“Your men are watching us.”

Brett angled himself to shield Ginny from his crew’s prying eyes. “Maybe we’d better kiss instead. Make this charade look real.”

“No.”

“No? We’re supposed to seal an engagement, not a traffic citation.”

Her deep, fortifying breath matched his own. “I hate it when you’re right.”

She pressed her lips together, zeroing in on his mouth.

Brett caught her chin in his palm and stroked his thumb across her lips. “Relax. I’ll meet you halfway.”

Ginny sank back as he lowered his head and replaced his thumb with his mouth. The lower arc of her sweet lips trembled. Drawn to the tiny flutter of movement, Brett pressed the generous curve between his own lips.

Her lips barely moved.

Her hands were another story altogether.

Her fingers dug into his chest, then crept up to his shoulders, holding herself steady or holding him close, Brett couldn’t tell. He wondered if she even knew.

Sudden Engagement
Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributed her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Detective Ginny Rafferty—As a rule, this headstrong cop works alone. So temporarily joining forces with her potently sexy “fiancé” is bound to wreak havoc on her steely self-control—and on her heart.

Brett Taylor—This neighborhood hero would do anything to protect his family or a friend. And he never forgets a promise, especially when it is made in the heat of passion to the woman he can’t resist.

Sophie Bishop—She survived a treacherous past. But will she survive her future?

Eric Chamberlain—Attorney-at-law. Brett’s high-school rival still wants to be #1.

Pearl and Ruby Jenkins—This mother and daughter have their sights set on Brett.

Dennis Fitzgerald—Ginny’s attentive neighbor knows a lot more about her murder investigation than he’s letting on.

Detective Merle Banning—Is Ginny’s true-blue partner jealous of the new man in her life?

Zeke—Just another homeless guy. Or does his occasionally lucid mind hold a decade-old secret?

Amy Rafferty and Mark Bishop—These star-crossed lovers paid dearly for their dreams.

Alvin Bishop—The neighborhood bully finally got what he deserved. But who put him out of his misery?

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank my two ace research assistants, who possess a lifetime of expertise on Kansas City, Missouri, and its history—aka Mom and Dad!

Dedication

This book is for the Mom’s Group, especially my friends Linda Whitely and Lee Carter—because I promised.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

“Brett. Over here.”

Brett Taylor ducked beneath the yellow tape that marked off the condemned building as a crime scene. He took the concrete steps two at a time and joined his younger brother at the top.

Mac Taylor adjusted the wire-rimmed frames of his glasses, pulled off his plastic gloves and extended his hand to greet him. “I said I’d call you when I knew something. What are you doing here?”

Brett shook hands, then splayed his fingers on either side of his denim-clad hips. He looked down a couple of inches at his tall, fair-haired brother. “I’m saving the world. What does it look like?” He surveyed the team of men and women in black Kansas City Police Department jackets, who were swarming in and out of crumbling doorways and kicking up dust from the disintegrating brickwork. The old Ludlow Arms apartment building was an accident waiting to happen. Apparently one already had. “Your people know to watch their step, don’t they?”

He crossed the entryway to a hole in the plaster. He glanced at the connecting struts within the wall, then reached inside and pried loose a rotting two-by-four. He turned and displayed the evidence of age and neglect for his brother. “This is one gal I can’t fix.”

“We understand ‘structurally unsafe.”’ Mac shook his head. “Though I still don’t get the concept of buying this old place if all you’re going to do is tear it down.”

Brett wasn’t sure he could explain the tricky combination of memories and guilt and dreams that had prompted him to take out a loan against his business to buy a block of dead buildings in his old neighborhood. “This old Victorian lady—” he said, giving the structure a feminine appellation like any devoted captain. He tilted his chin and cataloged the remains of the intricate molding that outlined the ceiling, appreciating their elegant curves the way he’d appreciate any woman’s figure “—is beyond help. But I can turn the acreage into a pocket park to add value to the other sites I’m remodeling.”

“You sure you can afford a project this size?”

“I have investors.” Brett tossed aside the beam—and Mac’s concern—and got down to business. “Now show me this dead body you found.”

“Not me. A couple of homeless guys tried to camp out in the basement.” He checked the notepad he carried. “A Zeke and a Charlie. No last names. Heard sounds in the walls. Thought the place was haunted. Went to check it out.”

Brett laughed. “Yeah. Old Zeke’s a war vet. The only enemy he’s afraid of is the real world.”

Mac nodded and led the way downstairs to the basement. “I guess. He called 911 and said he’d pulled a buddy from a foxhole.”

