Past Imperfect

Broadstreet was forty-two, sleek as a political machine, smooth and polished in a creased gray suit. From the get-go, Ian had gotten a bad vibe from him, and he trusted his instinct implicitly. It had served him well over the years in every hard-hitting assignment from Bosnia to Iran, from Sudan to the urban ghettos of America. But those had been the days of real news, and sometimes Ian feared that he’d lost his edge during recent stories like this one, where the intention was to shock instead of illuminate.

As the president gabbed on, Ian took another opportunity to peek at Rachel James, who had a front-row seat along with the rest of her friends. Late arrivals Dr. Jacob Weber and Ella Gardner had sneaked into their nearby seats just moments ago, giving Ian an excuse to train unfettered attention in Rachel’s direction.

But it was almost as if she was stridently avoiding him. Was it because she was questioning his part in the proceedings?

Hell, he couldn’t blame her.

The audience stirred as Broadstreet called David Westport as the first character witness for Gilbert, then retreated to his seat behind a long table. He was surrounded by the nine other faculty members and ten students who composed the board.

The people who would be deciding Gilbert’s fate.

At the other end of the table, Professor Harrison sat by himself. Ian noticed that the older man kept glancing at Rachel, as if measuring something about her.

There was a real story somewhere. Beneath all the dirt, there was definitely something else blooming.

By now, David Westport had taken his place at the other end of the table. A former college jock, he looked daunting with his flashing green eyes, coal-black hair and all-pro shoulders. As he sat, he sent Broadstreet a glare of pure distaste—not that it fazed the president—then turned the tables and winked at Gilbert.

Cameras flashed, causing Ian to once again notice how much of a circus Broadstreet had constructed. The president really had something against Gilbert, and from what Ian knew, he suspected it all had to do with running the college like a dictator.

And a lot to do with personal jealousy.

For the next half hour, Broadstreet allowed the witness to praise Gilbert, to expound on the professor’s exemplary guidance skills and giving nature. It was a good start.

Until the president dove in.

“Mr. Westport,” he began, “thank you for the testimonial.”

“Anything for Professor Harrison,” David said, smiling.

“Yes. Yes, you know, that seems to be our problem.” Broadstreet shuffled some papers while clearing his throat. “Or, should I say, the professor’s willingness to do anything for his students is the real sticking point.”

From the very first, Ian had been bowled over by the sense of loyalty Gilbert inspired in his students, former and present. Now, as his attention drifted to the professor—a beaten version of the savior he was supposed to be—Ian’s heart actually went out to him. Quickly, he sketched the older man in his notepad, wanting to capture the weariness, the lines of exhaustion mapping his face.

Then, it got ugly.

Broadstreet began questioning David Westport about his poor high school grades, clearly catching the big guy off guard in light of how the proceedings had been going so far. It seemed that, in spite of his academic woes, Westport had received an athletic scholarship, and the president hounded him on how this could’ve possibly happened.

During all of this, Ian kept glancing at Rachel, noting how pained and baffled she appeared.

There’s something deeper going on in her head, Ian thought. Something that was rooted below Westport’s academic record.

And as Broadstreet revealed that Gilbert Harrison had been instrumental in securing this scholarship for David Westport, the hall was silenced.

Temporarily victorious, the president turned to Gilbert. “What’s your response to this, Harrison?”

The audience stirred, clearly noticing how Broadstreet had already stripped Gilbert of his title.

The older man sighed, offering a weary smile and spreading out his hands. “I have no comment, other than to say that even if David seemed to be an undeserving candidate for the scholarship, he’s since proved his worthiness.”

He wasn’t directly defending himself? Why?

Without thinking, Ian scribbled notes. Westport had worked with kids after college, strengthening their self-esteem through the creation of a sports camp. Maybe that was all the defense Gilbert thought he needed.

As if to prove that theory, a smattering of light applause came from the crowd at the mention of Westport’s eventual success, but Broadstreet held up a hand, silencing them.

The president went on from there, hardly cowed.

He ripped into Professor Harrison, saying that there was no way of knowing whether or not Westport was worthy of the scholarship, seeing as no one could’ve foretold the future back then.

