No Stranger to Scandal

He couldn’t let his guard down and think of her as a woman.

He had an investigation to run and involvement with Lucy Royall would compromise his objectivity. Compromise him. He was ethically bound to keep emotional distance between them.

“Hayden?” she asked breathlessly.

He gripped the steering wheel until his fingers hurt, trying to anchor himself to something. “Yes?”

“Were you about to kiss me?”

His heart stuttered to a stop. He should have known Lucy wasn’t the type of woman to let things lie, to choose the sensible path. “There was a moment, before I thought better of it,” he admitted.

“I wish you had.”

About the Author

RACHEL BAILEY developed a serious book addiction at a young age (via Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddleduck) and has never recovered. Just how she likes it. She went on to earn degrees in psychology and social work, but is now living her dream—writing romance for a living.

She lives on a piece of paradise on Australia’s Sunshine Coast with her hero and four dogs, where she loves to sit with a dog or two, overlooking the trees and reading books from her evergrowing to-be-read pile.

Rachel would love to hear from you and can be contacted through her website, www.rachelbailey.com.

No Stranger

to Scandal

Rachel Bailey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my father, Colin.

You didn’t live to see my name on a book cover,

but I know you’d have been proud. I miss you.

Acknowledgments:

Thanks to Barbara DeLeo and Sharon Archer

for reading early drafts of this book and your

insightful comments. And to Bron and Heather

for the cheer squad.

Thanks to the other authors in the Daughters of Power

continuity—it’s been a pleasure working with you.

And to Charles Griemsman, the editor for the series—

as always, your guidance was invaluable.

One

Hayden Black flicked through the documents and photos scattered across his D.C. hotel suite desk until he found the one he needed. Hauntingly beautiful hazel eyes; shoulder-length blond hair that shone as if polished; designer-red lips. Lucy Royall. The key to his investigation for Congress that would bring down her stepfather, Graham Boyle.

After his preliminary research from his New York base, he’d decided the twenty-two-year-old heiress who’d been handed life on a silver platter was the weak link he’d target to gather all the information on Graham Boyle’s criminal activities. His first appointment this morning had been to get a colleague’s take on Ms. Royall so he would be prepped when he met her.

He flicked the photo to the side and picked up another—this one her publicity shot from Boyle’s news network, American News Service, where Lucy worked as a junior reporter. Even with the professional tone and her eyes heavily made up with expertly applied gray smudges and mascara, she looked far too young, too innocent, to be mixed up in the dirty business of ANS illegally hacking into the phones of the president’s friends and family. But looks could be deceiving, especially when it came to pampered princesses. No one knew that better than he did.

Lucy Royall had been billionaire Graham Boyle’s stepdaughter since she was twelve, and her own deceased father had left her a vast fortune. She hadn’t been born with a plain old silver spoon in her mouth—hers had been pure platinum and diamond-encrusted.

He dropped the photo and picked up one of another blonde journalist—ANS senior reporter Angelica Pierce. Only ten minutes ago he’d completed an interview with Ms. Pierce, so he could vouch for both the perfectly white, straight teeth in her plastic broadcast news journalist smile and her aqua eyes. There was something strange about that shade of blue—it looked more like colored contacts than natural. But she spent half her life in front of a TV camera. Angelica Pierce wouldn’t be alone in the industry if she was trying to make the most of what she had to look good for the viewers.

Angelica had been eager to help, saying the phone hacking scandal tainted all journalists. And she’d been especially eager to help on the subject of Lucy Royall. Apparently, when Lucy had graduated from college, Boyle had handed her the job of junior reporter over many more qualified applicants, and now, according to Angelica, Lucy could be found “swanning around the office like she’s on a movie set, refusing assignments she doesn’t like and expecting privileges.”

Hayden glanced back at Lucy’s photo, with her silk shirt and modest diamond earrings—all tastefully understated yet subtly conveying wealth and class. He could believe she had a sense of entitlement.

