Pull Of The Moon. Sylvie Kurtz
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soul.
We give you everything, Valerie. Isn’t that enough?
It should be, and that it wasn’t, truly pained her.
This curiosity had landed her the job as coordinating producer for Florida Alive, a half-hour magazine format program that aired Monday through Friday at seven, right after the nightly news, and showcased people, places and things of interest in the state.
So, okay, Florida Alive was considered soft news and didn’t exactly hit life-altering issues. That didn’t mean she couldn’t find the deeper meaning in a sand sculpture competition or the creation of pastry masterpieces or the raising of camels. What fired up other people, what gave their lives purpose, what made them feel alive fascinated her. Passion fascinated her. And traveling all over the state to see new places and meet all sorts of different people was an amazing bonus for a girl with wanderlust who hadn’t traveled more than fifty miles from home until after graduating from college.
Mike peered at the massive house, no doubt gauging shot angles. “So, you think she’s dead?”
Valerie’s gaze climbed up the polygonal tower, and a shiver rippled down her spine. Crazy, but the child’s frantic cries seemed to vibrate against Valerie’s chest and the child’s panic to shudder down Valerie’s limbs, making her hands cold and clammy.
She reached for the French vanilla coffee she’d bought at the Dunkin’ Donuts a few towns back and warmed her hands against the paper cup. With a fervor that rocked her, she wanted that baby to be safe somewhere. Who took a child from her own bedroom? Who could purposely cause such grief? And why?
Valerie swallowed and ripped her gaze back to Mike. “After twenty-five years…”
“It’s kind of sad to think of this lady pining away for her dead kid for so long.”
But what else could a mother do? Without proof of death, she couldn’t give up. As much as Valerie and her mother didn’t see eye-to-eye on practically anything, her mother would search the ends of the earth to find her, and Valerie would do the same for her mother. Recalling their argument that morning, Valerie winced and made a mental note to call once she got back to the inn and apologize. “That’s why we have to do the best job we can with the story.”
Mike slanted her a knowing grin. “You just want Krista’s job when she goes off on maternity leave.”
Valerie had eyed the news producer’s job ever since Krista had announced her pregnancy. It was a stepping-stone to producing harder-hitting stories, one Valerie had to cross if she ever wanted to get to New York. “So what if I do?”
Mike cranked off the engine and shot his hands up. “Hey, I’m just saying, word is, you’ve got competition for the spot.”
Bailey-the-Beautiful. “Sure and steady wins the race.”
“Only in fables, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe.”
Racking up a mental to-do list, Valerie juggled her cell phone, purse, portfolio of notes and cup of coffee. “I’ll introduce myself to Ms. Meadows and set up a time to look through her archives tomorrow. I’ll see if I can find more potential witnesses. I have that prison interview set up for Thursday. Then we can shoot Ms. Meadows’s interview on Friday.” Which would mean spending the whole weekend editing to get the package ready to air next week. No wonder she didn’t have a social life. That wouldn’t be so bad, except for the coming-home-to-only-a-dog part. “You can get started on the exteriors. Can you get a tracking shot coming up the drive? Low angle so the house seems to pop out of the fog? Maybe a Dutch angle to make it look spooky?”
“No problem.”
Mike had a great eye. She could count on him getting her the shots she needed. She pointed at the third-floor room of the turret. “That’s where she disappeared from. Make sure you get some shots from all angles. And this living room window, too. That’s where the party was held. I want the window to look as if it’s glowing so the viewer can imagine the party in full swing.”
“Got it.” Mike got out of the car. “Keep it short, will ya? I haven’t eaten anything all day, except for those stale airline pretzels.”
Valerie nodded distractedly. She’d add festive sounds during editing for the full effect. Sipping on her coffee, she stared at the window. What was it like to realize that while you were entertaining guests someone had sneaked upstairs and stolen your only child while she slept? Her heart tripped on a beat. The guilt had to crush poor Rita Meadows.
Mike was sorting through his gear in the trunk of the rental by the time she reached the solid-oak front door. She was about to ring the antique bell when the door blew open and the hard body of a man, carrying a briefcase and an air of hurry nearly crashed into her.
“Who are you? What do you want?” The timbre of his voice was deep and vibrant, echoing in the cavern of the foyer behind him. Costumed in a thousand-dollar suit and a hundred-dollar haircut, he exuded the righteous bearing and win-at-all-costs menace of a corporate sharpshooter. At the sight of those eyes, so dark and primal, a flash of awakening skittered through her brain and a choked jolt of something more acute than simple recognition made her catch her breath.
Nicolas Galloway. The man Rita Meadows had hired to run her father’s investment firm after Wallace Meadows’s death.
And, wow, Nick-the-Pit-Bull certainly lived up to his reputation as a rabid guardian. Voted most eligible, yet most elusive bachelor of New England by Boston Magazine. Smooth, charming and appealing. And definitely effective, if his investment track record was true. Although why anyone would want to pursue a man who ran his love life like an investment was beyond her understanding.
Somewhere over Virginia, she’d decided that he was going to be a problem. Meeting him did nothing to change her mind. But she could put personal prejudices aside. She pinned on a smile, freed one hand and stuck it out. “Hi, I’m Val—”
He fired a poison eye-dart at her. “Good God, don’t tell me you’re one of them—”
“I’m—”
“How did you get past the security?”
“The gate was—”
“I don’t have time for this today. Go away and don’t bother coming back. We won’t even talk to you unless you agree to a DNA test, and you’ll need to contact our lawyer’s office for that.”
He tried to bulldoze his way past her, posture straight, a relentless quality on a face with an unsmiling mouth and a strong bone structure. Armored with her portfolio, purse and cup of coffee, she stepped in front of him, blocking his path. She may look small enough to squash, but he wasn’t going to step all over her that easily.
Their eyes connected like lightning, and Valerie had a sense of space rushing dizzily. Wow, those eyes. Beneath the power, they bore a scar of pain. And sadness. How could that be when his bio spelled out an idyllic childhood?
Get real, Valerie. She shook her head. Figuring out what made Nicolas Galloway tick wasn’t on her busy agenda.
“I’m Valerie Zea, like sea.” Her name—like her life—seemed an abbreviation of something bigger. “I’m the coordinating producer for WMOD-TV in Orlando, Florida. Ms. Meadows is expecting me.”
“What for?” His icy calm chilled the already cool air and made her wish she’d put on more layers under her blazer.
Stay professional. You were invited. You have the right to be here. “We’re producing two segments on her daughter’s kidnapping twenty-five years ago.”
Without a word, he pulled her inside.
“Hey, let go of me!”
He slammed the door shut behind them. Panes in the narrow windows framing the door reverberated in their casings. Light glazed the walls of the foyer with false warmth, clouding details, reviving that