To Love & Betray Read online

  C. J. knew how this went; she was a reporter, too. But for once, she was on the receiving end of a media frenzy, and it wasn’t fun.

  “They want to talk to me, not you, though. Can’t you just walk past them?”

  “Maybe. But it’s more likely that as soon as I come through that door, they’re gonna pounce. Some of the reporters know I’m your fiancée. They might want a comment from me, too. I guess I can try to wait them out then leave.” She glanced down at her wristwatch. If she left in thirty minutes and broke a few speed limits, she might be able to still make it to her job interview fashionably late, but it would all depend on morning traffic. “Or maybe I should just reschedule.”

  Terrence rubbed his neck and closed his eyes. “Open the door.”

  She looked up from her watch and blinked. “Huh?”

  “Open the door! I’ll talk to them.”

  “Terry, honey, the last thing your family needs is a shot of you cussing out a TV crew on the morning news!”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to cuss at them. I’ll talk to them. Maybe if I finally answer their goddamn questions, they’ll leave me and Paulette the hell alone!”

  She inclined her head. “Are you sure you really wanna do this?”

  “No, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t seem like I have much choice. You’ve gotta get to your interview, right?”

  She opened her mouth to argue with him, but he didn’t give her a chance. He stepped forward and swung the door open. When he did, C. J. hopped back and hid, taking cover behind one of the entryway walls. Terrence was immediately met by a cameraman and a bottle blonde with big hair, wearing about twenty pounds of makeup. She held a mike and stuck it straight at Terrence’s face while frantically waving the cameraman behind her to step forward. A spotlight suddenly shone down on Terrence, making him squint.

  “Mr. Murdoch! Mr. Murdoch, hi! I’m Susan Schuler at Channel 6 News! How are you this morning?” the reporter drawled while brandishing her bleached-white grin.

  “I’m dandy,” he said dryly. “Just ask your questions and make it quick. If you could keep it under five minutes, I’d appreciate it.”

  The reporter’s smile faded a little. She cleared her throat. “Well, uh . . . We were wondering if we could talk to you about the charges your brother Evan Murdoch is facing.”

  “What do you want to talk about?” Terrence asked, leaning against the door frame.

  Though C. J. knew he was furious at the woman’s question and the presumption it had taken just to show up at his door at eight o’clock in the morning, he didn’t show it. Even from this vantage point, peeking from behind a wall, she could see that he had the veneer of total calm, almost as if he were having a conversation at a dinner party.

  “Are you surprised that your brother was charged with attempted murder? Had you witnessed any violent behavior from him in the past?” the reporter asked.

  C. J. watched as Terrence waited a beat, as his jaw tightened as if he was torn between spewing a series of expletives or slamming the door in the woman’s face. Instead, he exhaled, pushed back his shoulders, and stood upright.

  “‘Surprised’ isn’t the right word. It angers me that the police managed to trump such a bogus charge against my brother and that a prosecutor would move forward with that charge. But no . . . I’m not surprised.”

  The reporter narrowed her blue eyes at him and drew even closer. “I’m sorry. What do you mean by that, Mr. Murdoch? Then why aren’t you surprised?”

  “I mean my brother is a black man in America. It wouldn’t be the first time one of us was railroaded by the legal system—and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

  “Are you making allegations of racism in this case? You think the police are racist?”

  “I’m not alleging anything. I’m just pointing out the obvious. It seems a bit far-fetched that a man who hadn’t even gotten a speeding ticket before or owned a gun permit suddenly decided to track someone down and shoot him in cold blood in a parking garage. Not to mention the fact that my brother had an alibi for that night . . . an alibi that was validated by several people! But hey, I’m not an investigator. I guess I’m not as smart as they are,” he muttered sarcastically.

  “But Mr. Turner claims your brother is the one who shot him,” the reporter charged.

  “Mr. Turner claims a lot of things. Anyone who’s known him personally knows to take whatever he says with a grain of salt.”