But during the interview, Angelica had done something particularly interesting. She’d lied to him about Lucy threatening her. The signs in her body language had been almost imperceptible, but he’d interviewed countless people over the years and was used to picking up what other people missed.

Of course, there were reasons she might lie—a star reporter watching a young, pretty journalist who happened to be related to the network’s owner coming up through the ranks would be nervous. People lied for less every day.

But something told him there was more to the story. Admittedly, his first instinct was always to distrust journalists—they were too used to manipulating facts to make a good story. But this whole investigation centered around journalists, so for objectivity’s sake, he’d have to put that aside and take them as they came for now.

He shuffled the photos till he found one of Graham Boyle. Hayden’s background research for the congressional committee’s investigation into phone hacking and other illegal activities kept leading him back to Boyle.

And his stepdaughter.

Angelica Pierce might have lied about Lucy Royall threatening her, perhaps to protect her job. But he had no trouble believing that Ms. Royall was a spoiled princess playing at being a journalist. Which suited him just fine. Coaxing an admission from her about Boyle’s dirty dealings would be a piece of cake—he’d had enough experience with pampered heiresses to know exactly how to handle them.

Lucy Royall was going down, and taking her stepfather with her.

Lucy wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear and kept typing up the questions for Mitch Davis, the anchor of one of ANS’s nightly news shows. He was interviewing a Florida senator in four hours and wanted the list by midday to give himself a chance to familiarize himself with it. Which gave her exactly ten more minutes, and she had an appointment with the congressional committee’s criminal investigator, Hayden Black, at one. So the call from Marnie Salloway, one of the news producers, was bad timing. Though that was exactly how this job always seemed to work—too many tasks, too many bosses.

“Marnie, can I call you back in fifteen?”

“I’ll be in a meeting then. I need to talk to you now,” Marnie snapped.

“Okay, sure.” Lucy smiled so her voice sounded pleasant despite her frantic mood. “What do you need?”

“What I need is a list of locations to send the cameraman this afternoon to get the background footage for the story on the president’s daughter tonight.”

Lucy frowned and kept typing. “I emailed that this morning.”

“You sent a list of ten options. Not enough. Have twenty in my inbox by twelve-thirty.”

Lucy glanced at the glowing red digital clock on the wall. Nine minutes to twelve. She held back a sigh. “All right, you’ll have it.”

She replaced the receiver and wasted a precious twenty seconds by dropping her aching head to her desk. When she’d graduated, Graham had offered her a job as a full-fledged reporter. She’d refused, so he’d offered her the spot as a weekend anchor. He was just trying to help her, as he’d done since she was twelve, but she didn’t want a top job.

No, that wasn’t true—she definitely wanted a top reporting job. But she wanted to earn it, to be good. To be respected for her journalistic ability. And the only way to develop that expertise was to work under the great journalists, to learn the skills.

But days like today had her questioning that decision, or at least questioning the decision to take a junior-reporter role at ANS. She wasn’t the only junior here, but she was the only one treated like an indentured servant. And the person who’d treated her the worst had been her former hero, Angelica Pierce. Drawing in a deep breath, she went back to typing the last questions for Mitch Davis’s interview and emailed them to him with three minutes to spare, then called up the list of locations she’d emailed Marnie for the background footage and opened her web browser to look for alternatives.

It had been made very clear to her on her first day that the other ANS staff resented having Graham’s stepdaughter in their newsroom. Rumors had made it back to her that they suspected she was a spy for Graham. Lucy was pretty sure their antagonism was misplaced resentment for authority—people always loved to dig the boot into the boss, and she represented the boss to them. In some ways she couldn’t blame them, but she wouldn’t let them get to her. Her policy had been to keep her head down and do every menial task the more senior staff asked of her, ridiculous or not.

