The Wrong Mr. Darcy - Evelyn Lozada Page 0,22

in the hallway come alive.

Her breath came faster and faster as the man’s hand went around her waist, to the small of her back. She slowly backed up against a wall, desperately wanting to keep his large, warm hand on her body. “May I kiss you?” he asked, and his face cleared and it was Derek Darcy.

“I’m not sure,” she said, suddenly confused, but Derek laid his soft, full lips on hers, lightly. Instantly, her body responded; crushing against him, she opened her mouth to his. She felt him grow hard as she wrapped a leg around him, her skirt falling away, baring her flesh. His hand moved down to her leg, before gliding up to her bare hip, gliding, gliding. They both realized she wasn’t wearing panties. And she was ready for him. He ran his thumb …

It was straight B-roll from old Cinemax porn.

O’Donnell’s crazy painting had done a number on her, clearly. But why in holy hell did Derek show up in her dream? The man was a douche, not a dreamboat.

She rolled out of bed with a groan and dug out her running clothes. Hara needed to get outside and clear her head.

Fast-walking down the long hall, she avoided looking directly at the painting. Ducking out onto quiet, almost frosty streets just as the sun timidly began to poke its nose over the horizon, Hara ran for a long time, until her sweatshirt was saturated. Saturday-morning traffic along the Charles River was surprisingly slower than Portland’s downtown traffic on the weekend. East Coasters ate dinner so damn late, they needed to sleep in.

Hara kicked up flutters of yellow, red, and green leaves with her worn running shoes. Turning away from the river, she slowed to a walk and crossed over Commonwealth Avenue. The city blocks were slowly filling with people. She occasionally overheard the catchy New England accent, with its broad a’s and short o’s. The whole “Pahk yuh car in Hahvuhd Yahd” thing. She adored the distinct sound. It was disappointing so few around her on the city sidewalks actually sounded “Boston.”

As she passed down historic streets, the Colonial vibe emphasized that she was in one of the oldest cities in the United States. Puritans had turned old oak and hemlock forests into homesteads and markets and even the first public school, and, later, revolutionaries fought the British and suffered and bled on this ground so that American taxes would pay for American streets. The stories of hundreds of years of people and events hung in the air, clinging to the old brick structures. She inhaled deeply.

And coughed out the cold mist and smog.

A couple of backpack-wearing college kids startled her when they emerged from a building, throwing open the door unexpectedly. They almost ran her over, intent on their oversize pumpkin spiced lattes and conversation. “That one’s ah slam pig. She wicked sheisty, too.”

Finally! she thought, but they were gone too quickly for her to appreciate the native tongue for long.

Hara was in front of the famous Trident Booksellers and Café. She checked her watch. Plenty of time. The car picking her up for the game wouldn’t arrive until late that afternoon, and tomorrow she hoped to tour the City Gazette’s offices and—gulp—hand in her résumé, so now was the perfect time.

Inside, the smell of books and scones and bacon and coffee and more books permeated the air, and her glasses instantly fogged over. She sighed, took them off, and swiped at the condensation. She did not love running with her glasses on, but after last night, she was never wearing contacts again.

Her next bit of self-care was to sniff at herself surreptitiously; she was glad she was in a city where no one knew the bedraggled, stinky Hara. Her hair was huge with the humidity, barely contained in its ponytail. After ordering a breakfast sandwich and green tea, she settled into a chair tucked back in a corner by the window and picked up that morning’s copy of the Boston daily paper.

She had to know. Her stress level rose, despite her long run, as she prayed she wouldn’t find that another reporter had somehow scooped her.

A determined frown line formed between her brows. If there was something out there about Charles Butler, she was going to be the one to find it.

She had spent hours the night before wrestling with the ethics behind chasing down a story she knew the owners would not want her to investigate, the same people who’d paid for