All the while, Gilbert Harrison refused to defend himself further.

With a flurry of penmanship, Ian wrote, “Why the refusal to answer?”

After that, the president went on to attack Gilbert, painting a picture of a scheming professor who didn’t think twice about going behind the administration’s back. Unfortunately, even though Westport did his best to remedy the situation by sticking to his testimonial and saying how Gilbert had affected his life for the good, Broadstreet hammered away at Gilbert’s failure to defend himself, encouraging a heavy silence after Westport was finally dismissed.

Broadstreet had managed to definitely turn the tables on a promising start, and during the break, his smug grin bore testament to that.

Things will all go downhill from here if Gilbert doesn’t speak up, Ian thought. When he risked a glance at Rachel, he found her distraught, biting her lip and shaking her head.

He itched to sit next to her, to offer words of comfort or…

Who was he kidding? That wasn’t his job.

Ian got back into reporter mode—where he damn well belonged—when Broadstreet reconvened the proceedings and called Kathryn Price to the table for Gilbert.

It was as if the entire hall scooted to the edges of their chairs, waiting to glimpse the statuesque golden girl who’d suffered such pain and tragedy. Murmurs provided a processional for the scarred ex-model as she lifted her chin and made her way to the hot seat. Once there, she smiled at Nate Williams, who returned the affection.

Unable to stop himself, Ian slid another gaze to Rachel, hearing Broadstreet speaking the usual opening greeting to Kathryn.

But then things took a turn.

“You’re another character witness who plans to save Gilbert’s career?” Broadstreet made it sound like an accusation, as if she would fail to help Gilbert as spectacularly as David Westport had done.

Because the professor wasn’t exactly helping himself.

“Yes,” she said. “And I’ve got plenty to say. I hope you’re comfortable in that seat.”

That brought a chuckle from the audience, and Broadstreet shot them the stink eye. If they were laughing at the slightest excuse from Kathryn, they were doing it to offer aid to Gilbert.

Ian kind of dug that.

Automatically, he noted that Rachel had even perked up. It sent a tiny thrill through him, reawakening the nerve endings on his skin, his sharp awareness of her.

Before Broadstreet could regroup, Kathryn was off and running. Tucking a strand of glossy brown hair behind her ear, she said, “Really, I’m surprised at the board, calling Gilbert out like this. He’s helped a lot of students during those awful, horrifying office hours that he holds. You know—where the kids gather and generally find some acceptance and understanding. He’s not the leader of a cult or staging evil activities under the administration’s nose—not like you’d love to think, President Broadstreet. He’s changed lives, and to fire a man who can bring out the best in people and help them to see their potential…”

Broadstreet tried to interject, but Kathryn merely held up a finger to quiet him, continuing.

“As a rule, I don’t talk about this, but during one of those office hours, Professor Harrison listened to me as I told him about a sexual assault. My own assault. So I know the wonders Professor Harrison can work.”

The oxygen seemed to leave the room. It certainly left Ian.

“I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, Ms. Price.” Broadstreet did look genuinely sorry, though Ian wondered if it was because his momentum had been destroyed.

But Ian decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

And he could afford to because, suddenly, as Kathryn emotionally related how Gilbert had counseled her out of depression, Ian started to see the light.

Maybe the professor really was a damned hero, just like Rachel had always said. Persecuted by the system, the victim of a misguided man’s power trip.

He was someone Ian could relate to, being a true believer in bucking authority himself.

His heart rate picked up speed.

God, what if…

Yeah.

These were times for heroes to emerge, Ian thought, blood pounding in his ears. Forget the dirt, the drama, the damage.

What if he could uncover what was really going on, show the country that, somewhere on earth, there were still good people? Mentors who came to the rescue. Protégés who would stand up for someone they loved and believed in. Patchwork families who came together in hard times to fight for what was right.

In an age that could use a hero or two, Ian had stumbled upon one at the most unexpected time.

Wouldn’t it be great if someone could show this reunion to the rest of the people out there who needed some real news and positive truth?

