He couldn’t let his guard down and think of her as a woman.

He had an investigation to run and involvement with Lucy Royall would compromise his objectivity. Compromise him. He was ethically bound to keep emotional distance between them.

“Hayden?” she asked breathlessly.

He gripped the steering wheel until his fingers hurt, trying to anchor himself to something. “Yes?”

“Were you about to kiss me?”

His heart stuttered to a stop. He should have known Lucy wasn’t the type of woman to let things lie, to choose the sensible path. “There was a moment, before I thought better of it,” he admitted.

“I wish you had.”

About the Author

RACHEL BAILEY developed a serious book addiction at a young age (via Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddleduck) and has never recovered. Just how she likes it. She went on to earn degrees in psychology and social work, but is now living her dream—writing romance for a living.

She lives on a piece of paradise on Australia’s Sunshine Coast with her hero and four dogs, where she loves to sit with a dog or two, overlooking the trees and reading books from her evergrowing to-be-read pile.

Rachel would love to hear from you and can be contacted through her website, www.rachelbailey.com.

No Stranger
to Scandal
Rachel Bailey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my father, Colin.

You didn’t live to see my name on a book cover,

but I know you’d have been proud. I miss you.

Acknowledgments:

Thanks to Barbara DeLeo and Sharon Archer

for reading early drafts of this book and your

insightful comments. And to Bron and Heather

for the cheer squad.

Thanks to the other authors in the Daughters of Power

continuity—it’s been a pleasure working with you.

And to Charles Griemsman, the editor for the series—

as always, your guidance was invaluable.

One

Hayden Black flicked through the documents and photos scattered across his D.C. hotel suite desk until he found the one he needed. Hauntingly beautiful hazel eyes; shoulder-length blond hair that shone as if polished; designer-red lips. Lucy Royall. The key to his investigation for Congress that would bring down her stepfather, Graham Boyle.

After his preliminary research from his New York base, he’d decided the twenty-two-year-old heiress who’d been handed life on a silver platter was the weak link he’d target to gather all the information on Graham Boyle’s criminal activities. His first appointment this morning had been to get a colleague’s take on Ms. Royall so he would be prepped when he met her.

He flicked the photo to the side and picked up another—this one her publicity shot from Boyle’s news network, American News Service, where Lucy worked as a junior reporter. Even with the professional tone and her eyes heavily made up with expertly applied gray smudges and mascara, she looked far too young, too innocent, to be mixed up in the dirty business of ANS illegally hacking into the phones of the president’s friends and family. But looks could be deceiving, especially when it came to pampered princesses. No one knew that better than he did.

Lucy Royall had been billionaire Graham Boyle’s stepdaughter since she was twelve, and her own deceased father had left her a vast fortune. She hadn’t been born with a plain old silver spoon in her mouth—hers had been pure platinum and diamond-encrusted.

He dropped the photo and picked up one of another blonde journalist—ANS senior reporter Angelica Pierce. Only ten minutes ago he’d completed an interview with Ms. Pierce, so he could vouch for both the perfectly white, straight teeth in her plastic broadcast news journalist smile and her aqua eyes. There was something strange about that shade of blue—it looked more like colored contacts than natural. But she spent half her life in front of a TV camera. Angelica Pierce wouldn’t be alone in the industry if she was trying to make the most of what she had to look good for the viewers.

Angelica had been eager to help, saying the phone hacking scandal tainted all journalists. And she’d been especially eager to help on the subject of Lucy Royall. Apparently, when Lucy had graduated from college, Boyle had handed her the job of junior reporter over many more qualified applicants, and now, according to Angelica, Lucy could be found “swanning around the office like she’s on a movie set, refusing assignments she doesn’t like and expecting privileges.”

Hayden glanced back at Lucy’s photo, with her silk shirt and modest diamond earrings—all tastefully understated yet subtly conveying wealth and class. He could believe she had a sense of entitlement.

But during the interview, Angelica had done something particularly interesting. She’d lied to him about Lucy threatening her. The signs in her body language had been almost imperceptible, but he’d interviewed countless people over the years and was used to picking up what other people missed.

Of course, there were reasons she might lie—a star reporter watching a young, pretty journalist who happened to be related to the network’s owner coming up through the ranks would be nervous. People lied for less every day.

But something told him there was more to the story. Admittedly, his first instinct was always to distrust journalists—they were too used to manipulating facts to make a good story. But this whole investigation centered around journalists, so for objectivity’s sake, he’d have to put that aside and take them as they came for now.

He shuffled the photos till he found one of Graham Boyle. Hayden’s background research for the congressional committee’s investigation into phone hacking and other illegal activities kept leading him back to Boyle.

And his stepdaughter.

Angelica Pierce might have lied about Lucy Royall threatening her, perhaps to protect her job. But he had no trouble believing that Ms. Royall was a spoiled princess playing at being a journalist. Which suited him just fine. Coaxing an admission from her about Boyle’s dirty dealings would be a piece of cake—he’d had enough experience with pampered heiresses to know exactly how to handle them.

Lucy Royall was going down, and taking her stepfather with her.

Lucy wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear and kept typing up the questions for Mitch Davis, the anchor of one of ANS’s nightly news shows. He was interviewing a Florida senator in four hours and wanted the list by midday to give himself a chance to familiarize himself with it. Which gave her exactly ten more minutes, and she had an appointment with the congressional committee’s criminal investigator, Hayden Black, at one. So the call from Marnie Salloway, one of the news producers, was bad timing. Though that was exactly how this job always seemed to work—too many tasks, too many bosses.

