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“What will?”

“Talk to me.”

“No way in hell,” he said angrily. “Part of the reason I left Washington was to get away from reporters. Most of you would sell your souls for a story. And if there isn’t a story, you make one up.” He gave her a derisive once-over. “Although you’re in a league of your own, Miss Travis. You didn’t even sell anything, you gave it away.”

She nodded beyond him toward the bedroom. “That was an… accident.”

“I don’t think so. My cock knew exactly where it was going.”

Barrie rolled her lips inward to keep from saying anything. She was also trying to keep from crying, which she had sworn she would not do. “Please, Mr. Bondurant, I’m trying to salvage what’s left of my professional integrity.”

“I didn’t know you had any.”

Spreading her arms at her sides, she asked, “Do I look like I came to your house with seduction in mind?”

He took in her dishabille. “Not particularly. But when the situation presented itself, I didn’t hear any objections from your side of the bed.”

She felt her face color at the memory of the sounds he had heard from her side of the bed. “I came here only to ask you a few questions about the Merritts.”

“How many times do I have to say it? I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

“Not even that the tabloid stories are lies?”

“They are.”

“You didn’t have an affair with Vanessa Merritt?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Was it you who made her so unhappy?”

“If she’s unhappy, it might be because her kid just died.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?”

“Are you sure he died? Or was Robert Rushton Merritt murdered?”

Chapter Eleven

Gray turned his back on her, silently swearing. This one went for the jugular. She interviewed with as much ferocity as she screwed.

Even before waking her, he’d recognized her as the reporter who had interviewed Vanessa several weeks ago. Apparently she hadn’t gotten all she wanted from that interview. He’d been halfway expecting her, or someone of her ilk, to show up and start dredging him through the shit again. For weeks he’d been stockpiling his resentment against the imminent intrusion.

So he felt no guilt whatsoever over what had happened. He’d been surly and in need of getting laid. She’d been consensual—and that was putting it mildly. Set a stage like that, and naturally something’s going to happen.

Actually, he doubted that seduction had been her original plan. Her long skirt, sweater, and boots were not designed to inspire sexual fantasies. Her eyes were still puffy from sleep, and her mascara had flaked off onto her cheekbones. Her lipstick had worn off long ago, and her hair was a mess.

Her voice, however, was incredible. Her voice was a wet dream. It didn’t just promise unbelievable sex, it delivered.

But if she thought a good roll in the hay was going to weaken his position, she couldn’t be more wrong. He now resented her invasion of his home and his privacy even more than he had before. She had earned his scorn.

Draining his coffee cup, he reached for a skillet and a saucepan and set them on the stove. He took a can of chili from the pantry, opened it, and dumped the contents into the saucepan, then began cracking eggs into a bowl. After beating them to a froth, he poured himself another cup of coffee and sipped it while the chili simmered.

“May I?” She held up an empty mug.

“Go ahead. You made it. I don’t want to be responsible for you falling asleep at the wheel when you leave.”