Brett’s admiration for the seventy-eight-year-old gave way to habitual worry. “I’m hoping to turn the old Walton Building into a shelter. Put in office space upstairs. Maybe we can get the therapists and clients in the same building and save a few bucks.”

“You really are out to save the world,” Mac teased.

“Just my corner of it.”

Maybe this time he’d get it right.

The Ludlow Arms hadn’t seen electricity for years, but the path was lit by a series of battery-powered lanterns, spaced evenly between puddles where the steady drizzle of rain leaked in. Even inside his red-and-white flannel shirt and thermal top, Brett felt the drop in temperature as they descended into the unheated darkness.

“You know this place has a subbasement?” asked Mac.

Brett trailed his hand along the cool concrete walls. The drowsy sunshine of early April would never penetrate this far. Layers of plaster dust and ancient dirt and moldy slime came away on his fingertips. He curled his fingers into his palm and crushed the sensation in his fist. This place was as dark and unwelcoming as it had been fifteen years ago when Mark Bishop had first brought him down here.

The best place to hide from my dad, he’d said with a laugh that hissed through his broken tooth and bloody lip. Right beneath the old man’s nose. Brett had suggested the hospital emergency room as a better place to go after that fight. Mark had been little more than a kid then, an honorary little brother. But with no money and no insurance, with nothing but a young man’s pride to sustain him, Mark had wanted to hide out down here. Brett had brought him ice, peroxide and some food for the night. Mark took strength from their friendship, and from the idea that his dad, Alvin Bishop, would never be smart enough or sober enough to find his way down to the basement.

If only he’d known.

“Brett?” Mac was staring at him in that quizzical way of his that questioned everything but revealed nothing.

He quickly pulled himself back to the present and processed Mac’s question. “Yeah. It’s on the old blueprints. This is one crazy lady,” he added. “I wish I had more time to check out all the nooks and crannies. Abandoned dumbwaiter shafts, stairwells boarded over for remodeling.”

Mac had stopped them at a trapdoor in the floor. His grim sigh put Brett on guard. “I don’t think this particular nook shows up on your blueprints.”

Wary, but equally intrigued, Brett climbed down the ladder after Mac. As his work boots hit the dirt floor, he inhaled sharply and winced. The air smelled stale. Cold and damp like a cave, with no circulating breeze to cleanse the heavy air.

The basement had been chilly. The subbasement raised goose bumps along his forearms. He adjusted his yellow hard hat on top of his head and gazed into the darkness made dim by Mac’s flashlight and a lone stationary lantern. He followed him over to the collapsed section of bricks built up around the iron infrastructure of the building. Mac stepped aside and shined his flashlight into the closet-size hole.

The smell of rust and rot hit him a split second before he looked inside. He pulled his head back and spun around, cutting across the room with the calculated prowl of a caged animal. He swore low and viciously.

Mac remained cool and detached. A prerequisite for the kind of job he did, Brett knew, but still… He stopped in the center of the room and pointed toward the manmade hellhole. “Doesn’t that make you sick? We grew up in this neighborhood. Stuff like that…”

Hell. He wasn’t the eloquent one. He had no words for the gruesome sight, for the personal violation he felt at seeing a corpse like that in his building, in his community, in the place his friend had considered a haven.

“Stuff like that makes me angry, too,” Mac conceded. But unlike Brett, he kept his emotions firmly in check. “I have to ask you to delay demolition of the building until we’re satisfied with the crime scene.”

Brett returned his hands to his hips and nodded. “Any idea who? Or why? Or even how long he’s been in there?”

“Obviously, we’re beyond the fingerprint stage, so I won’t have any ID for a while. I’m not even up to motive yet. And as far as time, the dampness down here accelerates decomposition. But, nobody’s lived in this building for five years or so, right?”

“Eight years.” Brett breathed in, needing fresh air. “Do you think he was alive?”

Mac’s uncharacteristic hesitation snagged his full attention. “Yeah. I do.”

Brett cursed the cruel inhumanity of the crime. He went to Mac and squeezed his shoulder, offering a degree of comfort he’d yet to find for himself. He’d been half joking about saving the world. He’d like to reclaim at least a part of it for his mother and father and younger siblings.

But maybe he was already too late.

“I’ll hold the crews as long as you need me to.” Taking charge came easily to him. And even though Mac was the expert here, he couldn’t help but offer, “Anything else you need from me?”

Mac shook his head. “I know where to find you.”

A reviving breath of fresh air soothed Brett’s frustrated sense of justice. He turned to the creak of footsteps on the ladder, seeking the source of the delicate, flowery scent that drifted past his nose. It wasn’t a specific perfume, but a clean fragrance, faintly scented like the purplish freesia plants his mother had cultivated to add color and freshness to the drab, overcrowded apartment where he’d grown up.