“Marnie, can I call you back in fifteen?”

“I’ll be in a meeting then. I need to talk to you now,” Marnie snapped.

“Okay, sure.” Lucy smiled so her voice sounded pleasant despite her frantic mood. “What do you need?”

“What I need is a list of locations to send the cameraman this afternoon to get the background footage for the story on the president’s daughter tonight.”

Lucy frowned and kept typing. “I emailed that this morning.”

“You sent a list of ten options. Not enough. Have twenty in my inbox by twelve-thirty.”

Lucy glanced at the glowing red digital clock on the wall. Nine minutes to twelve. She held back a sigh. “All right, you’ll have it.”

She replaced the receiver and wasted a precious twenty seconds by dropping her aching head to her desk. When she’d graduated, Graham had offered her a job as a full-fledged reporter. She’d refused, so he’d offered her the spot as a weekend anchor. He was just trying to help her, as he’d done since she was twelve, but she didn’t want a top job.

No, that wasn’t true—she definitely wanted a top reporting job. But she wanted to earn it, to be good. To be respected for her journalistic ability. And the only way to develop that expertise was to work under the great journalists, to learn the skills.

But days like today had her questioning that decision, or at least questioning the decision to take a junior-reporter role at ANS. She wasn’t the only junior here, but she was the only one treated like an indentured servant. And the person who’d treated her the worst had been her former hero, Angelica Pierce. Drawing in a deep breath, she went back to typing the last questions for Mitch Davis’s interview and emailed them to him with three minutes to spare, then called up the list of locations she’d emailed Marnie for the background footage and opened her web browser to look for alternatives.

It had been made very clear to her on her first day that the other ANS staff resented having Graham’s stepdaughter in their newsroom. Rumors had made it back to her that they suspected she was a spy for Graham. Lucy was pretty sure their antagonism was misplaced resentment for authority—people always loved to dig the boot into the boss, and she represented the boss to them. In some ways she couldn’t blame them, but she wouldn’t let them get to her. Her policy had been to keep her head down and do every menial task the more senior staff asked of her, ridiculous or not.

She sent the extended list to Marnie, grabbed her bag and ran out the door for her meeting with Hayden Black. If she caught a cab and there wasn’t too much traffic, she’d make it with a few minutes to spare. On the street, she grabbed a coffee and raspberry muffin, stuffed the muffin in her scarlet hold-all handbag and took a long sip of the coffee before hailing a cab. This was one meeting she didn’t want to arrive at late—Congress was wasting time and money on a wild-goose chase, investigating her stepfather for illegal phone-hacking practices at ANS despite already having the culprits in custody. Today was her turn to be interviewed, to defend Graham. He’d been there for whatever she needed for almost half her life; now she would be there for him.

The cab dropped her at the Sterling Hotel, where Hayden Black was staying and conducting his interviews. Apparently he’d been offered an office for his investigation but he preferred neutral territory—an interesting move. Most investigators liked the extra authority afforded by an official office. She sipped the last of her coffee in the elevator and checked her reflection in the mirrored wall—the wind had blown her hair all over the place. The doors slid open as she combed her fingers through the disheveled mess to make it more presentable. First impressions counted, and Graham was depending on her.

She checked the number on the hotel suite door, then knocked with the hand holding the empty paper cup, straightening her skirt with her other. She looked around for a trash can, but turned back when she heard the door open and started to smile in an I’ve-got-nothing-to-hide way.

And froze, the smile only half-formed.

A tall man in a crisp white shirt, crimson tie and neatly pressed dark trousers filled the doorway—Hayden Black. The air shifted around her, became heavier, uneven. She’d met a lot of powerful men in her job, in her life, yet none had had the presence of this man before her, as if his energy somehow flowed out and charged the space around him. The thicker air was difficult to draw into her lungs and she had to struggle to fill them.

Frown lines formed across his forehead. Dark brown eyes stared at her from a lightly weathered face, and they didn’t seem to like what they saw. Her skin cooled. He was judging her already and the interview hadn’t even begun. All her resilience coalesced, snapping her out of whatever flight of fancy had overtaken her for those moments, and she straightened her spine. That was more than fine—she was used to people judging her based on preconceived ideas about her wealth, her lifestyle and her upbringing. An investigator for Congress was just one more to add to the list. She lifted her chin and waited.

He cleared his throat. “Ms. Royall. Thank you for coming.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Black,” she said using the polite voice her mother had taught her to always start with when she wanted to win something. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Lucy.

He extended an arm to show her through the door. “Can I get you anything before we start?” His voice was gruff, unwelcoming.

“I’m fine, thank you.” She took a seat and put the hold-all bag on the floor beside her.

He lowered himself into the chair opposite and granted her a condescending glance. “We’ll run through some simple questions about ANS and your stepfather. If you keep your answers to the truth, we shouldn’t experience any trouble.”

A surge of heat rushed across her skin. The patronizing jerk. If she kept her answers to the truth, they shouldn’t experience any trouble? She was twenty-two, had a degree from Georgetown University and owned one-sixth of the biggest department-store chain in the country. Did he think she would accept being treated like a child?

