No Stranger to Scandal. Rachel Bailey
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toward Graham Boyle, but now he’d become distracted again by her natural way with his son. He rubbed his fingers over his eyes and refocused on his new plan—build rapport and see what else he could discover in the casual setting.
“We’re walking this way, how about you?” he said, sinking a hand into his pocket. “Josh and I have just come out for our lunch break.”
Lucy beamed over at him. “We’d love to join you for a walk, wouldn’t we, Rosie?”
Hayden hoisted Josh up onto his shoulder, but the boy leaned toward Lucy with his arms out. Hayden arched an eyebrow. Josh didn’t normally go to new people this easily—why did he have to overcome his trust issues with someone Hayden was investigating?
Lucy laughed and held up Rosebud’s lead. “How about we swap?”
Still, he didn’t move. Building rapport while taking a walk was one thing, but letting her carry his son, crossing personal lines, was dangerous, and something he’d never done before.
“Daddy,” Josh said, pointing to Lucy. “Up.”
And right there was his Achilles’ heel. Josh wanted Lucy, and Hayden wanted Josh to be happy. Complex ethical issues boiled down to pure simplicity.
“Sure,” he said. He took the dog’s lead and handed over his son, trying to minimize touching Lucy in both tasks since he was in enough trouble as it was. “I’ll take that bag while you have Josh.”
“It’s fine.” She tickled Josh’s side and was rewarded with giggles. “I’m used to having it over my shoulder.”
He nodded and they started along the paved path that wound alongside the sparkling river, Hayden busy trying not to physically smack himself over the head. He’d been brought in by a congressional committee to investigate ANS, and Graham Boyle in particular. And now here he was, in a D.C. park, talking a stroll with the man’s stepdaughter, allowing her to cuddle his son, offering to carry her bag and walking the wretched man’s dog.
Not to mention that his pulse was pounding too hard for a casual walk, which had less to do with the exercise than with the woman whose elbow was mere inches from his own. So close he could practically feel all her vibrant energy radiating out and filling the air around her.
He cleared his throat. “Ms. Royall—”
“Lucy.” With his son’s fist wrapped around her fingers, she glanced up at him. “We’re walking in a park on a lunch break. I think you can call me Lucy.”
“Lucy, then.” The name felt unusual as his mouth moved around the word. He’d only said it aloud together with her surname before, but alone it seemed special, prettier. More intimate.
“Yes?”
He looked down at her, frowning. “Yes, what?”
“You were about to say something when I told you to call me Lucy.”
Good point. But he had no idea what it had been. He thrust the fingers of his free hand into his hair. He’d called their interview to a halt because he was getting distracted. Seemed the extra twenty-four hours to regroup hadn’t helped any.
He searched his brain for a way to informally find a path to the information he wanted. “Did you always want to be a journalist?”
They waited while Rosebud sniffed the base of a tree, and Lucy shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe not always. But since I interned with Graham when I was sixteen.”
“What did you want to be before that?”
“My father’s family is in department stores,” she said casually. “When he died I inherited his stock. I always thought I’d do a business degree and work there.”
Her family was “in department stores”? He almost laughed. In his preliminary research he’d found that Lucy was one of the Royall Department Stores Royalls. A family of old money that stood alongside the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts and Gettys in stature. The woman had pedigree coming out her ears.
Genuine curiosity nibbled. “Have you stayed in touch with that side of your family?”
“Occasionally I see Aunt Judith and her family,” she said softly, with just a tinge of regret. “She has a gorgeous lodge in Fields, Montana, where we sometimes gather for birthdays and Christmases.”
“Fields is a nice place,” he said. Great ski fields and snowboarding, although now just as famous for being the birthplace of President Morrow as its natural charms.
“We’ve had some good family times there. Plus, a couple of times a year I go to a board meeting, and occasionally talk to them about charity events.”
As she tapped a finger on his son’s nose, Hayden watched her and tried to get it all to make sense. Her choices didn’t quite add up with the image he had of a pampered princess.
“Wouldn’t it have been an easier path to work in the Royall family business? You already own significant stock there. You wouldn’t have had to start out at the bottom like you did at ANS.” That was what his wife, Brooke, had done—worked in her family’s banking empire. But in effect, it had only been role-playing. She’d had a big corner office and taken a lot of long lunches.
Lucy arched a challenging eyebrow. “What makes you think I’d want to take the easier path?”
“Human nature.” He didn’t try to hide the cynicism in his voice. “Who wouldn’t want the easier option?”
She was silent and the moment stretched out; the only sound was Josh’s gurgling baby talk. Then she looked up at him with eyes that seemed far too insightful. “Tell me, Hayden, did you take the easiest career option available to you?”
“No,” he admitted. But then, he hadn’t been brought up an heiress like Lucy or Brooke. Completely different situation.
“How long have you been a criminal investigator?” she asked.
“A few years now.” But he wasn’t here to talk about himself. He rolled his shoulders back and changed the conversation’s direction. “What story are you working on now?”
She moved Josh onto her other hip and adjusted his blue hat. “Are you officially asking me?”
He could sense her reluctance, but that wasn’t unusual with journalists trying to keep their scoop under wraps. And since his investigation was about past practices, her current story was irrelevant. He shrugged. “No, just conversation.”
“Then I’ll pass on the question.” She looked up at him and unleashed a dazzling smile. “Did you come out just to walk, or do you have lunch in that bag?”
He held up the brown paper bag. “Lunch. I can offer you half a room-service cheese and tomato on rye.” He’d found that when dealing with hotels, the plainer the order, the less likely they were to ruin it with some embellishment meant to impress but usually falling short. He was a man of simple tastes—he’d take sandwiches on fresh bread from the deli near his office over a fancy restaurant lunch any day.
“You can keep your sandwich,” she said. “I have mine in my bag.”
“Tell me you don’t have a picnic blanket in that bag,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up.
Her forehead crinkled into a confused frown. “A picnic blanket wouldn’t fit in here.”
“You seem to pull out all sorts of things, so a blanket wouldn’t have surprised me,” he said dryly.
They found a patch of grass under a weeping willow a little farther back from the path. He pulled out a sealed plastic bag with a wet washcloth inside and wiped off Josh’s hands before passing him a banana.
“That’s pretty organized,” Lucy said, watching him with those huge hazel eyes.
His hackles went up. “For a dad, you mean?”
“For