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From Chapter One: Meet Kitt, the Heroine...
"Send in the spitfire," Heywood Cronin said to his secretary. "The whirlwind. You know which one
-from staff writing. The little redhead."
"Kitt Mitchell? Yes, sir," said Miss Lundeen.
"Writes like an angel," muttered Cronin. "Dresses like a bag lady."
"Oh, no, sir," Miss Lundeen said mildly. "She just likes to be casual."
"Casual," Cronin said with a snort. "She'd be a pretty girl if she'd dress up. O tempora O mores.
That's Latin, Miss Lundeen. Do you know what it means?"
"Yes, sir. O, the times; O, the manners."
"Anyway," Cronin said, "Send her in."
Miss Lundeen exited with such speed and silence it was as if she evaporated. Cronin looked at the
picture of his wife, framed in platinum, on his desk. She was in her wedding gown, and a damned
fine gown it was. He missed the 1950's when women had waists and wore pearls and full skirtsand
exciting shoes with pointed toes and high heels.
He chased the thought from his mind. That was looking backward. It was thinking like an old
geezer. He was a man who looked forward, and that's why journalism awards half-covered his
office. He intended to collect a few dozen more before he cashed in his chips. It was one of the
reasons he
cultivated young writers like the spitfire.
In a few moments, Miss Lundeen announced her. "Kitt Mitchell, sir."
And in she walked. Cronin fought against wincing. The woman wore cargo pants and a pale blue
camp shirt. Her shoes made her look like she was going to climb the Alps.
She was a petite woman, barely over five feet tall, and she was slight rather than shapely. Still, Cronin
thought, she was a fetching little thing. Maybe she dressed like Indiana Jones to fend off unwanted
male attention. She could attract men like a magnet--if she wanted.
Her most startling feature was her long, flame-red hair. Her skin was fair, her eyes were blue, and
her eyebrows and lashes auburn. She was pretty enough, but Cronin always found himself noticing
the vivacity in her face before her actual features. In motion she was swift as a hummingbird
She had a reputation for being sassy, of not being afraid of the
devil himself. This did not mean that Cronin did not make her nervous. He made everyone on his
staff exceedingly nervous; he considered it part of his job.
"Sit down, Mitchell." He ordered, he did not invite.
Kitt Mitchell gave him a measuring look and sat down in the leather chair before his desk. His desk
was mounted on a dais so he could stare down, lord-like, upon whoever sat in that chair.
She returned his gaze with wary coolness. "Miss Lundeen said you
wanted to see me."
He laced his fingers together and peered harder at her. She didn't squirm, not one whit. Was he
losing his touch? He'd wipe that calm off her face.
"Yes," he said, hitting her with it immediately. "I'm going to give you the assignment of your life."
Her fair skin went paler. Her blue eyes got wider.
"This story won't just change your career. It will make your career."
She seemed speechless. Good. Inwardly he smirked.
"This is big stuff, Mitchell," Heywood Cronin told her. "It's got everything: money, mystery, power
struggles. Sex. Revenge. But most of all, human interest. Your specialty."
He sat back with satisfaction and watched his words sink in.
Delight flooded Kitt. Suddenly Heywood Cronin, elderly, grizzled, balding, and bent, looked as radiant
as a spirit guide to her.
Then he squinted through his thick glasses and smiled his thin smile. "Go home and pack. Monday
you leave. For Crystal Creek, Texas."
Crystal Creek? Kitt felt as if the office ceiling had crashed down on her. Dismay swept away her
delight: Crystal Creek was the last place in the universe she wanted to go. Heywood Cronin no longer
seemed luminously benevolent. He seemed like a capricious troll playing games with her life.
"Well?" he demanded, leaning toward her over his vast desk.
Say something! Kitt commanded herself. She cleared her throat.
"Well, Mr. Cronin, you see--I-I'm from Crystal Creek. It could cause a conflict. It would be hard
for me to write objectively about it."
Cronin hunched lower, as if crouching for attack. "I want objectivity, but I also want feeling.
Passion. A town ripped in twain, blah, blah, and so on."
"But-but, you see-there could be a problem--"
"No," Cronin said, shaking a bony forefinger. "You see. What you call a problem, I call opportunity.
You can write about this place because you're of this place. You tap into its deepest psyche. It's
your old home town. The site of your fondest childhood memories. And so forth."
Kitt blinked hard. "You mean you knew I grew up there?
He laughed the laugh that was famous at Exclusive magazine. It was described as the gurgle of ice
water pouring over a grave. "Of course. That's why I picked you."
"Oh," Kitt said tonelessly. She'd hoped he'd chosen her for her
ability.
"That," he said with a dismissive wave, "and the fact you can write. I assume you've lots of
connections in this one-horse town? Relatives? Old friends and neighbors? People who'll pour out
their hearts to you?"