Mac moved into the light while Brett savored the memory. “Mac, have you figured out any details for us?” Brett snapped to attention at the familiar female voice sparkling with intelligence and clipped with professional patience. He remembered that voice. “What’s this unauthorized civilian doing here?”

He smiled, knowing he was the cause of her accusatory tone. Mac urged him forward, out of the shadows. “Let me introduce you to the lead investigator on the case. Detective…”

“Ginny Rafferty.”

Mac and the second man down the ladder looked at Brett, surprised by the recognition. But he had eyes only for the petite woman standing in the muted light of the lantern and flashlights.

Angelic wisps of white-gold hair, damp with rain, curled and clung to her jawline. Dark blue eyes, wide and clear as a cobalt pane in a stained-glass window, studied him without expression. She was a pint-size package of beautiful woman that didn’t even reach his shoulders.

He remembered her.

Proper and preachy and stubborn enough to get under his skin like an itch he couldn’t reach, Ginny Rafferty unsnapped the front of her jacket and fisted her hands on her slim hips, exposing the holster and badge clipped to her belt. Her proud, wary stance dared him to question her authority.

Oh yeah. He definitely remembered her.

His smile broadened a notch. “We’ve met.”

“Yes. We shared guard duty of your cousin Mitch’s wife before they were married. My boss called in all his favors to protect her from the man who assaulted her.” She let the front of her jacket slide back into place, but her tiny body retained its stern posture. “As I recall, you cheat at Scrabble.”

“Being a bad speller doesn’t make me a cheater.”

“No, but doing anything necessary to ensure a victory does make you annoying.”

She walked past him, directing the beam of her flashlight into the hidden corners of the room. Mac laughed at the clear brush-off. “Yep, big brother. She knows you, all right.”

She put on a pair of plastic gloves and knelt beside a dust-filled footprint. She measured it with her hand and made a notation in her notepad. “Anybody been down here today but the two of you?”

Mac, too, slipped into his professional mode. “The two men who found the body. The preliminary scan team. We’ve taken photos. Marked samples. It’s slow going, though. This place is falling down around us and won’t withstand a lot of traffic.”

Ginny stood and flashed her light onto Brett. “So why don’t we clear the crime scene before we disturb any more evidence.”

“Brett knows the building inside and out. He can tell us where it’s safe, and where it isn’t. Besides, he knows more history about this neighborhood than city hall. I thought he’d be a good source of information. And, he can tell us about the construction of this wall.”

Her blue eyes flashed with the same intensity as the powerful beam. “Nice defense, Mr. Taylor. I suppose you can stay.”

Brett couldn’t resist the challenge thrown up by her all-too-serious concession. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

But she didn’t rise to the taunt. Instead, she flashed her light past him to the second detective. “That’s my partner, Merle Banning.”

The trim, six-foot package of suspicion eyeballed him before shaking his hand. “Mr. Taylor.”

“Everybody calls me Brett.”

“I’ll remember that, Mr. Taylor.”

He wondered what he had said or done to earn the younger man’s disapproval. This guy didn’t look too far past the rookie stage. Maybe he was working on his tough-guy routine. He had the master champ to learn from in his partner. Brett backed off a step. “You do that.”

“Is the body still here?” Ginny asked. Apparently, what passed for pleasantries had ended.

Mac swung his light around to the hole in the wall. “In there.”

Ginny nodded, taking charge of the scene. Brett noted that his brother and her partner responded to her commands without hesitation. “Merle, you get Mac’s report. Then see if you can track down the two gentlemen who found the body. I want their statements ASAP.”

“Right.”

A split second passed before Brett understood that the others were leaving. And Ginny was heading toward the corpse. An instinct to protect, a need to shield shot through him. His property, his emotional territory had already been violated by the gruesome scene behind that wall. No one else should have to see it. Especially not a lady. With a lineman’s quick agility, he moved his big frame and blocked the opening. “Wait a minute. You can’t go in there.”

Ginny stopped at the broad expanse of red-and-white flannel. Damn the man! Couldn’t he put his flirting on hold for two minutes?

“Mr. Taylor, let me pass.” She looked up to add a practiced glare to the authoritative pitch of her voice. She gripped her toes inside her shoes to conquer the urge to take a step back. The teasing light that danced with perpetual humor in his eyes had disappeared behind a mask, cold and clear like the sapphire gems they resembled. He was sending her a silent message, telling her, warning…oh hell. She didn’t understand the silent message.

She never could read men. Not on a personal level, at any rate. And this smooth-talking con artist, with the old-fashioned chivalric edge she’d discovered the last time their paths had crossed, really perplexed her.

