Читать книгу Daddy's Home - Pamela Bauer, Pamela Bauer - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

“DADDY’S HOME!”

Tyler Brant barely had the door open when his six-year-old daughter flung herself at him. If there was one thing he would never grow tired of, it was the feel of her small, warm body clinging to his.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, lifting her so that he could twirl her around in a circle. He gave her a hug before setting her down.

“I missed you, too, Daddy.”

“Why are you dressed like a squash, sweetheart?” Tyler asked, smiling at the face painted the same orange as the costume she wore. Covering her legs were bright green tights that matched the stemlike satin cap hiding her blond curls.

“I’m not a squash. I’m a pumpkin!” she said, shoving her hands onto a waist that was stuffed with padding.

“And a very pretty pumpkin at that. Did Gram make that for you?”

“Uh-huh. She sewed it on the sewing machine and sprinkled all the sparkly things on,” Brittany answered, wiggling in delight. “I get to be in the parade.”

“And what parade is that?”

It was Tyler’s mother who answered. “It’s the Anoka Pumpkin Festival on Saturday. They’ve invited Brittany’s class to ride on one of the floats,” Millie Brant explained, walking toward Tyler with a tape measure draped around her neck. She greeted him with her usual kiss on the cheek. “Welcome home.”

“Isn’t it a little chilly for a parade this time of year?” Automatically, his brow creased as he shrugged out of his topcoat.

“She’ll be dressed in warm clothes,” his mother replied.

“We get to throw candy to the little kids watching the parade,” Brittany added.

Tyler hid his smile.

“Are you going to come and see me, Daddy?” She looked at Tyler with big, round blue eyes so like the ones her mother used to flash at him. He saw Susan every time she batted those innocent eyes at him, and a pain caught somewhere between his heart and throat.

“I’d like to, but I’m afraid I have to work,” he answered.

The little face fell. “You always have to work.”

Guilt settled in Tyler’s stomach like a big old rock. It was true he put in long hours—longer than the average father, but he had responsibilities. Something a six-year-old didn’t understand. He looked to his mother for support.

She didn’t give it. Instead, she gave him a familiar look of reprobation. “You’ve just spent four days working away from home. Surely you can take a Saturday off.”

“Not this Saturday,” he responded soberly.

“But, Daddy, don’t you want to see me be in the parade?” Brittany asked.

“Of course I do. Let’s sit down. I brought you something.” He grabbed her by the hand, reached for his overnight bag and moved into the living room. He pulled his daughter down beside him on the leather sofa. She watched with wide eyes as he unzipped his suitcase and pulled out a small pink bunny.

“A Beanie Baby!” Brittany cried out in delight, taking the soft stuffed animal into her hands. “Thank you, Daddy.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss.

“The tag says her name is Hoppity and that she likes to play hopscotch,” Tyler pointed out.

“She’s a girl! Oh, good. I have to show Walter.” She scrambled to her feet and hurried out of the room.

“You’re not always going to be able to buy her off with a stuffed animal, you know,” Millie said.

“I’d love to go to the parade, but it’s just not possible,” he stated, working hard to keep the irritation from his voice.

He could see his mother was not about to back down. “What’s so important on Saturday that you’re willing to miss seeing your daughter in a parade?”

“What’s important is getting two hundred people back to work. That fire in Hibbing destroyed a brand-new factory that would have provided income for a couple of hundred families. I have no choice but to meet with the contractors and go over the blueprints. The longer it takes to get the place rebuilt, the longer those people are out of work.”

“Let someone else look at the plans.”

“It’s not that easy. I’m the president of the company. With that title comes certain responsibilities,” he tried to explain, but his mother only shook her head.

“We’ve had this conversation before, Tyler. There’s no point going over it again. It won’t accomplish anything.”

“Mom, you know I spend every free minute I have with her. What more can I do?”

“Spend more free minutes with her,” she answered. “She’s growing up and you’re missing the important milestones in her life. I understood your need to bury yourself in your work after Susan died, but I thought that after the plane crash you’d come to your senses and realize how precious life is. I was wrong. Nothing’s changed. Work is still the number-one priority in your life.”

At the mention of his late wife’s name, Tyler’s insides twisted into a knot. He had thought time would ease the pain of losing her, yet nearly five years had passed and each time he heard her name, he relived the fiery automobile accident that had taken her life.