  “So you’re saying Mr. Turner is lying?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. And if the jury decides to listen to the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth—they’ll realize that.”

  The reporter turned to the camera. “Well, there you have it! The whole truth and nothing but the truth. Well said!” She faced Terrence again. “Thank you for speaking with us today, Mr. Murdoch!”

  Terrence nodded and forced a smile. “No, thank you.”

  “All right. We’ve got it,” the cameraman boomed as he turned off the overhead light and lowered the camera from his shoulder to his side.

  “Wonderful! Just wonderful!” the reporter said.

  She stared openly at Terrence and coyly batted her false eyelashes. She then gnawed her glossy lower lip. If C. J. was reading this woman right, it looked like she was flirting.

  You’ve gotta be kidding me, C. J. thought with exasperation, fighting the urge to laugh. She didn’t want to give away her hiding spot.

  “Really . . . thank you so much for talking to us, Mr. Murdoch,” the reporter said. Her voice sounded breathy now. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

  He nodded again.

  “I mean I can only imagine how difficult this is for you. You must—”

  Terrence didn’t give her the chance to finish. “Have a good day,” he said, before slamming the door shut.

  When he did, C. J. eased from behind the wall and did a slow clap.

  “Bravo, baby! That was amazing!”

  He blew a puff of air through his cheeks and walked back into the living room. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  “No, seriously, you were smooth . . . articulate . . . charming. I’ve never seen you like that before in front of a camera. I’m a reporter. I’ve seen people freeze up when they talk to the press, but you didn’t. I would’ve thought you were trained to do it!”

  He shrugged. “I guess I learned it from modeling and after years of schmoozing at boring-ass galas. Never thought I’d have to do it to defend my brother from an attempted murder charge, though.”

  “All the same,” she said, linking her arms around his neck and giving him a kiss, “you did good. If Evan could’ve seen it, I’m sure he would have been proud of you.”

  “Maybe.” He slapped her rear end. “Better head out, babe. It’s ten minutes after.”

  “Ah, crap!” She removed her arms from his neck and ran toward the door. “I’m out!” she shouted over her shoulder before grabbing her coat from the hallway closet, swinging open his door, and excusing her way past the news crew. She then fled down the corridor to the elevators.

  * * *

  C. J. fidgeted anxiously in the office chair, flipping through the leather file folder that contained her résumé and clips of articles she had written. The Washington Daily already had both. She had sent them two weeks ago when the human resources department had told her they wanted her to come in for the first round of interviews. This was her second round—this time with the Ralph Haynes, managing editor of the news desk and Pulitzer Prize–win-ning war correspondent. She told herself to take several deep breaths. She told herself to not freak out.

  Be more like Terry, she thought.

  Terrence had faced down a news crew with no prior warning after rolling out of bed, and he had handled himself masterfully. She could certainly handle this.

  “No big deal,” she whispered. “I’ve got this.”

  “You’ve got what?” Haynes’s booming baritone rumbled behind her, making her jump in her chair. He shut hi
s office door and walked toward his desk.

  “Uh, nothing! Nothing,” she mumbled, sitting upright and forcing a smile. She pointed at a series of photographs on display on the wall behind his desk. “I was just wondering if those were pictures of you in Iraq? From the war?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the wall, adjusted the wire frames of his glasses, and sat down. He nodded. “Yeah, not too long after Operation Phantom Fury.”

  “That’s amazing,” she gushed, “that you were there, I mean. That you saw all that stuff and got to report on it. That would be my . . . my absolute dream! I would—”

  “It was hot, bloody, and I saw a lot of good men die,” he replied blandly, leaning back in his office chair. He interlocked his fingers behind his head, revealing damp circles at the armpits of his dress shirt. “Believe me, you wouldn’t have been as eager to be in the thick of that as you’d think.”

  She grimaced. “Maybe. But your writing was awe-inspiring, Mr. Haynes! So vivid and honest. I’ve admired it for years!”

