The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,11

was more than just a local story, possibly an idea for a new book. It had been two years since she’d submitted the Blondell O’Henry story, a year since Mommy Most Deadly had been published, and her agent was pushing her, but so far she hadn’t been inspired, hadn’t found the right mystery to investigate.

Until today.

She could feel it in her bones.

Don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t even know what’s going on.

But she knew.

Deep inside she knew.

This might be the story that could jump-start her career and she could kiss the Sentinel goodbye forever. Or maybe buy the paper. That thought had always circulated in the back of her mind. She’d be the boss! Her fingers curled more tightly over the steering wheel.

Just calm down. You’ve been here before.

It was true. Each time her latest book had been released there had been some press, a little buzz, and then the book had slowly died and she’d been back to fighting her way for a more interesting job at the Savannah Sentinel. But breaking into that good ol’ boys club at the newspaper had proved tough. It was as if Norm Metzger had a lock on his job and his best bud, editor Tom Fink, just wouldn’t let him go. Because, Nikki suspected, Norm was a man and whether he admitted it or not in this day and age, Tom Fink thought a man should work the crime beat. Same with Metzger, who had barely hidden his looks of disapproval and jealousy at her for actually being a published author. She’d overheard some of Metzger’s remarks:

“Don’t care if it’s ‘true’ crime. Any way you cut it, it’s pulp fiction . . . all it is . . .”

“. . . thinks she can write like a man.”

“. . . just because her father was a judge . . .”

And the one that really stung?

“. . . and she’s got the inside track. Right? Her husband’s a goddamned homicide detective. Hell, how do you compete with that?”

“Ugh.” She rolled down her window and let the warm air inside. It was all so frustrating. She eased off the gas as she rounded a curve and came across a flatbed truck stacked high with bales of hay, bits of straw flying and swirling from the truck. Reed had suggested she quit to concentrate on her books, which would make sense considering the fact that she was pregnant, but she couldn’t let the reporting gig go. She loved being a reporter, always on the edge of the news, ready to charge into any situation. There was an electricity to it that made her feel alive.

Still, she didn’t have to think too far back to the whole Blondell O’Henry case to remember how her investigation had almost cost Reed his job.

Doubts assailed her. Of course they did. But damn it, she was going to do this. And he’d weather the storm. He always did.

But she wouldn’t worry about that now and drove past sodden fields where cattle, sinking deep into mud, were trying to graze. Less than a mile later, the pastures gave way to Channing Vineyards. Acre upon acre of grapevines lined the road and wound upward on a small hill. Atop the knoll, a huge brick and white pillared home, a replica of Jefferson’s domed Monticello, stood. Nikki barely noticed the house because her eyes caught a glint of silver just as a sleek sports car shot through the open wrought iron gate and she had to slam on her brakes.

Her Honda screeched, sliding a bit as the BMW convertible sped past, the driver in sunglasses, his blond hair flying, not a glance in her direction as he hit the gas and the engine roared.

“Hey!” she yelled as he flew by, but of course he didn’t hear her. “Jerk-wad!”

Jacob Channing.

He was the owner of these vineyards, a man she’d met on more than one occasion and had even interviewed when his vineyard had hosted the mayor’s last fundraiser. He’d smiled at her, that thousand-watt grin, his eyes narrowing. “I remember you. You’re Andrew’s little sister, right? A shame about him,” he’d said, bringing up her older brother. “We went to school together, you know, before . . .”

He hadn’t continued, but the remark had endeared him to her at the time.

Now, though, the fact that he’d nearly killed her changed her opinion.

Handsome, athletic and wealthy, and one of Savannah’s most eligible bachelors, Jacob was a man as comfortable in black tie as he