She sent the extended list to Marnie, grabbed her bag and ran out the door for her meeting with Hayden Black. If she caught a cab and there wasn’t too much traffic, she’d make it with a few minutes to spare. On the street, she grabbed a coffee and raspberry muffin, stuffed the muffin in her scarlet hold-all handbag and took a long sip of the coffee before hailing a cab. This was one meeting she didn’t want to arrive at late—Congress was wasting time and money on a wild-goose chase, investigating her stepfather for illegal phone-hacking practices at ANS despite already having the culprits in custody. Today was her turn to be interviewed, to defend Graham. He’d been there for whatever she needed for almost half her life; now she would be there for him.

The cab dropped her at the Sterling Hotel, where Hayden Black was staying and conducting his interviews. Apparently he’d been offered an office for his investigation but he preferred neutral territory—an interesting move. Most investigators liked the extra authority afforded by an official office. She sipped the last of her coffee in the elevator and checked her reflection in the mirrored wall—the wind had blown her hair all over the place. The doors slid open as she combed her fingers through the disheveled mess to make it more presentable. First impressions counted, and Graham was depending on her.

She checked the number on the hotel suite door, then knocked with the hand holding the empty paper cup, straightening her skirt with her other. She looked around for a trash can, but turned back when she heard the door open and started to smile in an I’ve-got-nothing-to-hide way.

And froze, the smile only half-formed.

A tall man in a crisp white shirt, crimson tie and neatly pressed dark trousers filled the doorway—Hayden Black. The air shifted around her, became heavier, uneven. She’d met a lot of powerful men in her job, in her life, yet none had had the presence of this man before her, as if his energy somehow flowed out and charged the space around him. The thicker air was difficult to draw into her lungs and she had to struggle to fill them.

Frown lines formed across his forehead. Dark brown eyes stared at her from a lightly weathered face, and they didn’t seem to like what they saw. Her skin cooled. He was judging her already and the interview hadn’t even begun. All her resilience coalesced, snapping her out of whatever flight of fancy had overtaken her for those moments, and she straightened her spine. That was more than fine—she was used to people judging her based on preconceived ideas about her wealth, her lifestyle and her upbringing. An investigator for Congress was just one more to add to the list. She lifted her chin and waited.

He cleared his throat. “Ms. Royall. Thank you for coming.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Black,” she said using the polite voice her mother had taught her to always start with when she wanted to win something. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Lucy.

He extended an arm to show her through the door. “Can I get you anything before we start?” His voice was gruff, unwelcoming.

“I’m fine, thank you.” She took a seat and put the hold-all bag on the floor beside her.

He lowered himself into the chair opposite and granted her a condescending glance. “We’ll run through some simple questions about ANS and your stepfather. If you keep your answers to the truth, we shouldn’t experience any trouble.”

A surge of heat rushed across her skin. The patronizing jerk. If she kept her answers to the truth, they shouldn’t experience any trouble? She was twenty-two, had a degree from Georgetown University and owned one-sixth of the biggest department-store chain in the country. Did he think she would accept being treated like a child?

She gave him her best guileless smile, reached for her large red bag and deposited it on the desk in front of her. Then she combined the sweet voice of her mother with the rapid-fire manner she’d learned from Graham, laying on her North Carolina accent extra thick for good measure. “You know, I think I will have a glass of water, if that’s okay. I’ve got a muffin here I’d like to eat—you don’t mind, do you?—I skipped lunch to make this meeting and I’ll think more clearly with some food in my stomach.”

He hesitated, then murmured, “Of course,” and rose to get her water.

She took a satisfied breath—she’d thrown him off balance. When he put the glass in front of her, she handed him her paper coffee cup. “And could you throw this away for me while you’re up? I didn’t want to put it in my bag in case any residual moisture leaked out, and there wasn’t a trash can in the hallway.” He took the cup, but seemed far from happy about it. She smiled at him again. “Thank you. You’d be surprised how many people refuse a simple request, but then again, you’re a criminal investigator. Maybe you wouldn’t.” She broke off a piece of muffin and popped it into her mouth.

