Love, Come to Me(67)

“About the reporters . . . ?” Lucy asked Heath, who grinned in approval of her unabashed questions.

“The first thing we’re going to do is to tone down this elaborate prose that somebody decided to make fashionable. I don’t want anything to be fancy or elevated . . . I’m just after something that the average reader won’t have trouble understanding. And reporters in general aren’t skeptical enough—they take down notes on what they hear and see without asking questions, digging deeper, analyzing. There are a lot of readers who don’t know how to interpret what they read, and part of a newspaper’s responsibility is to help them understand the news.”

“But how do you know that you’re interpreting it the right way?”

“Well, that will always be a matter of opinion. Theoretically, we’re supposed to be objective and non-partisan—but few papers are. The Examiner is going to set new standards in that respect. And we’ll either be a stunning success or go bankrupt in a few weeks.”

Lucy laughed. “Such optimism. It’s only my first night in Boston and already you’re warning me of bankruptcy.” She looked at Damon. “Do you agree with these new policies, Mr. Redmond?”

He inclined his head in a short nod. “Insofar as it will be profitable to produce a paper more directed towards the common masses.”

“I’m sure the common masses will be very grateful,” she replied, just a little too sweetly, and closed her mouth as she felt the warning nudge of Heath’s foot underneath the table.

Chapter 8

“What a snob Damon Redmond is!” Lucy exclaimed, climbing into bed and folding her arms across her chest in a disgruntled attitude. “I’m surprised he didn’t insist that I ask permission every time I wanted to speak! Do you think you’re going to be able to work with him? He’ll drive all of the employees away in a week, with that insufferable attitude—”

“He won’t be dealing with them as much as I will.” Heath turned the lamp down and unbuttoned his shirt. “I’ll be able to work with him. He does have his good points—”

“Such as?”

“Damon’s got a sharp mind, and he’ll keep a cool head in an emergency. His editorials are what I need for the paper—clear, analytical, thought-provoking. And to be blunt, he has a circle of friends and acquaintances which might come in handy sooner or later.”

“Why is he bothering with all of this, anyway? If he’s a Redmond, he doesn’t need to worry about money.”

“That’s kind of a sensitive point.” Heath discarded his shirt and sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. His weight caused the sheet to pull tighter over her hips, causing Lucy to shiver lightly at the snug, tucked-in feeling, the coziness of the dimly lit room, the comforting presence of the man beside her. “The real reason he’s bothering with all of this is that he and his family are—as he put it—‘financially embarrassed.’ If the paper can’t be made into a money-making venture, the Redmonds won’t have enough financial resources to keep their high standing in Boston. Not many people know about it, so—”

“I won’t mention it to anyone, of course.” Thoughtfully Lucy plucked at the sleeve of her nightgown. “I guess if he weren’t so arrogant, I’d feel a little sorry for him. His whole family’s depending on him to save their fortune? That would be difficult for him to deal with all the time.” Eyeing her husband mischievously, she made a clicking sound with her tongue. “And to think . . . his success or failure depends entirely on some radical Southerner and his crazy ideas about the newspaper business—”

“I’ll get you for that!”

Suddenly Lucy was pinned flat on her back, and she squirmed and giggled as he reached under the covers and extracted his revenge. “Don’t! Don’t! I can’t stand being tickled!” She shrieked with laughter and protest. “Heath . . . if you don’t quit . . .”

“You’ll what?” he asked, rolling onto his side as he grinned down at her.

His smile was beautiful. She caught her breath as she met his warm blue eyes, and then she chuckled throatily. “I’ll tickle you back.”

“It won’t work on me.”

“I bet it will!” Experimentally she pattered her fingers lightly over his tawny-skinned side, near his armpit. He didn’t flinch.

“See? My hide’s been toughened up with too many battle scars.”

Her face fell. “Is that true?”

He laughed softly. “No, I was joking. I wasn’t ticklish before the war, either.”

“I don’t like to joke about that.” Her gaze swept over the marks that battle and combat had left on his skin. Long-ago hurts, too late for her to tend and soothe them. The thought of him wounded, bleeding, made her stomach wobble and her heart ache. Tentatively she looked over him, cataloging the healed-over marks on his body, finding that there weren’t quite as many as she had thought before. There was a long, thin scar that trailed from his neck down to his collarbone, and much smaller ones across his muscle-patterned midriff, and a line that extended from the side of his abdomen down into the waistband of his trousers. Slowly Lucy reached out and touched his shoulder, first stroking over the faded evidence of a bullet wound, then gliding her fingertips to the scar over his collarbone. Her hand was small and white against the burnt-in tan of his chest.