The Baby Track Read online

  Courtney scarcely had time to blink before he was standing directly in front of her.

  “And then I’ll retaliate. Like this.” His big hands cupped her shoulders and he pulled her against him with one deft movement.

  She was so shocked that the book fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers. It landed on the carpet with a thud. Just as quickly and unexpectedly as he’d grabbed her, Connor released her. He bent down and picked up the book, then set it carefully on the top of the desk.

  “But since you didn’t throw the book, after all, I have no reason to retaliate, do I, Courtney?” His voice was low and husky.

  They were still standing close together, and warmth pooled deep in his groin as he stared down at her, taking thorough inventory of her—her big brown eyes, that gorgeous mouth, her breasts, her slender, well-shaped legs in the sheer, cream-tinted nylons. Her dark green leather shoes were as dainty and as sexy as her small, slim feet. He inhaled the clean, fresh scent of her hair and had to restrain himself from reaching out to stroke it.

  This little game was beginning to get out of hand, he realized with a start. Playing with the deceptively prim Miss Carey was too arousing, and entirely too engaging. His efficient bachelor alarm sounded. An arousing, engaging woman led to involvement, involvement inevitably meant demands and promises that swiftly escalated into commitment. He wanted none of it, not any of it.

  He had let her go'because he’d been astonished by how badly he wanted to keep her in his arms, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from her. Another danger signal.

  Cotirtney’s heart began to thud. His gaze burned her, hot as fire, and she backed away from him. She could still feel the imprint of his warm, strong hands on her shoulders, her breasts were tingling from that momentary collision with the hard muscular wall of his chest. He was too big, too close, too intimidatingly male, and she felt scared and off balance. And furious that he could affect her in such an elemental, primitive way.

  “Mr. McKay—” she began tightly.

  “You are all shook up, aren’t you?” Connor schooled his features into a coolly amused mask. He was relieved that she did not know how very far from cool he really was.

  “If your nemesis Jarrell Harcourt actually had hired me,I definitely would’ve earned my salary.” He laughed a pleased-with-himself laugh that set her teeth on edge.

  Oh, she really did not like this man! “You’ve taken up enough of my time,” Courtney fairly snarled. “If you don’t get out immediately, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Calling security and throwing a book at me have already been ruled out. Exactly what are your other options, Gypsy?” He should stop this at once, Connor reprimanded himself. A few more sparks and the electricity crackling between them would blow a fuse. But he couldn’t seem to stop baiting her.

  “Don’t call me Gypsy! And this is my other option,” she added dramatically, storming out of the office and slamming the door behind her. Her knees were shaking and her heartbeat thundered in her head.

  She was halfway down the hall before she admitted the true reason why she had removed herself from her own office. If she hadn’t left, she would’ve done something very physical—to him. The urge to run at him like a battering ram had been almost overwhelming. And if she had...

  It didn’t take much imagination to visualize herself • crashing into him, and Courtney had always had a very active imagination. She carried the scenario further in her mind. He would catch her, wrapping his arms around her to brace himself against the furious thrust of her. And then he would look down at her with those hot, hungry green eyes of his. And she would—

  “Courtney, what’s going on? Where is that intrusive pest?”

  Courtney started violently as she came face-to-face with Mimi Ditmar. “I—um—left him in my office,” she said weakly.

  “What does he want?” asked Mimi. “Is he selling something?”

  It occurred to Courtney that she had no idea what Connor McKay really wanted or why he’d come to her office. They had kept getting sidetracked from that little issue. Her cheeks pinked. She had behaved atrociously, she reproved herself, like a headstrong, impulsive adolescent instead of the jack-of-all-trades—writer, editor and programming/ production assistant—that she was. Working in public television, particularly for a new network, meant doing a little, sometimes a lot, of everything.

  Connor McKay, a salesman? That hadn’t even occurred to her. “I came out here to get—” Courtney stared at Mimi’s desk, saw the stack of papers and improvised “—a copy of the transcript of our show on the early days of the American cinema.” She snatched a copy from the top of the pile.

