The Baby Connection

“Good?” Noah asked, his chocolate-brown eyes twinkling.

“Mmm.” She smiled. “Perfect.”

He nodded, satisfied, then flipped to the next page. “This guy has a great face.” He tapped the shot of a Hispanic man with a leathery tan and sad eyes beneath a white straw hat. “How’d you get so close?”

“It wasn’t easy. He waved me off at first. People tend to stiffen, preen or shy away from a camera, but I hung around long enough to become scenery.”

“Smart. Are Latino issues of particular focus to you?”

“I’m passionate about my heritage, but I won’t let that limit me. There’s a knee-jerk tendency to slot Latino reporters into any story that involves brown skin or speaking Spanish. I intend to resist that.”

“Good for you.” He closed the book. “This is great stuff, Mel. No wonder News Day snapped you up.” He searched her face. “So why photojournalism? Why not art or commercial photography?”

“How can you ask that?” she demanded. “You know why. Journalism matters. And with people barely reading these days, photos are crucial. A picture stops you cold, makes you see what you’d rather ignore. Think of the photo of the Viet Cong soldier being shot in the head, the leash shot at Abu Ghraib. The starving children in Darfur. News photos galvanize people. They can change the world.” She realized she’d gotten louder. “Sorry. I get carried away.”

“Don’t apologize. You need that kind of passion or this work will kick you in the teeth.” He hesitated. An emotion she couldn’t identify flickered in his eyes. Fatigue? Sadness? “Keep your fire, Mel. No matter what.”

“What else is crucial in an investigative reporter? Personality traits, I mean.” She was eager for his answer.

“You interviewing me, Ramirez?”

“Taking notes.” She tapped her skull.

He smiled. “Curiosity is bedrock. For me, anyway. It’s like an itch, a craving to know. I hate secrets. I have to get to the bottom of things. You’re that way, too. I can see it in your work. You drill to the core, the essence.”

“That’s what I go for, yeah.”

He nodded. “You also have persistence, which is vital. You have to be unstoppable. I think Bobby Kennedy said truth is ruthless. Sometimes that’s all that gets you through the black nights of doubt.”

“You have doubts?”

“Always. Am I asking the right questions? Talking to the right people? Am I being fair? Is every fact checked and double-checked? Have I gone too far or not far enough?”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Part of the package. It’s our job to speak up for the underdog. The powers that be will steamroller the little guy every time. We have to shine a light on that.” He took a sip of his drink. “For investigative work, you have to ask why. Humans never act without motivation, usually selfish, so you have to dig for who would gain, how and why.”

One drink turned into two and the words flew, both of them full of the same fire for their work. She was so attracted to the man that she was afraid if he touched her, she might combust on the spot.

“You have to follow the story wherever it leads for however long it takes,” Noah said. “It helps to be single.”

“Lots of reporters have families.”

“If you’re good, the job has to be number one. The hours are unpredictable and always long. I’ve watched my married colleagues struggle. They’re always on the phone apologizing to their kids, their wives, their boyfriends. Apologizing or fighting. Paul hated leaving National Record, but Cindi got pregnant and that was that.”

“He seems happy to me.”

“People adjust.” He slid his martini glass forward and back. “Maybe it’s just me. I was an Army brat, so we moved a lot when I was a kid. I learned how to make friends easily and let them go when I had to.”

He took the last sip, clearly thinking about what he’d said. Then he smiled. “That’s me, though. What about you? You have a family?”

“It’s just me and my mom.”

“What about…a boyfriend?” He spoke slowly, tracking her reaction.

She shook her head.

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Not really. I’ve been busy.”

“School and work, sure. I get that. But for certain things, you make time…” He was looking at her like that and she returned the look, full throttle. The gin, the talk, the fact she was sharing her graduation night with a man whose work she so admired made her bold. She wanted him to touch her, to kiss her. She wanted to touch and kiss him. She wanted, period. The roar of a vacuum cleaner startled her and she jumped.

Noah smiled. “We should let these folks close up.” He’d long ago paid the tab, but he laid a twenty on the table and nodded at the bartender.

When they stood, Mel swayed, surprised by how unsteady she felt.

Noah caught her elbow. “You okay?”

“Martinis are not for sissies,” she said, embarrassed to be such a lightweight. She’d been so excited she hadn’t felt the effects of the gin. “I’d better not drive. I’ll get a cab.”

“I have a better idea,” he said with a slow smile. “Stay with me, Mel. Tuck me in.”

Dios mio. That was the sexiest thing a man had ever said to her. He clasped her hand, pulled her closer and kissed her.

Pure power roared through her—like lightning or a nuclear blast, something spinning off a supercollider maybe. Her knees turned to water and her body shook so hard that her teeth bumped Noah’s.

Noah broke off the kiss, looking equally blown away. “What the hell was that?”

“I’m not sure, but I vote for more,” she managed to say.

He laughed, deep and easy. “Then it’s unanimous. Come on.” He took her arm and they headed out of the bar.

The elevator ride was a forever of agony while Mel’s body burned with desire—pure, raw, uncut—the best rush of all. When they had to stop at the door for Noah to find his key card, frustration made her groan.

“Hang on, let me get us to a bed,” he said, kissing her temple tenderly, as if to sustain her through the wait for the lock to whir and flash green.

Inside the room, they kissed in the dark. Mel held on tightly to Noah, afraid if she didn’t she’d melt to the floor. She felt the ridge of his erection against her stomach while his hands kneaded her backside. Wow. Just wow.

With a groan, he broke off. “Hang on…I need to make sure…” He bent for his backpack and unzipped a compartment, from which he tossed a toothbrush, comb, other stuff, then held up a strip of three condoms. “Let’s hope these haven’t passed their use-by date.”

She started to tell him they didn’t need condoms—pregnancy was virtually impossible for her, plus she was on birth control for irregular periods—but by then Noah had her on the bed and nothing else mattered. They tore off their clothes as though they were each other’s most-longed-for Christmas gift, tossing items left and right like so much shredded wrapping paper.

Once they were naked, though, everything slowed way, way down. Noah lay on top of her, taking her in. “You are so beautiful.”

And he was so handsome. His tousled hair framed his face, looking soft, but masculine. His eyes, a mesmerizing brown with swirls of gold, seemed to study her forever. His dimple was a hint of a dent, like a secret he shared only with people who really pleased him. And he seemed really, really pleased with her.

“I can’t believe I’m actually here.” She’d been thrilled about a ten-minute car ride with the man. Now she was in bed with him.