prickled.

  Before becoming too carried away, she found a smile and walked Rosie over. A gentle breeze blew her hair around her face, and she tucked it behind her ears as she stopped in front of father and son.