High Octane (Texas Hotzone 2)

***

SABRINA SAT DOWN at the dining-room table and stared at the mess that was her purse. While preferring to believe a good Samaritan had returned it, there was no question she was shaken. The idea of a stranger digging through her personal items, knowing her address—it was hard not to be unsettled. Having Ryan change her locks and stay close was comforting. And having him close, well… She was falling for him. She had fallen for him. For the first time in her life, she was pretty sure she was feeling love for this man. It was early in the relationship, she knew, but she’d dated men casually for months and never once had she even begun to think such a thing.

All the more reason why she didn’t want to call home. Home. Was New York home? She stared out the window, at the Austin view she’d come to love. The city life emulating a small-town feel, with its casual attire, a downtown you could stroll without being mauled and such friendly people. And Ryan. Ryan was here.

Tension radiated up her spine as she grabbed her cell phone. It was dead. She snatched the bag by her chair, pulled out the charger she’d bought for the new phone she no longer needed, and plugged it into the wall. The instant the phone lit up, it rang. Frank. At least it wasn’t her father.

Sabrina hit the answer button and was immediately greeted with, “What’s going on, Cameron?”

Last-name usage. Never a good sign. She opened her mouth to speak.

He cut her off. “You don’t know how to answer your phone or what? You’re too good to work on the weekends? You’re no diva here in Texas. You answer your phone.”

Sabrina smiled. She couldn’t help it. “This diva,” she replied, “had her purse, car keys and cell phone stolen. Would you like a copy of the police report? Or maybe I should write a story about it.”

“Actually—”

“No,” she said sharply. “It was a joke, Frank.”

“It would sell papers,” he countered. “Don’t offer if you aren’t willing to pay up.”

“I assume there was a reason I was scolded for not answering my phone?”

“You saw the story about that soldier,” he demanded, rather than asked.

“I saw it.”

“We should have had that story.”

Sabrina ground her teeth. “Why didn’t your political team get it?”

“I gave you this story,” he quipped sharply. “You, Sabrina. And I sent you the names of people involved, details to follow up on, yet you let someone else get the real story. You gave me fluff.”

“And I told you, Frank,” she ground out, “I’m following up on some leads, but this isn’t my story. I’m helping out and I intend to keep helping out. But you are the one choosing what gets printed and what doesn’t.”

“I waited to give you the chance to make a real splash with this story, to make it known that you’ve moved from New York to Texas—to our paper.”

“I’m making my place,” she said. “And it’s not in politics. I gave you a good story. Six weeks of a good story with this Marco piece, which you can’t deny is doing well.”

“Six good weeks,” he threw the words back at her. “And then what? You don’t have to answer—we both know you don’t know. Until you give me a long-term plan that will sell papers, that justifies your salary to my higher-ups, I’ll ‘justify’ for you. Find out why the wife of that soldier visited the mayor,” he practically shouted. “Use your connections.”

“Frank,” she argued. “My father and the mayor represent opposing parties. No one will want to tell me anything.” And she didn’t want another storm that put her at odds with her family and the media.

“Somebody always wants to talk,” he said. “You’ll figure it out.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sabrina accepted defeat. What else could she do? Quit? Then what? “I’ll see what I can do,” she said noncommittedly.

“I expect to hear a plan of action by Monday.” Frank hung up.

Sabrina set the phone down and piled everything back in her purse.

The pizza. She’d forgotten to put it in. She rushed into the kitchen, eager for any distraction that kept her from calling her parents. Frank had been more than enough trouble on his own. Being busy in the kitchen helped her avoid the call. Ice in cups. Plates. Whoops. Better wipe off the cabinet. She finally gave in and listened to the five messages on her cell from her parents, which sounded about the same as the ones on her answering machine.

It wasn’t long before Ryan joined her in the kitchen, allowing her yet another excuse to skip her phone call to her mother. Her career might be in shambles, but she had achieved high merits for procrastination this night, for sure.

“Anything on the messages?” Ryan asked, carrying the pizza to the table while Sabrina grabbed the tea glasses.