She gave him her best guileless smile, reached for her large red bag and deposited it on the desk in front of her. Then she combined the sweet voice of her mother with the rapid-fire manner she’d learned from Graham, laying on her North Carolina accent extra thick for good measure. “You know, I think I will have a glass of water, if that’s okay. I’ve got a muffin here I’d like to eat—you don’t mind, do you?—I skipped lunch to make this meeting and I’ll think more clearly with some food in my stomach.”

He hesitated, then murmured, “Of course,” and rose to get her water.

She took a satisfied breath—she’d thrown him off balance. When he put the glass in front of her, she handed him her paper coffee cup. “And could you throw this away for me while you’re up? I didn’t want to put it in my bag in case any residual moisture leaked out, and there wasn’t a trash can in the hallway.” He took the cup, but seemed far from happy about it. She smiled at him again. “Thank you. You’d be surprised how many people refuse a simple request, but then again, you’re a criminal investigator. Maybe you wouldn’t.” She broke off a piece of muffin and popped it into her mouth.

He sat back in his chair and stared at her, hard. Seemed he’d regained his balance. “Ms. Royall—”

Swallowing, she reached into her bag and came out with a notepad. “I’m going to take notes on what we talk about. I always find it’s best if everyone remembers exactly what’s said in interviews, whatever kind they are. Helps everyone keep their answers to the truth and that way we shouldn’t run into trouble.” She broke off another piece of her muffin and held it out to him. “Raspberry muffin?”

His eyes narrowed and she wondered if she’d pushed too far. But he simply said, “No.” Albeit with a stern finality.

“It’s a very good muffin.” She slipped the piece into her mouth and reached into her bag again for a pen.

“Are you ready?” he asked in a tight voice.

She looked down at her pen and clicked it. “Just give me one more moment. I’d rather be fully prepared for an important conversation like this.” She put her bag on the floor again, and wrote at the top of her page,

Hayden Black interview. April 2, 2013.

Then she beamed up at him. “I’m ready.”

Hayden resisted the impulse to groan and instead called up the neutral expression that was normally easy to find in an interview. Lucy Royall was exactly like her photo, yet nothing like it. Her hair was shiny and blond, but sitting haphazardly around her shoulders, as if she’d stood in a gust of D.C. wind. Her lips were the same as the photo, but were bronze today, and full, sensual, as they moved while she ate the muffin. Despite his intentions, his breath hitched. Her eyes were the same shade of hazel, but in person they shone with intelligence. He knew she was trying to play him, and damned if she wasn’t having some success. And he was unsure if that irritated or amused him.

But one thing that didn’t amuse him was his unexpected reaction when he’d first opened the door. He’d been thunderstruck. She wasn’t merely beautiful, she was breathtaking. There was a light around her, inside her. A glow that was so appealing, he’d had to focus hard so his hand wouldn’t reach out. And was there a more inappropriate woman on the planet for him to have a reaction this strong to? The daughter of the man he was investigating on behalf of a congressional committee. A woman who, if his guess was correct, was complicit in her stepfather’s illegal activities.

The woman herself raised her brows, either because his face had contorted with self-disgust or because she was sitting there, pen poised, waiting for him to start the interview while he merely stared.

Clearing his throat, he thumbed the button to start the recording equipment. “Tell me about your relationship with Graham Boyle.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Graham has been my stepfather since I was twelve years old. He’s a sweet man with a good heart.”

Sweet? In another setting he may have laughed. The man owned a national cable-news network and was feared by competitors and allies alike. For Graham Boyle, the ends justified the means—he demanded that his reporters do anything to get a story.

And someone who’d been part of Graham Boyle’s immediate family for ten years couldn’t be completely unaware of his ruthless nature.

“That’s not the common perception,” he said mildly.

“Do your parents see you the same way your friends do, Mr. Black? Your girlfriends? Employees? Bosses?” She drew in a breath and seemed to grow taller in her seat. “My stepfather has the type of job where he has to make tough decisions, and people who disagree with those decisions might see him as hard-hearted. But he has been nothing but kind and generous to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But he hasn’t been accused of making tough decisions, Ms. Royall. He’s been accused of authorizing or at least condoning illegal phone hacking to obtain information about the president’s illegitimate daughter.”

She stilled. The only movement was the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Then she leaned forward, slowly, deliberately. “Let me tell you what sort of man he is. When my mother died three years ago, Graham was devastated. He could barely walk away from the graveside service—he had to be supported by two family friends, he was that riddled with grief. Then, despite the hours his job demands, and his own grief, he made a point of calling me, visiting, bringing me gifts. Making sure I was okay.” She sat back again, but her body remained tense. “He’s a good man.”

There was something deeply attractive about her impassioned defense of her stepfather. The way her eyes sparked made his breath catch. Made his pulse that much faster—a far from ideal response to an interviewee. Determinedly, he ignored it. He was a professional.

“Al Capone was good to his family,” he said.

Her cheeks flushed red. “I resent the heck out of your implication.”

He flicked his pen between the fingers of his right hand and arched a brow. “I wasn’t implying anything beyond pointing out that being good to his family doesn’t automatically exclude a person from engaging in illegal activities.”

Lucy held his gaze across the table for long, challenging seconds. He let the silence lengthen. In situations like this, patience was his friend.