“All right, Mom. You’ve made your point,” he said with more anger than he intended. Seeing the hurt look on her face, he immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“What’s wrong, Tyler? You’ve been so edgy these past few weeks.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he lied. “I’m fine. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

“You look tired. You should have taken some time off after the crash,” she said in a motherly tone. “Instead of rushing back to work, you should have been home resting. Everyone needs time to recover from trauma.”

“Not me. I needed to work,” Tyler corrected her, trying not to think about the experience. Two weeks ago he’d been in a small commuter plane on his way to assess the damage the fire had done to his electronics plant when the pilot had tried unsuccessfully to make an emergency landing.

In one horrifying instant, the plane crashed into the bank of the river. Bodies were flung into the icy waters. Eight of the ten people aboard drowned. By some strange quirk of fate, Tyler and one other passenger survived. Just as had happened the day of the car accident, Tyler had been allowed to walk away.

A shudder unsettled every nerve in his body. He had to force the image from his mind. The last five years had taught him that if he wanted to be of any use to his daughter, he needed to keep the past in the past. Reliving events wouldn’t change a thing.

Just then, Brittany rushed into the room waving a red folder. “I got something for you, Daddy,” she announced. “It’s my work from school.”

“Then you better show it to me now.” Tyler smiled as the little girl climbed onto his lap. With his arms wrapped around her, he watched as she opened the folder. First she pulled out a black cat made from construction paper, then a page with several words printed a couple of dozen times. Finally came a drawing done in crayon—three stick people and a rectangular house.

“This is Gram, that’s me and that’s you. See? I colored you a beard ’cause it was before you had your cushun.” She glanced at Tyler’s now-whiskerless face.

“It’s concussion, Brittany,” her grandmother automatically corrected her.

“Con-cush-un,” she repeated. She placed her hand on Tyler’s jaw. “I like you without your beard. It’s smooth.”

She tipped her head to stare at his only visible injury—an inch-long scar on the underside of his jaw. A piece of metal had sliced open his skin and come dangerously close to severing an artery in his neck.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” he answered honestly.

“Are you going to grow another beard?”

Before he could answer, his mother said, “I hope not. You’re such a handsome man, Tyler. It’s a shame to hide your good looks behind all that hair.”

Tyler ignored her comment. He knew that his keeping a full beard had always been a source of irritation for his mother. During his years in college, he had been both long-haired and bearded—about as scruffy as he could be.

Then he met Susan and everything changed. She not only cut his hair for him, but she shaved his face. She insisted that if he was going to fit into the establishment, he needed to look the part. And in those days, he would have done anything for Susan.

“Look at this, Daddy.” Brittany stuck a red-and-pink finger painting close to his face.

“Very nice. I like the bright colors.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“It’s a cherry pie.”

“Ah. That’s why you used so much red.”

“Red’s my favorite color.” She shoved the painting back into the folder, then pulled out some newspaper clippings encased in plastic. “This is what I brought for show-and-tell.”

Tyler frowned. In his daughter’s hands was an article about the airplane crash. The headline read Local Man Is Hero.

Brittany held it in her outstretched hands, waiting for him to take it. He didn’t want to look at it. He turned to his mother. “You let her take this to school?”

“She saw your picture in the paper and wanted to bring it for show-and-tell,” Millie said with an apologetic lift of her eyebrows.

Brittany smiled proudly. “My teacher said that you’re a hero, Daddy. She said you were very brave.”

He shifted uneasily on the sofa. “I’m not a hero and the newspapers shouldn’t have said I was.”

Brittany’s face fell. “But my teacher said—”

“And your teacher is right,” Millie interjected. “Your father’s just being modest. He most certainly is a hero. Now why don’t you go change out of that costume. Gram still has to iron on the pumpkin’s face.”

“All right, Gram.” Brittany shoved the newspaper article back into the folder and looked at Tyler. “Are you mad at me for bringing the newspaper to school?”

He gave her a squeeze. “No, I’m not mad. It was very nice of you to want to bring me for show-and-tell.” He gave her an extra hug. “I love you, Brittany.”

“I love you, too, Daddy,” she responded, but the words were subdued.

As soon as she was gone, his mother said, “Every little girl wants her father to be a hero.”