Kitt drew a deep breath, mind whirling. She didn't think of Crystal Creek as her home town; she tried
not to think of it at all. When she'd left, she'd meant to leave forever. People opening their hearts to
her? Hardly.
But--there was Nora.
Ah, yes, thank God there was Nora. A lifeline back then. And possibly a lifeline now. "I know
people, yes," Kitt said vaguely.
"Then you know what this story's about? Eh? Do you?"
Kitt's mind spun more swiftly. "It has to be about Brian Fabian," she guessed. "About his buying land
there. To build some mega housing development."
Cronin sank back into his chair and folded his hands over his vest.
"Ha. You do have sources. Yes. Brian Fabian. He's always news. He sells magazines, by God."
So that was Cronin's angle, Kitt thought. If Brian Fabian was interested in Crystal Creek, so was
Exclusive magazine. Cronin knew what fascinated the public, and he played that fascination like a
magic flute.
Cronin's pale eyes stayed fixed on her, gauging her. "Tell me what you know about Fabian."
Kitt told him what she knew, what everybody knew-next to nothing. Fabian was a billionaire and
almost total recluse. No known photo existed of him. Information about his private life usually
proved to be false or misleading or both.
Facts about his business ventures were just as elusive. They were hidden in a maze of mergers,
partnerships, shell corporations, and deals of dizzying complexity.
"I'd guess he's the mystery in the story," Kitt mused. "And the money and power." Then she added,
"And probably the sex."
One thing certain about Brian Fabian was his appetite for beautiful women. But none of these women
ever talked about him; never a one said so much as a word. His affairs remained as secret as
everything else.
Cronin gave her a crooked, tight-lipped smile. "The sex ? Not Fabian-- this time. Sex came into the
story with the lawyer he sent there to buy land. Nick Belyle. He fell for some local Venus and did
the
unthinkable. He violated Fabian's confidence. He told about the plans for the development."
Kitt said, "I heard."
Nora had sent a long, excited letter about it. At the time, Kitt had given it little thought. So Fabian
wanted a few thousand acres in Texas for some hare-brained housing development-so what? For
him such a project would be no more important than a mere whim, an expensive toy.
"That lawyer," Cronin said, tapping his mahogany desktop, "let the cat out of the bag. And it was a
rabid wild cat. Fabian wants to start a planned community. The folks in your old neighborhood want
to stop it."
It's not my old neighborhood, she wanted to retort. But she said, "I heard that, too."
"A clan named McKinney's leading the battle. Know 'em?"
Kitt's body stiffened. J.T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch near Crystal Creek, and the McKinneys
were the most important family in the county. Kitt knew more about them than she cared to
remember, more then she dared to remember.
But she let her face betray nothing. "Yes. I know--most of them."
"They're stubborn, and they're full of fight," Cronin said, watching her expression closely. "They've
got money and power. One of them's out of the country-Cal--but the rumor is he's coming back for
this. Of course, next to Fabian, they're small potatoes. Nothing, really."
Cal's name hit her like a physical blow, but Kitt didn't flinch. She was too proud. The McKinneys
were part of her distant past, thank God. Especially Cal. But to go back to Crystal Creek and write
about them? About him? Her nerves jangled in protest.
She shook her head. "If you want a story on the McKinneys-"
Cronin waved his hand negatively. "No, no. They're only one part. It's the whole town-the whole
county. It's split. Some want the development. Some don't. A house divided against itself. That's
the
drama."
Kitt allowed herself a skeptical smile. "But to fight Brian Fabian--"
"Yes," Cronin said with pleasure. "A classic David and Goliath story. Except, of course, David gets
his brains bashed out. Creamed. Murdered."
Kitt kept her face carefully blank.
"Hopeless cause," Cronin mused. "Idiotic actually. But valiant. I want both sides of the story, of
course. Part of your job is to give the reader the point of view of the underdogs. Those kindly folks
who live and love in your hometown. Their way of life-- ending forever. Heart-rending."
Inwardly Kitt squirmed. Did Cronin just want sob sister stuff from her? She was a better writer than
that. Furthermore, even if the McKinneys weren't the sole players, they were involved. She couldn't
help it--the fact made her profoundly uneasy. "I see," she said without enthusiasm.
"Do you?" he challenged. "There's something you haven't asked. I expected more from you,
Mitchell. Why haven't you asked about the revenge part?"
Kitt squared her shoulders and tried to fake him. "I was about to. My sources-" she meant Nora, of
course-"never mentioned such a thing."
He steepled his fingers and peered over them, eyes glittering. "That' s because your sources don't
know yet. And you're not to tell them. You're going there to gather information-not leak it."
