Dear Reader,

I am thrilled to present The Big Scoop, my second book for Harlequin, and my first for the Flipside line.

The inspiration for this story came from my own experience as a freelance journalist. Like Jack Gold, I, too, got a little jaded in my approach to researching and writing stories, especially profiles of real people. Bored silly by the truth, I once wrote a fictionalized, outrageously tongue-in-cheek account of a real person’s life (her parents were missionaries gifted with ESP; she was born in the jungle with a third eye in the middle of her forehead, etc.), then sat at my computer station, cackling hysterically while at the same time fretting over my diminishing sanity. In the end, I submitted the real story for publication. But I kept the bogus version on my hard drive as a personal reminder to get a new life.

Change, as it turns out, comes in surprising, delightful packages. For me it was a switch from nonfiction to romance fiction. It’s impossible to get jaded when you’re having this much fun. For Jack Gold it was a “delicious, devious, demented little dairy princess” by the name of Sally Darville.

Jack and Sally change one another forever—and definitely for the best! If you enjoyed reading their story as much as I enjoyed writing it, get in touch with me at sandrackelly@shaw.ca.

Sandra Kelly

“Jack Gold, you’re a poor excuse for a Gobey winner.”

A monstrous grin lit up his whole face at Sally’s comment. “You know about that?”

What an ego! “Of course I know about it. I did my homework. I know where you were born and where you went to school. I know that you’ve been twice nominated—”

“Three times, actually.”

“Whatever. The point is…”

“I get the point.” He dropped his chin and looked at her thoughtfully. “Normally, I do background research on a story. I didn’t in this case because, well, because I usually don’t get assignments like this one. I usually get, you know, bigger, ah, I mean weightier assignments. See, after I won the Gobey, I got a little big for my britches.” He chuckled as if that weren’t really true, but for the sake of argument Sally should accept it as truth. “My editor decided to bring me down a notch.”

What? Had he just said what she thought he’d said? “Do you mean to tell me that I’m your punishment ? For acting like a jerk?”

The Big Scoop
Sandra Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sandra Kelly has been putting words on paper since she was old enough to lift a pen. Before becoming a Flipside author, she published more than a million words of nonfiction in magazines and corporate publications across Canada. For seven years she taught in the Professional Writing Program at Mount Royal College in Calgary, helping hopeful young writers to realize their own dreams of becoming published. Sandra lives in Calgary with her husband Bob, and two ungrateful cats.

Books by Sandra Kelly

HARLEQUIN DUETS

76—SUITEHEART OF A DEAL

For Jean Molloy 1931–2003 Thanks for the humor, Mom

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

1

July 10: On the front page of the Peachtown Post

Can Peach Paradise Save Our Town?

Sally Darville, marketing manager for Darville Dairy, is a woman with a mission.

Darville, the twenty-seven-year-old daughter of Dean and Sarah Darville—the fourth generation of Darvilles to own and operate the local dairy—believes that Peach Paradise, their delicious new ice cream, can save Peachtown from ruin.

After three consecutive years of drought, Peachtown’s usually thriving tourism industry is hurting. With daily temperatures soaring into the high nineties and fire bans in effect at all campgrounds, people are staying away in droves. Darville believes that Peach Paradise will bring them back.

“We can’t make rain, but we can make the world’s best ice cream,” she said.

The tasty treat, introduced last March, sold out of local stores within a week and has since attracted fans throughout the Okanagan Valley. Now Darville has enlisted the help of Vancouver Satellite reporter “Cracker” Jack Gold to spread the word about Peach Paradise across British Columbia’s densely populated lower mainland.

Gold, thirty-four, recently won the Gobey Award for uncovering a conspiracy by Vancouver-based Denton Corporation’s top executives to launder two million dollars siphoned from the company’s employee pension fund. Gold is the youngest reporter ever to win the prestigious international award.

Said Darville, “If Cracker Jack Gold can’t help us, no one can.”

“HOT ENOUGH FOR YA?”

Fingertips tapping out a steady beat on the chipped white countertop, Jack regarded the too-cheerful customer service clerk with the little patience he had left. “Yes, it is. I wonder if you’d mind taking another look at those records.”

The clerk, a lanky youth with a drunk-on-life smile and a giant zit in the middle of his forehead, struck a solemn tone. “I can if you like, sir, but I really don’t believe your car was towed. I believe it was moved.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Well, yes. You see, sir, there’s no record of anyone from this office having towed a candy-apple red 1968 Mustang convertible with the original leather seats plus inlaid mother-of-pearl console and the black-and-yellow foam dice once owned by Jerry Lee Lewis. No record at all, sir.”

“Then, do you have any thoughts on who might have…moved it?”

The boy shrugged. “I may have.”

Jack forced his fingers to be still as he drew a shallow breath. Five years of pounding the backroads for small-town newspapers across the lower mainland had taught him there was no point in losing it with guys like—he glanced at the boy’s name tag—Dudley here. The Dudleys of the world, he vaguely recalled from those long forgotten days, couldn’t be rushed under terrorist threat.

Back then, Jack had customized a smile for people he had nothing against but hoped never to see again. He flashed it now. “Care to share your thoughts, Dudley?”

The teenager nodded in the general direction of the window separating the tiny impoundment office from Peachtown’s main drag. “Well, see, we have these identical twins here in town—Terry and Tommy Trubble? Anyway, they’re sorta the town pranksters.” He rolled his eyes. “Well, okay, the county pranksters, if you wanna be, you know, real accurate.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned closer to Jack. “You won’t believe this, but one time they…”

“My car, Dudley?”

“Oh, right. Well, the fact is, sir, they like to move cars.”

“Move cars,” Jack repeated dumbly. “You mean steal cars.”

Shock turned Dudley’s zit a singularly unattractive shade of red. “Oh no, sir! They don’t keep ’em. They just hot-wire ’em and then relocate ’em.” His vacant gaze suggested that no further explanation should be necessary.

“Uh-huh, and just for the record, Dudley, where exactly do they relocate them to?”

The boy cleared his throat. “Well now, that depends on a number of things.”

Grasping the counter’s edge with both hands, Jack arched his aching back and let his eyelids droop. It was bad enough that he was here. It was bad enough that he was here to cover a story about ice cream. It was bad enough that he was here to cover a story about ice cream because he’d acted like—how had his editor put it?— “a spoiled celebrity.” This headache he definitely didn’t need.

In addition to everything else, he was hot and tired and hungry. The inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper, and his legs were stiff and cramped after the four-hour drive east from Vancouver. The drive he had foolishly undertaken in his prized Mustang. The prized Mustang which was now missing.

Just thirty minutes ago, he’d parked it across the street from Cora’s Café and gone into the restaurant for directions. While he stood there nodding like a puppet, a woman he presumed to be Cora had passed a pleasant twenty minutes disagreeing with the restaurant’s lone patron about the fastest route to Darville Dairy. Jack had eventually tuned out the debate and inched toward the door.

They were arguing the merits of highway number seven versus county road nineteen when he slipped outside and saw that the Mustang was gone. For one hellish moment he had stood there gawking at the empty parking space, convinced it was an optical illusion created by the heat. It wasn’t.

“So,” he said to Dudley. “On what sort of things does it depend?”

Well, it being Saturday and all, Dudley explained, the twins probably had relocated the Mustang to the Darville Dairy Bar. Lots of folks would be there today, ’cause of Peach Paradise. The twins might have taken the car to the bakery just three blocks from here, which, Jack would want to know, gave out free pastries on Saturdays. Course apple turnovers were no competition for Sally Darville’s fabulous new ice cream, and being that you could spot a red Mustang that close—what the heck, you could spot one in a blizzard, couldn’t you?—most likely the bakery wasn’t the place. Yesterday they definitely would have taken it to Peach Pit Park….

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “Where are they most likely to have taken it today, Dudley?”

“To the dairy bar, sir. That’s your best bet.”

After getting directions, Jack thanked the boy and made haste for the door.

“Hey, wait a minute!” Dudley called after him. “You’re that hotshot reporter from the Vancouver Satellite. Cracker Jack Gold, right?”

Pleasantly surprised, Jack turned around. Could his reputation have traveled this far? It seemed unlikely. Then again, it wasn’t every day that a thirty-four-year-old reporter won the Gobey Award. To his knowledge, until now no one under the age of fifty had ever won it. So, maybe…

He nodded as humbly as a man headed for stardom possibly could. “I am indeed. I take it you’re familiar with my work?”

“Nope, never heard of you. Sally said you were some kind of hotshot, was all.”

“Oh,” Jack muttered. So much for fame.

Opportunity sprang to life in Dudley’s big brown eyes. “So, you’re here to get the big scoop on Peach Paradise, right?” He slapped his thigh and cackled merrily.

Jack chuckled along with him. It was pointless to tell the boy he’d already heard that one a dozen times back at the Satellite— along with a dozen other stupid jokes involving peaches, cream, sugar, waffle cones and reporters whose heads get swelled by major awards and end up in small towns, writing about dairy fat.