So she did what she had always done when she felt at a disadvantage. She buried her emotions, sucked in a deep breath and pretended she had everything under control.

“Mr. Taylor,” she repeated, glossing over the husky catch in her voice, “I am a detective, first-grade, KCPD, assigned to the Special Investigations Unit. I’m here to look into a possible homicide. Right now, you’re obstructing justice. I can have you arrested.”

“Then do it.” A hard chill had seeped into his chest-deep bass voice. “I’m trying to spare you a nightmare tonight, Detective.”

He propped his hands at the waistband of his jeans, an inherently masculine pose that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders and the imposing girth of his biceps and forearms.

He was such a big man. But then, next to her, most of them were. She’d fought the good fight her entire adult life. At five-three, she’d barely made the cut to enter law enforcement. But her determination had made the difference.

Too pretty, too petite to be taken seriously in a man’s world, she was used to having to prove herself. She trained harder, worked longer, studied more carefully than most of her male counterparts. She’d earned her badge, earned her rank and earned some respect.

But all that meant nothing each time she came up against a Wyatt Earp wannabe like Brett Taylor. A man who imagined himself to be a larger-than-life folktale hero, who still believed it was his mission to protect the little woman from the big bad world.

Acutely aware that he made up two of her, Ginny pocketed her flashlight and pulled out the one symbol of authority that most men did respect.

Her badge.

She jabbed it right at his chin, forcing him to turn his face to the side. “Move it, Taylor.”

He swept his gaze from the badge down to her upturned face. Considering the amount of time she spent on her feet in this job, it had always seemed impractical to wear high heels. But right now, she’d trade that badge for a pair of three-inch pumps.

Control, she reminded herself. If she didn’t feel, she couldn’t be hurt. It always came down to staying in control.

She refused to even blink.

Brute strength finally bowed down to sheer will. With a tired sigh, he relaxed his stance and moved aside. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Not allowing herself time to savor the small victory, Ginny clipped her badge to her belt and stepped inside the brick alcove. Darkness rushed at her, making her head spin. She squeezed her eyes shut against the dizzying sensation and struggled for a clear thought. She breathed in deeply, gagged on the stale air.

And then it hit her. She’d turned off her flashlight to haggle with Brett. Plunging her fingers into her pocket, she curled them around the reassuring bulk of stainless steel, the one weapon to fight her phobia. She pulled it out, flipped the switch on and opened her eyes.

“Oh God.” The scene before her wasn’t much better than what her fears had conjured.

Steel rivets bolted into the wall. Attached chains showing signs of rust from years of disuse in the damp air. A tiny stainless-steel bell hanging around his neck. Bony fingers clasping a chipped cup in its lifeless grasp.

Ginny snapped a mental picture, then tucked it away in a hidden corner of her mind to deal with later. She turned off her emotions and tuned in to logic and the power of her five senses.

She noted the partial decomposition of the body. The stale smell resulted as much from the lack of fresh air in the chamber as from the death itself. Even now, the faint crumbling sounds, showers of brick dust and dry mortar, told her the wall had been sealed together by an amateur. She ran her fingers along the original bricks. Age had taken its toll on the wood-and-iron framing down here, but the old masonry had stayed intact.

Kneeling down, she reached inside the skeletal fist and touched the china cup. The victim wasn’t inclined to release it. Ginny set her flashlight on the floor beside her and angled the beam at the milk-colored porcelain trimmed in blue and gold. Touching only the inside of the cup with her gloved fingers, she lifted it from the floor and turned it, along with the hand, to read the pattern name on the bottom. Liberty.

“What’s with the good china?” She spoke her thoughts aloud, wondering at the scenario of a man left for dead, yet being given something to eat or drink.

While she pondered, the cup slipped from her grasp. Ginny snatched at the falling arm, but as she shifted, she kicked her flashlight, jarring the electrical connection and plunging the tiny alcove into absolute darkness. The skeleton toppled onto its side, leaving only the sounds of the ringing bell and her pounding heart to keep her company in the darkness.

She squelched the instant panic with a useless trick she’d taught herself long ago. She squeezed her eyes shut, pretended the light was still there, pretended there were no enemies lurking in the dark, then groped through the shadows for the missing flashlight.

She touched Liberty Man’s arm instead.

Her breath whooshed out as fear and memories won out over logic. She pushed to her feet and whirled around, seeking light, needing light.

She shot through the opening, her fist pressed tightly to her mouth. She would not scream. She would not let this beat her.

Quick, purposeful strides took her to the ladder. There, she latched onto the fourth rung and tilted her face into the lantern light filtering down from the floor above. Her shoulders rose and fell in rapid gasps.

“Gin, are you all right?”