Her chin jerked up defiantly. She'd never leaked a story, never purposely influenced one, and she
never would.
Cronin smiled at her reaction. "Here's the nitty-gritty. Brian Fabian wants more land. And he's so
incensed at his turncoat lawyer-"
"-Nick Belyle-" furnished Kitt.
"--that he's sending down the man's own brother to finish the job."
Kitt's interest shot up several notches. "His own flesh and blood?"
"Yes. His younger brother. Mel. Ruthless man, I'm told. I've had research prepare a folder of
information for you on each of them."
Kitt narrowed her eyes. "Brian Fabian's setting brother against brother? Like-the Civil War?"
"Yes. It's quite nasty. I like it," said Mr. Cronin.
Kitt didn't. "What kind of a man would go gunning after his own brother? There must be more to
this feud than just company loyalty. When I talk to him-"
"You won't. He won't," Cronin said. "If Mel Belyle opens his mouth, it'll only be to bite your head
off. Fabian hates the press."
"I could try-" Kitt began.
"Forget it," ordered Cronin. "I repeat: Mel Belyle will not talk. Neither will his brother. They've both
signed confidentiality agreements. You'll have to rely on those good country people, your neighbors."
Again Kitt ached to object. These people were not her neighbors, and she'd turned her back on them
long ago-with good reason. She should shock Cronin and tell him she didn't want this story.
But then Cronin said the magic words. "Do a good job of this," he said silkily, "and you'll be promoted
from staff writer to contributing editor."
Her misgivings vanished as if a lightening bolt had sizzled them out of her brain. Contributing editor?
For a promotion like that, she would cover a story in the hottest part of hades...
From Chapter Two: Meet the Hero, Mel
Mel Belyle raced like hell through the Dallas airport. He dodged, he wove, he sprinted. The crowd in
the concourse formed a slow-moving human maze, but he negotiated it with a keen eye and his
fanciest footwork.
It didn't matter. He still missed his flight to Austin.
He blinked in surprise. She didn't. "Excuse you," she said, her voice full of irony.
Hmm, he thought. Attitude. Lots of it. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't see you clear down there."
Blue sparks flashed in her eyes. She tossed a disdainful glance at his expensive shoes. "I hope you
didn't scuff your Gucci's on my shin."
He raised an eyebrow. "I said I was sorry."
"Right," she said, "Forget it." She hustled past him and made her way to the ticket counter. "I
missed my connection to Austin," she said. "When can I make another flight?"
Austin? he thought. As Kermit the Frog says, it's a small world after all.
Mel looked her up and down. Her long hair was red as flame and pulled back into a loose ponytail.
Her face would have looked almost elfin, except the eyes were a-crackle with worldly intelligence.
She wore jeans, running shoes, and a travel vest, and she had the air of knowing exactly what she
was doing. She was breathing hard, but he was breathing harder.
He stepped up behind her. He was almost a foot taller than she was.
He said, "You were on the flight from New York."
She didn't bother to look at him. "Yes."
"You're going to Austin, too?"
"Yes," she said in a tone that meant Stop talking to me.
He wasn't about to stop. She rather intrigued him. She was the sort of little thing who thought she
was a big deal, and he was just the man to bring her down a notch or two.
But he made his voice friendly, casual. "You must have got here right behind me. I thought
everybody was eating my dust."
She cast him the briefest glance over her shoulder. "I got here before you. You ate my dust."
He laughed at her audacity. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. I was on my college track team."
This time her glance was longer and more dismissive. "So was I. I was the captain."
Again she turned her back on him. He looked dubiously at her. She was breathing almost normally
now, but his heartbeat still labored, his lungs still burned.
She was built like a runner, he conceded, even if she was small. Her legs were long for her height, and
she didn't carry an ounce of fat. While he'd searched for openings in the crowd big enough to get
through, she'd probably dashed through like a rabbit through the forest.
How annoying. And she was apparently in better shape than he was. More annoying still. She
probably ran ten miles a day, ate bean sprouts, and drank only bottled water.
The attendant behind the airline counter said to the redhead, "I'm sorry. There won't be another flight
for at least another two hours."
Mel heard the redhead mumble something under her breath. Then she said, "Is there a place around
here to sit down and eat?"
"Up the escalator," said the attendant. "Then just keep going straight."
The redhead sighed and made her way toward the restroom, shouldering her carryons again. During
her run, her hair had come partly undone. It hung down in tendrils along the nape of her neck and
over her ears.
That neck was pale and slightly moist with perspiration. Mel wondered if her whole body was as
flawless and damp as that ivory neck. He watched her disappear into the ladies' room, moving
smoothly.
Two hours is a long time, he thought. An enterprising man could make
things happen.
He made his arrangements for the next flight to Austin, then waited until he saw the redhead emerge
from the restroom. Her hair was brushed neatly into place now, and she'd added a touch of coral
lipstick to that smart mouth of hers.
