LITMIR.BIZ

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than terrific.”

      Buck cut in. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far…”

      “I would,” L.T. insisted. “Any story the competition would do murder to get is, unequivocally, better than terrific. Right, B.J.?”

      “Right,” B.J. gave out grudgingly. Buck was, in all honesty, the man of the hour. There was talk that he’d get a Pulitzer nomination for Black Gold. The tabloids couldn’t get enough of him. To read what they wrote about him, you’d think every unattached woman in America longed only to claim him for her own.

      Every woman except B.J. She didn’t long to claim him. She only longed for him to go away.

      And as soon as they got the details ironed out here, he would go away. He’d go off and write his story and leave her alone to come to grips with the fact that she was going to have his baby.

      Argh.

      Colette cleared off the plates and began serving brandy, dessert and coffee. L.T. lit up another corona and continued to rave—about how Buck’s hometown, a tiny mountain hamlet in the mountains of California, was named New Bethlehem Flat. “Bethlehem. Could it get any better? And the Bravo family history? Pure gold—scratch that. Platinum. Platinum all the way…”

      Buck’s father, the notorious Blake Bravo, the “bad seed” of the Los Angeles Bravos, had faked his own death at the age of twenty-six. Once everyone believed the evil Blake dead, he went on to kidnap his own brother’s baby son for a king’s ransom in diamonds and to litter the American landscape with illegitimate children—Buck and his three brothers among them. Blake had died for real a few years ago and the whole story had at last come out. A day late and a few dollars short, as they say. Because Blake Bravo had managed to live on for thirty years after everyone believed him dead. He’d gone to his grave without answering for a single one of his many crimes.

      L.T. announced, “So it’s ‘Buck Bravo: Unwrapped.’

      Could there be a better holiday cover story?” B.J. silently agreed that there couldn’t.

      And it was about time she got past her personal issues with Buck and took control of this discussion. “All right, L.T. I’m convinced. It’s a great story and we’ll go with it.”

      “Great? It’s—”

      “I know, I know. It’s better than great.” She turned her head in Buck’s direction and looked at him without actually meeting his eyes. “I’ll settle the details with your agent tomorrow, and you’ll get going on it right away.”

      “Agreed.”

      “I’ll need you to pull it together in two weeks, if you can manage that. There is some leeway—just not much.”

      “I understand.”

      “I’m thinking I can get Lupe to go with you to California for the pictures.” Lupe Martinez was their top contributing photographer. “Is there snow in the Sierras yet?” she pondered aloud. “There had better be. This is the Christmas feature, after all.”

      Buck let out a low chuckle, one that sizzled annoyingly along every one of her nerve endings. “I’ll see what I can do about the weather.”

      “Thank you.” B.J. realized it was time to be gracious—and grateful. “I’m…so pleased about this, I truly am.”

      “Glad to help out.”

      “I know you’ll write us a terrific Christmas feature. I can’t wait to read it.”

      “But I’m not writing it.”

      B.J. opened her mouth to lay on more compliments—and snapped it shut without speaking. Surely she hadn’t heard him right. “Excuse me?”

      “I said, I’m not writing it. You are. You’re going with me. And you’re right. We should leave tomorrow. I’m guessing L.T. will provide one of his jets.”

      “Happy to help out.” Her father beamed, an over-bearing Santa in a smoking jacket. “No problem. The jet is yours.”

      Stunned and appalled at the mere idea of being thrown into constant contact with Buck for days running, B.J. gaped. Openly. Her head swiveled from her father to Buck and back to her father again—and she saw the truth right there in L.T.’s pewter-gray eyes. He had known this was coming. How could he do this to her—and not even give her a heads-up in advance?

      A thousand volts of pure fury blazed through her. She was certain her hair must be standing on end. Her stomach clenched tight—and then rolled. She looked down at her coffee, at the creamy chocolate dessert with its topping of fresh whipped cream. The few bites of food she’d eaten lurched upward toward her throat.

      She gulped—hard. “Excuse me,” she said quietly—and then she shoved back her chair and dashed for the bathroom.

      “Is she sick or something?” asked the doe-eyed Jessica as B.J. raced toward the door to the entrance hall, pointed heels tap-tap-tapping.

      “Yeah. Sick of me,” Buck replied with a grim smile. Things weren’t going exactly as he’d hoped. Uh-uh. Not as he’d hoped—but pretty much as he’d expected.

      “Maybe it was the venison,” said L.T. philosophically. He shrugged and blew a few smoke rings. “Seemed fine to me, though.”

      “She’s upset.” Jessica, distressed, stated the obvious. Both men turned to look at her. “Well, she is,” Jessica insisted in that breathy way of hers. “I’m sorry, Buck. But, you know, I don’t think she likes you.”

      “No kidding?”

      “And I don’t get it. Why would you want to make her write the story? You’re the one who writes.” Jessica’s smooth brow furrowed as if great thoughts troubled her. “Aren’t you?”

      L.T. chuckled and puffed on his cigar and, for once, didn’t comment.

      That left Buck to make a noncommittal noise in his throat and take a sip of the excellent brandy and wonder if he was biting off a big wad more than he would ever be able to chew.

      Maybe so.

      Should he back down, agree to head home to California with only a photographer for company? Write the damn story and turn it in and forget it—forget B.J.?

      Hell. Probably.

      But then there she came, tap-tap-tapping back to the table in her skinny little skirt and dangerous black shoes, shoulders back and head high. She looked sexy as all get-out—and also ready to start spitting nails.

      Buck still wanted her. He wanted her bad. The past year or so he’d come to grips with the fact that maybe he always would.

      Back down? Not this time. This time he was taking it all the way. And if she wanted her damn cover story, she could come and get it—his way.

      “Are you all right, B.J.?” Jessica asked, doe eyes wider than ever.

      B.J. slid into her seat again. “I have been better,” she informed L.T.’s girlfriend with a stately nod of her shining blond head. “Thank you for asking.” She turned on L.T. again, eyes stormy, mouth set. “In case you might have forgotten, I have a department to run. I can’t just go traipsing off to the wilds of California. And really. Where is the sense in this? That Buck’s got the byline is half of the story.” She threw up both hands. “Oh, this is all just too, too insane. He’s going to do a much better job of writing the damn thing than I ever could. That’s what he does—write.”

      L.T. waved a hand, dismissing her objections.

      “Don’t worry about the features department. Giles can handle things for a week or two. And the piece shouldn’t be a memoir. It needs an objective eye.”

      B.J. looked at her father as if she’d like nothing better than to grab his cigar from between his fingers and put it out in his face. “Excuse me. An objective eye?”

      Her

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