Five gentle fingertips touched her shoulder and she jerked away as if they’d singed her. Damn. She’d forgotten anyone was here. So dark. She’d forgotten. He’d seen her.

She dredged up enough voice to answer Brett. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t her best lie, but she didn’t care. She didn’t owe him any explanation. She began to climb, attacking the rungs of the ladder as if the darkness itself pursued her. In her haste, she misjudged a step and slipped.

Instead of falling, twin vises caught her thighs. Big hands. Brett’s hands. Long, strong fingers and supple palms that nearly spanned the circumference of each leg. Supporting her weight with effortless ease, he guided her feet back to the second rung.

“Easy.” He crooned the warning in that cavernous voice. The sound of it skittered along her spine, sending soothing tendrils of comfort along her sparking nerve relays. She cursed her body’s foolish reaction to the sound.

Once on solid footing, he released her. Ginny clung to the ladder and quieted her pulse. The imprint of warmth from his hands stayed with her, mocking her attempts to ignore him and don her detective facade once more.

“Claustrophobic?” he asked.

“No.” She spun around and looked straight into eyes of sapphire blue.

He stood a bit too close. Close enough to see the stubble of dark brown beard shadowing his jaw. Close enough to smell the honest scent of wood and work on him. Brett was clearly a man who built things with his hands. It was evident in the outdoorsy tan of his skin, the rough rasp of his fingertips, the minuscule bits of sawdust that clung to the coffee-brown twists of hair that brushed his collar.

Years of practice made it possible for Ginny to note her observations without attributing any emotional or physical response to them. She cataloged her reaction to Brett the same way she cataloged her observations of a crime scene. “It’s the—”

Ginny snapped her mouth shut. She couldn’t let this man know her weakness. Her fears were her own to handle. She would not be made vulnerable. One of the ugliest aspects of her job—of her life—was seeing how cruel the world could be to anyone who was vulnerable.

Let him think the close quarters had gotten to her. A white lie would be better than the truth.

“Maybe a little.”

He backed off a step. “Sorry to crowd you.”

The considerate move surprised her. Maybe there was a touch of real hero beneath his thick, flirtatious veneer, after all.

“You work in construction, right?” she asked.

“Contractor. Run my own business.” If he thought anything strange or rude in her abrupt change in topic, he didn’t comment.

She let her gaze move past his shoulder to that shadowy void that reminded her of more than she cared to remember. “Can you tell me anything about that new wall? The one built to seal him in?”

She averted her gaze from the dark chasm. Some memories refused to die.

“Yes.” He lifted his left hand in a timeless gesture of “ladies first.” “But let’s talk outside. I could use some fresh air.”

Ginny recognized the gallant gesture for the excuse it was, but appreciated it anyway. She gave him a curt nod and climbed the ladder. The basement brightened into artificial twilight. And when she emerged on the front steps of the concrete stoop, she breathed in the mist-filled air like sunshine.

With her phobia behind her, Ginny could think clearly again. She’d been shaken by the darkness, that was all. Any traitorous response her body had had to Brett Taylor had simply been the result of humiliating fear. She was too smart to be attracted to a charmer like him. Way too smart.

This time, she heard the weight of his tread on the threshold and knew he stood behind her. She pulled out her pen and notebook, and turned to meet him. “So, Mr. Taylor, do you think you can tell approximately when that alcove was built? And can you verify that it was built by a nonexpert? The mortar seemed to be inferior grade, falling apart. Maybe it wasn’t mixed together properly.”

He answered her questions with a laugh. “You are one tough cookie, aren’t you.”

Ginny lifted her gaze with a stern look that only seemed to fuel his good humor. “The term ‘cookie’ went out with girdles and seamed stockings. You can call me Ms. Rafferty or Detective.”

He sputtered as he struggled to contain his laughter. “You can call me Brett.”

“I don’t have to call you at all.”

He jabbed a finger in the air at her. “That’s it. That’s the voice.”

“What are you talking about?”

His hands settled on his hips. “That tone of voice you get that says you are too tough to care. The one that could lay out a platoon of soldiers at fifty yards.”

“If you’re referring to the tone of authority…”

“I’m referring to the show you think you have to put on for people to take you seriously.”

Ginny’s confusion puffed out on an abrupt sigh. “Excuse me?”

“All you have to do is talk to me.” He leaned toward her, his height putting him head and shoulders above her. She tilted her face to maintain eye contact. He never stepped closer, never touched her. Yet she felt the breadth and power of him surrounding her, as if he hovered above her, circled around her. A show of force? Or a shield of protection? “You don’t have to talk down to me.”