He watched her get on the escalator, waited until she was halfway up, then followed. A few people
had straggled on between them.
Once at the top he was surprised how quickly he had to move to keep up with her. Damn! She did
move fast, dodging in and out of the crowd as lithely as a cat.
It was a quarter past noon now, and the restaurants lining the
concourse were crowded. He saw her eye first one, then another, looking for an opening. She never
broke stride until she saw one.
A harried-looking couple was leaving a tiny table at a bar and grill. The redhead spotted them before
Mel did, and she veered into the restaurant without even a pause. As soon as the man stood up, she
gave him a demure smile and sat down in his place.
Perfect, Mel thought with satisfaction. I've lived right.
He quickened his pace, strode into the restaurant and sat down across from her, beating out a beefy
guy carrying a briefcase by a split second.
"Mind if I join you?" Mel asked her cheerfully. "There doesn't seem to be another place."
She looked at him with suspicion. The place was crowded to overflowing; she could hardly object.
The lightning was purposely dim, and the air was already fragrant with the aromas of hamburger,
onion rings, and beer.
She shrugged the way one might shrug off a pesky fly. She dug into her carry-on bag and pulled out
a thick paperback book. The cover said Guidebook to the Texas Hill Country and bore a photograph
of a myopic-looking armadillo.
She opened it and began reading, ignoring him.
Mel Belyle did not easily suffer being ignored, but he never begged for attention, either. He didn't have
to. He reached into his own carry-on and took out a book identical to hers, with the same beady-eyed
armadillo. He opened it and pretended to read.
He saw her doubletake and pretended he didn't. He was aware the restaurant was over-crowded and
understaffed. They could be at this table a nice, long time.
He'd noticed her back in New York, of course--he took note of all pretty girls. But he'd dismissed
her: not his type. He liked his women tall and languid, not small and brisk.
Still, he'd noticed her again when he was sitting in first class, sipping a Bloody Mary. She boarded
afterward, with the coach passengers, expertly shouldering her well-worn carryons.
He hadn't been able not to watch her, but she hadn't cast so much as a glance his way. She seemed
to have her mind strictly on business even though she wasn't dressed for it. She must not give a hoot
for fashion. He liked his women fashionable.
"You're as bad as Fabian with his supermodels," his brother had once taunted. "That last girl you took
out looked like a giraffe in rhinestones."
The memory fell over Mel coldly, like a drop in the temperature. That was one of the last
conversations he'd had with Nicky, his older brother. They hadn't spoken since May.
It wasn't Nick's crack about the girl. Nick always teased, and about the model, he'd been right. She
had looked like a giraffe, albeit an elegant one.
But what Nick had done to Brian Fabian was not merely ungrateful, but treacherous. It was a betrayal
Mel couldn't forgive. He intended to settle the score, and if some people wanted to call it revenge, let
them. To Mel, it was justice. Nobody had more right to exact it than he did.
Yet in truth, he didn't like dwelling on it. He supposed that he'd loved Nick once, but now his brother
was his enemy. It gave him a cold and hollow feeling in his very gut, and he wanted distraction.
He would distract himself with the redhead.
A roly-poly waiter in a striped vest appeared. "Afternoon, folks," he said. "Can I take a drink order?"
"Just a cola," said the redhead, barely looking up from her book. "And could I get half a turkey and
Swiss cheese sandwich?"
"Well." said the waiter, sounding perplexed.
"The same for me," Mel said quickly.
"Oh," the waiter said, his round face relaxing. "I see. Split it? Cola's cheaper by the pitcher."
"That'll be fine," Mel nodded. "Bring a pitcher."
The redhead glanced up sharply. "Those are separate orders," she said, but the waiter had already
disappeared into the crowd.
Mel gave her an innocent smile. "Don't worry about it." He nodded at their twin books.
"Coincidence, eh?"
Her blue eyes seemed to say What's with you? Her mouth, which was a very nice mouth indeed, said
nothing.
He reached into his pocket and laid his card before her, in front of the napkin dispenser. "My name's
Mel Belyle," he said. "Since we're sharing a table and a flight, we might as well be friendly. I'm sorry
about bumping into you like that. Sincerely."
Her gaze fell to his card, and he saw her skeptical expression change. For a split second she was very
still, and he studied her. She had a piquant little face, hardly beautiful, but arresting. She raised her
eyes to meet his again. Her lashes were long, thick, and auburn.
For the first time she smiled. "Hello, Mel Belyle," she said. "My name's Kitt Mitchell."
He stretched out her hand in greeting. He shook it, enjoying the silky feel of her skin. He didn't
marvel at the transformation of her mood, he simply congratulated himself. He guessed his charm
was working, after all.
