No Stranger to Scandal

“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.”