“Well, Sally sure is excited,” Dudley gushed. “A feature story in the Satellite. Imagine!”

“Yes, imagine. Thanks again, Dudley.”

“You be sure to have a nice day, Mr. Gold.”

Stepping outside, Jack nearly collided with two apple-cheeked matrons in flouncy dresses. Each wore a straw hat laden with plastic grapes and carried a basket of freshly cut roses. Certain he was about to get nailed, Jack mumbled an apology and tried to sidestep the women. The tallest of the two seized him painfully by the arm. “Hello there. You must be that hotshot reporter from Vancouver. The one who got that—what did Sally call it?—a gopher trophy?”

“Actually ma’am, it was the Gobey Award. And if you don’t mind…”

“So it was. Aren’t you just the handsomest thing. Isn’t he handsome, Elsa?”

“Oh, he is, Elvira,” the much shorter woman agreed. She had the funniest little Betty Boop voice Jack had ever heard.

“Thank you, ladies, but…”

“What’s your name, sonny?” the one called Elvira asked. “Sally told me, but my memory’s not what it used to be.”

“Jack Gold. I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m awfully late…”

She drew a sharp breath. “Gold. What an interesting name. We’ve got a cousin, Goldfisher Elmont Jackson, but everyone calls him Goldy. That’s what’s we’ll call you. Won’t we, Elsa.”

“Oh yes, indeed. Goldy. Yes indeed.”

“Ah, actually, I prefer Jack. And I really do have to move along.”

“We’re the Jackson sisters,” Elvira said without missing a beat. “Our granddaddy, Elmont Jackson, founded this town. Didn’t he, Elsa?” Her grip on Jack’s arm tightened.

“Oh yes, he did, Elvira. He certainly did.”

“You’re here to get the big scoop, aren’t you?” Elvira looked at Elsa for confirmation of her comic genius, and together they cackled like two tipsy hens at a barnyard bash.

Jack’s arm went numb. “Yes ma’am, I am.”

“Well, you must come to dinner. Mustn’t he, Elsa?”

“Yes, he absolutely must.”

Dinner? Not likely. Jack was getting his car, he was getting what he’d come here to get and he was getting out. “Thank you, ladies, but I’m only in town for a couple of hours.”

Elvira snickered. “A couple of hours. Now isn’t that funny? That was what Charlie said, wasn’t it, Elsa?”

“Oh yes, Elvira. Two hours. Those were his exact words.”

Jack smiled politely. Like everyone else in the Vancouver news world, he knew all about Charlie Sacks. Back in the seventies, the once venerable editor of the Satellite had tried to pass through Peachtown but somehow got stuck here. Before Charlie knew what had hit him, the poor guy was hitched to that year’s Peach Pit Princess and chained to a desk at the Peachtown Post, a cheesy little weekly with a circulation no bigger than his wedding invitation list. Around the Satellite he was known as Sad Sacks, the fool who squandered a promising career for love.

Nothing could persuade Jack to stick around this sleepy little orchard town in the Okanagan Valley—not love or money or, even famished as he was, a good home-cooked meal. In fact, he couldn’t imagine living in any small town. Vancouver was it for him. Or, New York. Maybe even Paris, where his father had once been stationed. The cafés and clubs and shops. The sidewalks that vibrated under your feet. The beautiful women on those sidewalks, looking good just for him.

And the stories—a million of them, all waiting for his magic keyboard.

“I appreciate the invitation,” he told the women honestly. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check. I must get back to work.” Real work, that is.

“Is that so?” Elvira sounded just like his mother. “Well, it can wait. Sunday dinner. Tomorrow. Seven sharp. We’ll make all your favorites.”

“I’d love to, ma’am, but…ah, my favorites?”

“Yes, your favorites. Seven sharp. In the meantime, have a flower on us, and have a nice day.” She thrust a long-stemmed pink rose into Jack’s free hand, the one that still had a functioning circulatory system, and released him.

“Listen, I really can’t…”

“Seven sharp,” Elvira snapped over her shoulder as the sisters waltzed away. “Twenty-nine Silver Creek Road. Don’t be late.”

Shaking his head, Jack set off in the opposite direction. He’d forgotten how friendly people were in these little towns. Regardless, he hoped the women wouldn’t be too disappointed when he failed to show. It was nice of them to extend the invitation, especially to a stranger, but tomorrow night he’d be far from here, in every sense.

Still, there was no reason to hurt their feelings…What the hell, he’d look them up later today and at least beg off nicely.

As he strode toward the dairy bar, his eyes recorded every detail of Main Street. The dressmaker’s shop with the vintage Singer sewing machine in the window. The hardware store that, according to its hand-painted marquee, doubled as the town’s pizza delivery outlet. The drugstore, the barbershop, the Peachtown Post.

And, of course, Cora’s Café, scene of the crime.

Glancing through the window, Jack saw that the restaurant was now empty. For that matter the whole town seemed deserted. Curious, that. Next to fruit and wine, tourism was the valley’s biggest industry. On a hot Saturday afternoon in late July, Peachtown should have been jammed with sightseers.

It was a pretty place, he’d give it that. Of course, all these little valley towns were picturesque. On the drive in, he’d been blown away by the expansive beauty of the region. The sprawling farms and orchards, the vineyards nestled into the hillsides rising up from the shores of Lake Okanagan, the big country houses with white clapboard siding and dormer windows. It was nice—in a quaint, countrified sort of way. There were none of the usual strip malls and gourmet coffee shops that marred the landscape between Vancouver and the province’s interior. Time seemed to have stood still here.

Nobody seemed in a hurry—that was for sure. A pickup truck cruising well below the posted speed limit had tested his patience for nearly fifty miles. Then, a herd of cows had held him up for what felt like a year while they clomped across the asphalt at a snail’s pace. A chicken strutting jauntily down the road by itself had given him a good laugh, though.

Somewhere between here and there his own feathers had settled down. He wasn’t bitter about this assignment—not exactly. Humiliated was more like it. Imagine a Gobey winner being assigned to write about a brand of ice cream that people said was the best they’d ever tasted. Imagine any reporter with ten years experience getting stuck with covering the story.

For one thing, it wasn’t news—it was a classic grab for free publicity. Jack’s editor, Marty McNab, had gotten the story lead from a Darville Dairy news release. Little companies like Darville were always trying to get free promotional space in the Satellite. Normally Marty ignored them.

For another thing, even if it were news, it would be regional news. Who among the Satellite’s sophisticated urban readers would give a tinker’s damn about it? Nobody, including Jack himself.

Our subscribers are complaining that all the news we print is bad, Marty had tried to tell him. We need something light, something fun.

Yeah, well, he could call it light. He could call it fun. He could call it whatever he wanted, but Jack knew it by its real name: punishment. He didn’t think he’d acted badly after winning the award. Apparently others disagreed. He cringed, recalling the banter around the Satellite newsroom these past few weeks. Hey, did you hear about the Gobey? They’re renaming it the Goldby. Marty had joked: You must be exhausted from carrying that ego around. Think of this assignment as a vacation.

Oh well, at least it wouldn’t take long to bang the piece off. A quick interview with Sally Darville. Four hours back to the west coast. An hour on the laptop. End of punishment.

The shops along Main Street eventually gave way to little A-framed houses with big side-yards, every one chafing under the brutal midafternoon sun. Jack squinted up the street. Just ahead was the sign announcing the dairy bar. People were lined up three deep for at least a block beyond the small white building. No wonder the town’s other streets were deserted.

Beyond the crowd, something glinted bright red under the sun. The Mustang! Jack took off. Soon the car was in plain sight. Two men were hunched over it, doing God only knew what while a cluster of people watched. Jack’s heart started to pound, and not just from the running.

“Hey you!” he hollered when the men were within earshot. They straightened and casually turned to face him. A few feet shy of the car, Jack ground to a halt. Reeling from shock, he glanced from face to identical face. The little thieves were barely five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds each. Could they be dwarves? Identical, car-napping dwarves?

“How old are you?” he demanded, dripping sweat and gasping for air.

“We’re twelve, but we’ll be thirteen next week,” one of the boys replied with obvious pride.

Flabbergasted, Jack took a moment to absorb that. “Twelve? But…you’re not even old enough to drive!”

“We drive very responsibly, sir,” the other boy assured him.

“He’s right. They do,” a man in the group said. Peach-colored ice cream circled his mouth and dripped off his chin onto a dark blue mechanic’s uniform with the name Ted stitched across one breast pocket.

“Which one are you?” Jack asked the boy who’d just spoken. The twins had matching dark hair, matching Jughead ears, matching everything.

“Terry, sir.”

“I’m Tommy,” the other one said. “Nice to meet you.”

It was then that Jack spotted the yellow chamois resting atop the Mustang’s shiny hood. The boys hadn’t been vandalizing his car—they’d been buffing it to a fine polish. Helpless to do anything else, Jack burst out laughing. While the little thieves exchanged frowns, he tossed his head back and laughed until he couldn’t laugh anymore.