"Send in the spitfire," Heywood Cronin said to his secretary. "The whirlwind. You know which one
-from staff writing. The little redhead."
"Kitt Mitchell? Yes, sir," said Miss Lundeen.
"Writes like an angel," muttered Cronin. "Dresses like a bag lady."
"Oh, no, sir," Miss Lundeen said mildly. "She just likes to be casual."
"Casual," Cronin said with a snort. "She'd be a pretty girl if she'd dress up. O tempora O mores.
That's Latin, Miss Lundeen. Do you know what it means?"
"Yes, sir. O, the times; O, the manners."
"Anyway," Cronin said, "Send her in."
Miss Lundeen exited with such speed and silence it was as if she evaporated. Cronin looked at the
picture of his wife, framed in platinum, on his desk. She was in her wedding gown, and a damned
fine gown it was. He missed the 1950's when women had waists and wore pearls and full skirtsand
exciting shoes with pointed toes and high heels.
He chased the thought from his mind. That was looking backward. It was thinking like an old
geezer. He was a man who looked forward, and that's why journalism awards half-covered his
office. He intended to collect a few dozen more before he cashed in his chips. It was one of the
reasons he
cultivated young writers like the spitfire.
In a few moments, Miss Lundeen announced her. "Kitt Mitchell, sir."
And in she walked. Cronin fought against wincing. The woman wore cargo pants and a pale blue
camp shirt. Her shoes made her look like she was going to climb the Alps.
She was a petite woman, barely over five feet tall, and she was slight rather than shapely. Still, Cronin
thought, she was a fetching little thing. Maybe she dressed like Indiana Jones to fend off unwanted
male attention. She could attract men like a magnet--if she wanted.
Her most startling feature was her long, flame-red hair. Her skin was fair, her eyes were blue, and
her eyebrows and lashes auburn. She was pretty enough, but Cronin always found himself noticing
the vivacity in her face before her actual features. In motion she was swift as a hummingbird
She had a reputation for being sassy, of not being afraid of the
devil himself. This did not mean that Cronin did not make her nervous. He made everyone on his
staff exceedingly nervous; he considered it part of his job.
"Sit down, Mitchell." He ordered, he did not invite.
Kitt Mitchell gave him a measuring look and sat down in the leather chair before his desk. His desk
was mounted on a dais so he could stare down, lord-like, upon whoever sat in that chair.
She returned his gaze with wary coolness. "Miss Lundeen said you
wanted to see me."
He laced his fingers together and peered harder at her. She didn't squirm, not one whit. Was he
losing his touch? He'd wipe that calm off her face.
"Yes," he said, hitting her with it immediately. "I'm going to give you the assignment of your life."
Her fair skin went paler. Her blue eyes got wider.
"This story won't just change your career. It will make your career."
She seemed speechless. Good. Inwardly he smirked.
"This is big stuff, Mitchell," Heywood Cronin told her. "It's got everything: money, mystery, power
struggles. Sex. Revenge. But most of all, human interest. Your specialty."
He sat back with satisfaction and watched his words sink in.
Delight flooded Kitt. Suddenly Heywood Cronin, elderly, grizzled, balding, and bent, looked as radiant
as a spirit guide to her.
Then he squinted through his thick glasses and smiled his thin smile. "Go home and pack. Monday
you leave. For Crystal Creek, Texas."
Crystal Creek? Kitt felt as if the office ceiling had crashed down on her. Dismay swept away her
delight: Crystal Creek was the last place in the universe she wanted to go. Heywood Cronin no longer
seemed luminously benevolent. He seemed like a capricious troll playing games with her life.
"Well?" he demanded, leaning toward her over his vast desk.
Say something! Kitt commanded herself. She cleared her throat.
"Well, Mr. Cronin, you see--I-I'm from Crystal Creek. It could cause a conflict. It would be hard
for me to write objectively about it."
Cronin hunched lower, as if crouching for attack. "I want objectivity, but I also want feeling.
Passion. A town ripped in twain, blah, blah, and so on."
"But-but, you see-there could be a problem--"
"No," Cronin said, shaking a bony forefinger. "You see. What you call a problem, I call opportunity.
You can write about this place because you're of this place. You tap into its deepest psyche. It's
your old home town. The site of your fondest childhood memories. And so forth."
Kitt blinked hard. "You mean you knew I grew up there?
He laughed the laugh that was famous at Exclusive magazine. It was described as the gurgle of ice
water pouring over a grave. "Of course. That's why I picked you."
"Oh," Kitt said tonelessly. She'd hoped he'd chosen her for her
ability.
"That," he said with a dismissive wave, "and the fact you can write. I assume you've lots of
connections in this one-horse town? Relatives? Old friends and neighbors? People who'll pour out
their hearts to you?"