He sat back in his chair and stared at her, hard. Seemed he’d regained his balance. “Ms. Royall—”

Swallowing, she reached into her bag and came out with a notepad. “I’m going to take notes on what we talk about. I always find it’s best if everyone remembers exactly what’s said in interviews, whatever kind they are. Helps everyone keep their answers to the truth and that way we shouldn’t run into trouble.” She broke off another piece of her muffin and held it out to him. “Raspberry muffin?”

His eyes narrowed and she wondered if she’d pushed too far. But he simply said, “No.” Albeit with a stern finality.

“It’s a very good muffin.” She slipped the piece into her mouth and reached into her bag again for a pen.

“Are you ready?” he asked in a tight voice.

She looked down at her pen and clicked it. “Just give me one more moment. I’d rather be fully prepared for an important conversation like this.” She put her bag on the floor again, and wrote at the top of her page,

Hayden Black interview. April 2, 2013.

Then she beamed up at him. “I’m ready.”

Hayden resisted the impulse to groan and instead called up the neutral expression that was normally easy to find in an interview. Lucy Royall was exactly like her photo, yet nothing like it. Her hair was shiny and blond, but sitting haphazardly around her shoulders, as if she’d stood in a gust of D.C. wind. Her lips were the same as the photo, but were bronze today, and full, sensual, as they moved while she ate the muffin. Despite his intentions, his breath hitched. Her eyes were the same shade of hazel, but in person they shone with intelligence. He knew she was trying to play him, and damned if she wasn’t having some success. And he was unsure if that irritated or amused him.

But one thing that didn’t amuse him was his unexpected reaction when he’d first opened the door. He’d been thunderstruck. She wasn’t merely beautiful, she was breathtaking. There was a light around her, inside her. A glow that was so appealing, he’d had to focus hard so his hand wouldn’t reach out. And was there a more inappropriate woman on the planet for him to have a reaction this strong to? The daughter of the man he was investigating on behalf of a congressional committee. A woman who, if his guess was correct, was complicit in her stepfather’s illegal activities.

The woman herself raised her brows, either because his face had contorted with self-disgust or because she was sitting there, pen poised, waiting for him to start the interview while he merely stared.

Clearing his throat, he thumbed the button to start the recording equipment. “Tell me about your relationship with Graham Boyle.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Graham has been my stepfather since I was twelve years old. He’s a sweet man with a good heart.”

Sweet? In another setting he may have laughed. The man owned a national cable-news network and was feared by competitors and allies alike. For Graham Boyle, the ends justified the means—he demanded that his reporters do anything to get a story.

And someone who’d been part of Graham Boyle’s immediate family for ten years couldn’t be completely unaware of his ruthless nature.

“That’s not the common perception,” he said mildly.

“Do your parents see you the same way your friends do, Mr. Black? Your girlfriends? Employees? Bosses?” She drew in a breath and seemed to grow taller in her seat. “My stepfather has the type of job where he has to make tough decisions, and people who disagree with those decisions might see him as hard-hearted. But he has been nothing but kind and generous to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But he hasn’t been accused of making tough decisions, Ms. Royall. He’s been accused of authorizing or at least condoning illegal phone hacking to obtain information about the president’s illegitimate daughter.”

She stilled. The only movement was the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Then she leaned forward, slowly, deliberately. “Let me tell you what sort of man he is. When my mother died three years ago, Graham was devastated. He could barely walk away from the graveside service—he had to be supported by two family friends, he was that riddled with grief. Then, despite the hours his job demands, and his own grief, he made a point of calling me, visiting, bringing me gifts. Making sure I was okay.” She sat back again, but her body remained tense. “He’s a good man.”

There was something deeply attractive about her impassioned defense of her stepfather. The way her eyes sparked made his breath catch. Made his pulse that much faster—a far from ideal response to an interviewee. Determinedly, he ignored it. He was a professional.

“Al Capone was good to his family,” he said.