Someone like…

Energized, Ian watched Gilbert Harrison shine a look of astonishing affection on Kathryn, who smiled back at him with adoration.

Someone like Ian himself. Someone who would uncover what was really going on and report the truth.

It was a headline that might not sell a lot of papers, but one that could—maybe—save his own soul.

If it wasn’t already too far gone.

Chapter Three

That night, Rachel took a shower, then slipped into some cozy flannel pajamas to eat a popcorn dinner and watch TV. Her friends had indeed met at the tavern after the hearing, but a phone call from Jane had informed Rachel that the gang still disagreed about telling Gilbert that they knew about him being the benefactor.

Why upset their mentor right now? they’d decided yet again. Gilbert didn’t need to know that they were all aware of his secret, especially since Ella Gardner, the only person who was supposed to know, could talk him into going public herself.

Besides, if they all kept their mouths shut, Ian Beck would have less of a chance of discovering Gilbert’s business. After all, the professor had kept his benefactor status under wraps for years. No one knew why, precisely, but he’d obviously been intent on maintaining his privacy.

More remorseful than ever about avoiding another gang meeting and going behind their backs with Ian, Rachel sat down on her couch, popcorn bowl on her lap, and found her favorite old Hitchcock movie on cable. She was trying to escape again, but it wasn’t any use.

The next time my friends ask for my company, she thought, I need to go. I miss them.

As if in answer to her musings, a knock sounded at her door.

She tiptoed over the worn carpet, coming to peek out of the lace curtains by the door. Oh, no.

Bathed by the porch light, Ian Beck saw her spying on him, a smile lighting over his lips as he raised his hand in a friendly wave.

Rachel darted away from the window, thrown off guard. “What in the world…?”

She glanced down at her faded yellow pajamas, the flannel design featuring waddling ducks. Yeesh, there were even dialogue balloons with the word “Quack!” in them.

Her first instinct was to run to her room for a robe, but the darn thing was so raggedy that it made her pajamas look like J-Lo’s newest Academy Awards ensemble in comparison.

Ian knocked again. “You still there?” he asked through the door.

“Yes.” She paused. “I’m not really dressed for company.”

“Oh, the duck pajamas. I saw them when you just looked through the window. They’re cute.”

So much for fooling old X-ray eyes. But why did it matter? Was she really out to impress this guy?

An unbidden blush answered that for her.

In response, Rachel unlocked her door, determined to prove herself wrong. Maybe duck pajamas would kill the tension or…whatever it was between them. Flannel wasn’t exactly the new lingerie.

She opened the door a crack, letting in a stream of chilled air. Ian was breathing plumes of smoke, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his face reddened by the weather.

“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You want another interview.”

“Not…exactly.” He shuffled around, doing a subtle cold dance.

She was going to have to invite him in, wasn’t she?

Opening the door the rest of the way, she ushered him over the threshold, anxiously tugging at the bottom of her pajama top as if that would turn it into a fashionable sweater.

“Damn, it feels good in here, and it smells like popcorn,” he said, peering around her modest home, absolutely unaware that she was considering putting it on the market by the end of the month.

Or maybe, she thought, I could get a full-time job, a second job or… Or what? Debtor’s prison?

After closing the door, she gestured toward the bowl of popcorn on the couch. “I’m settled in for the night.”

“That’s what you do on a Friday?” He shrugged out of his jacket and allowed her to drape it over a dining chair. “You’re a homebody.”

She’d developed the habit with Isaac. On Fridays after work, he would stop by the video store and rent kung fu videos, buying one per month to add to his collection. Sonny Chiba, Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan—she was well acquainted with the boys, but watching those kinds of flicks didn’t appeal to her anymore. They’d only been fun with her husband around.

Still, the homebody habit remained, especially nowadays, when she could make herself feel better just by hanging out alone. So much for being the belle of the social scene anymore.

“I outgrew the weekend bar thing a long time ago,” she said. “I’d rather hole in and get to bed early.”

The mention of a bed seemed to stop the flow of air around them. Suddenly, the TV’s volume seemed way too loud, her pajamas much too revealing, her bare feet too vulnerable.