She dropped her gaze to the pad of paper in front of her and her blond hair swung forward a little. An image rose in his mind of threading his fingers through her hair, of tilting her face up to him, of lowering his own until his mouth gently touched hers, of feeling the softness of her plump lips, the passion she—

Suddenly his shirt collar was too tight. Damn it, what was he doing? In an important investigation like this, he couldn’t afford to be attracted to a witness.

Get ahold of yourself, Black.

He drew in a breath and stared at her until all he saw was a woman covering up for a criminal.

“Have you participated in any instances of illegal surveillance at ANS?” he asked, more harshly than he’d intended.

“No,” she said, lacing her fingers together on the table in front of her.

Without missing a beat, he continued. “Are you aware of any instances of illegal surveillance at ANS?”

“No, I’m not.” Her voice was measured, even.

“Have you participated in or been aware of any instances of any illegal activity at ANS?”

“No.”

“Did you work with former ANS journalists Brandon Ames and Troy Hall when they used illegal phone hacking to uncover the story about the president’s illegitimate daughter?”

“No.”

“Were they carrying out orders from your stepfather?”

“Of course not.”

“They initially blamed the phone hacking on a temporary researcher, but the researcher was clean. Do you know who it was at ANS who helped them?”

“As far as I know, no one.”

“What’s your take on why the accusations have been made against ANS and Graham Boyle?”

She let out a long breath. “Those who make something of their lives always attract those who want to tear them down.”

Unfortunately, he knew that wasn’t where the accusations had originated. Graham Boyle might have a good point or two, might treat his stepdaughter well, but he was still a ruthless jerk who’d hurt many.

“How do you think ANS came up with the leads that uncovered President Morrow’s daughter? He was a Montana senator before his presidential campaign—it’s not as if no one’s looked into his background before.”

For the first time, an uncertain line appeared between her brows. “I don’t know. I wasn’t working on that story.”

He knew he had to push further, but God help him, with that look on her face, he wanted to reassure her instead. To take her hand across the table and tell her everything would be okay. Despite that, the cynical part of his brain knew it was probably an act. He needed to listen to that side of himself more.

“But you talk to other journalists, surely,” he said, thankfully hitting the skeptical note he’d aimed for. “And this story and its methods are very high profile. You’re telling me you’ve heard nothing about how they got the lead?”

“Good old investigative journalism—it’s hard to beat.” Her perkiness was forced, but he didn’t get the sense she was lying in an underhanded way. Not like the last woman who’d sat in that chair. This was a woman who didn’t get on with her colleagues, felt excluded from them and was covering up for that. A shaft of unwanted tenderness hit him squarely in the chest.

But Angelica Pierce had made it clear whose fault that lack of integration was. Feeling sorry for Lucy Royall was a dangerous trap. He rubbed a hand over his face. This interview wasn’t working, wasn’t getting him anywhere. Perhaps the lack of sleep over the past few months was finally affecting his investigative edge.

Hayden glanced at his watch. Maybe it’d be better to finish early today, pick up his son from the nanny next door and go for a walk in one of D.C.’s parks. He could interview Lucy Royall again when his focus was stronger.

“Thanks for your time,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “I’ll be in touch when I need to speak with you again.”

She tucked her notebook and pen into her bag and stood. “Mr. Black, I understand that you’re just doing your job. But I hope you haven’t already discounted the possibility that Graham Boyle might be innocent.”

Hayden pushed to his feet and rested his hands low on his hips. “If the evidence shows he’s innocent, Ms. Royall, that’s what I’ll report back to Congress.”

But his gut instinct never lead him astray, and his gut told him that Lucy Royall’s stepfather was as guilty as they came. It was up to him to prove it.

He held the door open for her then watched her walk down the hall, her hips subtly swaying. Beauty and a glorious accent had covered surprising strength and determination in his interviewee—and had caught him off guard.

Luckily, he was even more determined.

Next time he met Lucy Royall, he’d be ready for her.

Two

Lucy quietly slipped through the door to her stepfather’s office—his secretary had told her he was on the phone but to go through anyway. Graham nodded when he saw her, then barked more orders at whoever was on the other end of the line.

Used to being in the background while he worked, Lucy took the chance to look through his top-floor window at the panoramic view of D.C. She loved this city. She’d moved here from Charlotte, North Carolina, when she was twelve and her mother had married Graham. The town—and Graham—had been good to her.

From a basket under the desk, Rosebud, his bulldog, lifted her head and, recognizing Lucy, lumbered out to greet her. Lucy dropped her bag beside the chair and crouched down to rub the dog’s velvety, wrinkled face.

“How’s it going, Rosie?” she whispered and was rewarded with a wide doggie smile, complete with a pink tongue almost curled back on itself.

With a final terse comment, Graham ended the call and crossed the room.

“Lucy!” he boomed and held out his arms. She stood and leaned into his bear hug, letting go of all her worries for a few precious seconds. He was the one person she could always count on. Her only family.

“Hang on,” he said, pulling back. “I’ve got something here for you.”

She couldn’t help the smile at the familiar words. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did.” And she knew he was right—it was the way he showed love. In the same way he was her only family, she was all Graham had. They made an odd couple in some ways, but their unusual little family worked for them.

He opened a door in the sleek cabinets that lined one wall and pulled out a deep blue velvet box. He handed it to her, his grin proud. She opened the lid and took out an exquisite crystal bulldog the size of her palm.

