“Whoa, that’s not what I’m all about.”
“No?” She cocked her head, disbelieving, a gust of cold wind catching in her hair. “What are you about, Wesley Tate?” she asked, then lifted a finger as if an idea just popped into her head. “Oh, right, you have a different angle on the story, don’t you? A personal take as your dad was there and he died saving that pathetic, freaked-out little girl from the lake after scaring her half to death!”
“Wow,” he said, almost under his breath.
“Yeah, wow.” She took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, trying to pull back on her out-of-control emotions. She looked down the street, where an old guy in striped pajamas, a bathrobe and horned-rimmed glasses was standing near the garbage can at the corner of his garage, his eyes trained on Kara and Tate. The last thing she needed was a nosy neighbor poking his head into her business. She turned back to Tate, who was still staring at her. “You’re okay, right? So this is over.”
“You hit me.”
“You were standing in my drive. And I didn’t.”
“I was crossing to the front yard.”
“But cutting behind the garage? For the love of God, didn’t you hear the garage door roll up, me start the car, the engine turn over?”
“I yelled,” he said.
Did he? Yes. Just before the thud and she felt a thump in the car. She eyed the rear bumper. Not a scratch and the damned open door was still dinging. “This is crazy,” she said, returning to the Jeep, reaching inside and cutting the engine. “Where did you say I hit you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she closed the Jeep’s door. “On your hip?”
“Yeah.”
“But not too bad.”
“I told you I tried to jump out of the way.”
“Yeah, so you said.” She remembered the thud and his leap to one side. Fake. She was sure of it. “I didn’t hit you.”
“You sure as hell did.”
“Don’t think so.”
Tate shook his head, disbelieving. “If you hadn’t been on your phone—”
“What?” she cut in. “Unbelievable.” Shaking her head, she said, “So you really thought that this little act would guilt me into talking to you?”
“Wow. That’s crazy.”
“Well, isn’t that what they say about me? That I was so traumatized as a child that I’ll never be right? That I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown every day? That I can’t be trusted to—” She suddenly shut up; knew she’d already divulged too much. “You work for a newspaper?”
“Freelance.”
“Ah. I see. And now, because I ‘hit’ you with the Jeep, you think I would feel guilty enough to give you an interview. Maybe an exclusive.” She glanced up the street to see the neighbor still standing in his slippers, salt and pepper hair sticking up at odd angles, and staring. Oh, crap, was he reaching into his robe for his cell phone so he could take a picture?
Tate said, “The least you could do is talk to me.”
“What?” Once again her attention was focused on the reporter. “Are you out of your mind? Why would I talk to you?”
He had the audacity to smile again, one side of his mouth lifting. “Well, you did almost kill me.”
“Because you were in the way! Holy Christ, you planned this? You hoped I would hit you so that you could get an interview?” she asked, her mind spinning at the lunacy of it all. How nuts was he?
“Of course not. You came barreling out when I was crossing to your house.”
“That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard,” she said, and the headache she’d tried to keep at bay was pounding a painful tattoo across her brain. “Look, go away. No interview. If . . . if you have any serious injuries, you can call my lawyer. I’m done with this.” Fury blooming, she stormed to her Jeep, climbed inside, and yanked the gear shift, forcing the Jeep into reverse. “What an idiot!” she said, disbelieving.
Tate was still standing at the side of the drive. Well, let him hang out there all day if he wanted to. It was freezing out. She hit the remote button for the garage door and watched it roll down completely, all too aware that the reporter was just five feet away and staring at her. When the door finally shut, she checked the rearview and backed up, leaving him on the snowy sidewalk. As for the neighbor, he was walking through the door into his house.
Good. Maybe he’d gotten a picture.