Sobering, he trained a stern eye on them. “Listen, boys, you can’t just go around relocating people’s cars.”

“Why not?” they asked.

“Never mind.” Jack opened the driver’s side door and tossed Elvira Jackson’s tea rose onto the passenger seat. His cellphone was still there, along with his leather satchel and laptop computer. There was cash lying around, too, but the boys hadn’t touched it.

“Hummer car,” the man with the messy face said as the twins stepped away from the Mustang, giving it one last, reverent look. “Is that the original paint job?”

Jack ignored him. “Listen, I don’t suppose either of you know the way to Darville Dairy?” he asked the twins.

“I do,” Tommy answered. “Just take highway seven to…”

“No way!” Terry cut in. “It’s a lot faster if you follow Main Street to county road nineteen…”

2

“SO MS. DARVILLE, what gave you the idea for Peach Paradise?”

Sally leaned across the patio table and spoke into the banana Trish held out to her. “Well, actually, Ms. Thomas—um, that is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Trish huffed. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Ten more times. There are so many lawyers impersonating reporters around here, it’s hard to keep your names straight. Anyway, I got the idea from a peach.”

“Fruit talks to you?” Trish started to twitter.

“Yes. Just this morning, this very banana said to me, ‘Help! I think someone is going to eat me.”’ Sally grabbed the fruit from Trish’s hand, peeled it and devoured a third in one fatal bite. Trish bowed her head for a moment of silence and they both collapsed in giggles.

Sally couldn’t help herself. She just had to say it again. “Aren’t I clever, Trish? Didn’t I pull it off beautifully?”

Trish rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sal. For the last time, you are very, very clever. And yes, you did manage to get the attention of the Vancouver Satellite. I don’t know how you got it, but you did. Still I have doubts about this whole thing.”

“Really?” Sally batted her blond eyelashes furiously. “I’m shocked. You never have doubts.”

“Ha ha. The thing is, I’m surprised the Satellite picked up your news release. This isn’t their turf and, frankly, Sal, they usually go after bigger stories than this one.”

“Is that so?” Sally returned with faint sarcasm. “Obviously they do think it’s a big story.”

“Obviously. The question is—why?”

“Because it is, of course. And if you must know, I don’t care one bit why they’re interested. The Satellite has half a million readers. Do you know what that kind of exposure will do for Peachtown? For the entire valley?”

“I know what it will do,” Trish replied cautiously. “I’m just concerned that you’re being overly optimistic. Let’s face it, you don’t know what the guy is going to write.”

“Yes, I do. He’s going to write what I want him to write.”

“Really? How do you figure that?”

Sally blinked. “Because it’s my story, silly.” Honestly, for someone so smart, Trish just didn’t get it sometimes.

“Sally, why do I think you’re going to steamroll over this poor guy like you steamrolled over the revitalization committee last year?”

“I did not steamroll over those people.”

“Oh yeah? Then why do most of them have unpublished home phone numbers now?”

Sally sniffed and looked away. As a town councillor, it was her job to question the decisions made by council’s various subcommittees. It wasn’t her fault if they couldn’t handle constructive criticism.

Trish lifted her auburn curls and fanned her glistening neck with that week’s edition of the Post. “Anyway, I’ve had lots of experience with reporters. I just don’t want you to be disappointed when your big story ends up being ten lines at the bottom of page twenty.”

Sally dismissed that possibility with a shrug, but she understood what Trish was saying. If she asked nicely enough, Charlie Sacks would publish her grocery list. But the Peachtown Post wasn’t the Vancouver Satellite. Not by a long shot.

Weary of the argument, Sally rose and took yet another look down the narrow driveway zigzagging from her hillside cottage through a stand of crab apple trees, down to county road nineteen. It, in turn, forked left to Peachtown and right to the city of Kelowna. Depending on what map he’d used, Jack Gold could be coming from either direction.

“I thought you weren’t anxious,” Trish teased her.

“I’m not.” From old habit Sally reached up and smoothed back her dark blond hair, already pulled so tightly into a ponytail it couldn’t have come loose in a hurricane.

Trish joined her at the rail surrounding the old stone patio, and together they gazed out over the sun-baked vista to Lake Okanagan, glistening clear blue in the distance. Electricity crackled in the overhead power lines and the bone-dry air resonated with the click-click of a million grasshoppers.

Three consecutive years of drought, Sally thought sadly. Three years and not one drop of moisture to quench the valley’s usually rich, fertile earth. The region’s farmers and fruit growers were hurting. The small businesses that depended on tourism were all but bankrupt. One more summer of this appalling heat, Cora Brown had told her just yesterday, and she would have to close the café.

Sally knew she’d been a bit zealous lately, but so what? The Darvilles were among the oldest families in the valley. Peachtown was her birthplace, her home. If it wasn’t up to her to realize its full potential, then whose job was it?

The thing was, if Peachtown had once been famous for fruit and wine, why couldn’t it become famous for something else? Thanks to last month’s front-page article in the Post, folks from all over the valley were talking about Peach Paradise ice cream. With a little help from Jack Gold, the word would soon be out across the province.

In one swift motion Trish nabbed her briefcase and looked at her watch. “Well, Sal, I’ve enjoyed this little interlude, but I have to run. I’m meeting with Jed Miltown and Evan Pratford in Kelowna.”

“On Saturday? Why?”

“In May, Jed lobbed a bucket of golf balls at Evan’s barn. Unfortunately, his prized cow ate them and died. There was a hearing, but the judge couldn’t decide if bovine-death-by-golf-ball was murder or suicide, so he dismissed the charge. Now it looks like there’ll be a civil suit.”

Sally frowned. For twenty-five years, the neighboring farmers had been feuding over one thing or another. Trish, she knew, wasn’t crazy about representing either of them, but Peachtown didn’t have many lawyers. In fact, it had only Trish.

Between the trees a bright red car lurched into sight. Sally gasped. “He’s here!”

“And I’m out of here.”

“Not so fast.” Sally reached out and seized Trish by the wrist. “Stick around a minute. I lied. I’m very nervous.”

“You’ll do just fine,” Trish said. Even so she lingered, her hazel eyes getting bigger and bigger as the vehicle neared. “Oh my, get a load of the car.” She whistled softly.

Oh my, Sally thought as Jack Gold climbed out of the flashy convertible and looked straight at her. Get a load of the man. Tall. Tawny hair. Tight jeans. White T-shirt. Black shades. Black jacket. Black boots. For some reason she’d pictured someone rumpled and tweedy, like Charlie. Suddenly her mouth was as dry as the valley air.

“Sally Darville?” Jack Gold was coming her way. Saliva. She needed saliva. Hand signals wouldn’t suffice for the interview. He stopped just short of where she and Trish were standing and glanced between them. Up close he was drop-dead intimidating.

When Sally’s tongue refused to work, Trish cast her a what’s-your-problem? look and shook the man’s hand. “How do you do? I’m Trish Thomas.”

“Jack Gold. Pleasure. I guess that would make you Sally.” He thrust his hand toward her, at the same time whipping off the shades and dropping them into his jacket pocket. His eyes were porcelain blue, like hers.

She gulped. “I see you had no trouble finding us.”

He smiled, but it was a cold smile that didn’t reach those baby blues. “No trouble at all. Shall we get started?”

“Um, get started?”

“Yes. On the interview. I’m a little pressed for time.”

Pressed for time? On Saturday? “Gee, that’s too bad. I thought you might enjoy a tour of the dairy barn first.”

“The dairy barn?” His expression suggested he couldn’t imagine setting foot in such a place.

“Yes.” Sally indicated behind her, which was dumb, of course. He couldn’t possibly see the dairy operation and her parents’ house through the trees. No matter—he didn’t bother to look anyway.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I just have a few questions for you. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Is there someplace we could sit?” His gaze went to the patio table, then back to her.

Sally couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “A couple of hours? But you have to stay longer than that! I’ve planned all sorts of things for us.”

A frown etched the smooth, symmetrical lines of Jack Gold’s face. Sally recognized the look from her three years away at university in Vancouver. It said, I’m an important person. Don’t even dream of wasting my time.

“Really?” His frown deepened. “What sort of things?”

“Ahem,” Trish cut in. “I’d love to stick around, but duty calls.” A smile frozen on her lips, she said how nice it had been to meet Jack and how wonderful it was that he’d come here all the way from Vancouver to get this important story. Turning to leave, she locked eyes with Sally and mouthed the words I told you so.

As Trish’s SUV vanished in the dust, Jack went to the rail and looked out over the valley. “Beautiful place. Is it always this hot?”

“Not always. And see, that’s part of…”

“So, you said something about plans?”

Sally flinched. She wasn’t used to conversation without eye contact, she wasn’t used to being interrupted and she wasn’t used to being addressed in such a curt manner. “Would you excuse me for just a minute?”