Tyler rubbed the tight muscles in his neck. “Fine. I can be her hero while we’re here in this house, but she doesn’t need to know everything that happened in Hibbing, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t encourage her to talk about it.”

“She’s a child. She has questions.”

He frowned. “Why did you give her the newspaper?”

“I didn’t give it to her. Tyler, your picture was on the front page. She saw it when we were in the grocery store. It’s rather difficult to pretend you weren’t in that crash when it’s been in the papers and on television.”

“I don’t know why the media have to hound me. I’m sick and tired of them intruding in my life,” he said, loosening his tie. He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a Scotch on the rocks.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a hero, Tyler,” she said gently.

“Mom, please, not you, too.” He took a swallow of the fiery liquid.

“You saved Kristen Kellar’s life. At least that’s what she says.”

He grimaced. “Of course she would sensationalize everything. She’s one of the media. A reporter. And you and I both know they feel that title gives them the right to invade everyone else’s privacy. Have you forgotten what happened after Susan died?” He made a sound of disgust. “They were at the cemetery with their cameras.”

“That was awful,” she agreed solemnly, “but Kristen Kellar isn’t a reporter. She’s a news anchor,” his mother added. “And a darn good one. She reports the news accurately and with sensitivity.”

Again he made a sound, this time of disbelief.

“Well, she’s told the world that without you she wouldn’t be alive. I guess that makes you a hero.”

“I think the eight people who died on that flight would disagree.”

“You can’t possibly think you’re responsible for their deaths?” She looked at him with a look of horror. “Tyler, the plane split in two. There was no way you could’ve saved their lives.”

He took another swig of the Scotch. “Since you weren’t there, I don’t think you know what I could or couldn’t have done.”

He set his glass down with a bit more force than necessary. Again, he knew he’d been sharper with her than he’d meant to be. What was wrong with him anyway? Lately, he seemed to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation.

“I’m sorry, Mom. Maybe we ought to change the subject. There’s no point in arguing over something that’s in the past. I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the past four days and I need a shower.”

“And you’re tired, aren’t you?” His mother became all maternal once again, fussing over him as though he were a child instead of a thirty-five-year-old businessman. “There’s plenty of time for you to rest before dinner, if you like. I’m going upstairs to finish Brittany’s costume and leave you to unwind on your own.” She gave his arm a gentle touch, then headed for the stairway. She stopped in midstride. “Oh, by the way, your mail is on the console in the hallway, and I left your phone messages on your desk.”

Tyler nodded and watched his mother climb the steps to the second story. Then he walked over to the console where several days of mail had accumulated. He flipped through the pile until he came to a pale pink envelope. His name and address were handwritten and there was no return address.

He opened the envelope and found a single sheet of pale pink stationery. At the top printed in gray ink was the name Kristen Kellar, her address and phone number.

Dear Mr. Brant,

Please forgive me for taking so long to contact you, but as you are probably aware, I’ve been in the hospital until very recently. I wanted to speak to you before I was moved from the Hibbing hospital, but unfortunately that wasn’t possible. Since I was told that you suffered only minor injuries and that you were discharged after a few days, I assume that you are in good health and have returned to work.

The purpose of this letter is to express my gratitude, although the words “Thank you” seem inadequate for expressing what’s in my heart. I don’t want to think about what the outcome might have been if you hadn’t been on that flight. The value of your strength and determination cannot be measured. Please know that I will always remember the help you gave me.

Sincerely,

Kristen Kellar

Tyler stared at the feminine handwriting until he no longer saw words, but images. An engine on fire. Panic among the passengers. A plane torn in two. His heart began to race, his palms to sweat. He remembered the look on Kristen’s face as she had frantically struggled to free herself from the twisted wreckage of the plane.

With a grimace, he crumpled her letter in his fist. He turned his attention to the other mail, determined to forget the crash.

He would forget. He had taught himself a long time ago to block out those images that had the power to play games with his emotions. And the memory of that plane crash was one of those images. He was a survivor. Always had been, always would be.

So for the rest of the evening, Tyler didn’t once think about Kristen Kellar or the crash. He played a board game with Brittany, sat with her while she watched The Little Mermaid video for the umpteenth time and then, despite his mother’s warning, let her eat a giant chocolate bar while he read her a bedtime story.

