LITMIR.BIZ

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her job for the same reason that had seen Sherry out the door of her studio. An unmarried pregnant woman was the elephant in the living room as far as the board of education was concerned. Rather than cause problems and be in the middle of an ugly trial that might affect her students, all of whom had rallied around her, Joanna had agreed to leave.

      She knew the frustration that Sherry had dealt with.

      “Don’t ask.” Sherry sighed the answer as she did her best to sink down gracefully. It wasn’t an easy accomplishment. Of the three, Sherry was the furthest along.

      And the largest, she thought ruefully. These days Sherry felt as if she was all stomach and very little else.

      “The Mom Squad’s all here, I see.” Walking up to them, Lori placed an affectionate hand on Sherry’s shoulder. She nodded at the two coaches who accompanied the other two women. “Hi, Sherry, where’s your coach?”

      Sherry glanced toward the doorway. Two couples came in, but no Rusty.

      “He’ll be along,” she assured Lori. “Punctuality was never Rusty’s strong suit.”

      “Well then, for your sake, I hope this baby turns out to be late,” Lori teased.

      Lori shifted, trying not to look too obvious. Her back was aching. And with good reason. She hadn’t told the others yet but she’d found herself in the same delicate condition that they were in. Five months along, she wasn’t showing too much yet. With any luck, she’d be one of those rare women who could hide inside of moderately loose clothing and never show.

      The noise at the door had her turning to look. “Oh, more arrivals.” About to go off and greet the newcomers, she paused for a final word with the trio. “We still on for ice cream after class, ladies?”

      Chris and Sherry nodded. “Try and stop me,” Joanna laughed. “I’ve been fantasizing about a mound of mint-chip ice cream all day.”

      “See you later,” Lori promised before she hurried away.

      Sherry glanced at her watch, wondering what was keeping Rusty. Class was almost starting. Thinking about what she wanted to ask her former cameraman, she leaned over toward Chris. Blond and vibrant, Chris Jones was not the kind of woman who came to mind when someone said FBI agent, but that was exactly what she was, having been part of the Bureau for over six years now.

      “Chris, what do you know about St. John Adair?”

      “If you’re asking if the man has an FBI dossier, I wouldn’t be able to answer that—” And then Chris smiled. “If he did.”

      Sherry made the natural assumption. “Which means he doesn’t.”

      “Ruthless takeovers aren’t a crime in themselves, except perhaps to the people who lose their jobs because of them.” Chris cocked her head as if curious. One by one they’d each spilled their stories over various mounds of ice cream at Josie’s Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor. “Why do you want to know?”

      Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sherry pressed her hand to the small of her back, wondering if the perpetual ache she felt there was ever going to be a thing of the past. “My editor wants me to do an in-depth piece on him. I actually cornered the man in his elevator today.”

      “And?” Joanna pressed.

      Sherry frowned. “Mr. Adair wasn’t very cooperative. Didn’t even volunteer his name, rank and serial number. I think if he had his druthers, he would have had me up against and wall and shot.”

      Joanna nodded at the information. “I’ve never seen anything written up about him. From what I’ve heard, he’s really closemouthed.” She glanced at Chris for confirmation. “Maybe he’s got some skeletons in his closet.”

      Why else would someone be that secretive, Sherry wondered, nodding. She glanced again toward the doorway. No Rusty. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

      “Well, if it makes a difference, none of them have gotten there by foul play. At least,” Chris qualified, “not to the Bureau’s knowledge.” She stopped and nodded toward the doorway. “Hey, there’s your coach.”

      Without waiting for Sherry to turn around, Chris raised her hand and waved at the short, wiry man until he saw her. Raising a hand in response, he waved back and made his way over to the small, tight group.

      Sherry sidled over to make room for him. Jerome Russell Thomas had been the first person to learn about her pregnancy, before her parents, even before Drew. They’d been out on a rare field assignment together, trying to corral a statement from a high-seated judge who had been brought up on bribery charges when she’d had to excuse herself. She’d barely made it to the ladies’ room in time before her lunch, breakfast and whatever might have been left of her dinner the night before came up unceremoniously.

      When she’d emerged from the ladies’ room ten minutes later, sweaty and slightly green, Rusty was waiting for her just outside the door. One look at her and he’d asked her how far along she was. Her heated denial was short-lived in the face of his gruff kindness.

      “My kid sister was the same shade of green that you are with her first,” he’d told her matter-of-factly. “Couldn’t keep anything down, not even water. Only thing she lived on was mashed potatoes and beef Stroganoff. You might want to try some.”

      Rusty had also stood by her when Drew had decided to pull his disappearing act on her and had been there for her when the studio had all but given her the bum’s rush.

      Having shown his true colors through the hard times, Rusty had seemed like the logical choice to be her coach. When she’d asked him, Rusty had protested vehemently at first, telling her that she would be far more comfortable if she had a woman as her coach. That he would be far more comfortable if she had a woman as her coach.

      But Sherry had remained adamant, insisting she wanted him, and finally, he’d given in and agreed, grumbling all the way. She’d expected nothing less of him.

      “Sorry I’m late. Had to fight off a horde of women at my door to get here,” he cracked.

      Given the truth of the matter, the only female in his life, other than the ones he worked with, was his dog, Blanca. Sherry didn’t waste any time commenting on his fanciful excuse. Instead, the moment he dropped down beside her, she hit him with her question.

      “What do you know about St. John Adair?”

      Accustomed to her abrupt, greetingless greetings, Rusty paused to think.

      “What everyone else knows. That he’s one of the richest son-of-a-bitches around. I don’t trust a man who looks that comfortable in a suit in ninety degree weather.” Rusty never cracked a smile. “There’s talk he’s the devil. Why?”

      She watched Lori work her way to the front of the room. They were getting ready to start. “Owen’s giving me a crack at an investigative story.”

      Rusty filled in the blanks. It wasn’t hard. He looked at her stomach, his meaning clear. “Couldn’t he have started you out on something easier? Like finding out where Jimmy Hoffa’s buried?”

      Sherry shifted slightly. As if that could hide something. “Easy doesn’t put you on the map.”

      He shrugged carelessly. “Neither does coming up to a dead end.”

      She didn’t buy that. Although Lori was saying something to the gathering, Sherry lowered her voice, doing her best to appeal to Rusty. “You know everything there is to know about everything, including where all the bodies are buried. Tell me how I can get to him for a few minutes where he can’t get away. Other than an elevator,” she added.

      “You always did know how to flatter a guy.” It was a tall order, but not anything he wasn’t up to. There was very little he wouldn’t do for Sherry. In the vernacular of the old-timers who had taught him his trade, he considered Sherry Campbell one hell of a broad. “Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up for you, although it probably won’t be

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