  “He’s interested in the early days of American cinema?” Mimi appeared stunned. “What is he, a filmmaker? One of those wild nonconformist types from Hollywood?”

  There had never actually been a wild nonconformist type from Hollywood in the Washington, D.C., office of NPB, but Courtney supposed that Connor McKay might be Mimi’s idea of one. She almost smiled.

  But she didn’t. She had left a stranger in her office while she’d run off like a high-strung schoolgirl, she reminded herself. A sobering thought, indeed.

  “I don’t know what to make of him, Mimi,” she said frankly. She did know that he’d had a powerful impact on her, that she had never met another man who affected her so viscerally, so physically. And that made him dangerous, indeed.

  He was also still in her office and she had no other choice but to return and deal with him. Courtney squared her shoulders and headed back down the corridor toward her office, the transcript in her hand.

  It would be just her luck if Connor McKay turned out to be who he had claimed he was when he’d first entered her office—an eccentric billionaire with a seven-figure check to donate to National Public Broadcasting, a sum that would catapult the struggling three-year-old network out of the red and into the heady zones of profit.

  Courtney found herself half believing it by the time she’d reached her office. She opened the door and stepped inside.

  Two

  He was sitting behind her desk, eating her cheesesteak.

  “It’s great.” Connor held up the other, untouched half of the sandwich. “Have some.”

  Courtney reached an irrevocable conclusion. ‘ ‘ Whoever— and whatever—you are, you are definitely not an eccentric billionaire with a generous donation for the network.”

  He laughed. “Don’t tell me you actually thought I was? Say, would you like to buy some oceanfront property in Nebraska?”

  She walked over to her desk and snatched the other half of her cheesesteak. “I don’t recall asking you to join me for lunch. And I certainly didn’t invite you to eat my lunch.” “You couldn’t eat the whole thing by yourself. This is a big sandwich for such a little girl.”

  Courtney rolled her eyes heavenward. “I’m twenty-five year? old, I’m self-supporting and a taxpayer. What I am not is a little girl.”

  “Twenty-five, huh? You look younger.”

  “If that’s a compliment, thank you. If it’s an insult, consider it ignored.” She sat down on the only other chair in her small office, which was placed alongside her desk. “And the reason why I ordered the full-sized cheesesteak is precisely because I can eat the whole thing myself. I’m starving. I had no breakfast this morning and very little dinner last night.” She took a generous bite of the sandwich. What was the point of standing on ceremony with this office-crashing lunch-napper?

  “Harcourt was too stingy to spring for dinner, wore you out in bed and then cheaped-out on breakfast, too, huh?” Her head jerked up and her eyes collided with his. To her everlasting consternation, she blushed. “That is none of your business, Mr. McKay.”

  “This Harcourt guy sounds like a major pain, Gypsy. He’s cheap, he has a sister who doesn’t like you. Is he really worth your time?”

  “I refuse to discuss Emery Harcourt with—”

  “Emery? You’ve got to be kidding. His name is Emery Harco
urt? Honey, he’d better be dynamite in the sack to make up for that.”

  Courtney tossed down her sandwich and jumped to her feet. “He is not dynamite in the sack! And I—”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Connor cut in gleefully. “But no sorrier than you, I’m sure. So, you’re after him strictly for his money, hmm?”

  “You’re deliberately misinterpreting everything I say!” Courtney accused. Part of her acknowledged that she was overreacting to his teasing and that he was reveling in her heated responses, but she promptly absolved herself. The man frustrated her beyond endurance!

  Connor finished his half of the sandwich and took a long swallow from the can of cola. “What’s to misinterpret, Courtney? It all seems pretty clear-cut to me. You’re an ambitious, social-climbing gold digger who doesn’t mind putting up with cheap, impotent Emery Harcourt because—”

  “He is not impotent! That is, even if he is, I wouldn’t know because I’ve never slept with him.” She glowered forbiddingly, trying to stem the insidious blush suffusing her cheeks. She could not remember ever being quite this mortified. “I’ve known him for several years and—”

  “Years?” Connor’s voice rose on an incredulous squeak. “You’ve been going with this guy for years and you’ve never slept with him?”