After she’d fallen asleep, he went into his office and worked until midnight. When he finally crawled between the covers, he was weary, but it was a welcome weariness. He’d have no trouble falling asleep tonight.

And he didn’t. Only it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. No matter how exhausted he was, he couldn’t prevent the dream.

He was in the broken half of the plane.

“I can’t get free,” a woman cried out to him, blood streaming down her face. “The seat belt is stuck.”

Tyler hurried to her side only to discover the seat belt wasn’t preventing her escape. Her right leg was trapped. With a strength he didn’t know he possessed, he managed to bend the metal bar pinning her leg.

“We have to get out of here,” she urged. “Look.” Her eyes widened as she stared at the open end of the plane. The aircraft was slipping into the water.

“It’s all right. We’ll be okay,” he assured her as water seeped into his shoes.

They were jostled as the plane sank lower. “I can’t swim!” she cried as water rose around them.

Tyler reached for her. “Just hang on to my back,” he instructed.

He felt two arms around his neck, but they soon lost their hold. He tried to reach her hands, but she was swept away by the strong current.

“Help me! Please, help me!”

He swam after her, but every time he thought he’d reached her, she slipped from his grasp. Over and over he tried to grab her hand until she was finally sucked under.

Gasping for breath, Tyler awoke with a start to find Brittany at his bedside.

“Daddy?”

He gulped in deep breaths, trying to calm his unsteady limbs as he swung his legs over the side.

“Daddy, will you help me find Tudie?”

For a moment, he was too shaken to speak. Finally, he asked, “Is he lost?” relieved that the cries for help were over a teddy bear and not a human being.

“I had him when I went to bed, but he’s not there now,” Brittany said in a tiny voice. “And I get scared when Tudie isn’t sleeping with me.”

“There’s no need to be scared,” Tyler said reassuringly, pulling her into his arms. “Daddy will help you find him, then I’ll tuck you both in real tight so he doesn’t get lost again, okay?”

Tyler thought how ironic it was that he was telling her not to be scared when he was the one who was trembling. He carried Brittany back to her room, turned on the light and set her down beside the bed.

“Sweetheart, it’s no wonder Tudie disappeared. There’s no room for him here,” he told her as he pushed aside a collection of stuffed animals and dolls.

A quick look behind the bed proved his suspicions were correct. Tudie lay suspended between the mattress and the wall. Tyler fished him up over the brass headboard to the delight of his daughter.

“Thank you, Daddy.” She welcomed the bear with open arms, kissed her father on the cheek and climbed back up onto the bed.

Tyler tucked her in, kissed her forehead, then turned out the light. As he crawled back into his own bed, he smiled to himself as he thought about his daughter and her beloved bear.

However, it wasn’t Brittany occupying his thoughts as he fell back to sleep. It was the beautiful but bleeding face of the news anchor. Dark lashes framed frightened blue eyes, the once flawless skin now badly lacerated. He had tried to stop the bleeding, but pieces of glass and metal were embedded in her skin. He still shuddered when he thought about it.

He had done his best to forget that face. Done his best to put the plane crash behind him. He had put it behind him. It was others who wouldn’t let him forget. His mother. Kristen Kellar. If she hadn’t sent him the letter, he wouldn’t have had her image haunting him tonight.

Well, he would tuck the memories away in a remote corner of his mind again. The crash was in the past. He had survived. She had survived. End of story.

He was not a hero. Not even close to being one.

THE DOORBELL RANG and for one brief moment Kristen Kellar wished she had the time to wash her hair, change out of her sweats and apply some makeup before answering it. Then the moment passed.

She had spent too much of her life fussing about her appearance. In the past three weeks, she’d discovered that it was hard to worry about her outward appearance when she felt so awful.

She struggled to her feet, reaching for the crutches propped against the sofa, and hobbled over to the intercom to hear her fiancé’s voice say, “It’s me.”

Good grief! What was Keith doing at her apartment in the middle of the day? She should have washed her hair. Or at least changed her clothes. Keith always looked as if he’d stepped off the pages of GQ.

“Kristen, are you there?”

“Yes.” She buzzed the lobby door open, then smoothed her hand down the front of her gray sweatshirt. When she heard a knock at the door, she checked through the peephole before releasing the dead bolt.

