was the tanker in the Minch? Where had she been headed? What was Conch Oil trying to hide? It was to Lachlan MacInnes’s credit that he was suspicious. He’d have to be a total moron not to be…and so would she.
Corey hurried down the beach, cringing with disgust as she picked her way through slimy globules and dead fish. She approached the man with the clipboard, waiting for him to wade out of the muddy surf before asking if he was Finlay Trowbridge.
“Who wants to know?”
He was a tall, middle-aged man with long arms and rat-like features: a sharp nose, prominent ears, beady eyes, and an obvious comb over, which, at the moment, stood in the wind like a sail.
“I’m Corey Parker.” She extended her hand. “The designated media point person.”
Frowning, he looked her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. “It’s about time you showed up. There’s been a reporter snooping around asking a lot of unreasonable questions.”
“I know.” She returned his narrow-eyed scrutiny. “I’ll handle him. Along with any others who show up.”
“There aren’t going to be any others,” he said more sharply than warranted. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Corey regarded him narrowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve asked the coastguard not to let them through,” he explained, “and the Benbecula police are guarding the border. If the jackals want information, they’ll have to get it from the command center.”
His high-handedness infuriated her. What right did he have to make policy where the press was concerned? “Who gave you the authority to erect such barricades?”
“Peter Blackwell.” He shrugged one sloped shoulder. “You’re only here to deal with any that happen to get through our screens—like that nosy prick from Skye.”
Corey cringed at being relegated to the role of sheepdog—or, more accurately, lapdog. Struggling to maintain a professional demeanor, she asked through clenched teeth, “What about the news choppers? How do you intend to keep them out?”
“I have my ways,” he said with a sneer.
She couldn’t guess what those ways might be—short of shooting them down—and wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “I’m still going to need a briefing on the clean-up operation.”
He glared at her like she was a naughty child. “Did I fail to make myself clear? All reporters wanting information on any aspect of the incident are to go to the command center in Benbecula.”
As Trowbridge turned and walked away, Corey stared after him in slack-jawed astonishment. This had all the earmarks of a full-scale cover-up and, evidently, she’d been made a pawn in this little game of subterfuge. Before she had time to work out what to do, MacInnes strode up to her with poison in his eyes.
“When am I going to get some answers?”
“It would seem there’s been a changing of the guard,” she told him, striving to keep the edge out of her voice.
His eyes narrowed and hardened. “Meaning what, exactly?”
She took a calming breath and licked her lips as she prepared her noncommittal answer. “Apparently, the command center is now fielding all press inquiries, so…if you want answers, you’ll have to go there.”
He squinted at her. “What’s this about? What are you lot at Conch trying to hide? I demand that you tell me everything you know.”
What she knew was that she’d just been thrown under a moving bus—not that she was about to disclose as much to this out-for-blood reporter.
“I’ve already told you everything I know,” she said with adamance before stalking off toward the cottage.
* * * *
The crunch of footsteps drew Cuan’s attention toward the dunes. The sight of Cordelia coming toward him with a basket over one arm roused his spirits as well as his hunger. Over the other arm, she carried a folded tartan blanket. The sight of her and her gifts filled him with gratitude.
He’d been watching the horizon, awed by the vivid
Corey hurried down the beach, cringing with disgust as she picked her way through slimy globules and dead fish. She approached the man with the clipboard, waiting for him to wade out of the muddy surf before asking if he was Finlay Trowbridge.
“Who wants to know?”
He was a tall, middle-aged man with long arms and rat-like features: a sharp nose, prominent ears, beady eyes, and an obvious comb over, which, at the moment, stood in the wind like a sail.
“I’m Corey Parker.” She extended her hand. “The designated media point person.”
Frowning, he looked her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. “It’s about time you showed up. There’s been a reporter snooping around asking a lot of unreasonable questions.”
“I know.” She returned his narrow-eyed scrutiny. “I’ll handle him. Along with any others who show up.”
“There aren’t going to be any others,” he said more sharply than warranted. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Corey regarded him narrowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve asked the coastguard not to let them through,” he explained, “and the Benbecula police are guarding the border. If the jackals want information, they’ll have to get it from the command center.”
His high-handedness infuriated her. What right did he have to make policy where the press was concerned? “Who gave you the authority to erect such barricades?”
“Peter Blackwell.” He shrugged one sloped shoulder. “You’re only here to deal with any that happen to get through our screens—like that nosy prick from Skye.”
Corey cringed at being relegated to the role of sheepdog—or, more accurately, lapdog. Struggling to maintain a professional demeanor, she asked through clenched teeth, “What about the news choppers? How do you intend to keep them out?”
“I have my ways,” he said with a sneer.
She couldn’t guess what those ways might be—short of shooting them down—and wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “I’m still going to need a briefing on the clean-up operation.”
He glared at her like she was a naughty child. “Did I fail to make myself clear? All reporters wanting information on any aspect of the incident are to go to the command center in Benbecula.”
As Trowbridge turned and walked away, Corey stared after him in slack-jawed astonishment. This had all the earmarks of a full-scale cover-up and, evidently, she’d been made a pawn in this little game of subterfuge. Before she had time to work out what to do, MacInnes strode up to her with poison in his eyes.
“When am I going to get some answers?”
“It would seem there’s been a changing of the guard,” she told him, striving to keep the edge out of her voice.
His eyes narrowed and hardened. “Meaning what, exactly?”
She took a calming breath and licked her lips as she prepared her noncommittal answer. “Apparently, the command center is now fielding all press inquiries, so…if you want answers, you’ll have to go there.”
He squinted at her. “What’s this about? What are you lot at Conch trying to hide? I demand that you tell me everything you know.”
What she knew was that she’d just been thrown under a moving bus—not that she was about to disclose as much to this out-for-blood reporter.
“I’ve already told you everything I know,” she said with adamance before stalking off toward the cottage.
* * * *
The crunch of footsteps drew Cuan’s attention toward the dunes. The sight of Cordelia coming toward him with a basket over one arm roused his spirits as well as his hunger. Over the other arm, she carried a folded tartan blanket. The sight of her and her gifts filled him with gratitude.
He’d been watching the horizon, awed by the vivid
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