Kitt drew a deep breath, mind whirling. She didn't think of Crystal Creek as her home town; she tried
not to think of it at all. When she'd left, she'd meant to leave forever. People opening their hearts to
her? Hardly.
But--there was Nora.
Ah, yes, thank God there was Nora. A lifeline back then. And possibly a lifeline now. "I know
people, yes," Kitt said vaguely.
"Then you know what this story's about? Eh? Do you?"
Kitt's mind spun more swiftly. "It has to be about Brian Fabian," she guessed. "About his buying land
there. To build some mega housing development."
Cronin sank back into his chair and folded his hands over his vest.
"Ha. You do have sources. Yes. Brian Fabian. He's always news. He sells magazines, by God."
So that was Cronin's angle, Kitt thought. If Brian Fabian was interested in Crystal Creek, so was
Exclusive magazine. Cronin knew what fascinated the public, and he played that fascination like a
magic flute.
Cronin's pale eyes stayed fixed on her, gauging her. "Tell me what you know about Fabian."
Kitt told him what she knew, what everybody knew-next to nothing. Fabian was a billionaire and
almost total recluse. No known photo existed of him. Information about his private life usually
proved to be false or misleading or both.
Facts about his business ventures were just as elusive. They were hidden in a maze of mergers,
partnerships, shell corporations, and deals of dizzying complexity.
"I'd guess he's the mystery in the story," Kitt mused. "And the money and power." Then she added,
"And probably the sex."
One thing certain about Brian Fabian was his appetite for beautiful women. But none of these women
ever talked about him; never a one said so much as a word. His affairs remained as secret as
everything else.
Cronin gave her a crooked, tight-lipped smile. "The sex ? Not Fabian-- this time. Sex came into the
story with the lawyer he sent there to buy land. Nick Belyle. He fell for some local Venus and did
the
unthinkable. He violated Fabian's confidence. He told about the plans for the development."
Kitt said, "I heard."
Nora had sent a long, excited letter about it. At the time, Kitt had given it little thought. So Fabian
wanted a few thousand acres in Texas for some hare-brained housing development-so what? For
him such a project would be no more important than a mere whim, an expensive toy.
"That lawyer," Cronin said, tapping his mahogany desktop, "let the cat out of the bag. And it was a
rabid wild cat. Fabian wants to start a planned community. The folks in your old neighborhood want
to stop it."
It's not my old neighborhood, she wanted to retort. But she said, "I heard that, too."
"A clan named McKinney's leading the battle. Know 'em?"
Kitt's body stiffened. J.T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch near Crystal Creek, and the McKinneys
were the most important family in the county. Kitt knew more about them than she cared to
remember, more then she dared to remember.
But she let her face betray nothing. "Yes. I know--most of them."
"They're stubborn, and they're full of fight," Cronin said, watching her expression closely. "They've
got money and power. One of them's out of the country-Cal--but the rumor is he's coming back for
this. Of course, next to Fabian, they're small potatoes. Nothing, really."
Cal's name hit her like a physical blow, but Kitt didn't flinch. She was too proud. The McKinneys
were part of her distant past, thank God. Especially Cal. But to go back to Crystal Creek and write
about them? About him? Her nerves jangled in protest.
She shook her head. "If you want a story on the McKinneys-"
Cronin waved his hand negatively. "No, no. They're only one part. It's the whole town-the whole
county. It's split. Some want the development. Some don't. A house divided against itself. That's
the
drama."
Kitt allowed herself a skeptical smile. "But to fight Brian Fabian--"
"Yes," Cronin said with pleasure. "A classic David and Goliath story. Except, of course, David gets
his brains bashed out. Creamed. Murdered."
Kitt kept her face carefully blank.
"Hopeless cause," Cronin mused. "Idiotic actually. But valiant. I want both sides of the story, of
course. Part of your job is to give the reader the point of view of the underdogs. Those kindly folks
who live and love in your hometown. Their way of life-- ending forever. Heart-rending."
Inwardly Kitt squirmed. Did Cronin just want sob sister stuff from her? She was a better writer than
that. Furthermore, even if the McKinneys weren't the sole players, they were involved. She couldn't
help it--the fact made her profoundly uneasy. "I see," she said without enthusiasm.
"Do you?" he challenged. "There's something you haven't asked. I expected more from you,
Mitchell. Why haven't you asked about the revenge part?"
Kitt squared her shoulders and tried to fake him. "I was about to. My sources-" she meant Nora, of
course-"never mentioned such a thing."
He steepled his fingers and peered over them, eyes glittering. "That' s because your sources don't
know yet. And you're not to tell them. You're going there to gather information-not leak it."
Her chin jerked up defiantly. She'd never leaked a story, never purposely influenced one, and she
never would.
