No Stranger to Scandal - By Rachel Bailey Page 0,11

serious. I’m not here to make friends.” Her eyes widened and he immediately regretted his tone. He blew out a breath, and said more softly, “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.”

Lucy stood, as well. “You’d like to be my friend, Hayden?” She arched an eyebrow, her eyes glimmering with something he couldn’t read.

“Under different circumstances,” he emphasized, “it’s possible that we would have been friends.”

Her chin lifted. “I know how important this is. I take Graham’s future very seriously. But just so we’re clear—” she fixed him with sultry hazel eyes, and her voice slid deeper into the accent of a Southern belle who took no prisoners “—under different circumstances, I wouldn’t want to be your friend, Hayden. I’d make one heck of a pass at you.”

She turned and walked off, blond hair glinting in the sunshine, Rosie at her heels, leaving Hayden poleaxed.

Three

At four o’clock the next day, Lucy knocked on the door to Hayden’s suite, then rolled her shoulders one at a time to try and ease the bunching tension in them.

Hayden had called her cell an hour ago and asked if she could come by to answer a few more questions, and she’d jumped at the chance to see him again in his suite, maybe find a few more clues for her story. The only other time she’d been to his hotel was before Graham had handed her the assignment of the exposé, so this time she’d pay more attention to the little things. The clues.

But now that she was here, her knees quivered—in fact her whole body was unsteady. She wiped damp palms down her calf-length skirt. This was the first time she’d seen him after saying that if things were different, she’d make a pass at him. And she had no idea how things had changed between them, or if she’d ruined the fragile rapport she’d been building with the man who was her target.

After she’d turned a corner yesterday at the park and was safely out of his line of sight, she’d called herself every type of crazy. Rosie had looked up, worried, and Lucy had explained to the dog that she’d probably just uttered the most reckless, foolish words of her life.

Even if they were true.

But she had to be careful. It wasn’t just that they were in the midst of a congressional investigation. Hayden Black was the last man on the planet she could afford to be involved with. People already judged her for being the daughter of Jonathon Royall and the stepdaughter of Graham Boyle—two wealthy, high-profile, well-connected men. The common opinion was that she’d been handed everything she wanted on a silver platter. That she hadn’t had to work for her own achievements. If she were to be seen with another wealthy, high-profile, well-connected man like Hayden Black, especially given that he was a few years older than she, people would write her off as a woman who was dependent on strong men. Her achievements would again be discounted as not coming from hard work. At just thirteen she’d realized what people assumed about her and it had made her determined to prove to the world that she could achieve anything she wanted on her own.

No, Hayden Black was not for her. She needed an average guy, maybe one just starting out in his career, like her.

With a heavy whoosh, the door swung open and there stood the far-from-average man himself, as broodingly gorgeous as she remembered. “Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice like gravel, as if he hadn’t used it all day.

And there was something new in his expression—his dark coffee eyes were wary as they assessed her. Seemed she’d thrown the great criminal investigator a curveball yesterday. Her taut shoulders relaxed a little. Perhaps, despite it being a crazy thing to say, it had worked in her favor.

“You’re welcome....” She paused as she stepped into the room. “Do I call you Hayden or Mr. Black, since this is an official interview?”

“Hayden is fine.” He closed the door behind her and led her to the desk and chairs where they’d spoken two days ago.

She glanced around, taking note of details that might be useful later. Besides the papers on the wooden desk and the coffee cup on the kitchenette counter, the room was neat, nothing out of place, as if he’d just moved in. Hotel housekeeping would have had something to do with that, but there was more to it—as if he was keeping a firm