For a rare instant in time, she stood speechless. No clever zinger sprang to mind, no command seemed appropriate. No one had ever complained about her professional demeanor before. She never meant to be insulting. Damn him, anyway, for taking a criminal investigation and turning it into something personal.

With a surprising degree of decorum, Brett was the first to resume business as usual. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He slid out a business card and pressed it into her hand.

“Here’s my card. Call me if you need anything, or you find out something. I have a great deal of money and time and history invested in the Ludlow.”

His odd statement triggered her curiosity, overrode her self-conscious habit of feigning emotional control. “History? What do you mean?”

The look that darkened his face revealed Brett Taylor wasn’t all fun and games. But the grim expression was fleeting. He smiled once more, a handsome crease that formed dimples on either side of his mouth. Ginny wondered if, in her own hypercritical state, she had imagined his quick revelation of sorrow. But he gave no explanation.

“In answer to your questions about the wall, I’d say it was put up ten, twelve years ago. And yes, the mortar work was amateurish. Maybe done in haste, maybe done by someone who didn’t know any better.”

She jotted down the information, too dutiful a cop to do otherwise, but her attention remained focused on his previous cryptic words. “You didn’t answer my question. What history are you talking about with the Ludlow? Is it related to the murder?”

“No. It’s just that…” He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket. Ginny recognized the procrastination of buying time before an unpleasant task. But to his credit, he looked her straight in the eye before answering.

“That’s not the first dead body I’ve seen at the Ludlow Arms.”

Chapter Two

“Got a new case?”

Ginny Rafferty turned to the cemetery’s caretaker and nodded. The chocolate-brown eyes set deep in the wrinkles of the African-American man’s face looked as old as she felt. “It’s that obvious, John?”

With his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coveralls, he twisted his face into a sympathetic frown. “You make this pilgrimage out here every time you take on an unsolved murder.”

She turned back to the pink granite headstone, with the name Rafferty engraved upon it. “Maybe once I can solve all the rest of them, I’ll get a chance to finally solve hers.”

More than a casual acquaintance, John McBride shared a sad, unique bond with Ginny. He might be one of the few people who understood her need to come to this remote haven nestled between busy Truman Road and Twenty-four Highway time and time again. He shrugged his shoulders and offered a fatherly smile. “It’s gettin’ dark. I’ll have to close the gates soon.”

“Give me a couple of minutes. Then I’ll ride down with you.”

“Sure.”

She watched him walk down the hill to his truck, his dignity unbowed by age or sorrow. Everyone coped with loss in his or her own way. Maybe one day she’d move beyond hers and find the acceptance that John seemed to have found.

Until then, she’d maintain her solitary vigil. She’d hang on to the love and loyalty she’d once forsaken in the pursuit of her own misguided dreams. The chilly spring rain drizzled along her cheeks, side by side with the single tear that scorched her skin.

The trees that surrounded the hills of Mount Washington Cemetery muffled the sounds of Kansas City at twilight. The haunting silence wrapped her up in its lonely hug, a small comfort for all she had lost.

She understood that the rest of the world moved on, despite her grief. Despite her guilt. But part of her would never understand why.

Twelve years had passed. And she still didn’t understand.

John had become the closest thing she had to a friend over the years. They’d first met the day of her sister’s funeral. He’d been kind enough to let her stay, long after the funeral had ended, long after the guests had departed to a reception at her parents’ Mission Hills home.

She’d been gone a year and a half before that, painting in Europe, losing her heart, learning some harsh truths about life, while Amy learned a harsh truth of her own on a deserted pier in downtown Kansas City.

Like this evening, John had waited with her until after dark the night of Amy’s funeral. Then he called for a taxi and paid her fare, even though she had money of her own.

Six months later, she’d lost her mother to a bottleful of the sedatives that were meant to help her cope with the loss of a child. John had been a good friend that day, too. She had needed one. With her father steeped in grief, Ginny had withdrawn to the fringes of the ceremony. An easy enough task for a shy creature like herself. She took a vow that day, made a promise to her sister and her mother. Planned her own quiet rebellion.

John had found her then, much as she was today, standing in the rain, swearing all kinds of vengeance on the world. He’d told her of his son, an officer in the State Highway Patrol, who’d been slain in the line of duty. He shared his feelings of pride and mourning for his brave son. He truly understood her anger and her loss.

And he inspired her.

She’d met John again last year, finally losing her father to an overworked heart, though emotionally, she’d lost him years earlier. Her parents had never been the same after Amy’s senseless murder. Ginny was a grown woman now—no grief-stricken teen, no rebellious coed—a mature career woman of thirty.