  He nodded again, looking indifferent. “So tell me a little about yourself, C. J.”

  “Well, I’ve . . . I’ve been working at the Chesterton Times for almost three years now. My beat covers the local government and businesses. Sometimes I—”

  “Don’t,” he said, waving his hand. “Don’t do that.”

  “I’m sorry . . . Don’t . . . don’t do what?”

  “Don’t rattle off your résumé to me! I’ve already read it. Remember? Tell me what I can’t find in your résumé or LinkedIn profile. Tell me about what makes you . . . you. Out of all the candidates who applied for this job, why should I add you to my news desk? What makes you so special?”

  She squinted, thrown off by the pointedness of his question and his hostile tone. She clasped her hands in her lap and began to squeeze them. She could feel herself growing hot under her cotton-blend blouse.

  “Well, uh . . . well, I’m a tenacious reporter who—”

  “For example,” he began, as if he hadn’t heard her, “why did you change your name from Courtney to C. J.? What’s the story behind that?”

  C. J.’s stomach dropped. How did he know her name was really Courtney? She continued to stare at him blankly.

  “You didn’t think I’d let that slip by me, did you?” He reached for a pencil on his desk and began to twirl it around and around. “Come on, C. J.! This is a newspaper. You looked like a strong candidate, so I did a little more checking into your background. Call it . . . I know . . . a reporter’s curiosity.”

  Of course, she thought. A few quick searches on Google could have brought up that information, especially since she had appeared at several events with her family to help support her father’s congressional campaign. She hadn’t spoken to her family in months, but that didn’t mean that those old news stories would disappear.

  “That’s . . . that’s f-fine,” she stuttered. “I-I understand.”

  “So why did you change it to C. J.?” he persisted. “And why did you move here from North Carolina? I’m sure with your father’s connections, he could have easily gotten you a position at one of the newspapers down there—with him being Reverend Pete Aston and all.”

  At that, her forced smile disappeared. Her back went rigid. “I don’t need my father’s connections, Mr. Haynes. I can stand on my own two feet.”

  “Whoa! Sounds like I pricked a nerve there! I guess your relationship with your daddy isn’t amicable?”

  “My relationship with my father is not relevant to this conversation. So I suggest we steer the conversation back to the subject of how I’m qualified to work at your news desk.”

  He chuckled. “Do you now?”

  “Yes, I do. And if we aren’t going to do that, then I think I’ll leave right now!”

  “You’re just going to leave? Just like that?”

  “Yes, just like that!” She rose from her chair.

  “Do you know how many reporters would sell their left kidneys for an opportunity to work on my news desk? And you’re just going to walk out on an interview?”

  “Look, I want this job,” she said, as she grabbed her leather satchel from the floor, “but I don’t want it enough to be talked to like this. I’m a good reporter and a hard worker. If you can’t see that, then it’s your goddamn loss!”

  At that, Haynes smiled. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, her frown deepening.

  “I’ve had plenty of candidates come in here with great résumés and clips, kissing my ass and telling me how great I am and how great the paper is. They laughed at all my jokes. Hell, they’d probably stand on their heads if I asked them to! But what I’m looking for is a reporter who isn’t easily intimidated, who doesn’t cave under pressure. I need someone who can steer the conversation and not take shit. That’s a real reporter!” He eyed her. “I can’t say for sure if you’re it, C. J. Only time will tell. But . . . I’m willing to give it a try. I’ll give you a chance.”

  C. J. blinked in amazement. “Wh-what?”

  “I’ll let HR know my decision. You should get the formal offer letter in a few days.” He suddenly stood up and extended a hand to her. “Welcome aboard.”

  She was struck speechless again. It took her a few seconds to recover and finally shake his hand. “Th-thank you! Thank you so much for this opportunity, sir!”

  “You’re welcome.” He eyed her again. “And don’t make me regret it!”

  Chapter 3

  Paulette

  “Baby, you’ve gotta see this,” Antonio said.

