Superstition by Karen Robards Page B

the lawn in her wake, all clearly headed toward the house. Behind them was the trio of klieg lights that had been set up about thirty feet from the house to light the exterior, causing their shadows to elongate until they stretched across the overgrown grass, almost all the way to the thicket of oleanders that hugged the porch. Joe beheld an older woman, redheaded like the reporter, in a long, flowing purple dress, leaning heavily on the arm of a short but muscular blond guy. A little behind them, another man, less bulky but also less toned, had his hand around the elbow of a heavily pregnant lady who seemed to be huffing and puffing with every step. But it was the reporter who was nearest—and closing fast, he discovered as his gaze snapped back to her. She was pencil-slim—slimmer than she had looked on TV—in a figure-hugging black skirt suit that made her absolutely killer legs look about two miles long, and tall heels that clicked loudly on the wood. Her shoulder-length hair looked dark in the shadows at the top of the steps, but then she gained the porch and strode into the glow of the klieg lights. He saw that her hair was indeed the true deep red it had appeared on TV. Earlier, though, it had hung straight to her shoulders, all smooth and shiny like a shampoo ad. Now it was disheveled, with one side pushed behind an ear and bangs straggling over her forehead. Her cheeks had acquired a hectic flush, and her previously luscious mouth appeared hard and tight. Her eyes narrowed as they focused on him and Vince, her lips pursed until they were downright thin, and she said something into the cell phone that she had pressed to her face.
    She must have felt him looking at her, because she glanced up just then and their gazes collided. Joe felt a stirring of slightly bemused interest as it occurred to him that she was his type—hell, hot-looking redheads were probably everybody’s type—except for the fact that at the moment, she was clearly royally ticked off and itching to take it out on some poor, unfortunate soul. Like him? Probably. It had been one of those days.
    Reaching them, she snapped her cell phone shut. An echoing snap to his left made him glance in that direction. The black-haired woman was about ten feet away and on the move toward them, her now-closed cell phone in hand.
    It was obvious that the two had been talking, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to guess what they’d been talking about.
    Good thing for Vince they weren’t holding any popularity contests out at the Old Taylor Place tonight.
    “Nicky.” The black-haired woman greeted the reporter with obvious relief, scooting past Joe and Vince and shooting them a venomous look in the process.
    “Got it covered.” Nicky dropped her cell phone into a side pocket of the purse slung over her shoulder as her gaze slid between him and Vince.
    “Mayor Capra?” she asked crisply.
    “That’s me,” Vince said, squaring up to her. Her eyes zeroed in on him, narrowed still more.
    Right, Joe reminded himself. This was Vince’s call. Vince’s problem. You go, Vince, he thought, and took a small sideways step out of the line of fire.
    If he was any judge of human nature—and, once upon a time, he had prided himself on that—this was going to be something like the clash of the Titans.
    “Nicole Sullivan.” Her tone was brusque. She stuck out her hand and shook Vince’s. Joe wasn’t exactly sure whether Vince had cooperated, but whether he had or not, the result was the same: handshake accomplished. The woman was obviously a go-getter, and what she was used to getting was her own way. “Twenty-four Hours Investigates. I understand there’s some question about whether or not we have the necessary permission to film here?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Vince said, going for polite but firm. “Or rather, no, ma’am, there’s no question. You can’t film here. You don’t have a permit.”
    Nicky smiled. Or more accurately, Joe thought with a