“It’s Rosebud.” At the sound of her name, the real Rosebud thumped her curly tail on the carpet. “Thank you,” Lucy said and kissed Graham’s cheek.

Graham smiled with his heart in his eyes, as he always did in these moments, then he cleared his throat and strode back to his desk. He’d never been particularly comfortable with emotions, so the moments, although heartfelt, were always short. “Tell me how the interview with Black went.”

She sank into an upholstered armchair in front of Graham’s heavy desk. “Shorter than I expected.” She’d puzzled over that on the cab ride back. “He only asked a few questions, really.”

He flicked his wrist dismissively. “That means he was just taking your temperature. There will be more.”

“He said he’d be in touch when he needed to speak to me again.” Remembering Hayden’s words—and his deep voice saying them—sent a shiver across her skin. If she wasn’t careful, she’d develop a crush on the investigator, which would be bad on more levels than she could count. But, oh, that man had been delicious. So tall and broad, with a dark, brooding demeanor to accompany his looks. Even his hands had fascinated her—he’d flicked his pen over and under his fingers as he’d considered a point and she’d been mesmerized. They were long fingers with blunt ends, dexterous, lightly tanned. Instead of paying attention to the questions, for one sublime, stolen moment she had imagined his palm cupping the side of her face, those fingers stroking her cheek.

Graham leaned back in his chair and laced his own fingers behind his head, bringing her attention back to the present. And to the gravity of the issue on the table.

“Our biggest risk here,” he said, eyes narrowed and aimed at a point on the wall, “is that someone with an ax to grind will falsify testimony. Feed Black lies and say they saw something.” He glanced back to her. “Did you get a sense from him that he’s got anything like that?”

“He played his cards close to his chest. But one thing was obvious,” she said gently, as if she could soften the blow. “He thinks you’re guilty.”

Graham swore under his breath. “I refuse to sit back and wait for an investigator who’s not objective to ‘find’ evidence to support his theory. We need to expose Black before he does too much damage.”

She tilted her head to the side. “What do you have in mind?”

“I want you to start your own investigation,” he said in his trademark firecracker rhythm. “I’m taking you off all other duties. You’ll run this on your own. No word to anyone else. You’re the only one I can trust one hundred percent not to stab me in the back for the notoriety, or whatever-the-hell reason people frame other people for.”

None of it was a question, but he was waiting for her response. She reached over and clasped one of his cold hands between hers. “I’ll start right away.”

“You’re a good girl.” He patted her hands, then released them. “Congress will have vetted him for the job, dug into his past, but we’re better. Find the skeletons in his closet and bring them out to play. We’ll air an exposé as soon as you have enough.”

Her insides fluttered. This wasn’t a style of journalism that she liked or particularly wanted to be involved in. And Hayden Black being the target made her even less comfortable. She shifted in her chair. The discomfort could have been a result of the stirrings of attraction, but she still didn’t like the idea of targeting him.

Then she remembered his closed-off expression when she’d left his suite less than an hour ago—he was going after Graham, already convinced of his guilt. Doing an exposé might leave a bad taste in her mouth, but Hayden Black’s own actions made it necessary. Besides, if he had no skeletons hidden away, there’d be nothing to find.

She nodded, decision made. “You can’t have me on air with this. Everyone knows I’m your stepdaughter. We’ll need someone with a good reputation and a bit more distance from you.”

“We’ll worry about that when we have the content ready to go. You do the research, get the story, and I’ll bring someone in to host then.”

Her mind clicked over into journalist mode and she took out a notebook from her hold-all bag. “Who’s our source at the Sterling Hotel?”

Graham picked up the phone on his desk, dialed, barked an order, then after he had his information, disconnected and looked at Lucy again. “Concierge named Jerry Freethy.”

“Okay.” She dropped the notebook back in her bag and stood. “I’ll keep you up to date.” She blew Rosebud an air kiss and headed for the door.

“Lucy,” Graham said gruffly, and she turned. “Thank you.”

Emotion clogged her throat but she found her voice. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got your back, Graham.”

The next day, at half past one, Lucy saw her target. The concierge had told her Hayden Black liked to take a walk in the park across from the Sterling Hotel with his son on his lunch break, but that the time of the break varied. So Lucy and Rosebud had been wandering the park since just after eleven. Rosebud was panting from the exertion, but thoroughly enjoying her day out meeting random people who stopped to pat her.

Hayden was striding along a paved path about twenty feet away, talking to an infant he carried in one arm, holding a brown paper bag in the other. The sight of him trapped her breath in her lungs. Wide, strong shoulders that tapered to narrow hips. Long legs that walked with confidence and purpose. The masculine grace in the way he held his son.

She swallowed hard. “Come on, Rosie, I have a little boy I want you to meet.” Rosebud looked up, her curled tongue poking out as she smiled.

Lucy had spent the afternoon and evening before gathering as much information as she could on Hayden Black. There wasn’t a whole lot available on the web, but then, he was a professional investigator, so it made sense that he protected his own information. She’d found New York newspaper articles about his wife’s death a few months earlier in a car crash, leaving Hayden the single father of a nine-month-old baby, Joshua, who would now be one year old. And currently wearing denim overalls, a bright-blue hat and a cheeky grin.