She’d willingly given up her scholarship to study art in Europe and enrolled in the justice studies program at Central Missouri State University in nearby Warrensburg. She’d taken care of her father, and now she took care of Kansas City, Missouri, too.

She sought justice for the innocent victims like her sister. Like her mother and father. And like that poor man this afternoon, buried alive and left to die.

Like a family reunion of battle-scarred survivors, she and John now met at the start of every new case. Each time, he waited patiently to drive her to her car at the front gates. And each time, she made the same promise to her sister and parents.

She spread her palm flat over the cold granite that bore her family’s names and recited her vow. “I’ll find out who did this to us. There will be justice for the Raffertys.”

She curled her fingertips into the grooves cut deep into the stone.

“I promise.”

Ginny headed down the hill toward the road. Her charcoal-gray chinos, damp from a day’s worth of rain, stuck to her legs like a second skin and chilled her. The warmth of John’s truck sounded pretty inviting right about now. She really ought to make an effort to cultivate his friendship. He’d always been so kind. But she’d never been very good at that sort of thing. Making friends had always been Amy’s forte. Some day soon—tonight, maybe—she’d overlook her insecurities and take him out to dinner.

Well, maybe not tonight. A telltale chirping vibrated at her hip. Stopping beside the road, she pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open.

“Detective Rafferty.”

“Yeah, Gin. It’s Merle.” She turned her face away from the phone to mask her weary sigh. She and her partner had been on the clock since eight that morning. How could he still sound energetic nearly eleven hours later?

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I got a name on that murder at the Ludlow you asked about. Back in 1989. An eighteen-year-old kid named Mark Bishop.”

That’s not the first dead body I’ve seen at the Ludlow Arms.

Ginny’s own energy kicked up a notch. “Was that case solved?”

Merle spoke as if he was reading the information straight off his computer screen. “History of family violence. Died from a blow to the head. The death was attributed to his father, Alvin Bishop. Neighborhood bully. He had a record of abuse and neglect with Social Services, and a string of minor convictions. Everything from drunk and disorderly to assault on the garbage collector.”

“But no charges were filed?” She sensed more unfinished business.

“A warrant was issued for the father’s arrest. But he disappeared before his arraignment. Listed as a missing person ever since.”

“So justice was never served.” Either pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, or she’d opened a box with more pieces than she could count. That body at the morgue could be Alvin Bishop. “Get Mac Taylor at forensics on the line. Tell him to run Bishop’s name through as a possible ID on our John Doe.”

“Will do.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah.” A twinge of frustration colored his voice. “The statements I took from those two homeless guys, Zeke Jones and Charlie Adkins, are useless.”

His frustration just became hers, too. “They didn’t see anything?”

“Who knows? Charlie said nothing, just sat there staring at me. Zeke kept spouting off his name, rank and serial number. I thought I was in the twilight zone.”

Sometimes, witnesses saw a male detective as a threatening presence, and were more apt to open up to a female. She hoped that, and not one of the mental disorders that affected some homeless people, was the case with these guys. “I’ll give it a shot tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I’ll get you the address for the shelter where I sent them.” She was just about to hang up when she heard Merle call her name. “Hey, Gin?”

She put the phone back to her ear. “Yeah?”

“You have dinner plans?” Ginny rolled her eyes heavenward at the sincere catch in his voice.

She pictured his sweet, unlined face and the gradual aging she saw day by day in his dark green eyes. This wasn’t the first time he’d asked her out. It wouldn’t be the first time she said no, either. “You know how I feel about going out with the men I work with.”

His voice rushed over the line. “Hey, no. I’m your partner, I’m just worried about you. We missed lunch, remember?”

“I remember.” She forced a smile, as if he could see her relief. “I’ll get something to eat, don’t worry. You get out of that office, too, okay?”

“I will.”

“Good night, Merle.”

“’Night, Gin.”

She hung up and dug inside another pocket for a specific slip of paper. A business card. Taylor Construction, Brett Taylor, Owner.

She looked at the card and pictured the man. Big. Rugged. Smart-mouthed. “Do you always show up when there’s a dead body in the neighborhood?” she asked the image.

Memorizing the number, she hurried to John’s truck and dialed before climbing in.

John spared her an indulgent smile before putting the truck in gear. “Duty calls, I take it.”

She nodded through the unanswered rings. “I’ve got an opportunity to ask a few questions I shouldn’t put off.”

He wound through the hairpin turns toward the cemetery’s front gates. “One of these days I want you to tell me you’re in a hurry to meet a young man.”

She smiled. “John, you sound just like my dad.”

An answering machine picked up. Brett himself had left the recording. Even across transmitted miles of a recorded message, Brett’s basso profundo voice reverberated through her like a mellow jazz tune, at once enervating and intriguing her.

