Page 47 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

Oliver braced himself on his cane and grabbed Irene. He pulled her close, trying to shield her from what he knew was coming.

The flashbulb exploded. Oliver turned his head to avoid being blinded by the dazzling light.

“Comment for the press, Mr. Ward?” one of the men said. “How long have you and Miss Glasson been seeing each other?”

The second man fired his camera. The flashbulb went off, searing the night.

“What about you, Miss Glasson?” the first man said. “Care to comment on the nature of your relationship with Mr. Ward?”

“We’re friends,” Irene said, her voice very tight.

She managed to find her key. Oliver took it from her, got her up the steps, and opened the door.

“You heard the lady,” he said over his shoulder. “Just friends.”

He hauled her into the lobby and slammed the door shut.

Footsteps pounded away down the sidewalk. Somewhere out on the street a car engine roared to life.

“Damn,” Irene said. She freed herself from the circle of Oliver’s arm and slipped off his jacket. “I’m supposed to be the one writing the story—not the subject of the story. How bad is this going to be?”

“I have no idea,” Oliver said. “Someone sent that pair to ambush us.”

“Tremayne’s studio?”

“Probably. The question is, what do they plan to do with the photos?”

“Neither of us is a star,” Irene said. “I can’t imagine any newspaper or Hollywood magazine paying for those shots.”

“You know, for an orphan who stopped dreaming fanciful dreams when she was fourteen, you’ve got a very optimistic attitude.”

Chapter 17

“What the devil is going on there in Burning Cove?” Velma Lancaster’s voice roared through the telephone line. “According toSilver Screen Secrets, you’re dating that ex-magician, the owner of the Burning Cove Hotel. And the competition gets the story? What am I paying you for?”

Irene clutched the phone and gazed, dumbfounded, at the front page ofSilver Screen Secrets. Mrs. Fordyce had thoughtfully left the paper on the front desk counter where Irene could not miss seeing the large photo.

The picture was not a flattering one. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide with shock. All in all she had the horrified expression of a woman caught in flagrante delicto. It did not help that Oliver’s white dinner jacket was draped around her shoulders and that he had her in a viselike grip.

It struck her as grossly unfair that Oliver somehow managed to appear both coldly dangerous and compellingly attractive. The fact that he was no longer wearing his dinner jacket added what could only be described as an extremely sensual element to the picture.

The caption that accompanied the photo had been written to put the worst possible light on the subject.

Ex-magician Mr. Oliver Ward and his new romantic interest,

Miss Irene Glasson, reporter.

Irene huddled over the phone and lowered her voice to a whisper.

“It’s not what it looks like,” she said.

“What?” Velma shouted. “I can’t hear you.”

Irene raised her voice a little. “I said it’s not what it looks like.”

Mrs. Fordyce was pretending to be busy behind the counter but she was practically vibrating with curiosity. It was clear that she was listening to every word.

“You’re in the newspaper business,” Velma snapped. “You know damned well that a photo or a story is exactly what it looks like. Perception is everything. It looks like you’re involved in a murder investigation and you’re dating the owner of the hotel in which the murder occurred. What’s more, said hotel owner just happens to be the famous ex-magician who was nearly killed onstage in his final act.”