Cracker Jack Gold deigned to glance over his shoulder. “Sure.”

Despite her growing frustration with his attitude, Sally’s gaze was glued to his cute backside as she picked up her cellphone and requested a thermos of lemonade from the dairy kitchen. Her guest looked as though he could use a cold drink. Actually, he looked as though he could use a hot one, to thaw him out.

They sat down together, and she marveled as he pulled a pen and a coil-bound steno pad from inside his snug-fitting jacket. How did he have room in there for such things? He clicked the pen into action and treated her to another frigid smile.

“I thought for sure you’d want to see the barn,” she said. “There’s the dairy bar, too. I thought we might go there at some point. I’ve got some photos to show you. Um, if you’re interested, that is. And then, Tilly—she’s our cook—is making dinner for us tonight. We’re having Peach Paradise for dessert.”

Jack hesitated and Sally figured she’d scored a hit with something in there. But he said, “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure that seeing the barn will help the story, and I’ve already seen the dairy bar. As for dinner, I’ve got a long drive back to Vancouver.”

“Oh.” Disappointment settled in the pit of her stomach like a stone in mud. Trish was right. Her story wasn’t important to this jerk. So why had he come all this way?

His pen was poised, apparently ready to scribble. “What’s your position with Darville Dairy?”

What? He was kidding, right? “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know what I do here?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. “Ah, no. Not really.”

That was odd. The news release she’d issued had given her full name and job title. Surely he’d read it. “I’m in charge of marketing and communications.”

Head down, Jerk, er Jack, scribbled away. “Mmm. Sounds like a big job.” He managed to sound polite and patronizing all at once.

“It is a big job. Darville Dairy is the biggest producer of dairy products in central British Columbia.”

Surprised, Jack stopped writing and looked up sharply. “Really? I thought it was just a local operation.”

The release also had contained a brief profile of the company and its Web site address. Hotshot investigative reporter Cracker Jack Gold had all of this information right at his fingertips. Annoyed, Sally asked a fair question. “Tell me something. Did you do any research for this assignment?”

“Research?”

“Yes, you know. Background research? About me, about my family’s business?”

He stiffened. “Actually, I thought an interview would suffice.”

“Is that so? Well then, you must think I have nothing but time.” Now he looked guilty. Good!

“I don’t think that at all.”

“Because if you had gone to the trouble of doing a little research, you wouldn’t be wasting our two precious hours on preliminary questions.”

The faintest of smiles flitted across his pouty, pretty-boy mouth, and Sally felt a slow burn coming on. Did he find this funny? Was it some sort of joke to him?

He started to respond, but she’d heard enough. “It may interest you to know, Jack Gold, that there’s more to this story than just ice cream. For your information, this town really took off a few years ago. People moved here for the first time in decades. Lots of companies came here. The Gap and Starbucks and…and…others, too. The point is, Peachtown started to change….”

Those GQ lips parted again, and Sally snapped. “I’ll thank you not to speak!”

He pretended to zipper his mouth shut.

“Then the drought came and all our orchards dried up, and our farmers started hauling in water by the truckload, and the tourists stopped coming because it’s too darned hot, and the chain stores high-tailed it right out of here, and now Peach Paradise may just be the only thing that will save our town!” Sally drew a deep breath and collapsed against the back of her chair. Whew, that felt good!

For the first time, Mister Hotshot Reporter actually looked interested. “Save your town?”

“Yes, save our town.” Sally leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. “Jack Gold, you’re a poor excuse for a Gobey winner.”

A monstrous grin lit up his whole gorgeous face, eyes and all. “You know about that?”

Wow, what an ego!

“Of course I know about it. I did my homework.” Sally went into her cottage and fetched the file she’d been building for over a month. On return, she spread it open on the patio table, plopped down and began to read aloud from the first document. “Jack Langley Gold, nickname Cracker Jack. Senior business reporter, Vancouver Satellite. Thirty-four years old. Honors graduate of the University of British Columbia’s Journalism and MBA programs. Twice nominated for the Gobey Award…”

He arched his brows and tapped the table top. “Three times, actually.”

“Whatever. Father a general in the Canadian army. Mother an antiques dealer. Born in Vancouver, but lived all over Canada and in Paris, France, for a year while father stationed there on special assignment.” She glared at him over the document. “Shall I go on?”

“By all means.”

She set the paper aside and picked up the clipping from the June 3rd issue of the Satellite. “Satellite’s golden boy brings home the Gobey…”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Laughing, Jack leaned forward and peered at the file. “What else have you got in there?”

“Never you mind.” Sally slapped it shut. “The point is…”

“I get the point.” He dropped his chin and looked at her thoughtfully. It registered in Sally’s heat-addled brain that he was more than pleasantly good-looking—he was flat-out gorgeous. Too bad she was throwing him out in a few minutes. It would have been nice to keep him around for a while, just to look at.

“Okay,” he began carefully. “I can explain. Normally, I would do background research on a story. I didn’t in this case because, well, because I don’t usually get assignments like this one.”

Sally frowned. “I don’t understand. What do you mean by ‘like this one’?”

“I mean, I usually get, you know, bigger, ah, I mean weightier assignments. See, after I won the Gobey, I got a little big for my britches.” He chuckled as if that weren’t really true, but for the sake of argument Sally should accept it as truth. “I acted badly, I guess, and my editor decided to bring me down a notch.”

What? Had he just said what she thought he’d said? “Do you mean to tell me that I’m your punishment? For acting like a jerk?”

Hotshot’s smarmy grin collapsed and he sat bolt upright. “Ah no, that’s not what I meant at all.”

“It’s what you said!”

“I know, but it’s not what I meant. Not at all. Listen, I—”

In a flash, Sally was on her feet. She didn’t need the Vancouver Satellite. She didn’t need Jack Gold. And she most certainly didn’t need to be Jack Gold’s two-hour penalty. Hands on hips, she stared him down. “Hit the road, Jack.”

There was a rustling in the trees behind them and Andy Farnham, Tilly’s kitchen helper, appeared with a thermos in hand. “Here’s your lemonade, Sally.”

“We won’t be needing, it, Andy. Take it back, please.”

His bewildered eyes darted from Sally to Jack and back again. “Uh, sure.” He turned and headed back up the trail.

“Stay right there,” Jack said to Sally, then he sprang to his feet and sprinted for his car.

Despite her fury, Sally’s heart sank when he jumped into the flashy thing and pulled away, spitting dust and gravel. Disgusted with herself, she watched the car roar down the driveway and disappear. Terrific. Now there would be no story.

A few minutes later, though, the Mustang reappeared. Jack parked it in the same spot as before, emerged into the blazing sunlight and strolled purposefully toward her. He had a wilted pink tea rose in hand.

“Sally Darville?” He handed her the flower.

“Um, yes?”

“Let’s start fresh here. How do you do? I’m Jack Gold from the Vancouver Satellite. I’m a rotten reporter and a poor excuse for a Gobey winner.” He grinned.

Okay, so there was hope for the jerk. Some. “Agreed.”

“I apologize for my utter lack of professionalism, Sally. How can I make it up to you?” He took her right hand in both of his and idly caressed her palm with one thumb. An innocent gesture, sure, but she couldn’t believe how sensual it felt.

“You can start by taking this assignment seriously.”

He nodded. “Done.”

“That includes doing all the things I planned for us.”

He wasn’t so fast off the mark this time. “Ah, okay, done.”

“Starting with dinner tonight.”

“Dinner? Okay, sure. What time?”

Sally hesitated. Her parents were away until tomorrow afternoon. She had planned to take Jack up to the main house for a light supper with Tilly and Andy. But if the warm human being she’d just glimpsed inside him was real, it might be fun to bring the food down to the cottage and spend some time alone with him. “Seven o’clock. Here. At my place. I mean, um, here.”

From his expression, she gathered Jack was calculating the time it would take to eat, wrap up the assignment and get back on the road. It would be well after midnight before he reached Vancouver. “You could stay overnight,” she quickly suggested. “The Chelsea Country Inn is just down the road.”

He meditated on that for a moment, and she could tell that he’d rather have hot coals poked in his eyes. But that was just too bad. By coming here he’d given her hope, then tried to snatch it back. If she was his punishment for being a tool, he deserved her.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to stay over one night,” he conceded. “I could use a shower and a good meal.”

“Good! I’ll see you at seven, then.”

The moment he was gone, Sally did a little victory dance on the patio, then called Trish and told her what had just happened.

“Well, good for you, Sal. It looks like you’ll be getting your story.”

“And then some! Oh, and Trish? One more thing.”

“Go ahead. Rub it in.”

Sally laughed. “I told you so!”

3

WHEN HAD IT HAPPENED?

As he cruised along county road nineteen, scanning right and left for the Chelsea Country Inn, Jack wondered what Sally had meant by “just down the road.” He should have asked, of course. To the folks around here, everything was just down some road, or around some corner, when in fact it was a zillion miles away and cleverly hidden to boot.

