Her stomach grumbled, reminding her of her destination before she’d gotten sidetracked. Needing air, she grabbed an orange off her desk, pulled her tote bag out from beside her chair, and made her way to the front door.
As she approached the glass wall, she glanced out and spotted Hawk talking to someone on the other side of the street. The man looked vaguely familiar. Cat squinted, her mind racing, trying to place the guy Hawk appeared to be in deep conversation with. Then it hit her. It was none other than the infamous protester, Eugene Letterman.
She furrowed her brow in confusion. Why would Hawk be talking to Eugene?
Cat’s stomach tightened. She felt her blood run cold. She didn’t like the look of this at all. Not one little bit. Hawk was up to something. Every instinct warned her. Did this have something to do with Sam? Were the two in cahoots? If so, how and for how long?
Cat ripped the peel off her orange and moved closer to the window, wishing she could hear their distant conversation. Hawk handed something to Eugene, but from her angle and distance she couldn’t tell what.
Perhaps it was time for her to do a little investigation of her own, whether Blain approved or not.
Chapter 6
With all the metered spots taken in front of Cat’s newspaper office, Sam parked a block down the street and walked the rest of the way. The warm sun beat down on him and helped soothe his ragged nerves. As he approached her building, he spotted Cat pushing through the front glass door and stepping out onto the curb. The minute Sam set eyes on her his body buzzed to life and his blood raced.
South.
He registered every curvy detail of her business attire. Coat draped over her arm, she wore a knee-length black skirt that hugged her hips in all the right places and a soft green blouse that matched the color of her eyes. Cat scanned the street and ripped the peel off an orange like the two had a personal vendetta.
What was it with her and oranges anyway, he mused. Did she have some kind of addiction?
Sam could almost smell the succulent wedges. He could almost taste its vine-ripened sweetness.
He could almost stop his cock from hardening.
Damn.
Twirling on the ball of her foot, Cat spun in the opposite direction and hurried down the street. He had no idea where she was headed, but her strides appeared to be quite determined.
“Cat,” Sam called out to her, but the bustling pedestrians and street sounds swallowed his voice. Weaving his way through the lunch-hour crowd, he jogged to catch up. As his long legs ate up the distance, he called out again, louder this time.
Her footsteps stilled. She turned back around. Her mouth dropped open but no words came. He could almost hear a small gasp crawl out of her throat when she spotted him rushing toward her.
Smoothing her hair off her face, a gesture he was becoming increasingly accustomed to, Cat hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and stepped toward him.
“Sam. What are you doing here?” He’d been the one jogging, yet she was the one who sounded winded.
Gorgeous cat eyes widened with a mixture of delight and surprise as she studied him. His heart skipped a beat, thrilled with the way she reacted upon seeing him, and equally thrilled that there was no awkwardness between them after last night.
He touched her arm. He wasn’t exactly sure why. He’d never been the needy, touchy feely type with women before. But Cat was so damn irresistible he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Then again, there was always the possibility he was seeking some deeper form of intimacy with her.
Sam frowned in concentration.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, her perfect brow arching with genuine concern. She placed her hand on his forearm and squeezed, a silent offering of support and comfort.
Tenderness stole over him. The warmth in her eyes spoke volumes. Cat Nichols, the same woman who’d written an article on him and unknowingly fucked his future, really and truly cared about his well-being. It touched him somewhere down deep, stirring up old feelings. As bewitching green cat eyes stared up at him in worry, he felt a flash of possessiveness.
Guilt washed over him like a tsunami wave, guilt for even entertaining the idea that she’d offered herself in exchange just to get the story.
“Sam?” she asked again, “Are you okay?”
It took a moment for him to remember why he was there. He searched his mind and remembered the note. Yes, the note, the reason he’d braved lunch-hour traffic and darted down the street after her like a crazed junkie looking for a fix. Not his desperate need to see her, to touch her, to kiss her, or to hold her in his arms again.
He drew a breath, centering himself, and addressed her worries. “I need to talk to you about a letter I received today,” he answered, knowing damn well he was skirting the truth.
She angled her body and peered around his shoulder. She closed her eyes for a brief second and drew in air. “Oh no,” she whispered.
Reading her distress, Sam twisted around, his gaze brushed over the crowd. “What is it?”
Cat dropped her orange into her tote bag and grabbed his arm, alarm in her expression. “Remember that loud-mouthed protestor?” Without giving him time to answer, she jerked her head to Sam’s left and rushed on, “Well he’s coming our way.”
A surge of anger made Sam’s blood boil. With both hands fisted, he made a move to turn, but Cat stopped him as though reading his intent.
Why the hell was he such an easy read lately anyway?
“Not here, Sam,” she warned. “Not in front of the paper. Not unless you want to be tomorrow’s headline.”
Blood pounding, he ground his back teeth together until his jaw ached. “I don’t.”
“I didn’t think so. Come with me.” Cat tugged on his arm and led him into an