As they came closer, Lucy gazed at the trees, their branches heavy with spring flowers, but kept man and child in her peripheral vision. Hayden had his head bent, talking to his son, not paying a lot of attention to where they were, the people rollerblading past or the joggers making their way along the wide path. The hitch in her lungs had smoothed out and now her breaths were coming a little too fast for comfort, which she told herself was excitement about the story, but she suspected had more to do with seeing Hayden Black again.

When they were only ten feet apart, she heard a squeal, followed by, “Goggie!” Lucy finally glanced up to see Hayden had stopped midstep, and probably midsentence, given the way his mouth was open, as if forming a word he’d since forgotten.

She’d never paid much attention to men’s mouths—shoulders and biceps had usually caught her attention first—but Hayden’s mouth was a thing of beauty. Sensual lips that she could almost feel tracing a path along the side of her neck. Her skin heated and prickled.

Before becoming too carried away, she found a smile and walked Rosie over. A gentle breeze blew her hair around her face, and she tucked it behind her ears as she stopped in front of father and son.

“Ms. Royall,” he said. His voice was pleasant, probably for his son’s benefit, but his face told a different story—eyebrows slashed down, jaw tight. He was annoyed at running into her. Just because he didn’t want to mix work and family? Or was there something more …?

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” she said, leaning down to give Rosie a scratch behind the ears. “Little birds in the trees, the flowers are out, the weather’s warm—everything is just so perfect. Rosebud and I love April.”

A speculative gleam appeared in Hayden’s eye. He’d know everything there was to know about Graham from his shoe size to what he liked for breakfast, so knowing Rosie belonged to one of the targets of his investigation was guaranteed. And he’d just realized he could use Rosie to engage Lucy in conversation about Graham, and hope the casual setting caused her to slip up. Precisely what she was doing to him.

Although that didn’t explain why he’d been annoyed when he first saw her—he was renowned for his investigative acumen, so that should have been the first thing that occurred to him. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted his time with his son to be interrupted. Entirely possible, but it had felt like more than that….

Perhaps he disliked her personally and was annoyed at running into her away from work? Her belly hollowed out before she gave herself a mental shake. Just because her hormones went haywire when she saw him didn’t mean the chemistry was mutual. Besides, the man had lost his wife only a few months ago.

She should be pleased that at least one of them wouldn’t be carried away by flights of fancy. Getting involved with the man she was investigating, and worse, who was investigating ANS for Congress, would be unthinkable.

“Goggie!” Josh squealed again, apparently impatient to be getting to the dog-patting action.

Hayden looked from Rosie to her. “Is it okay for Josh to pet her?”

“Sure,” she said, laying on her Southern accent thick and smiling innocently. “She’s as gentle as a lamb.”

Hayden crouched down beside her and supported Josh as he found his feet and reached out to touch Rosie’s ear.

“Her name’s Rosebud,” Lucy said to the toddler.

As they watched Josh and Rosie interact, Hayden asked, “How long have you had her?”

“She’s Graham’s dog,” she replied, as if she hadn’t worked out that he’d know that. “He’s had her for six years. Since she was a puppy.”

Hayden leaned forward and joined Josh in petting her. “Nice dog.”

His shoulder was only a couple of inches from hers—if she moved a little she’d bump against him. A mischievous impulse urged her to lean into him, knowing he’d be solid and warm, and it took all her willpower to resist. The scent of clean, masculine skin surrounded her, made everything else fade into the background, made a hum resound through her bloodstream.

Rosie rolled over onto her back, producing her tummy for rubs with no shame at her brazen request for attention. Lucy blinked down at the dog, fully aware she walked a knife’s edge of being just as obvious. She squared her shoulders. Time to move away from temptation and remember she was a journalist working on a story.

Hayden rubbed the dog, barely able to concentrate on anything but Lucy at his side. Within touching distance. If he wanted to, he could reach out a hand and trail it down her arm. Or wrap his fingers under her curtain of silky blond hair and discover if the skin on her neck was as soft as it appeared. His heart thudded like a bass drum. The jolt of attraction when he’d first seen her in the park had thrown him off balance and part of him was still scrambling to find his equilibrium.

Lucy stood, breaking the spell. “I was just about to give Rosebud a drink.” She took out a bottle of water and a rolled-up waterproof canvas bowl from her bag. “Would Josh like to help?”

Hayden looked down at his son and, for the briefest of moments, was at a loss, uncertain what Josh would or wouldn’t like. His gut twisted tight. He hated not instinctively knowing these things. Then he gave himself a mental shake. Of course Josh would like to help—it was a dog and water, both of which spelled fun.

“He’d love to,” he finally said.

Lucy gave Josh the bottle of water and explained how to fill the canvas bowl in terms a one-year-old could understand. Josh sloshed more water on the ground and on Lucy than in the bowl, but no one seemed to mind, and soon the dog was enthusiastically drinking and Josh was trying to catch her wagging, curly tail. Hayden’s heart expanded to see his son smiling and so obviously filled with joy.

Lucy screwed the top back on the water and slid it into the same large red bag she’d had yesterday at the interview. Seemed she had all contingencies covered inside that bag—yesterday a muffin, notebook and pen; today a water bottle and a dog bowl. He wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out a picnic blanket and folding chairs next.

He sat back on his haunches. “I read somewhere that Graham had a dog that he takes to work each day,” he said conversationally.

“This is her.” She didn’t look up, but gave Rosebud an extra rub on the neck.