More importantly, he wondered when, precisely, he had stopped being a caring, conscientious storyteller and become a jaded journalist. Everything they were saying about him at the Satellite was true. He was a snob. An egomaniac. A jerk.

As a novice reporter he’d treated every one of his assignments as a learning experience. Every story had given him valuable insight into people—the way they thought, the emotions they felt, the rationales they concocted for the sometimes inexplicable choices they made. Obviously, somewhere along the way he’d stopped learning and had started to assign values to his stories. This one a four, that one a seven. This one an important stepping stone in his career, that one just a waste of his precious time.

All seasoned reporters did the same. Jack knew that. But had he become so jaded that he’d actually forgotten how important a story was to the people involved in it?

Sally Darville was right. It wouldn’t have hurt him one bit to do some basic research for this assignment. He also should have done a few quick interviews with the folks in line at the dairy bar this afternoon. He should have gotten a head start on things. Dammit, he should have taken ownership of the assignment.

Sally didn’t think her story was a four. She thought it was a ten, and she was entitled to think that.

Man, she’d straightened him out in a hurry! A month of relentless ribbing from his colleagues hadn’t so much as dented his obviously gargantuan ego. But she’d put him smartly back in his place in less than ten minutes.

She wanted to save her town. How noble. How…decent.

She was a ten. If, Jack supposed, you went for that fresh-faced, blond-haired, milkmaid kind of look. Which he did, apparently. Even so, she was nothing like the women he dated in Vancouver. Any one of them, especially Liz Montaine, would eat her for breakfast.

He chuckled to himself. Then again, maybe not.

Crazily, he wondered how Sally would taste first thing in the morning. Sweet, like ice cream. Sweet Sally. Yeah.

Whoa there, buddy, he warned himself as the Mustang cleared a blind corner and the inn came into view. Don’t be thinking sweet Sally. Don’t be thinking Sally anything. Do your job, do it right, and get the hell out of here.

The Chelsea Country Inn turned out to be a tall yellow Victorian nestled in a grove of Ponderosa pines. Gingerbread trim and baskets of parched flowers adorned its wide wraparound porch, and the sun glinted off the stained glass transoms above its many narrow windows.

Jack parked in the otherwise empty gravel lot and let himself in through the open front door. Immediately to the right of the foyer was a small room that must have been a receiving parlor at one time. It had an old potbellied stove, a couple of fussy, overstuffed chairs and an ornate table that obviously served as the registration desk. What it didn’t have was a registration clerk.

“Anybody here?” he called out. When silence answered, he ventured a few steps down the hall and peered into a huge country kitchen. Someone had to be home. There was an array of chopped fruit on top of the room’s long worktable, along with an open carton of cream. He called out again. Still no response. As he was turning to leave, a big, brassy redhead burst through a door to his right. Seeing Jack, she let out a scream.

“Gracious living, boy!” Eyes bulging, she covered her heart with one plump, bejeweled hand and gulped for air. “You scared the daylights outta poor old Martha!”

Jack apologized for snooping. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ll have to see about that.”

While he wondered what exactly there was to see about—this was an inn, wasn’t it?—she twisted her generous mouth into a grimace and ruminated.

“It’s just for one night,” he assured her.

“Percy!” she hollered in the general direction of the backyard. “Get your butt in here. We got a guest, maybe.”

A tall, stooped man in cut-off denim shorts and work boots but no shirt came in through the back door. He paused at the sink to wipe the sweat from his brow, then loped across the big room. Giving Jack a friendly once-over, his eyes lit up like a jukebox. “Well, whaddaya know? Look, Martha, it’s Goldy!”

“Goldy” forced a smile. Obviously news traveled fast around here. “If you don’t mind, I prefer Jack.”

“You’re that hotshot reporter from Vancouver,” Martha said.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Jack Gold from the Satellite.”

“Didn’t you win a—what did Elvira call it, Percy? A gandby, or something?”

“It was the Gobey Award, ma’am.” Something told Jack that Elvira Jackson and Martha were the means by which news traveled fast around here.

“Of course it was. She told us all about you, and you know our little Sally Sunshine hasn’t talked about anything else for days.”

Our little Sally Sunshine? Jack couldn’t help it. He smiled.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Percy said. “We’re the Pittles.”

No sooner had they shaken hands all around than Percy treated Jack to a resounding slap on the back, nearly propelling him headlong into Martha’s ample bosom. “You’re here to get the big scoop, aren’t you, Goldy?” They both chuckled merrily.

“Yes, sir. I am.”

Percy cleared his throat and turned serious. “Well, see son, the thing is, we’d love to have ya, but we’re all tied up here gettin’ ready for the annual peach-off. Whole town’ll be here for it tomorrow afternoon. Then, first thing Monday morning, Martha and I are headin’ to Grand Forks to visit the grandkids and, uh…”

“Now, Percy, don’t you be givin’ secrets away,” Martha admonished him with a stern warning look.

“Oh, right,” Percy said as Jack wondered what “secrets” a town like Grand Forks could harbor. “Well anyway, son, we’re closed for a week.”

Weary to the soles of his feet, thirsty, hungry, sweaty and only mildly curious as to what a peach-off might be, Jack asked if there wasn’t some way he could impose for just one night. The prospect of negotiating the valley’s dusty roads in search of a bed and bath was unbearable. He’d sooner crawl into the Mustang and die.

“Well…” Martha squinted at her husband. “There is the honeymoon suite. Bed’s made, at least.”

As Jack grew resigned to his impending suicide, the Pittles launched into a lengthy discussion of just whether or not they should be taking on a guest, what with all that was going on and…

“Squawwwwwwwwk.”

The screech coming from the far corner of the room gave Jack a jolt. He’d spotted the parrot in the gilded cage soon after entering the room, but had taken it for a stuffed ornament.

“Squawwwwwwwwk. Polly wants a martini.”

In a stern voice, Percy told the bird it was “too early” for cocktails, then turned to Jack. “Tell you what, Goldy. Martha and I have to run into town and pick up a few things for the party. If you’ll keep an eye on this place, we’ll give you that suite for the night.”

Jack said he couldn’t thank them enough, then followed Martha down a long hall and into a bed-sitting room fresh off a Norman Rockwell canvas. Big and bright, it had a quilted sleigh bed, a tea table, a hand-hewn rocking chair and a mess of needlepoint cushions only his mother could love. Actually the room was beautiful—if you liked little pink and green hearts.

Martha told him to help himself to whatever he wanted from the kitchen, then looked him over sadly. “Goldy, did you pack a bag? You’re lookin’ a little mangy ’round the edges.”

The Satellite occasionally sent him on overnight assignments, so Jack kept a shaving kit in the trunk of the Mustang, but he hadn’t brought a change of clothes along on this trip. “No, ma’am, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Tell you what. There’s a robe in your bathroom there. You leave your grubbies outside the door and I’ll put ’em in the washer. You’ll have to put ’em in the dryer, though. Can you manage that?”

Jack said he could. A cool shower, clean clothes, a snack, dinner with a pretty milkmaid and a comfortable bed. Things were looking up. As soon as Martha left the room, he gave up his clothes and went into the bathroom, only to discover that the “robe” in question was a woman’s pink paisley housecoat with a lace collar and satin piping. Nice. His beer buddies would howl.

After the Pittles left, he took a long, cool shower, donned the ridiculous robe and ambled into the kitchen. An apple and a hunk of cheese later, he called Marty McNab at the Satellite. “Hey, boss.”

“Hey, Jack. How’s it going? Did you get the big scoop?” There was the sound of a hand covering a receiver, some muffled chat and a chorus of howls. Obviously Marty had a room full of reporters covering the weekend beat.

“No, I didn’t, Marty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I haven’t done the interview yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Well, it’s sort of complicated.”

Polly let out another squawk. “Polly wants a gin and tonic!”

“Who was that?” Marty asked. “Are you at a party?”

“No. Just so you know, I’m staying here tonight.”

“You’re kidding. Why?”

“Because I’m going to need more time than I thought, that’s why.”

From the tsk, tsk sound he made, you’d think Marty was trying to reason with an idiot. “Jack, Jack, Jack. There’s no story there, and you know it.”

“Really, boss? Then why did you send me here?”

Marty chuckled low in his throat.

“Anyway, there is a story here. At least I think there is.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the angle?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Jack said honestly. “Woman saves a dying town with ice cream—something like that.” He recalled the flush in Sally’s cheeks, the fire in her eyes, the passion in her pitch.

“For crying out loud, Jack. It was a joke. You’ve served your time. You can come home now.” There was more chortling behind Marty. Someone laughed loud enough to induce a coughing fit.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “I know it was a joke, Marty. I may be arrogant, but I’m not stupid.”

“Then bang off three paragraphs and e-mail them to me tonight. We’ll run them tomorrow and that’ll be the end of it.”

