Page 13 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

“You want—?”

“Don’t even say it, okay? I know it’s a heart attack ready to happen. So bring it on!”

“I was going to ask about something to drink,” he said dryly.

“Oh. Make it a Dr Pepper.” And she was off.

Nikki couldn’t believe it. As she watched Niall O’Henry being ushered away by his lawyer, she tried to step forward, to ask one of a hundred questions that leaped to her mind. She was thwarted, of course. She and a dozen other reporters were contained by security as they yelled questions at the retreating figures of Niall O’Henry and his lawyer.

Thwarted, she turned to Jim Levitt. “Tell me you got some good shots.”

“Nope.”

“What?”

“More like great shots. You know, Pulitzer material,” he said sarcastically while glancing down at her as if she were a moron. He was a beanpole of a man with sandy hair and freckles who’d played basketball in college and whose reach allowed him to hoist a camera over a lot of heads; hence, he was able to get shots a shorter person couldn’t.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” she said, sensing how touchy he was about his work. Levitt, whose wife was pregnant with twins due around Christmas, was feeling the bite of the economic downturn as well as the newfound difficulties of his profession. These days everyone had a camera, or at least a phone, that could take decent photographs. Not only was he used less at the paper, but his studio business had fallen off sharply. No one wanted to pay for professiona

l shots when they could have Uncle Henry with a timer on his phone do a fairly decent job.

Working with his digital camera, he showed her more than a dozen shots of Niall O’Henry, his lawyer, and the group of people gathered at City Hall. “Don’t worry about the pictures, okay? Just write a piece worthy of them,” he said.

“Pulitzer material. I promise.”

“I’ll see you back at the paper,” he said as he headed off, and Nikki experienced that same uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She glanced around. No one was paying any attention to her, not with the focus on Niall O’Henry. Though night had definitely fallen, she was far from alone, the crowd still slowly dispersing, a few knots of people still huddled together.

And yet she couldn’t shake the sensation that unseen eyes were observing her, scrutinizing her every move.

Don’t be nuts, she warned herself, glancing over her shoulder, her gaze scraping the shadows. Nothing.

“Hey!” she heard as she scrounged in the bottom of her bag for her keys. Glancing up, she spied Reed walking along the sidewalk toward her. As always, her heart did a quick little galumph at the sight of him. Yep, she thought again, hopeless romantic.

His gaze found hers, and his lips twisted into that irreverent grin she found so damned endearing. A five-o’clock shadow was in evidence but couldn’t hide his strong jawline. Warmth spread through her—happiness—and she felt the corners of her own mouth lift. How could it be that she’d missed him when she’d been with him less than twenty-four hours earlier?

Make that ridiculous, hopeless romantic.

She ducked around a couple who were deep in conversation as they shared a cigarette and met Reed under a street lamp. “Where were you? I looked.”

“To the side.” He hitched his head toward an area that was now cleared of people. “How about dinner?”

“How about some exclusive comments on the Blondell O’Henry case?”

“Down, tiger. You know where I stand on that.”

“Yeah, yeah, but this is breaking news on a very old case.”

“Keep pushing, Reporter Gillette,” he said dryly, then took the crook of her arm and walked her farther from City Hall. “Seriously, I’ve got to stop at The Dollhouse and grab a sandwich for Morrisette. I thought we could catch a quick bite together. That is, if you promise not to be obnoxious and keep bugging me for information you know I can’t give you.”

She was hungry, and she knew there was no way she would be granted an interview with Blondell O’Henry tonight. However, she planned to be at the prison the minute the doors opened tomorrow. She hadn’t had an answer to her e-mail yet, but she knew other reporters were probably clamoring for access as well, so she wasn’t going to wait for permission.

“There’s a certain amount of bugging I feel compelled to do,” she explained, and he groaned dramatically as they linked arms and walked the three blocks to the small restaurant, located in a historic Victorian-era home that had been remodeled and retrofitted with a commercial kitchen, elevator, and veranda used for outdoor dining. Painted a soft pink, trimmed in white, with bay windows and a long porch, the restaurant did appear to be a classic dollhouse, and the owners, Kenneth and Barbara Sutton, added to the theme by shortening their names.

The restaurant was fairly crowded, but they didn’t have to wait too long for a table, where they ordered meals for themselves and takeout for Reed’s partner.

“Metzger’s sick, so I’ve got the Blondell O’Henry story,” she said, adjusting her chair. She was seated across from Reed, their table tucked into a corner of what had once been the parlor.

“I already know you’re not going to let up until I give you an inside police perspective.”

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