“You’re forgetting an important detail, Agent St. Clair.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re not alone. We’re in this together, remember?” She couldn’t say why but she relished the look of what she interpreted as disgust crossing his face. He hated reporters? Great. She’d be sure to not disappoint.
“Speaking of that, there’s something we have to absolutely agree on or I’ll be required to disqualify you from the pageant.”
Bella’s blood stilled, and she swore it lowered in temperature. “Are you threatening me, Agent St. Clair?”
“No, but I’m going to have to make you promise to allow me to protect you.”
“I don’t ne—”
“Hold it.?
? He held up his hand, a smear of ketchup on his palm. This man enjoyed his meals as much as she did. “Before you spout off about your brother being able to take care of you and provide security, forget it. We might be facing two criminals in my estimation. A possible serial killer, and someone additional, someone who wants the pageant’s workings protected at all costs. If it’s all just one criminal, that’s enough. MVPD is already strapped to the max with its current investigation, and as a Colton you’re that much more visible. You either need to hire ’round-the-clock security with the utmost credentials, or trust my expertise in keeping you safe through the pageant.”
“Or else.” She waited until he met her eyes again. “Let me guess, ultimatums come in your job description.” Her vision narrowed in on his gaze, his confidence prickling her self-esteem. Anger simmered in her gut although it wasn’t at Holden, but herself.
Isn’t it your ego, your pride that’s being hurt?
She ignored her conscience. She had to. Otherwise she’d have to admit that she found the prospect of allowing FBI agent Holden St. Clair to guard her at the least interesting, and at the most, sexually exciting.
“Actually, no. I don’t hand out ultimatums or live in the black and white as much as you might think. Criminal investigations are messy, and rarely do they move in a straight line. Do I find the bad guy? Yes, most of the time. And it’s pretty straightforward, as far as who a killer is. But getting there, uncovering the evidence, that’s different each time.”
“Don’t expect me to commiserate with you. Reporting—accurate, with verifiable sources, protected or not—is always difficult. When it isn’t, I know the subject matter isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“You’ll get no commiseration from me on journalistic technique.” He finished the last of his burger and eyed her over the votive that Angelina lit when she brought their drinks.
If she saw a flicker of humanity in his gaze, she credited the candle. Holden St. Clair was as hard-boiled as any LEA she’d met in her job, and as stoic as her brother. His demeanor was what really frightened her, though. As tough as his statements and matching views were, he spoke without animosity or judgement. He was calm, the strength of his personality driven by integrity, if she had to guess.
Just like her long-deceased father. Not a day went by that Bella didn’t think of her parents and the awful loss she and her brothers and okay, even her not-so-dear old Aunt Amelia, had suffered. But she had a feeling that while she was in Holden’s company she was going to be remembering Dad a lot more.
Thinking about her dad and the years she’d lost with him only ever accomplished one thing. It made her vulnerable.
Bella didn’t do vulnerable—not again, anyway.
Chapter 7
Holden watched the light play across her face, narrowly illuminated by the tiny candle. This greasy spoon was a far cry from the linen tablecloths he was used to sharing with beautiful women, in Phoenix. Yet he couldn’t remember having a meal with anyone as attractive as Bella in eons. Not in the physical or chemical way, but intellectually. And maybe a bit more. Bella’s intelligence was reflected in her keen wit, dry sense of humor—which he adored—and her willingness to totally submerse herself in the pageant.
“Are you pro beauty pageant or not?” He’d learned long ago it was best to be direct if he wanted the truth. “I can’t tell if you’re supportive of the other contestants or silently judging them.”
“I would have answered this differently, immediately after Gio passed away.” She weighed her words. “I have nothing against the pageants that have a valid award, like the scholarship with Ms. Mustang Valley. I absolutely don’t support requiring women to adhere to a construct of beauty or certain physical attributes, though.” Again, doubt tugged on her conscience. The possibility that Gio’s eating disorders had been triggered but not caused by the pageant was something she was going to have to reckon with by the time she finished her exposé.
“Yet this pageant’s prize is scholarship driven, as you’ve mentioned.”
She nodded. “It is. Which is why I’m able to stomach entering. Trust me, if the prize had been no more than a tiara and sash to wear in the annual Mustang Valley parade, I’d still have had to consider it to get to the bottom of my investigation. But it would have come at a much higher price. Plus no one would have believed me, or trusted my motive for entering. With the scholarship prize it’s easy to pose as a legit competitor.”
“Thank you for being so honest in your response. I appreciate that you didn’t just give me a politically correct line.” He didn’t want to hold her feet to the fire as he rather enjoyed their conversation and getting answers meant it would end sooner than later. But Bella Colton was a woman of substance and integrity—he imagined she’d never settle for anything less than complete transparency—and from what he’d already witnessed, wouldn’t waste time squandering her energy on circular questioning.
“It’s hard to not be in awe of the contestants. They appear incredibly vested in the process,” Bella said. As did the pageant board, which he was watching closely, and now knew she was, too.
As if she were a balloon and he held the air passage, he heard the long swish of breath as it left her lungs, her chest raising and falling in sync.
“That’s what’s so difficult in this case. When the other pageant contestants, and especially the board, find out I did this for an investigative report, they’re never going to forgive me. And I don’t blame them. I’m not responsible for anyone else’s feelings but my own. Yet I saw the other applicants all waiting for what I was going to say, when I came in the school and they were in the folding chairs just off the stage. They weren’t only waiting for me to screw up, which I’m sure most of them were—I’d expect that in any competition. What was different is I felt as though they were cheering me on, showing me that I can do it, that my goals matter. And most of them don’t even know me.”
“You believe they’re supportive of you, even though they’d do anything to win the scholarship themselves?”