No, Jack thought, surprised by the depth of his own renewed passion. Sally expected—and deserved—more. “That won’t be possible. I’m dining with my source tonight.”

“Dining? Where are you? Club Med?”

Jack grinned. “Gee, boss, I thought you told me to treat this assignment as a vacation.”

Marty grumbled and groused as Jack promised to do the interview during dinner and write the piece tomorrow. “You can run it on Monday.”

“Sunday, Monday, whatever. Just remember, Jack, Northern Consolidated and Blain Enterprises are holding a press conference on Monday morning to announce that merger. It’s a big story. I need you there.”

Jack was well aware of the conference. No sweat. He’d be home long before then. “Don’t fret, boss.”

There was a moment’s silence. “Listen, Jack. Since you’re there anyway, do me a favor, would you? Drop in and give my best to Charlie Sacks at the Post. We were college roommates back in the day.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, Marty. The Post will be closed.”

“Then look him up at home. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Jack said he would if, and only if, he found the time. Ending the call, he tallied the damage to date: Dine with Sally, do the interview, tour the dairy barn, look at Sally’s photos, get some sleep, visit the dairy bar, visit with Charlie Sacks, drive home, write the article, get some sleep….

“How ’bout we have that drink later,” he said to Polly, but the bird had nodded off. Seemed like a good idea. Maybe he should grab a nap, too. His watch read four-fifteen.

“AND SO I THOUGHT, well hey, why not? I mean, we’ve always produced milk and cheese and butter and cream, but never ice cream, and all the other big dairies do, so why not us? We have the talent and the equipment. We’re perfectly capable. Soooooo, to make a long story short, we experimented with different recipes, Tilly and I, for months on end. You, know, various ratios of fruit to cream and so on, and then it just became a matter of…”

Seeing Jack’s eyes glaze over, Sally trailed off and gave him a rueful look. After his appalling behavior this afternoon, he deserved an earful. But she’d been babbling away at him practically nonstop for three hours now—right through cocktails, appetizers, dinner with wine, coffee, liqueurs and double helpings of Peach Paradise. They were seated together on her sofa now, trying not to touch.

“I suppose you don’t need all of this information,” she said with a nervous laugh. What was it about this guy that made her schizoid?

Jack shook his head. “Not true. It’s an old rule of thumb in feature-writing that more is better. I may not use everything you’ve given me, but it’s good to have it.”

Okay, that was sweet. As promised, he was taking her seriously. Frankly, it was a little hard to take him seriously in that ridiculous getup—Percy Pittle’s baggy denim coveralls and Pretty Peach Party Hardy T-shirt. She’d avoided mentioning it up until now, but couldn’t resist any longer.

“Jack Gold, I can’t believe you’ve been in town less than one day and have already sunk to the level of farm fashion. Did Martha dress you, or did you manage this yourself?”

“I’m afraid it’s my own doing. If I hadn’t overslept, I would have had time to dry my own things. And, actually, these jeans are pretty comfortable. I might just change my look.”

“Oh no, don’t do that!” Sally blushed furiously. What a dumb thing to say. It was important to keep things professional here. What with the lobster bisque, the ten-year-old chardonnay, her barely-there white minidress and the ravish-me scent she surely must be giving off, Jack would think she was trying to seduce him. Worse, he’d think she was trying to influence him. Oh, yes. Sally Darville, couch-friendly starlet of the dairy set. Willing to exchange favors for favorable copy.

What had she been thinking, sitting this close to him? Everything she didn’t want to notice about the guy was right in her face. His silky tawny hair, curling slightly at the edges. His long lashes, blond at the rim, darker at the ends, framing those stunningly intelligent eyes. Oh, and his hands. The man had beautiful hands. She could just imagine them….

Enough already!

“So,” her motormouth drove on, “I think we should talk about the story. I’m thinking a full—no, that’s excessive—a half-page feature, maybe, as the main article, plus photos, of course, and possibly a sidebar story. A history of Darville Dairy. Or, perhaps, a profile of Peachtown. What do you think?”

Jack stared at her as if she were deranged. Then—what nerve, honestly—he threw back his head and roared. “Tell me something, Sally Darville. Do you always get your own way?”

“Of course not,” she lied. “But, this is my story.” Why did she have to keep reminding people of that?

“Maybe so, but it’s my story assignment, and I’ll decide how to handle it.”

Sally couldn’t think of a single good response to that. It was his assignment, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

They lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence and gazed at one another. Sally tried hard to read Jack’s eyes, but they were inscrutable. Darn it, he had to feel the attraction, too. All those lust motes in the air couldn’t be hers alone.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “More coffee? More Peach Paradise?” Could I drag you into my bedroom and never let you leave it?

Jack’s hands flew up as if to ward off an attack. “No thanks, Sally. If I eat more of that fabulous ice cream tonight, I’ll explode. But if you can spare a pint, I’d love to take it back to the inn with me.”

“No problem.” Sally went into the kitchen and pulled a carton from the freezer. Setting it on the counter, she grabbed a moment. Whew. Never in her life had she been so physically attracted to a man. And why did it have to be this man? First of all, he was a conceited jerk. He might be making nice tonight, but his true colors had been on full display this afternoon. Secondly, he probably had a steady girlfriend in Vancouver—some slick corporate babe with a million teeth and a closetful of stilettos. Thirdly, he was a reporter and she was a source. There was a clear conflict of interest.

Of course, once the story was written, that would no longer apply….

No. It was no good. He’d be writing the article in Vancouver, not here. And once it was written, he’d be out of her orbit forever. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Forget it, Sally. Not going to happen.”

When she got back to the living room, Jack was on his feet by the front door, looking at something. “This hinge is about to give. If you remind me in the morning, I’ll tighten it up for you.”

Oh wow, Sally thought, handsome and handy. “Great. I’d appreciate that.”

He thanked her for a terrific interview and a lovely evening.

Handing him the ice cream, she said, “I’ll expect you around nine tomorrow, Jack. I trust that’s not too early for you?”

“No problem. I plan to be on the road by noon at the latest.”

She feigned ignorance. “You mean I won’t get to read the article before you go?”

“No. I’ll write it at home tomorrow night. And even if I did have time to write it here, it’s strictly against Satellite policy to clear copy with sources.”

“I wouldn’t change a word of it,” Sally lied.

“Oh yeah? How many times have I heard that? Anyway, I promise to do the story justice, Sally. You don’t have to worry about that.” He seemed to recall something then. “Speaking of promises, I told my editor I’d look up Charlie Sacks tomorrow. I expect you know him?”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Everybody knows Charlie.”

“Could I impose on you to make the introduction? I only know the man by reputation, and I generally don’t like to bother people at home on Sunday.”

“I’d love to! Um, I mean, sure, no problem.”

Sally walked Jack to the Mustang, then stood there feeling foolish and girlish and awkward while he fumbled for his keys. Was it just her or did he seem a little nervous, too? What possible reason could he have to…?

Their eyes met. Overhead a million stars twinkled like diamonds on a bed of black velvet. Somewhere in the distance a night owl screeched. Then Jack Gold did something so inappropriate, and so utterly unexpected, it left Sally reeling for hours. Instead of shaking hands, he bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek, then jumped into his car and sped off. Just like that.

She let out a yell. Yes! It wasn’t just her! He did feel the attraction, too. Mind whirling, she raced inside and called Charlie. It was late, but so what? He owed her.

“Charlie, sweetie, remember that time I baby-sat your five grandkids?”

“Ah, you’re not gonna bring that up again, are you?”

“Remember how they ran me ragged for three hours?”

“Oh now, Sally, ragged is a strong word….”

“Listen up, Charlie. I need a favor.”

4

“SO, WHY ME?”

Sally glanced sideways at Jack. They were cruising along county road nineteen, the Mustang holding tight to the road as the morning sun warmed their skin.

What did he mean by “why me?” Why do you find me to be the most attractive man who ever lived? Why do you want me to pull over right now and kiss you again, like I did last night, only properly this time? Why…

“I mean, why me specifically?” he pressed. “My editor said you requested me personally. Was it because I won the Gobey?”

Oh! Oh! He was talking about the story.

“Actually, no,” Sally said truthfully. “I don’t mean to diminish your achievement. It’s really something, winning that award. But…it was more the way you won it. Those people in your story, who lost all their pension money to those horrible crooks? You wrote about them as if you really cared about them, as if you really felt their pain and anger.”

Jack flashed her a bemused smile and Sally wondered if she’d assumed too much. Maybe he didn’t give a damn about those poor people. Maybe he wasn’t even capable of feeling that way. Maybe—oh, God—maybe he was just a slick, heartless, egotistical, big-city reporter building his career on the backs of helpless victims.

“I didn’t care about them,” Jack admitted. “Not at first. But by the time I got around to writing their story, I was angry, too. I guess that came through in my copy.”