Even standing a few feet away from him felt too close, as if his skin was giving off more heat than she could handle.

“Can I get you something to drink?” She took off toward the sofa and grabbed the popcorn, then veered toward the kitchen, trying to put some distance between their bodies.

Ian followed her with his gaze, a lopsided grin revealing that he knew how nervous she was.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.

After setting the bowl on the counter, she got two bottled waters out of the refrigerator. It was the most harmless beverage she could think of. “So what brings you around? The hearing wasn’t enough for you today?”

“I don’t blame you for being frustrated. It couldn’t have been easy, sitting there and listening to Broadstreet manipulate whatever Westport or Kathryn had to say.” Ian sauntered over to the counter, where he half sat on a barstool that showed a tiny tear on one side. “Just when things were starting to look good, he turned it around. And I don’t think Gilbert was helping by just sitting there and taking Broadstreet’s knocks.”

“We all thought Kathryn’s testimony was going well until Broadstreet started second-guessing Gilbert’s good intentions.”

Rachel urged the bowl of popcorn at him, then uncapped both waters. She took a swig of hers, as if quelling her temper.

Damn Alex Broadstreet. After Kathryn had shed such wonderful light on Gilbert’s caring nature, Broadstreet had tried to make it seem as if the professor had shirked his duty by failing to get his student proper guidance from a “real” mental-care professional. In essence, Gilbert had come off as inept and arrogant.

And, as Ian had pointed out, Gilbert hadn’t even lifted a finger in his own defense. He was guarding his secrets carefully. But why?

As she lowered the bottle, she realized that Ian had been carefully gauging her. Her blood gave a shuddering thump, leaving her heart racing.

“Monday’s another day,” Ian said. “Nate Williams and Jacob Weber are bound to present strong testimony. They’ll give Broadstreet a run for his money.”

She didn’t want to think about next week, because she would be testifying, too. Boy, how would she stand up to the board president? He was going to tear her apart.

Ian must have picked up on her fear, because he reached out, placed his hand over the one she was resting on the counter. The contact sheltered her in warm calm, spiking her skin with tingles.

“You’re surrounded by friends,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice how supportive you are of one another. In fact, afterward, I saw Ella Gardner giving Gilbert a pep talk.”

For a sublime moment, she was almost able to block out reality, to concentrate on his palm covering the back of her hand.

But she had also seen Ella and Gilbert, and the memory intruded upon any comfort she might have felt from Ian’s touch. Ella, who’d been ahead of Rachel in school by several years, had been very close to the professor, too. When Rachel had seen her talking to him after the hearing, she’d been struck by her friend’s pleading gestures, the desperation written on her face. Rachel knew that the pregnant woman had been trying to convince Gilbert to confess that he was the benefactor, but of course, the older man had sat there shaking his head, apparently resolute and clueless to the fact that the rest of the gang was already armed with the truth.

Why can’t he just admit it? Rachel wondered once again. Can’t he see the revelation would only help his cause?

She felt Ian’s hand tighten over hers. Instinctively, she turned her palm upward. His skin was rough, masculine, strong in its reassurance. When he rubbed his thumb near hers, the easy caress took her breath away.

But then she glanced into his eyes—those intense reporter’s weapons. All the questions he was harboring speared into her and, suddenly, she remembered who they both were.

A journalist.

And his prey.

She backed away from him, disconnecting, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why are you here again?”

On the counter, his hand closed, just like the mouth of a predator after it realizes that its last meal has escaped.

But Ian’s posture told a different story. For a moment, he seemed sad, lost in an entirely different way.

“I just…” He straightened in his chair, shrugged. “I wanted you to know what I saw today, what I’m going to report—a man being railroaded.”

Excellent! But…he could’ve phoned her with this news.

Was it possible that he only wanted to see her again, and that’s why he’d shown up on her doorstep?

Before Rachel could get too excited, she dissuaded herself from believing it.

Instead, she looked askance at him. “I thought you were supposed to sit on the fence, to stand back and report the facts.”