Cronin smiled at her reaction. "Here's the nitty-gritty. Brian Fabian wants more land. And he's so
incensed at his turncoat lawyer-"
"-Nick Belyle-" furnished Kitt.
"--that he's sending down the man's own brother to finish the job."
Kitt's interest shot up several notches. "His own flesh and blood?"
"Yes. His younger brother. Mel. Ruthless man, I'm told. I've had research prepare a folder of
information for you on each of them."
Kitt narrowed her eyes. "Brian Fabian's setting brother against brother? Like-the Civil War?"
"Yes. It's quite nasty. I like it," said Mr. Cronin.
Kitt didn't. "What kind of a man would go gunning after his own brother? There must be more to
this feud than just company loyalty. When I talk to him-"
"You won't. He won't," Cronin said. "If Mel Belyle opens his mouth, it'll only be to bite your head
off. Fabian hates the press."
"I could try-" Kitt began.
"Forget it," ordered Cronin. "I repeat: Mel Belyle will not talk. Neither will his brother. They've both
signed confidentiality agreements. You'll have to rely on those good country people, your neighbors."
Again Kitt ached to object. These people were not her neighbors, and she'd turned her back on them
long ago-with good reason. She should shock Cronin and tell him she didn't want this story.
But then Cronin said the magic words. "Do a good job of this," he said silkily, "and you'll be promoted
from staff writer to contributing editor."
Her misgivings vanished as if a lightening bolt had sizzled them out of her brain. Contributing editor?
For a promotion like that, she would cover a story in the hottest part of hades...
From Chapter Two: Meet the Hero, Mel
Mel Belyle raced like hell through the Dallas airport. He dodged, he wove, he sprinted. The crowd in
the concourse formed a slow-moving human maze, but he negotiated it with a keen eye and his
fanciest footwork.
It didn't matter. He still missed his flight to Austin.
He blinked in surprise. She didn't. "Excuse you," she said, her voice full of irony.
Hmm, he thought. Attitude. Lots of it. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't see you clear down there."
Blue sparks flashed in her eyes. She tossed a disdainful glance at his expensive shoes. "I hope you
didn't scuff your Gucci's on my shin."
He raised an eyebrow. "I said I was sorry."
"Right," she said, "Forget it." She hustled past him and made her way to the ticket counter. "I
missed my connection to Austin," she said. "When can I make another flight?"
Austin? he thought. As Kermit the Frog says, it's a small world after all.
Mel looked her up and down. Her long hair was red as flame and pulled back into a loose ponytail.
Her face would have looked almost elfin, except the eyes were a-crackle with worldly intelligence.
She wore jeans, running shoes, and a travel vest, and she had the air of knowing exactly what she
was doing. She was breathing hard, but he was breathing harder.
He stepped up behind her. He was almost a foot taller than she was.
He said, "You were on the flight from New York."
She didn't bother to look at him. "Yes."
"You're going to Austin, too?"
"Yes," she said in a tone that meant Stop talking to me.
He wasn't about to stop. She rather intrigued him. She was the sort of little thing who thought she
was a big deal, and he was just the man to bring her down a notch or two.
But he made his voice friendly, casual. "You must have got here right behind me. I thought
everybody was eating my dust."
She cast him the briefest glance over her shoulder. "I got here before you. You ate my dust."
He laughed at her audacity. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. I was on my college track team."
This time her glance was longer and more dismissive. "So was I. I was the captain."
Again she turned her back on him. He looked dubiously at her. She was breathing almost normally
now, but his heartbeat still labored, his lungs still burned.
She was built like a runner, he conceded, even if she was small. Her legs were long for her height, and
she didn't carry an ounce of fat. While he'd searched for openings in the crowd big enough to get
through, she'd probably dashed through like a rabbit through the forest.
How annoying. And she was apparently in better shape than he was. More annoying still. She
probably ran ten miles a day, ate bean sprouts, and drank only bottled water.
The attendant behind the airline counter said to the redhead, "I'm sorry. There won't be another flight
for at least another two hours."
Mel heard the redhead mumble something under her breath. Then she said, "Is there a place around
here to sit down and eat?"
"Up the escalator," said the attendant. "Then just keep going straight."
The redhead sighed and made her way toward the restroom, shouldering her carryons again. During
her run, her hair had come partly undone. It hung down in tendrils along the nape of her neck and
over her ears.
That neck was pale and slightly moist with perspiration. Mel wondered if her whole body was as
flawless and damp as that ivory neck. He watched her disappear into the ladies' room, moving
smoothly.
Two hours is a long time, he thought. An enterprising man could make
things happen.
He made his arrangements for the next flight to Austin, then waited until he saw the redhead emerge
from the restroom. Her hair was brushed neatly into place now, and she'd added a touch of coral
lipstick to that smart mouth of hers.