Standing on the other side with not a hair out of place, looking every bit as polished as he did on television each night, was the man voted the Twin Cities’ number-one news anchor, Keith Jaxson. In his arms were flowers, lots of flowers.

Ever since the crash, he’d seemed distant and a bit impatient with what he considered her slow recovery. She knew he’d been disappointed by her request for a leave of absence from work. But now here he was bearing flowers, and she pushed such thoughts aside.

Her smile faded, however, the moment he spoke. The flowers weren’t from him.

“Mailman.” He grinned as if he’d said something witty. “Bob was going to have a messenger bring these over, but I said I was coming to see you and I might as well take them. I thought that the gifts and flowers would have stopped after a couple of weeks, but they just keep coming.”

He didn’t drop a kiss on her mouth as he stepped into the apartment but simply marched past her and headed for the dining-room table. Actually, he hadn’t kissed her since before the crash... unless one counted the light brushing of his lips across her forehead he had given her in the hospital.

“Bob says he’s never seen anyone get so many get-well wishes. You are one popular lady.” He set the flowers and a large shopping bag filled with cards and packages on the table. “It’s a good thing my ego’s healthy, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it, though,” she murmured, wondering how she had never noticed just how self-centered he was. As he passed the mirror in the dining room, he smoothed his perfect hair.

“There are two more bags in my car. I can get them now or when I leave. Which do you prefer?” He didn’t look at her, but rather past her, as if there were a roomful of people behind her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she answered as she hobbled toward the sofa.

“Then I’ll get them later.”

“Fine.” She eased herself down onto the sofa.

Instead of coming to sit beside her, he stood at the edge of the glass-topped table, his hands in his pockets. “So how are you feeling?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” There was an awkward silence, then he tugged on his ear, saying, “I suppose the leg’s starting to itch under that cast.”

She ignored his comment. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

He shifted from foot to foot before finally settling on the chair across from her. He unzipped his black suede jacket but didn’t take it off.

“I’m supposed to say hi from everyone at the station and tell you they miss you,” he said with the same smile he used during his newscasts. The one that made women’s hearts skip a beat. Kristen knew how easily that smile came to his lips and didn’t return it.

“I’m sure Janey doesn’t miss me. She’s been wanting more air time.” It was no secret around the station that Janey Samuels’s goal was to be one of the evening anchors, and Kristen knew Janey would make the most of every minute of her absence.

“The less time she’s in your chair, the less chance viewers will have to grow fond of her,” Keith continued.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You said the doctor’s given you a clean bill of health. Maybe you should think about coming back to work.”

“My leg’s in a cast! What do you suggest I do? Sit sideways on the set and stick it out behind the desk?”

“You wouldn’t have to do the entire thirty minutes on the set. You could sit in the newsroom and have the camera shoot a head shot. No one needs to see your cast.”

“And what about this?” She pulled her hair away from her face and turned her head so that her puffy, discolored cheek was in full view.

He didn’t try to hide his discomfort. “Makeup will take care of that,” he said weakly.

Her laugh was without humor. “I doubt it.”

“How do you know if you won’t try? Bob told me he sent a makeup artist to the hospital and you refused to talk to her.”

“What’s the point? I told you I’m not ready to go back to work. That’s why I asked for a leave of absence.”

“Eventually, you’ll be going back. Wouldn’t it make sense to have a professional come here and show you how to apply the makeup? That way, you can practice so by the time you’re ready to return, you’ll feel comfortable.”

From the way he was staring at her, Kristin couldn’t help but wonder if the practicing-at-home part wasn’t for his benefit. Did he want her to wear the makeup so he wouldn’t have to look at her scars? Not for the first time she had the feeling that he was repulsed by her swollen and bruised face.

She let the hair fall back across her cheek and angled her head to hide the scars. “Why are you pressuring me about this?”

“I’m not pressuring you,” he denied. “It’s just that I miss you at work, and in the hospital you told me you wanted to get back to the newsroom as soon as possible.”

That was before the bandages had been removed from her face and she had seen the damage.

“I’ve changed my mind. I need more time to get my strength back.”

“You told me a few minutes ago that you were feeling fins.”

“I am. I’m just not ready to return to work.”

“Your viewers will be disappointed.” Then he gave her his heart-stopping grin and said, “I’ll be disappointed.”

