LITMIR.BIZ

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warmly. “I just took some lasagna out of the oven,” the woman, who looked more like Sophia Loren than an Italian grandmother, said.

      “And we have a new wine you should try,” her husband, a short, burly man added.

      Emma looked at Graham. “Does that sound good to you?”

      His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn’t had anything but coffee since breakfast. “It sounds great.”

      The couple left them alone in a secluded booth and Graham studied Emma across the table, vowing that he wouldn’t press her for information, even though he was dying to know her impressions of Richard Prentice—and what her relationship with the billionaire might have been. She’d insisted on changing before they went out, and instead of the jeans and boots she’d worn earlier, she’d put on a long dress made out of some light fabric that clung to her curves. A colorful scarf around her shoulders brought out the green in her eyes. She looked soft and sexy and too distracting for him to be comfortable. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about her suggestion that they explore their mutual attraction. Getting involved with a reporter struck him as one of the worst ideas he’d ever had.

      But if the reporter was a beautiful woman...

      “My editor at the Post wanted a story on Richard Prentice after his run-in with the county officials here over his attempts to force the federal government to buy the land he owns near the park entrance,” she said after their host, Ray, brought their wine. “I approached Prentice with the angle that this would be a chance for him to tell his side of the story. He ended up inviting me to visit his ranch and shadow him for a couple of weeks.”

      “Maybe he wanted you close, where he could keep an eye on you.” His fingers tightened on the stem of the wineglass as he thought of how close Prentice had probably wanted to be to her. As close as Graham himself wanted to be.

      “Maybe. But it worked in my favor. I met the people who worked for him, saw how he lived.”

      “What did you think?”

      A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You really should read the article.”

      “I will, but give me your impressions now.”

      “All right.” She spread her hands flat on the table in front of her. She wore rings on one thumb and three fingers of each hand. Her nails were polished a shell pink, the manicure fresh. “First of all, he’s smarter than you probably think. A genius, even. He can rattle off phone numbers of almost everyone he’s ever called, remember minute details about things that happened years ago—he practically has a photographic memory.”

      “Smart people can still do dumb things.”

      “Yes. And he does have a weakness—because he’s very smart, he views everyone else as dumb. That kind of arrogance leads him to underestimate his opponents sometimes.”

      The woman, Lola, brought two plates loaded with thick slabs of fragrant lasagna, accompanied by buttered and seasoned zucchini. “This looks amazing,” Graham said as he spread a napkin in his lap.

      “It is.” Lola beamed. “My special recipe.”

      “It really is divine,” Emma said. She slid a forkful into her mouth and moaned softly.

      The sound made Graham’s mouth go dry. He shifted to accommodate his sudden arousal, and took a long sip of wine. When was the last time a woman had affected him this way? Maybe when he was a teenager—twenty years ago. “What kind of people does Prentice hang out with?” he asked. Focus on the case.

      “All kinds. Politicians. Foreign businesspeople. Fashion models. Celebrities. Lobbyists. People who want favors. People he can order around. He’s not the kind of man who has close friends, though, just a lot of contacts and acquaintances.”

      “Any romantic interests?”

      She shook her head. “He’s been photographed with a lot of beautiful women at various events, but he treats them like accessories—necessary to his image, but there’s no real attachment there. He likes women, but they’re not an obsession. And in case you’re wondering, he was a perfect gentleman around me.”

      Neither perfect nor gentleman fit his impression of Prentice, but he was relieved to know the man hadn’t taken a personal interest in Emma. “How did he get all that money he has?”

      “He was vague about that. Some of it he inherited. He owns a lot of different companies. He’s sort of known for running competitors out of business, and for buying up marginal concerns and selling off their assets. As you might have gathered, he has no qualms about using people or situations for his own gain.”

      “He clearly enjoys sticking it to the government.”

      “Definitely. Believe it or not, he sees himself as a kind of champion, fighting against the feds. And there are people who look up to him for that.”

      “Even if it means destroying historic landmarks or using public land for private gain?”

      She nodded. “I met some of his fans—everybody from property rights lobbyists to extremist groups who believe everything the government does is wrong.”

      “So if he wanted to do something illegal, he could probably find people to help him.”

      “I’m sure. And they don’t have to be fans of his—he has enough money to pay anyone to do what he wants. For some people that’s enough.”

      He had enough money to buy a drone and a black-market missile to arm it. And people who’d cheer him on as he did so. “I’ll probably have more questions for you later, but right now, let’s change the subject to something less grim,” he said. “Why did you decide to be a reporter?”

      She laughed, and the sound sent a tremor through his middle. “You don’t have to sound so disgusted. I’m not an ax murderer.”

      He winced. “Sorry. Let’s just say a lot of my interactions with the press haven’t been positive.”

      “I can’t imagine.” Suppressed laughter again.

      Point taken. “So I’m not Mr. Personality. But I really do want to know what drew you to journalism.”

      She sat back and took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for an ordeal. “All right, I’ll tell you. When I was nineteen, a freshman in college, my older sister disappeared. She was a nurse, working nights at a hospital. She got off her shift early one morning and was never seen or heard from again.”

      He felt the pain behind her words, despite her calm demeanor. “How awful for your family,” he said, the words completely inadequate.

      She nodded. “Sherry had left once before without telling the rest of us—she’d run off to Vegas with a guy she was dating for a wild weekend. At first the police suspected a repeat of that caper. We tried to tell them that this time was different, but they wouldn’t listen. They didn’t take the case seriously until we went to the newspapers. A reporter took an interest in the case and helped us. Eventually, the police found her body, not far from the hospital. She’d been murdered. They never found her killer.”

      He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry.”

      “Thank you.” She withdrew her hand and sipped wine. “Anyway, that reporter inspired me. I wanted to help others the way she helped our family. Sometimes that means riding the police—reminding them to do their job.”

      “Those questions you asked about Lauren Starling.” Understanding dawned.

      She nodded. “She’s another woman who’s gone missing, and no one is doing anything about it.”

      “We are keeping our eyes open for any sign of her. But we don’t have anything else to go on.”

      “I’m still trying to find out more about her and the case,” she said.

      “If you learn anything,

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