The Way Home. Irene Hannon
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that her nemesis was, indeed, present. Sure enough, there he was, looking incredibly handsome in his tux—and extremely uncomfortable in the glare of the spotlight, judging by the flush on his face and his strained smile. Cal Richards, who shied away from publicity, was allowing himself to be ogled by a roomful of raucous women and auctioned off for charity! It was incredible! It was unbelievable! It was…the chance she’d been waiting for, she realized with a jolt! If she bought a date with him, he’d have to talk to her, she reasoned, her mind clicking into high gear. Sure, there was a chance he wouldn’t tell her anything of value. But she was pretty good at ferreting out information. It couldn’t hurt to try, considering she’d run out of other options.
Amy turned to Darlene. “How much are these guys going for?”
Darlene gave her a distracted glance. “What?”
“How much are these guys going for?” Amy repeated impatiently.
“So…someone caught your eye.” Darlene glanced back at the stage and gave Amy a sly smile. “I can’t say I blame you. He’s a hunk. Even if he wasn’t a prosecuting attorney, my defenses would crumble with him in five seconds flat.”
The bidding had already started, and Amy needed information—fast. In the interest of time she restrained the impulse to throttle Darlene. “It’s for a good cause,” she replied with a noncommittal shrug.
Darlene wasn’t buying. “Yeah, right.”
Amy gave up the pretense of disinterest. “So how much?” she repeated urgently.
“The last guy went for three-fifty.”
Amy cringed and glanced back toward the stage. Was it worth the gamble? Cal Richards didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would bend. But even if she got one lead, one piece of information that gave her an edge, it would be worth the money. It was almost like an investment in her career, she rationalized.
Amy glanced around. Women were holding up numbers and calling out their bids. She turned back to her table, spotted the large number in the center and reached for it as the bid rose to three hundred.
She waited until the bidding slowed at four-twenty-five.
“Okay, ladies, is that it? Any more bidders? No? All right, then…” Candace raised her gavel. “Going…going…”
Amy took a deep breath, turned her head slightly away just in case Cal Richards could see past the glare of the spotlight, and held up her number. “Four-fifty.”
There was a momentary hush, and her heart thumped painfully against her rib cage.
“Four-seventy-five,” someone countered.
Amy gulped. “Five hundred.”
A murmur swept the room.
“Now, ladies, that’s what I call a bid!” Candace said approvingly. “Do I hear five and a quarter?”
Amy stopped breathing. Five hundred was about her limit, especially when the odds of hitting the jackpot were about on a par with winning the lottery.
“No? All right, Bachelor #5 is going, going, gone, to table thirty-two and one very lucky lady.”
As enthusiastic applause swept the room and her table mates congratulated her, Amy hoped Candace was right. Because she could use a little luck about now.
“Cal, there’s a woman on the phone who says she won you in an auction. Is she a nut, or is there something you haven’t told me?”
Cal closed his eyes and felt the beginning of a headache prick at his temples. He hadn’t mentioned the auction to anyone in his office, especially not Cynthia. She was a great friend and legal assistant, but ever since she’d walked down the aisle a year ago, she’d made it her personal goal in life to watch him do the same. And she was nothing if not tenacious. “She’s not a nut, Cynthia, and yes, there’s something I haven’t told you.”
As the silence lengthened, he could feel her growing impatience over the line.
“So are you going to come clean of your own free will or do I have to drag it out of you?” she finally demanded.
A bemused smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. “Have you ever thought about going into police work, Cyn? You’d be great at the third degree.”
“Hah-hah. Spill it, Richards.”
He sighed. There was no way around it. He and Cynthia had been co-workers and friends a long time, and she wouldn’t rest until she had the whole story. “I agreed to be one of the bachelors auctioned off at a charity dinner last Friday. A good chunk of the money goes to Saint Vincent’s, so I couldn’t say no.”
“No kidding! Mr. Particular, who finds fault with everyone I suggest as a potential date, is actually going to go out with some strange woman?”
“I certainly hope she’s not strange.”
“Very funny. So do you want to talk to her or not?”
Cal sighed again. No, he didn’t. But he’d have to face this sooner or later, and he might as well get it over with. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Do try to restrain your eagerness,” Cynthia said dryly. “Remember, this woman paid good money for you. You could at least show a little enthusiasm. How much, by the way?”
“Five hundred.”
She gave a low whistle. “All I can say is, you better make this date something to remember. I’ll put her through.”
“Wait! Did she give you her name?”
“No. Don’t you have it?” Cynthia asked in surprise.
“I cut out early that night. She hadn’t gone back to pay yet. They said she’d be in touch with me.”
“Well, it’s payoff time now. Have fun, lover boy.”
Cal grimaced and took a deep breath. This was the most awkward thing he’d ever done, even if it was for a good cause. He just hoped the woman could at least carry on a decent conversation, or it would be one very long evening.
He heard the call go through and, remembering Cynthia’s comment about how much money the bidder had paid, forced a pleasant note into his voice. “Cal Richards speaking.”
“Mr. Richards, I believe we have a date.”
He frowned. The voice was oddly—and unsettlingly—familiar, and a wave of uneasiness swept over him.
“Yes, I think we do,” he replied warily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name the night of the dinner, although I have a feeling we’ve met.”
“Yes, we have. This is Amy Winter.”
Amy Winter? The reporter? Impossible! Fate wouldn’t be that unkind, not after he’d endured being auctioned off in front of hundreds of women, let himself be humiliated for charity. It couldn’t be her!
“Mr. Richards, are you still there?”
It was her, all right, he realized with a sinking feeling. Now that she’d identified herself, he recognized that distinctive, slightly husky voice. His headache suddenly took a turn for the worst, and he closed his eyes. “Yes, I’m here. Look, Ms. Winter, is this a joke?”
“Hardly. I paid good money for this date. And I have the receipt to prove it.”
“But why in the world…?” His voice trailed off as her strategy suddenly became clear. He wouldn’t talk to her in a business setting, so she figured he’d have to in a social situation. A muscle in his jaw clenched, and his headache ratcheted up another notch. “It won’t work, you know,” he said coldly.
“What?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Ms. Winter. You’re still trying to get me to talk about the trial. Well, forget it. You wasted five hundred