Her cheeks flushed red. “I resent the heck out of your implication.”

He flicked his pen between the fingers of his right hand and arched a brow. “I wasn’t implying anything beyond pointing out that being good to his family doesn’t automatically exclude a person from engaging in illegal activities.”

Lucy held his gaze across the table for long, challenging seconds. He let the silence lengthen. In situations like this, patience was his friend.

She dropped her gaze to the pad of paper in front of her and her blond hair swung forward a little. An image rose in his mind of threading his fingers through her hair, of tilting her face up to him, of lowering his own until his mouth gently touched hers, of feeling the softness of her plump lips, the passion she—

Suddenly his shirt collar was too tight. Damn it, what was he doing? In an important investigation like this, he couldn’t afford to be attracted to a witness.

Get ahold of yourself, Black.

He drew in a breath and stared at her until all he saw was a woman covering up for a criminal.

“Have you participated in any instances of illegal surveillance at ANS?” he asked, more harshly than he’d intended.

“No,” she said, lacing her fingers together on the table in front of her.

Without missing a beat, he continued. “Are you aware of any instances of illegal surveillance at ANS?”

“No, I’m not.” Her voice was measured, even.

“Have you participated in or been aware of any instances of any illegal activity at ANS?”

“No.”

“Did you work with former ANS journalists Brandon Ames and Troy Hall when they used illegal phone hacking to uncover the story about the president’s illegitimate daughter?”

“No.”

“Were they carrying out orders from your stepfather?”

“Of course not.”

“They initially blamed the phone hacking on a temporary researcher, but the researcher was clean. Do you know who it was at ANS who helped them?”

“As far as I know, no one.”

“What’s your take on why the accusations have been made against ANS and Graham Boyle?”

She let out a long breath. “Those who make something of their lives always attract those who want to tear them down.”

Unfortunately, he knew that wasn’t where the accusations had originated. Graham Boyle might have a good point or two, might treat his stepdaughter well, but he was still a ruthless jerk who’d hurt many.

“How do you think ANS came up with the leads that uncovered President Morrow’s daughter? He was a Montana senator before his presidential campaign—it’s not as if no one’s looked into his background before.”

For the first time, an uncertain line appeared between her brows. “I don’t know. I wasn’t working on that story.”

He knew he had to push further, but God help him, with that look on her face, he wanted to reassure her instead. To take her hand across the table and tell her everything would be okay. Despite that, the cynical part of his brain knew it was probably an act. He needed to listen to that side of himself more.

“But you talk to other journalists, surely,” he said, thankfully hitting the skeptical note he’d aimed for. “And this story and its methods are very high profile. You’re telling me you’ve heard nothing about how they got the lead?”

“Good old investigative journalism—it’s hard to beat.” Her perkiness was forced, but he didn’t get the sense she was lying in an underhanded way. Not like the last woman who’d sat in that chair. This was a woman who didn’t get on with her colleagues, felt excluded from them and was covering up for that. A shaft of unwanted tenderness hit him squarely in the chest.

But Angelica Pierce had made it clear whose fault that lack of integration was. Feeling sorry for Lucy Royall was a dangerous trap. He rubbed a hand over his face. This interview wasn’t working, wasn’t getting him anywhere. Perhaps the lack of sleep over the past few months was finally affecting his investigative edge.

Hayden glanced at his watch. Maybe it’d be better to finish early today, pick up his son from the nanny next door and go for a walk in one of D.C.’s parks. He could interview Lucy Royall again when his focus was stronger.

“Thanks for your time,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “I’ll be in touch when I need to speak with you again.”

She tucked her notebook and pen into her bag and stood. “Mr. Black, I understand that you’re just doing your job. But I hope you haven’t already discounted the possibility that Graham Boyle might be innocent.”

Hayden pushed to his feet and rested his hands low on his hips. “If the evidence shows he’s innocent, Ms. Royall, that’s what I’ll report back to Congress.”