He watched her get on the escalator, waited until she was halfway up, then followed. A few people
had straggled on between them.
Once at the top he was surprised how quickly he had to move to keep up with her. Damn! She did
move fast, dodging in and out of the crowd as lithely as a cat.
It was a quarter past noon now, and the restaurants lining the
concourse were crowded. He saw her eye first one, then another, looking for an opening. She never
broke stride until she saw one.
A harried-looking couple was leaving a tiny table at a bar and grill. The redhead spotted them before
Mel did, and she veered into the restaurant without even a pause. As soon as the man stood up, she
gave him a demure smile and sat down in his place.
Perfect, Mel thought with satisfaction. I've lived right.
He quickened his pace, strode into the restaurant and sat down across from her, beating out a beefy
guy carrying a briefcase by a split second.
"Mind if I join you?" Mel asked her cheerfully. "There doesn't seem to be another place."
She looked at him with suspicion. The place was crowded to overflowing; she could hardly object.
The lightning was purposely dim, and the air was already fragrant with the aromas of hamburger,
onion rings, and beer.
She shrugged the way one might shrug off a pesky fly. She dug into her carry-on bag and pulled out
a thick paperback book. The cover said Guidebook to the Texas Hill Country and bore a photograph
of a myopic-looking armadillo.
She opened it and began reading, ignoring him.
Mel Belyle did not easily suffer being ignored, but he never begged for attention, either. He didn't have
to. He reached into his own carry-on and took out a book identical to hers, with the same beady-eyed
armadillo. He opened it and pretended to read.
He saw her doubletake and pretended he didn't. He was aware the restaurant was over-crowded and
understaffed. They could be at this table a nice, long time.
He'd noticed her back in New York, of course--he took note of all pretty girls. But he'd dismissed
her: not his type. He liked his women tall and languid, not small and brisk.
Still, he'd noticed her again when he was sitting in first class, sipping a Bloody Mary. She boarded
afterward, with the coach passengers, expertly shouldering her well-worn carryons.
He hadn't been able not to watch her, but she hadn't cast so much as a glance his way. She seemed
to have her mind strictly on business even though she wasn't dressed for it. She must not give a hoot
for fashion. He liked his women fashionable.
"You're as bad as Fabian with his supermodels," his brother had once taunted. "That last girl you took
out looked like a giraffe in rhinestones."
The memory fell over Mel coldly, like a drop in the temperature. That was one of the last
conversations he'd had with Nicky, his older brother. They hadn't spoken since May.
It wasn't Nick's crack about the girl. Nick always teased, and about the model, he'd been right. She
had looked like a giraffe, albeit an elegant one.
But what Nick had done to Brian Fabian was not merely ungrateful, but treacherous. It was a betrayal
Mel couldn't forgive. He intended to settle the score, and if some people wanted to call it revenge, let
them. To Mel, it was justice. Nobody had more right to exact it than he did.
Yet in truth, he didn't like dwelling on it. He supposed that he'd loved Nick once, but now his brother
was his enemy. It gave him a cold and hollow feeling in his very gut, and he wanted distraction.
He would distract himself with the redhead.
A roly-poly waiter in a striped vest appeared. "Afternoon, folks," he said. "Can I take a drink order?"
"Just a cola," said the redhead, barely looking up from her book. "And could I get half a turkey and
Swiss cheese sandwich?"
"Well." said the waiter, sounding perplexed.
"The same for me," Mel said quickly.
"Oh," the waiter said, his round face relaxing. "I see. Split it? Cola's cheaper by the pitcher."
"That'll be fine," Mel nodded. "Bring a pitcher."
The redhead glanced up sharply. "Those are separate orders," she said, but the waiter had already
disappeared into the crowd.
Mel gave her an innocent smile. "Don't worry about it." He nodded at their twin books.
"Coincidence, eh?"
Her blue eyes seemed to say What's with you? Her mouth, which was a very nice mouth indeed, said
nothing.
He reached into his pocket and laid his card before her, in front of the napkin dispenser. "My name's
Mel Belyle," he said. "Since we're sharing a table and a flight, we might as well be friendly. I'm sorry
about bumping into you like that. Sincerely."
Her gaze fell to his card, and he saw her skeptical expression change. For a split second she was very
still, and he studied her. She had a piquant little face, hardly beautiful, but arresting. She raised her
eyes to meet his again. Her lashes were long, thick, and auburn.
For the first time she smiled. "Hello, Mel Belyle," she said. "My name's Kitt Mitchell."
He stretched out her hand in greeting. He shook it, enjoying the silky feel of her skin. He didn't
marvel at the transformation of her mood, he simply congratulated himself. He guessed his charm
was working, after all.
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