  “Huh? See what?” Paulette Murdoch asked over her shoulder while standing at the kitchen counter, where she was currently stirring a puréed mix of apples and carrots in a plastic bowl. Behind her sat her husband, Antonio, at the kitchen table with their infant son, Nate. The baby was perched in his high chair, banging his plastic spoon on his serving tray, eagerly awaiting his breakfast. He was also making babbling noises that to her motherly ears sounded a lot like, “Speed it up, woman! I’m starving!”

  “Your brother’s on TV,” Antonio said, motioning to their small flat-screen television, which was mounted under one of their kitchen cabinets.

  “If it’s yet another news story about Ev, I’ll pass.” Paulette scraped last of the purée into the bowl. “I’ve seen enough of them already. I don’t need to hear any more of that trash.”

  “It’s not Ev. It’s Terry.”

  At that, she whipped around from the counter and faced him, sending a splatter of apple and carrots flying. She almost dropped the entire bowl to the tiled floor, but caught it before she did. She quickly placed it on Nate’s tray.

  “What? Why is Terry on the television?” she asked as she raced across the kitchen and grabbed the TV remote from the table, turning up the volume.

  “I’m not alleging anything. I’m just pointing out the obvious,” she heard her brother say before she pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and fell back into it. Paulette watched the entire interview, stunned. Terrence answered all the reporter’s questions and even thanked her for doing the interview.

  When the newscast segued to the next story, Paulette dazedly shook her head. She dropped the remote back to the table with a clatter. “Why the hell did he do that? We said we weren’t going to talk to the press!”

  Antonio scooped baby food into Nate’s mouth, wiping a smear from the little boy’s chubby chin with the edge of his bib. “Terry did a good job, though, baby.”

  “It doesn’t matter! We said we weren’t going to talk to them. We weren’t going to grant interviews! That’s what we agreed to!”

  The cordless on their granite counter began to ring, drawing their attention and making her grumble loudly.

  “See that!” she shouted, pointing at the phone. “See there! It’s probably a reporter calling right now, trying to get me to talk . . . to share some dirt about Ev, but am I talking? No!”

  “But Terry didn’t share any dirt,” Antonio
said over the sound of the ringing. He lowered the baby spoon, making his son whimper. He then quickly raised it to Nate’s mouth again. “Terry stood up for Ev. He—”

  “I bet this has something to do with his girlfriend . . . his fiancée,” she muttered with a sneer. “I bet she talked him into it.”

  “Why do you think she did it?”

  “Well, she’s a reporter, isn’t she? I’m shocked she hasn’t plastered all this stuff in her little newspaper already! I guess it’s only a matter of time.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “I can’t believe Terry is getting married to her . . . to her! This is the same woman who snuck into a hospital, lied, and tried to get an interview with him after his car crash. I mean . . . come on now!”

  “I thought we were talking about how you guys agreed not to talk to the press. How did we get on this stuff about Terry getting married?”

  “It’s all connected!” She hopped out of her chair and stomped back to the kitchen counter. “She could be using him, Tony. She could break his heart!”

  “Baby—”

  “He and Evan trust her, but I don’t,” she continued, tapping her chest and tossing peels of red-delicious apple skin into their farm sink. “I’m done with trusting people who only take advantage of us!”

  “Baby—”

  “We trusted Dante, too—and look where that got us! Look where it got Evan! Now he’s behind bars and that son of a bitch is still walking the streets!” She turned on the garbage disposal switch, filling the kitchen with a grinding sound, then turned it off. “Evan is coming out on bail at the end of the week, but what if a jury finds him guilty, Tony? Evan could spend decades in prison! He won’t be able to see his little girl grow up, and you know how much he’s always wanted to be a dad! He could be—”

  Paulette stopped mid-tirade when she felt her husband place his hands on her shoulders. When he gave her a light squeeze, she lowered her head and choked back a sob.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered into her ear. “Let it out.”