Page 7 of Prime Time

“Come in, Lyon. I believe you already know our guest, Mrs. Malone.”

Lyon strode into the room. He pointedly ignored his father’s attempted courtesy. Instead he glared at Andy. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

Andy sprang to her feet. She wasn’t about to look up at him like a penitent. “You know what I’m doing here.”

“I also know the underhanded way you managed to get through the gate. Mr. Houghton and I were well into the second row of boxwoods when he happened to mention the poor little lady he’d driven here to keep her appointment with Gracie after her car broke down. Gracie’s been here longer than I have, and to my knowledge she’s never had an ‘appointment.’ I put two and two together, and unfortunately it added up to you. Now, Ms. Malone, you’re leaving. By force if necessary.” She had no doubt that he meant it. He was reaching for her arm when his father deterred him.

“Lyon, your mother would be distressed by your lack of manners, especially toward a lady. I have consented to Mrs. Malone’s interviewing me.”

Had he been struck with a shovel, Lyon couldn’t have looked more stunned. “Dad … you … are you sure?” Showing a sensitivity she wouldn’t have thought him capable of, he knelt beside his father’s wheelchair and placed his large, tanned hand on General Ratliff’s shoulder. “Are you sure?” he repeated.

The general’s eyes locked with his son’s. “Yes, I’m sure. I won’t do any others, but Mrs. Malone is so charming, I find I can’t refuse her request.”

“Charming be damned,” Lyon snapped, rising to his feet. “Don’t let her talk you into anything you don’t want to do.”

“Have you ever known me to be so gullible, Lyon?” he asked softly. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. I want to do this.”

“Very well.” Lyon’s nod was equally terse.

“Well, Mrs. Malone, it seems that it’s all settled,” the general said pleasantly.

“Thank you, General Ratliff,” she said, “but please call me Andy.”

“I like you, Andy.”

“I like you, too.” She laughed and the general joined her, sharing the enjoyment of having met each other.

“Excuse me,” Lyon said chillingly, driving a wedge of hostility into the congenial atmosphere, “but I have to get back to work.”

“Lyon, let Mr. Houghton do what he knows to do. You take Andy back to wherever she’s staying and help her move her things here.”

Andy and Lyon turned in unison to face General Ratliff. Both stared at him in mute bewilderment. At long last Andy found her voice and stammered, “B—but I’m at the Haven in the Hills, and I assure you I’m quite comfortable.”

“But not as comfortable as you’ll be here,” the general said amiably. “You’ve not tasted Gracie’s cooking.” So, thought Andy, Gracie is the cook. “And I may get the urge to bare my soul at any time of the day or night. You wouldn’t want to risk missing that. All things considered, it’ll be much better for you to stay under this roof until we are done with the project.”

“But my crew will be at the motel and—”

“How many crewmen will there be?”

She tabulated quickly. “Four.”

“Then we’ll put them in the bunkhouse. There’s plenty of room. I’ll hear no more objections,” he said, in a voice that was reminiscent of his former command. “Lyon and I are too much alone out here. You’ll be a welcome diversion.” He started the battery-operated motor of his chair. “Now, please excuse me. The two of you have tired me out. I’ll see you at lunch.”

The softly purring motor on the chair propelled it out of the room, and Andy was left alone with Lyon. He must have known of his father’s auditory capabilities, for he waited until the wheelchair was out of sight before he turned to her. “You should be very proud of yourself.”

She defied the accusation in the hard grey eyes. “I am. Your father readily agreed to the interviews. You could have saved us both a lot of time and trouble if you’d conveyed my request to him months ago rather than returning all my letters unopened.”

“He may have consented to these interviews, but I haven’t.” He toured her with scornful eyes. “Isn’t your life exciting enough? What motivates someone to pry into the personal lives of other people? Is that how you get your kicks?”

She hated the taunting curl of his mouth. “I’m not prying. I only want to talk to your father and record those conversations on tape, to be shared with thousands of people who will be interested in what he has to say.”

“That sounds real good, Ms. Malone. Noble and forthright. You may very well be nominated for sainthood.” The mocking smile was wiped from his face as if it had been swept away by a magic wand. His lips thinned to a resolute line. With violent speed he grasped her arm above the elbow and hauled her against him. The rigid lips barely moved as he said, “But I’m warning you, you do anything, anything to distress or harm my father, and you’ll wish to God you hadn’t. Do we have an understanding?”

The breath had been knocked out of her when her breasts had been flattened against the rock wall of his chest, but she struggled to get the words out. “We do.”

He stared down at her, nodding his head slightly as if to say that he’d decide to believe her when she had proved herself. For moments that stretched into a small eternity he continued to stare at her. She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t dare. If she moved at all, she’d only call attention to the juxtaposition of their bodies, which suggested either a wrestling hold or a lovers’ clinch, and either way she didn’t want to acknowledge it.

At the same time she decided to remain perfectly still and not fight him, realization of their tempting proximity dawned on his face. She was freed—suddenly, reflexively, instantly. An objective observer might have thought he considered being close to her dangerous. “Let’s go get your things.” The suggestion was no more than a growl. “I’m not a taxi service.”

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