“Oh, it did!” Mindful of her tendency to gush around the guy, Sally buttoned it and concentrated on the pavement unfolding before them. It was odd, she thought, how comfortable their silences were. They were perfect strangers and they’d gotten off to a bad start. Shouldn’t there be some tension between them? Some awkwardness? Instead they both seemed to use their quiet moments to refuel for the next round. It was refreshing, exciting, wondrous even.

“So, how do you know what a sidebar is?” Jack asked. “Yesterday you said you envisioned a sidebar story along with the main article.”

Sally sighed. Okay, it was wondrous until hotshot opened his mouth to change feet. “This may come as a shock to you, Jack Gold, but some of us hicks in this here hick town actually went to college.”

Grinning, he patted the top of his head.

Sally frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m checking my height. I think I just came down another notch.”

She laughed heartily. So, he could feel another’s pain, and he could laugh at himself. Those were good signs. Two, anyway.

Jack geared down for a steep hill. “Where did you go to college?”

“The University of British Columbia, just like you. I didn’t get a master’s degree, but I did do undergraduate work in journalism along with my regular courses.”

“You’re kidding. When did you graduate?”

“Four years ago,” Sally said. Long after Jack had come and gone from UBC. She didn’t mention that he’d been a minor legend on campus, the one and only former editor of the student newspaper whose editorials were used as the standard by which all such writing should be judged. Jack being Jack, he probably knew that.

“Why didn’t you major in journalism?” he asked. “You’d have made an awesome reporter.”

Oh wow, what a nice thing to say. Sally knew that, of course, but coming from Cracker Jack Gold it was a true compliment. She almost replied that a degree in journalism would have led to a less than glamorous career at the Peachtown Post, but some instinct told her to keep that thought under wraps. Besides, her life had been mapped out long ago.

“I always knew I’d end up doing the job I’m doing. My family has been in this valley for over a hundred years. I have roots here. I can’t imagine living or working anywhere else.”

It was Jack’s turn to clam up now. Sally could just hear him thinking: I could never live in a backwater like this. But he surprised her. “I don’t have roots anywhere. I was an army brat. Lived in base housing all over Canada, went to a new school every year. Never made any real friends.”

“Why did you pick UBC?”

“It had the programs I wanted.”

“Okay, why did you decide to stay in Vancouver?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Hey, who’s doing the interviewing here?”

“Just curious.”

“The Satellite made me the best job offer.”

“So, you aren’t especially—” Sally searched for a word “—loyal to Vancouver then? I mean, do you plan to live there for the rest of your life?”

He shook his head. “I love the West Coast, but I could never be loyal to any one place. Or to any one employer for that matter. It’s a good thing, too. Now that I’ve won the Gobey, I’ll be recruited by major newspapers across the country. Probably in the States, too.”

Wow, what confidence, Sally thought. Not, I’ll probably be recruited, but I will be. It was true, of course. All Gobey winners had their pick of the best jobs available. Soon Jack would be making a name for himself in Montreal or Toronto or New York. There was no sense in getting excited by the possibility of…of what, exactly? What was she thinking? That he might stick around here? Fat chance!

“Where am I going?” he asked as they approached the junction of the county road and Main Street. As planned, Sally instructed him to turn south, away from town. Charlie lived a few blocks north of the town centre, but there was something she needed to show Jack before he hightailed it out of here, as he so clearly wanted to do.

Anyway, enough personal talk. What business of hers was it where he chose to live? “So, I guess you could never live in a place like this, huh?”

Jack glanced over at her just long enough to show surprise. Dumb question, his expression said. “No, I couldn’t. No offense, Sally, but I really don’t want to be here one minute longer than I have to.”

Ouch. Did he have to be so blunt?

“I’ll bet I can guess how you live in Vancouver,” she ventured. Why not have a little fun?

He seemed amused. “Oh yeah? Go for it.”

“Okay. I’ll bet you live in an architecturally correct condo in West Van, with leather chairs and stainless steel appliances and a pleasing, if not exactly spectacular, view of the coastal mountains.”

“Wrong.” He let a moment pass before casting her a smile. “I live in an architecturally correct town house in West Van with leather chairs and stainless steel appliances and a pleasing, if not exactly spectacular, view of the coastal mountains.”

“A minor distinction at best. Score—Sally one, Jack nothing. Let me see now. I’ll bet your town house is surrounded by all sorts of trendy little shops and cafés, all of which you cite as your reason—make that your justification—for living in crowded, overpriced West Van, but none of which you’ve ever set foot in.” Was she clever, or what? She could have been an FBI profiler.

“Wrong again. I eat out almost every night, at a trendy little bistro four doors down from my architecturally correct town house. I shop in the local stores, and I’m a Friday night fixture at the corner pub. I’ve got my own stool there.”

“Okay. You score one point, even though I suspect you’re exaggerating.”

He laughed. “Maybe a little.”

Actually, Sally could just picture him sitting on that stool, sipping some pricey foreign ale while he read and admired his own copy in that day’s Satellite. Probably he wasn’t alone. Probably he was reading it aloud to someone.

Someone special.

“One last guess. I’ll bet you’ve got a very tall, very thin girlfriend who dresses in black and smokes French cigarettes.” That sounded like fishing, but how else was she going to learn anything about the guy? He wasn’t exactly gushy about his personal life.

Jack let the question hang there for a moment, and Sally braced herself for the inevitable. Of course there was a girlfriend. Maybe more than one. A guy like him? Educated, gorgeous, soon to be famous. He probably had the world’s biggest speed dial.

“Wrong yet again,” Jack finally said. “One more strike and you’re out.”

Sally waited for details, but, clearly, none were forthcoming. Talk about smooth. He hadn’t really answered the question at all. His girlfriend might be short with red hair. Or medium with no hair. He didn’t ask if she had a boyfriend, either. Come to think of it, he hadn’t asked her a single question that didn’t relate to the story. Obviously he didn’t care.

Oh well, it was time to switch her hormones off, anyway—stop fantasizing about the impossible and get her mind back on the story.

Their turn was just ahead. Following her directions, Jack swung left onto the smooth two-lane blacktop, its centre line a ribbon of bright, untarnished yellow. They passed through a dark tunnel formed by the bowed, sweeping branches of overgrown poplars, then abruptly burst into a sun-dappled meadow.

Sally watched Jack for his reaction to the spectacle ahead.

Obviously stunned, he slowed the Mustang to a crawl, his gaze riveted on the ghostly remains of half-built structures—shops, restaurants and, beyond, a network of empty streets where new homes should have been.

He brought the car to a full stop in the middle of the deserted road and sat there, gawking. Sally gave him a moment to take it all in.

“What do you see, Jack?” She held her breath.

He took a long time to frame his answer. “I see…a vision…wasted.”

Yes! She had been so right. Jack Gold was the one and only reporter who could tell her story.

“What happened here, Sally?”

As he eased off the brake and proceeded slowly along the access road, she explained how several years ago the town had sold the land to a developer with an inspired vision: Build a series of small, independent communities extending south of town—pods, sort of—that would attract young families looking for affordable homes, with schools and shops nearby. The plan had been to recruit a few national store chains and at the same time to presell the homes. Then the drought came and the local economy tanked. The buyers didn’t come. “The chains backed out. The developer lost his shirt and, well, this is the outcome.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Jack marveled as he cruised through the eerie district, looking all around him. “I’ve never seen anything so…unfinished.”

“That’s just it, Jack! There’s a standing proposal before town council to recruit another developer, but no one in the valley is interested. And there’s no way we can finish the project ourselves, not without raising property taxes through the roof.” Sally was ranting again and she knew it, but she just had to get Jack on board. “Do you know what this would have meant for Peachtown?”

He parked at a curb and turned toward her. “This isn’t really about ice cream, is it, Sally?”

“No. Well, yes and no. Like I said yesterday, we were positioned for growth and change. For progress, Jack.” Please, please, understand this.

“You don’t really believe that Peach Paradise is going to change all this, do you?”

“Got a better idea?”

“It’s not my place to come up with ideas for urban renewal.”

“No, but it is in your power to get the attention of the people who will come up with those ideas—”

“Look, Sally.” His tone was soft, placating.

“—and then make them happen!”

“Sally…”

“Jack, you promised to do the story justice!”

“I came here to write a story about ice cream, and I will do it justice.”

“Yes, but there’s so much more to the story than that. Listen, Jack. All of this—” she waved her hands around “—is documented at Peachtown Hall. We could go there tomorrow. I could give you all the background information you need to get started. I…” What the…? Was he laughing at her? “What’s so funny, mister?”

“You. I’ve never met anybody like you.”

Sally’s face heated up. “I’ll thank you to take me seriously, Jack Gold. Like you promised.”

“And I’ll thank you to remember why I came here. I’ve got an article to write. A short article, and I’m planning to write it tonight, in Vancouver. Besides, I can’t be here tomorrow. I’m covering an important press conference first thing in the morning, in Vancouver. In the meantime, you and I are going to pay Charlie Sacks a visit. I’ll tour the dairy barn with you and I’ll look at your photos, as promised. That’s all.”