It didn’t stop Kristen’s heart for even a moment.

“Have you read KC’s column lately? Even she misses you,” he added.

KC was a gossip reporter who had followed their romance with a fervent passion, never missing an opportunity to mock the two of them in her biweekly newspaper column under a special subheading—“Amorous Anchors.”

“What she’s really missing are the opportunities to make fun of us,” Kristen said cynically.

“It’s true we’ve been a target of her offbeat humor, but we should feel flattered,” he said in a patronizing tone. “She says she gets a ton of calls from irate readers whenever she prints something unfavorable about us. I think that’s why she does it. She loves to be controversial.”

“You mean she loves to dig into people’s private lives,” Kristen pointed out.

“It’s all done in good humor.”

“You didn’t say that when she reported that you needed to get rid of some of your big hair.”

He automatically smoothed a hand over the side of his head. “She was right. I did have big hair when I arrived in Minneapolis. But the point is this. If KC misses the amorous anchors, the viewers do, too. They’ve come to expect that it’ll be the two of us doing the news. We’re the team they want to see. Just ask Bob.”

Kristen knew that Bob Yates as the news director had only one concern and that was ratings. If he thought another anchor could sustain those ratings, he wouldn’t care if Kristen ever returned from medical leave. The fact that Keith was over here encouraging her meant that so far Janey hadn’t done the job. That gave Kristen little comfort. Because if they were losing viewers, it meant another station was gaining them.

“You and I are like friends to many of those people who tune into Channel 12 each evening,” Keith continued. “They’re concerned about you just the way they’d be concerned for a friend who was injured. Just look at the stacks of mail over there.” He nodded toward the dining room.

Kristen knew what he said was true. In the five years she’d been at the station, she’d met many of the people who comprised their target audience. They were warm, friendly, caring members of a community she had grown to love.

“I’d like to say I could return next week, but...” She didn’t finish, knowing perfectly well that it would be a mistake to go back to work in her present condition. “I really don’t think I’m up to it.”

“You could always ease back into it. Actually, I’ve come up with a way for you to do just that.”

Suspicion began to creep into Kristen’s mind when she saw Keith’s eyes sparkling as if he had a great secret. “And what’s that?”

“I’ve talked Bob into giving me the okay to go ahead with a Profile in Courage.”

These profiles were special features the Channel 12 news team produced to highlight community members who had performed acts of extreme bravery. “So how do I fit in?”

“I want you to work with me.” He leaned forward, his face full of enthusiasm. “Guess who we’re going to profile.”

She gave him a blank look.

“Who is one of the most heroic men in the Twin Cities?”

Great. Now he was making it a guessing game. “I don’t know,” she said impatiently.

“It’s someone who’s important to both of us.”

Kristen couldn’t think of a single name.

“Tyler Brant,” he finally revealed.

“Tyler Brant?” she repeated, her heart skipping a beat. “Has he agreed to the interview?”

“Not yet, but I don’t foresee any problems in that area. Why would there be? We’re not doing an investigative report. We’re paying tribute to him. The viewers will love it!”

But would Tyler Brant? Kristen wondered. “He didn’t strike me as the kind who would want the attention.”

“Are you kidding? Every guy likes to be called a hero.”

“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully. She didn’t tell him that she had tried several times to contact Tyler only to be told he was unavailable. Even after she’d left her name and phone number, he hadn’t returned her calls.

“Not only is the man a hero,” Keith continued, “but he’s a well-respected member of the community. And there’s an added benefit. If we do a profile of the two of you, we’ll allow the viewers to see what you’ve been through the past couple of weeks and let them know that you’re on the road to recovery.”

“Wait a minute. You said this was about Tyler Brant. Why would you profile me?” she asked, uneasiness churning her stomach.

“Because he saved your life.” He looked at her as if he were telling her the sky was blue.

“I don’t want to be the subject of any show,” she stated firmly.

“Why not? You said you were upset with the inaccuracy of many of the reports on the plane crash. This would be a way to set the record straight.” He gestured toward the piles of mail in her dining room. “Just look at all those cards and letters. The viewers are worried about you. If we did a segment where we covered the crash, your hospitalization, your recuperation—”

“Stop right there,” she interrupted him, holding up both hands in protest. “You’re not thinking about bringing a crew here?”

