There was no way to get out of it this time. “Savannah Smith. I’m with the attorney general’s office.”
“What’s he done?”
She gave a small smile. “Nothing. It’s what he may be able to do that’s brought me here.”
“Mysterious,” the man said. His tone was civil enough, but it had an edge. He made Savannah feel as though she were under investigation, which was a new and not terribly pleasing experience, particularly since she was, indeed, feeling guilty.
“Is Mr. Snow around?”
“He’d better be, since he’s supposed to go on the air pretty soon.”
“May I see him?”
“I’ll have to—”
The doorbell rang.
For the first time the man’s eyes came alive. “Here they are.” He started toward her, or more accurately, since he seemed to have momentarily deemed her inconsequential, toward the door. “It’s about time,” he muttered. “We called in that order more than an hour ago.” Pulling the door open, he reached into his pocket, drew out several bills, and plastered them into the hand of the delivery boy in exchange for two large pizza boxes. After elbowing the door shut, he made for the doorway through which he’d first come.
“Uh, excuse me?” Savannah called.
“Hold on,” he said and disappeared.
She couldn’t believe she was left alone. She wondered whether this was standard security procedure. If so, it was crazy. For all they knew, she could be a deranged killer, set to gun down the man who had driven her crazy night after night.
Of course, few deranged killers would be dressed as she was in imported leather heels, a full-length cashmere topcoat, and gloves of the finest kidskin. Then again, any number of interesting weapons could be concealed in her briefcase.
With no idea when the tall, skinny man would return, and too uneasy to stand still, she wandered across the hall toward the desk that stood by one of the doors. It was a receptionist’s desk, tidied up for the night. Her eyes fell on the telephone with its panel of buttons, and, remembering the calls she’d made earlier that day, she felt a glimmer of color rise to her cheeks.
Averting her gaze, she looked into the room the desk guarded. It was the parlor, no doubt a waiting room in which visitors sat before being fetched. Savannah had heard enough of the daytime programming to know that the DJs frequently interviewed guests who were affiliated with the country music scene or, on occasion, with the state.
At night it was different. Jared Snow never interviewed anyone. He didn’t need a diversion, nor did his listeners. His voice and his music were more than enough.
For a minute she listened to the music that was barely an echo in the background. Then, taking in a long, shaky breath, she walked into the room. She trailed a finger along the back of a Victorian settee, then along the edge of a modern marble piece. The combination was unusual. Looking around, she saw similar groupings. While the modern pieces were in sedate colors, the period pieces were made of distinctly modern fabrics. It was, she realized, a decorator’s twist on “a little country in the city.”
“Do you like it?” asked a voice from the door. It was deep, faintly raspy, as familiar to her as the cracks on the ceiling above her bed.
Aside from her pulse, which beat at a rapid tattoo, Savannah went still all over. Her back was to him. She didn’t know if she wanted to turn. His voice was so warm, so rich and wonderful. If the rest of him was not as warm and rich and wonderful, she would be shattered.
So she prepared herself for the worst. In a split second’s pause, she imagined that he was an inch shorter than she, twelve inches wider, bespectacled and balding.
Only then did she turn.
CHAPTER6
He stood at the door with his right shoulder braced lightly against the frame. One of his hands was anchored in the front pocket of his jeans, the other hung loosely by his side. His legs were long and planted casually on the oak planks underfoot, but it was not the floor that commanded Savannah’s attention. Nor was it his pale blue T-shirt, or the flannel shirt that lay open over it, or his soft, snug jeans. The entire man took her breath away—his sandy-colored hair, rough-hewn features, broad shoulders, trim waist, and lean hips.
Jared Snow in person was every bit as magnificent as the voice that seduced her each night.
Her relief was so great that tears actually came to her eyes. But she held herself erect and steadily met the gaze that sought hers.
“Do you like it?” he asked again.
Most definitely,she thought, although she knew he had been referring to the room. “It’s interesting,” she answered quietly. “I think it goes with the station.”
“You listen?”
With a tentative smile, she nodded. When his gaze dropped to that smile, her pulse tripped. She felt touched. The sensation was so vivid that it frightened her.