Sally folded her arms and worked up her best pouty princess look. Why was he being so difficult? People usually went along with her plans and schemes.

“The pouty thing doesn’t work with me, Sally.”

Darn. She tried wounded puppy instead.

“That doesn’t work, either.”

A sigh escaped her. “Oh, Jack.”

For all of a second he appeared to weaken. But Trish’s comment about her tendency to steamroll over people echoed in Sally’s head, and she decided to let the matter drop—for now.

COULD HE FEEL ANY WORSE?

Jack stood beside Sally on Charlie Sacks’s front porch, waiting for someone, anyone, to answer the bell. They’d only been there a minute or two, but it felt like a week. The air between them was charged with electricity. Sally was annoyed. No doubt about that. But there was nothing he could do to change it.

What was it about her that made him feel so bad? What power did she have to make him second-guess himself? People usually flattered him—buttered him up to get what they wanted. Not Sally Darville. She could act coy, but ultimately she wanted what she wanted on her own terms. It was sort of…refreshing.

Regardless, he wasn’t buckling—no matter how sexy she looked in those little white shorts and that filmy pink blouse with the lacy bra showing through. Her fingernails and toenails were painted a pale pink and her hair was down today, loose and blond and beautiful around her shoulders. And that musky scent she wore—it could lull a man into stupidity.

Was she trying to seduce him? The possibility had struck him last night, and she definitely had been making girly eyes at him this morning. To what lengths would the woman go to get her way? Dammit, he shouldn’t have kissed her last night. It had seemed natural, somehow, but it must have given the impression that he could be seduced. Which, maybe, he could. But not for a price.

The door finally opened and Jack found himself face-to-face with a tall, handsome woman in, perhaps, her late fifties. She had short dark hair and smiling brown eyes.

“You must be Jack Gold, the famous reporter,” she said in a lovely, lilting voice. “I’ve heard such wonderful things about you.” Her handshake was more a caress than an up-down motion. It charmed Jack into a case of instant like.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ah, Mrs. Sacks.”

“Oh please, call me Arlene. Come on in.”

Inside the spacious foyer, the women air kissed and agreed that they both looked lovely. While Jack looked around, they chatted about the heat. When would it end? Arlene asked about the dairy. Was business good? And Sally’s parents. Were they expecting any company this summer? Here was something else Jack had forgotten about small towns—the endless welcoming chitchat. Vancouver moved at a faster clip.

“Are you enjoying your stay in Peachtown?” Arlene asked him.

Graciousness seemed in order. “Very much, thank you.”

“That’s good. We pride ourselves on showing people a good time, don’t we, Sally?”

“Hmm.”

Trailing the women down a long central hall, Jack admired the grand old staircase leading to the second floor, and peered into rooms that looked lived-in and happy. On his own, he would never have thought to look up Charlie Sacks. Who wanted to meet a sad old man who’d wasted his chance? Stuck in a small town. Stuck in a dead-end job. But meeting Charlie’s beautiful wife and seeing his comfortable home—well, the man’s life didn’t exactly look like torture.

Arlene glanced over her shoulder. “I must warn you, Charlie’s not in the best of shape today.”

“Oh, is it that awful back problem of his?” Sally asked in a cheesy, theatrical voice Jack had never heard her use before.

Arlene gave a sigh. “I’m afraid so.” She made it sound like the man was about to draw his last breath.

What was that about? Jack wondered. They sounded like amateur actors reading from a bad play.

They passed through a homey kitchen and into a big, sunny family room. Bookcases crammed with dog-eared books and family photos stood at right angles against two long walls. Matching overstuffed sofas and a sunken easy chair took up the centre of the room. Flat on his back on one of the sofas was a bald, chubby man in agony. His mournful eyes slid toward Jack. “Oh, the pain. The terrible paiiiiiiiiin.”

Smiling tightly, Arlene addressed him as if he were a toddler. “Now, now, Charlie. You’re exaggerating. It’s time to get vertical. Our guests are here.”

Charlie Sacks made a valiant attempt to sit up, but ended up falling back again. He let out a moan.

Alarmed, Jack rushed across the room. “Here, sir. Let me help you.” Arlene offered to get coffee and disappeared. Sally said a chirpy hello and unceremoniously plopped into the chair. Gee, Jack thought as he helped Charlie struggle to an upright position, you’d think the women would have a little more sympathy for the poor guy.

Charlie’s baby face contorted with pain as he reached out to shake Jack’s hand. “Cracker Jack Gold. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Have a seat, son.”

“It’s certainly an honor to meet you, sir.” It was true, Jack realized as he perched on the edge of the other sofa. Whatever his life choices, Charlie Sacks was a legend. His investigative reporting skills were reputedly second to none. He still ranked as the youngest person ever to serve as chief editor of the Satellite. In newspaper circles the man was an icon. Or had been.

Charlie chuckled. “I must say, though. I’ve got mixed feelings about meeting the man who displaced me.”

“Displaced you, sir?”

“Please. Call me Charlie. Oh yes, indeed. Until last month I was the youngest reporter ever to win the Gobey.” He furrowed his brows until they became one big bush. “Surely you knew that?”

Jack was flabbergasted. In all his ramblings about the late, great Charlie Sacks, Marty McNab had never once mentioned that fact.

“Sir, ah, Charlie, I had no idea.”

“Humph, doesn’t surprise me one bit. By the way, how is my old friend Marty?”

Jack shrugged. “Marty is…well, he’s Marty.”

“Enough said. Tell me all about your job. What’s up at the Satellite? And the Gobey. How did it feel to win?”

Arlene set a tray of steaming mugs down on the coffee table and urged everyone to help themselves. Jack waited for her to sit down, then talked at length about his work—the nature of his assignments, the friendly rivalry among his colleagues, the daily buzz and hum of the Satellite’s busy newsroom. Charlie nodded as if he remembered it all fondly, occasionally interrupting to ask a question. At one point, he tried to change position and ended up wincing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught Arlene and Sally exchanging a funny look. Something was up with the two of them, but what? Suddenly self-conscious, he shortened his speech and gave a self-deprecating shrug. “As for the Gobey, sir, you know what an honor it is to win.”

“Oh yes, I do know that. And let me say, son, that I don’t think any journalist today deserves it more than you. Your series of articles on that pension scam at Denton Corporation was the best investigative reporting I’ve seen. Thorough, concise and well written.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Nobody knows better than me how hard it is to get a story like that in the first place. It’s like pulling teeth, trying to get into the financial records of those big companies.”

Jack nodded. “I confess that I had an informant. A senior accountant with Denton. He didn’t have hard facts, but he’d had suspicions for a long time. That was enough to get my interest.”

“Well, Jack, I must say, I like what I see. You’re a fine young man and a great reporter.”

“Isn’t he, though!” Sally cried.

Arlene nodded vigorously. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Jack did his best to look humble. In truth, after Sally’s disgust with him last night, the praise heaped on him this past month was finally starting to wear thin. When you got right down to it, he was young and there were a hell of a lot more stories to write. If winning the Gobey at the age of thirty-four was the crowning achievement of his career, he was pretty much washed up now. But praise from Charlie Sacks meant something.

It seemed only polite, so Jack asked about the Post. What kind of stories were they covering? Any plans for expansion? He sipped at his coffee, now lukewarm.

Charlie waved a hand wildly in the air, which, curiously, did not induce another spasm. “Oh, I don’t want to bore you with all that. It’s a good little paper. I’ve done the best I could with it, but my day is just about over now.” He cleared his throat. “As long as we’re on the subject, though, I wonder if I could impose on you to do me a little favor?”

“I’m sure Jack would love to do you a favor!” Sally interjected.

Once again, Arlene just couldn’t agree more. “I’ll bet he’d be delighted!”

Jack frowned in their direction. All they needed was a playing field and two sets of pom-poms. “Ah, sure,” he said to Charlie. “What can I do?”

“Well, see, I’ve got two young reporters on my staff, but they’re both off this week. One’s getting married and the other’s, ah, ah…”

“On vacation,” Arlene supplied.

“Right. On vacation. Anyway, I need somebody to cover the peach party at Percy Pittle’s place this afternoon. I realize, heh, heh, that it’s a big step down for a Gobey winner, but do you think you could handle it? As you can see, I just can’t manage it myself.”

Jack held himself perfectly still. Something had told him the favor wasn’t going to be little at all. But this? It was an outrageous thing to request of someone on such short acquaintance. Under the circumstances, he could understand why the man would ask, but still.

He stole a glance at Sally. There she sat, her perfect little hands folded demurely in her lap, smiling just as sweetly and innocently as an angel. Dammit, how could he possibly refuse with her sitting right there? He’d won her respect only to lose it, then win it back, then lose it again. What would she think if he turned down an old man in horrible pain who had just called him “a fine young man and a great reporter?”

He offered Charlie a lame smile. “I’d be glad to help.”

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