“All we’d need are a couple of shots of you at home. We have plenty of video from the crash site. If we interviewed a few doctors and nurses at the hospital, then close with you in the newsroom, staying abreast of what’s going on, we can show the public that you’re still very much a part of the news team.”

Kristen could hardly believe what she was hearing. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. Why would I joke about your work?”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Keith, you can’t honestly think I’d want to be the subject of such a program?”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want my personal life broadcast to the world, that’s why,” she protested. “And I can’t believe you could be so insensitive as to even suggest such a thing.”

He looked like a little boy who had been told he couldn’t play baseball until after his homework was done. “It’s a news story, not an exposé,” he reminded her.

“It’s an invasion of my privacy. Do you know how many times I’ve had reporters banging on my door since it happened?”

“Because your story is news. You were heroically rescued from a plane crash that killed eight other people. You survived, Kristen. You’ve worked in this business long enough to know that your situation is exactly what interests the public.”

She knew what he said was true. And at one time she would have understood exactly why he was suggesting she be the subject of the in-depth segment. As a journalist, she was familiar with the attitude members of her profession had about the stories they were covering. After all, she herself had often stuck a microphone into the faces of grieving relatives, crime victims—people who wanted to be left alone. Now she was on the other side herself. And she didn’t like it.

“I’m not allowing anyone to come here and film my private life,” she said firmly.

“All right. You don’t need to have the camera crew come here. We’ll skip the personal angle and shoot it from a career perspective.”

“You won’t shoot it at all,” she assured him. “I mean it. I will not be the subject of any features—for you or anyone else.”

“You could have complete control over the content. Heck, you could even do the final edit,” he proposed reluctantly.

“No.”

“Will you at least think about it?”

“No.”

If there was one thing Keith was used to getting it was his own way. When he stiffened his shoulders and tightened his mouth, it was obvious that he wasn’t pleased with her refusal. Kristen discovered his handsome features weren’t so handsome when he pouted. Actually, he looked quite ugly. Funny how she’d never noticed it before.

“Obviously, this crash has affected you emotionally. Why don’t I give you time to think about it and call you later?” he suggested, rising to his feet, his hands automatically smoothing the wrinkles in his creased pants.

Kristen realized that his bringing the flowers and mail had simply been an excuse for him to come over and talk business. He hadn’t come out of concern for her but because he wanted to do the feature segment and he needed her cooperation. Not only was she disappointed in him but in the Channel 12 news team, too. They didn’t want her; they wanted her story. It was a sobering thought.

“I’m not going to change my mind, Keith,” she told him.

His expression hardened. “Now what kind of attitude is that?”

She took a deep breath in an attempt to control the emotions swirling inside her, but it didn’t help. “It’s the attitude I have, and if you weren’t so worried about how my absence is affecting your ratings you could take a moment to support me rather than try to put me through more stress.” He looked startled by her outburst.

“Maybe you should mention these emotional periods you’re having to your doctor. He could probably recommend some medication—”

“I don’t need any more medication,” she snapped. “What I need is a fiancé who understands what I’ve been through.”

“I’m trying to understand, but you won’t leave this apartment.” He sighed. “Look, would you at least think about allowing the makeup artist to come for a visit? I’m emceeing the celebrity auction for the Children’s Hospital next Saturday and I want you to be with me.”

But only if you can cover your scars. He hadn’t said the words aloud, but she knew what he was thinking. “I can’t go.”

“You won’t even consider it?”

“I don’t have the energy.”

“You might feel differently by Saturday.”

Kristen knew she wouldn’t. Come Saturday, her cheek would still be swollen and bruised. The doctor had said four to six weeks. It had only been three. But she knew that—even if her face had been fine—she wasn’t ready to face the outside world.

“Don’t count on that happening,” she said firmly.

He shook his head. “If you come with me to the door, I’ll get those other two bags of mail for you.”

She stared at him in disbelief. Did he honestly think it was easy for her to hobble around after him? If she used her crutches at all, it would be to beat him over the head, not to walk to the door so that he could hand her a couple bags of mail.

“Forget the damn mail,” she barked at him.

He didn’t say another word but quietly left. Without even kissing her forehead.

Strangely, Kristen was not disappointed.