  For the first time since he’d barged into her office, he appeared totally nonplussed. Which just illustrated that, in addition to all his other sins, Connor McKay was also one of those appalling fast and demanding rogues who expected women to hop into bed with him upon command—undoubtedly on the first date!

  He also jumped to conclusions—the wrong ones. She’d been about to explain that her relationship with Emery had always been platonic, from their first meeting here at the NPB offices, where he’d come to meet with members of the board. There was no chemistry between them, but they enjoyed each other’s company and occasionally served as each other’s escorts when one was needed for certain occasions. Lately she’d been seeing quite a bit of Emery; the woman he had hoped to marry had found someone else and he was taking the breakup hard. Courtney was providing the undemanding company and support he needed, but his dreadful sister Jarrell had completely misinterpreted the relationship. And now, so had Connor McKay.

  Courtney decided that she owned him no explanations; in fact, he didn’t deserve one! She scowled. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the sensitivity and tact of a gentleman like Emery Harcourt,” she said with a haughty sniff.

  “The guy must have a hormone deficiency if he hasn’t tried to make it with you,” Connor said flatly. “You’re a knockout, Gypsy. A woman as sexy as you makes a man’s blood run hot by just looking at you.”

  Courtney opened her mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it. She didn’t know how to reply. Sexy, her? A knockout? No man had ever given her such a fulsome compliment. She suspected that she ought to be annoyed because it was an undeniably sexist remark; instead, a peculiar, slow warmth stole through her.

  “Well.” Courtney stared at the floor. She self-consciously smoothed her hair with her hand in a nervous gesture that made him smile. “You shouldn’t talk to me that way,” she murmured at last.

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t. We could both end up in big trouble. You’re determined to pursue a sterile but undoubtedly meaningful relationship with the bloodless Emery Harcourt, and I’m determined to avoid anything remotely resembling a meaningful relationship. Let’s talk about something else. Wilson Nollier, for instance.”

  Courtney went very still. “Wilson Nollier?” she repeated carefully. “The attorney?”

  “There are those who would call him something else. Like a baby broker.” Connor shrugged. “A broker puts together buyers and sellers and takes a cut of the action. That seems to be what Nollier is doing, running a lucrative business where babies are bought and sold like commodities.” Courtney’s eyes widened. “I’ve been researching the topic of adoption for a program I’m hoping will air on NPB. I’ve talked to a number of couples who have used Wilson Nollier to handle their adoptions and—”

  “I know,” Connor injected. “I got your name from all of them. And I’m here to ask you to bug off. Please,” he added as an apparent afterthought. “You’re encroaching on my territory. Too many questions are being asked, and people are getting nervous and clamming up. You’re wrecking my investigation, Gypsy.”

  “Investigation?” she repeated, staring thoughtfully at him. He’d already said he wasn’t a policeman. “Are you a reporter?”

  “Not exactly. I earn my living collecting facts, but I don’t write the stories that use them.” It was a perfect job for the uninvolved, uncommitted life-style he’d chosen for himself. Get the facts and turn them over to someone else, then move on to something else. Crafting a story, a report, took too much time; there was too much involvement with the subject at hand. He wanted no ties—to anything.

  Courtney was frowning. “What kind of a job is that?” she demanded. As one who threw herself heart and soul into a project, she recognized a shirker. “You investigate stories but don’t report them? Are you some sort of hired gun? The kind who tracks unfaithful spouses to sleazy hotels and takes pictures?” She didn’t bother to conceal her disapproval.

  Connor laughed. “That’s PD work, honey. Not my line. The results of my investigations are used in stories, not divorce court. I like investigating—the thrill of the chase, gathering the pieces of the puzzle. So I turn in the facts and the desk jockeys in the office put them together for the magazine and the show.”