“So you spend a bit of time in Graham’s office to see Rosebud?”

She smiled, obviously aware of where his questions were leading. The dog finished her drink and Josh, looking for the next interesting adventure, held his arms out to Lucy. Without hesitation, she bundled him in.

“How’s it going, Josh?” she said, charming his son, then looked at Hayden over his son’s head and said, “I see Graham and Rosie a few times a week.”

Instead of following the line of questioning he’d planned in his head, Hayden couldn’t draw his eyes from the easy way Lucy interacted with his little boy. Josh had only just met her, but was already happy in her arms. And Lucy was relaxed, as if she knew just what to do with a toddler. Lord above, Hayden wished he knew what to do with one. Sure, he had the basics covered, like sleeping, bathing and feeding, but he was still getting used to being the primary caregiver to a child, and most of the time he felt he was swimming out of his depth.

Why did it seem so natural for her? From his research, he knew she had no siblings, no young cousins around, yet she seemed supremely confident where he often felt awkward and unsure. Maybe because he wanted to be a good father so damn much and Lucy had nothing riding on it at all.

He blew out a slow breath and stood—he was losing his focus with Lucy Royall again. This time he’d almost recovered from the force of her allure and managed to steer the conversation toward Graham Boyle, but now he’d become distracted again by her natural way with his son. He rubbed his fingers over his eyes and refocused on his new plan—build rapport and see what else he could discover in the casual setting.

“We’re walking this way, how about you?” he said, sinking a hand into his pocket. “Josh and I have just come out for our lunch break.”

Lucy beamed over at him. “We’d love to join you for a walk, wouldn’t we, Rosie?”

Hayden hoisted Josh up onto his shoulder, but the boy leaned toward Lucy with his arms out. Hayden arched an eyebrow. Josh didn’t normally go to new people this easily—why did he have to overcome his trust issues with someone Hayden was investigating?

Lucy laughed and held up Rosebud’s lead. “How about we swap?”

Still, he didn’t move. Building rapport while taking a walk was one thing, but letting her carry his son, crossing personal lines, was dangerous, and something he’d never done before.

“Daddy,” Josh said, pointing to Lucy. “Up.”

And right there was his Achilles’ heel. Josh wanted Lucy, and Hayden wanted Josh to be happy. Complex ethical issues boiled down to pure simplicity.

“Sure,” he said. He took the dog’s lead and handed over his son, trying to minimize touching Lucy in both tasks since he was in enough trouble as it was. “I’ll take that bag while you have Josh.”

“It’s fine.” She tickled Josh’s side and was rewarded with giggles. “I’m used to having it over my shoulder.”

He nodded and they started along the paved path that wound alongside the sparkling river, Hayden busy trying not to physically smack himself over the head. He’d been brought in by a congressional committee to investigate ANS, and Graham Boyle in particular. And now here he was, in a D.C. park, talking a stroll with the man’s stepdaughter, allowing her to cuddle his son, offering to carry her bag and walking the wretched man’s dog.

Not to mention that his pulse was pounding too hard for a casual walk, which had less to do with the exercise than with the woman whose elbow was mere inches from his own. So close he could practically feel all her vibrant energy radiating out and filling the air around her.

He cleared his throat. “Ms. Royall—”

“Lucy.” With his son’s fist wrapped around her fingers, she glanced up at him. “We’re walking in a park on a lunch break. I think you can call me Lucy.”

“Lucy, then.” The name felt unusual as his mouth moved around the word. He’d only said it aloud together with her surname before, but alone it seemed special, prettier. More intimate.

“Yes?”

He looked down at her, frowning. “Yes, what?”

“You were about to say something when I told you to call me Lucy.”

Good point. But he had no idea what it had been. He thrust the fingers of his free hand into his hair. He’d called their interview to a halt because he was getting distracted. Seemed the extra twenty-four hours to regroup hadn’t helped any.

He searched his brain for a way to informally find a path to the information he wanted. “Did you always want to be a journalist?”

They waited while Rosebud sniffed the base of a tree, and Lucy shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe not always. But since I interned with Graham when I was sixteen.”

“What did you want to be before that?”

“My father’s family is in department stores,” she said casually. “When he died I inherited his stock. I always thought I’d do a business degree and work there.”

Her family was “in department stores”? He almost laughed. In his preliminary research he’d found that Lucy was one of the Royall Department Stores Royalls. A family of old money that stood alongside the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts and Gettys in stature. The woman had pedigree coming out her ears.

Genuine curiosity nibbled. “Have you stayed in touch with that side of your family?”

“Occasionally I see Aunt Judith and her family,” she said softly, with just a tinge of regret. “She has a gorgeous lodge in Fields, Montana, where we sometimes gather for birthdays and Christmases.”

“Fields is a nice place,” he said. Great ski fields and snowboarding, although now just as famous for being the birthplace of President Morrow as its natural charms.

“We’ve had some good family times there. Plus, a couple of times a year I go to a board meeting, and occasionally talk to them about charity events.”

As she tapped a finger on his son’s nose, Hayden watched her and tried to get it all to make sense. Her choices didn’t quite add up with the image he had of a pampered princess.

“Wouldn’t it have been an easier path to work in the Royall family business? You already own significant stock there. You wouldn’t have had to start out at the bottom like you did at ANS.” That was what his wife, Brooke, had done—worked in her family’s banking empire. But in effect, it had only been role-playing. She’d had a big corner office and taken a lot of long lunches.