“Yeah. That’s how it’s supposed to be. But sometimes it’s impossible to divorce yourself from a story, especially when there’s real injustice. The more I learn about Gilbert Harrison, the more I suspect Alex Broadstreet’s motives.”

Her arms slipped from their protective position across her chest as he continued.

“I’m more surprised at my feelings than anyone,” he said, laughing a little, “but I was getting riled at that hearing. I’ve even had this pinch of…I don’t know what it is…anger?…that Gilbert is going to come out on the wrong side of everything and—you know what? That’s wrong. A Good Samaritan is taking a beating from an authority figure and I can’t stop it.”

Rachel refused to comment. Had Ian found proof that Gilbert was the benefactor? No. He couldn’t. He would’ve come right out and said it by now. He was only talking in generalities.

“It doesn’t sit right with me,” he added. “Hell, but what do I know? Gilbert won’t agree to an interview, so I have no basis for a personal opinion.”

Rachel’s heart crashed to the tile. “Ah. So that’s it. You want me to set up an interview with him.”

Of course. That was the reason for Ian’s home invasion. He wanted to work his wiles on her in person, probably knowing she was a sucker where Gilbert’s well-being was concerned.

Ian ran a finger over the rim of the popcorn bowl, his brow furrowed. “Even though I’d like nothing better than to talk with him, that’s not why I’m here, Rachel. I…” He shook his head. “Damn, I’m not sure why I came.”

She chanced a look at him, finding that he was doing the same. When their gazes locked, her pulse paused…stretched…popped, forcing her to glance away.

The room seemed entirely too small with him in it. Alarmingly, space only seemed to shrink more and more with every tick of the clock on the fireplace mantel.

But the last thing she wanted to do was acknowledge the taunt awareness, the sensual snap in the air.

This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t he see the barriers between them…his job, the color of her skin?

“Who would’ve thunk it?” she said, evading the moment. “You’re actually a crusader, Ian Beck.”

“Not me.” He sighed, grinned, grabbed some popcorn and rattled it around in his closed hand. The cavalier journalist had returned, thank goodness. “I haven’t been a pen-wielding warrior for a while. But if Gilbert manages to get his fat pulled out of the fire, I wouldn’t mind seeing it.”

As he tossed the food into his mouth, he seemed much too casual. Was he lying to her? Did Ian Beck really have a softer side? Not that he’d admit to it.

Still, this new possibility prodded her to talk—really talk—about what was happening. More than anything, she wanted to spill her doubts and fears about Gilbert, to lean on someone else’s shoulder in order to take the burden off of her own.

Be careful, she told herself. This man is an investigative reporter. Don’t you think he’s used this act before? Don’t you think this is how he gets his dirt?

Even so, the thought of revealing everything to a person who wouldn’t be around for much longer was tempting. After he was gone, her confessions would leave town with him, too, as if she’d never spoken at all.

A stranger, she thought. A temporary haven.

Then reality slapped her upside the head. The last person she wanted to blab to was a journalist, for heaven’s sake. But if he were any other friendly companion, she knew she’d really give some serious thought to allowing a man like Ian Beck to give her some relief.

And maybe even in more ways than one.

Fleetingly, she imagined leaning her head against his chest, closing her eyes as he enveloped her with his strong arms, breathing easy as he stroked her back, his hands slipping under her shirt to caress her bare skin.

Warmed by the fantasy, she smiled at him, then tentatively walked closer, reaching in to the bowl for a handful of popcorn.

Unexpectedly, he did the same thing.

Their fingers brushed, sending giddy shivers up her arm, through her skin, down to her belly.

“If you want,” he said softly, keeping his hand near hers, “I can show you my rough draft tomorrow. You can give me your thumbs-up before my deadline.”

Wow, he was really trying to earn her trust and reel her in.

Curiously, she skimmed her finger over his as she picked up a kernel, acting as if the contact was an accident, even if they both knew it wasn’t. As she brought the food to her mouth, he didn’t look at the popcorn so much as her lips.

She allowed herself to rest the snack against her mouth, enjoying his frank interest, still thrown off balance by it, too. “Thank you. I’d really like that.”