  “What magazine and what show?”

  “Insight magazine. And syndicated television’s Inside Copy. I work for both. In fact, I sort of invented the job of full-time fact finder,” Connor admitted jauntily. “But it’s a surprisingly lucrative field. I also occasionally freelance for the other quasi-news TV shows. Ever tune in?”

  “No,” Courtney said bluntly. “I don’t read Insight, either, unless I have a long wait in the dentist’s office or supermarket checkout line.”

  Insight was a slick, gossipy magazine featuring pictures and stories about celebrities from every walk of life, as well as average citizens whose lives had taken a newsworthy turn, sometimes inspiring, usually ghoulish, but always informative or entertaining, according to Insight’s massive marketing campaign. Since bursting onto the publication scene five years ago in a carefully orchestrated media blitz, Insight’s circulation had steadily increased until it had become a worthy rival of its popular forerunners.

  On its three-color logo, Insight proudly described itself as “infotainment,” a word combining information and entertainment that Courtney considered gaggingly cutesy. Inside Copy, the magazine’s TV equivalent, was “infotainment,” too.

  “Let me guess—you consider infotainment beneath your lofty public broadcasting values,” Connor taunted.

  Courtney grimaced. Ugh! He’d actually used the repulsive word in conversation. “Insight is a step above the sleazy supermarket tabloids,” she conceded. “Inside Copy is a television tabloid. Enough said.”

  “Why hold a grudge against them, Gyps? Insight and Copy fans don’t begrudge you NPB’s offerings for eggheads. There’s room in the marketplace for both.” “Unfortunately there isn’t room for both,” Courtney said flatly. “NPB’s educational magazine was forced to cease production because of decreasing circulation. And our network scrimps along on a shoestring budget while trying to offer television programs that are culturally edifying and enlightening while shows like Inside Copy earn profits by appealing to—”

  “Save it for the next NPB fund-raiser, Courtney. The truth is that Insight is rolling in dough because it delivers what the public wants to a wide audience. The same principle applies to television. Insight and Inside Copy are fun, a mindless escape. Your ponderous documentaries on subjects like collective farming in Albania and nature studies of obscure animals are downright tedious.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that, won’t we?” she retort
ed. “But I won’t agree to giving up my research on adoption. I started out as a reporter here at the station, but for the past year I’ve been doing editing, producing and programming, a bit of everything, actually. This is a story I wanted to report and write myself, and my boss gave me the go-ahead. I’m doing just that—going ahead with it, despite your investigation or fact-finding or whatever it is you call what you do tor Insight and Inside Copy. ”

  Connor heaved an impatient sigh. “Can we at least work out some kind of compromise? You do your program on foreign adoptions and adoptions handled through the licensed state agencies. Insight will do the story on private adoptions, including Wilson Nollier’s racket, of course.” She shook her head. “Since Nollier seems to have crossed the line from the gray market to black market adoptions, he belongs in NPB’s documentary.”

  “Courtney, if both of us go after Nollier, he’ll suspect something. I told you that I’ve already interviewed the same adoptive parents you have. They mentioned your name and the program you planned to do for NPB. They were already having second thoughts about talking to either of us. There’s a chance one of them might open up to one of us, but never to both.”

  “And you think that one ought to be you, not me,” Courtney said coolly.

  “That’s right. Let’s face facts, honey. More people are going to read Insight or watch Inside Copy than tune into your well-meaning documentary on NPB. And I want to alert the public to Nollier’s racket.”

  He definitely had a point there, especially considering NPB’s unhappy ratings in the Neilsen’s. But give up the story? Courtney shook her head. “NPB has a number of powerful benefactors,” she argued. “They could use their pull and their prestige to put a stop to Nollier if they were allied to the program—which they would be if it aired on NPB.”

  It was a standoff. They stood facing each other, each waiting for the other’s next move.