Lucy arched a challenging eyebrow. “What makes you think I’d want to take the easier path?”

“Human nature.” He didn’t try to hide the cynicism in his voice. “Who wouldn’t want the easier option?”

She was silent and the moment stretched out; the only sound was Josh’s gurgling baby talk. Then she looked up at him with eyes that seemed far too insightful. “Tell me, Hayden, did you take the easiest career option available to you?”

“No,” he admitted. But then, he hadn’t been brought up an heiress like Lucy or Brooke. Completely different situation.

“How long have you been a criminal investigator?” she asked.

“A few years now.” But he wasn’t here to talk about himself. He rolled his shoulders back and changed the conversation’s direction. “What story are you working on now?”

She moved Josh onto her other hip and adjusted his blue hat. “Are you officially asking me?”

He could sense her reluctance, but that wasn’t unusual with journalists trying to keep their scoop under wraps. And since his investigation was about past practices, her current story was irrelevant. He shrugged. “No, just conversation.”

“Then I’ll pass on the question.” She looked up at him and unleashed a dazzling smile. “Did you come out just to walk, or do you have lunch in that bag?”

He held up the brown paper bag. “Lunch. I can offer you half a room-service cheese and tomato on rye.” He’d found that when dealing with hotels, the plainer the order, the less likely they were to ruin it with some embellishment meant to impress but usually falling short. He was a man of simple tastes—he’d take sandwiches on fresh bread from the deli near his office over a fancy restaurant lunch any day.

“You can keep your sandwich,” she said. “I have mine in my bag.”

“Tell me you don’t have a picnic blanket in that bag,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up.

Her forehead crinkled into a confused frown. “A picnic blanket wouldn’t fit in here.”

“You seem to pull out all sorts of things, so a blanket wouldn’t have surprised me,” he said dryly.

They found a patch of grass under a weeping willow a little farther back from the path. He pulled out a sealed plastic bag with a wet washcloth inside and wiped off Josh’s hands before passing him a banana.

“That’s pretty organized,” Lucy said, watching him with those huge hazel eyes.

His hackles went up. “For a dad, you mean?”

“For anyone.” Her head tipped to the side, as if puzzling him out. “I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

He nodded. Just because he was prickly about his parenting skills didn’t mean she’d taken a swipe at him. He offered a self-deprecating smile as compensation for his overreaction. “The nanny packed it all. I wouldn’t have thought of a washcloth, so you weren’t far off the mark.”

She broke off a piece of her granola bar and popped it in her mouth. They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, watching Josh with his banana.

Lucy leaned back, propping one hand on the grass behind her for support. “Is that where Josh is during your interviews?”

“I hired the nanny for while we’re in D.C. She comes nine to five.” He hadn’t been sure how the arrangement would work out, but it was fine. The biggest adjustment had been not having his sister close by—he was flying solo as a parent for the first time, and he was determined to make it work.

“What does Josh normally do during the day?” she asked as she fed a piece of granola to Rosebud.

“When we’re in New York, a couple of days a week he goes to my sister—she has a three-year-old boy, and the cousins enjoy their time together. The other three days a week he goes to a day-care center at my office. There are five kids of staff members there, and I can see him at lunchtime.”

She smiled over at Josh. “Sounds ideal.”

No, ideal would have been Josh having two parents to spend time with him, love him and make him the center of their world. But even before Brooke’s death, Josh hadn’t had that. The weight of needing to make things perfect for his son crashed down on him, as it did regularly. His gut contracted and clenched. He was all Josh had and he’d do his damned best to make his childhood as close to ideal as he could.

He looked up and saw Lucy was still watching him. This had become far too personal. What was it about Lucy Royall that made him forget everything that was important? What he needed to do was schedule another interview, and this time he’d write a complete list of questions—something he hadn’t done in years—to make sure he stayed on topic.

He grabbed the remnants of his lunch and stuffed them back into the brown paper bag. “Josh is getting sleepy. I need to get him back for his nap.”

“This was nice,” she said, picking up the washcloth and wiping the banana from Josh’s fingers. “Maybe Rosie and I could join you again sometime.”

Join him again sometime? He coughed out an incredulous laugh. Out in the forest, this was a woman who’d poke a hungry bear until it ate her. He stood and picked Josh up. Thankfully, the little boy curled into his neck, as if supporting Hayden’s prediction that he was ready for a nap.

“Look, Lucy,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. “I’m not sure what you think is going on here, but this investigation is serious. I’m not here to make friends.” Her eyes widened and he immediately regretted his tone. He blew out a breath, and said more softly, “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.”

Lucy stood, as well. “You’d like to be my friend, Hayden?” She arched an eyebrow, her eyes glimmering with something he couldn’t read.

“Under different circumstances,” he emphasized, “it’s possible that we would have been friends.”

Her chin lifted. “I know how important this is. I take Graham’s future very seriously. But just so we’re clear—” she fixed him with sultry hazel eyes, and her voice slid deeper into the accent of a Southern belle who took no prisoners “—under different circumstances, I wouldn’t want to be your friend, Hayden. I’d make one heck of a pass at you.”

She turned and walked off, blond hair glinting in the sunshine, Rosie at her heels, leaving Hayden poleaxed.

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