She asked him to call her cell number and then hung up.

“Just like that.” John’s amused voice captured her attention.

“What?”

He shook a gentle finger at her. “The look on your face when you talked to that man. That’s the look that tells me you’ve got a social life.”

Ginny frowned. “I talked to his machine.”

He pulled up behind her car and put the truck in Park. “But you’re wishing it was the real thing.”

“Please.” Brett Taylor? Social life? Neither phrase was part of her regular vocabulary. “He’s a possible material witness to a murder case, nothing more.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.” Her protest sounded vehement, even to her own ears. She tried to come up with a plausible explanation. For John. “Look, I don’t really date much. I’m too caught up in my work.”

“It’s important work you do,” he said in a voice of sage experience. “But it isn’t everything.”

For her, it had to be. Relationships were too awkward for her. Many men were threatened by the nature of her job, her devotion to duty. More men lacked the patience to work through her eccentricities, and she’d never developed those most feminine skills that could encourage a man to make the journey with her.

And if she should ever meet a man with the patience and fortitude and self-assurance to withstand a relationship with her, she’d run away as fast as she could. She would never put herself in the position of losing someone she cared about again.

Maybe John understood that, after all. His weary silence revealed a man who had lived more life than most people his age. He surprised her by reaching across the seat and squeezing her hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see you again very soon.”

She squeezed back, understanding. “Me neither.”

BRETT PACED the small confines of his office, turning the mouthpiece away from his impatient sigh while one of his investors grilled him for information about the story he’d seen on the local evening news.

“The Ludlow’s still going to be renovated, right, Brett?”

Brett righted the phone. “No, Mr. Dennehy. That’s the one we’re tearing down, remember? The other buildings are structurally sound. But not the Ludlow Arms.”

“It was home to a lot of people, you know.”

The older man’s wistful tone added another rock onto the load of responsibility Brett carried on his shoulders. “I know, sir. Hopefully the refurbished buildings will draw quality tenants like yourself.”

Bill Dennehy perked up as a new thought hit him. “Do you think that body was in the basement when Alice and I were living there?”

“I don’t think so.” Bill had been lucky enough to live in the Ludlow Arms during the building’s heyday. He knew these streets the way Brett’s grandparents had known it. Thriving. Friendly. Safe. “Trust me. A little bad press isn’t going to stop me from renovating the neighborhood.”

“Alice won’t come to that fund-raiser of yours if there’s any more news like this.”

“Of course not, but…”

He felt a tap at his shoulder and stopped midprotest. Five perfectly shaped, copper-tinted nails reached for the phone. His gaze dropped to the half-amused smile on the mouth of the tall brunette beside him.

“I’ll handle this. You pace.” She nudged Brett to one side and turned her attention to the caller. “Mr. Dennehy. Sophie Bishop. Yes, I remember you from the old neighborhood…”

Brett’s frustration turned to admiration as he watched his old friend work Bill Dennehy through a trip down memory lane and onto the road toward a charitable donation. He sat back in the chair behind his desk and watched her do her thing.

He’d hired Sophie for her expertise in fund-raising and public relations. He could only afford to pay her peanuts, but she’d been quick to volunteer her time. She, too, came from the Market Street area of Kansas City, and seemed as eager to see a rebirth of the community as he was.

Things were a little awkward between them, but he hoped she’d moved past their broken relationship. No longer the adoring young college student he’d once dated as a favor to her brother, she’d matured into a powerful, successful woman of the world. And she put her money where her work was. Sophie had been the first to sign up for one of the luxury condos he planned to put in the Peabody Building. Surely that kind of support was proof that they could still work together as old friends.

“Mr. Dennehy, that’s sweet.” It wasn’t as if Sophie had to be any man’s charity date. With long, shapely legs that stopped somewhere just short of her neck, and the sleek, sculpted features of a fashion model, she’d draw any man’s attention. But Brett looked at her and saw…Mark’s sister.

His feelings for her weren’t all that different from what he felt for his own sister, Jessie. Just as strong, just as protective, just as pure.

He rolled his chair up to the desk and leaned his elbows on top, watching with pride and gratitude as she smoothed over the investor’s concern. “I’ll be sure we have a corsage for her at the fund-raising ball. I look forward to seeing you and Mrs. Dennehy there. Bye now.”

She pressed the off button and handed over the phone with a flourish that made Brett throw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, so you saved my butt. Go ahead and gloat.”

“I’m just doing my job, big boy,” she laughed. She perched on the corner of his desk and tugged the hem of her taupe silk suit down to within inches of her knees. Brett sat back and waited for the rebuke. “Next time there’s a publicity glitch like this, call me. Don’t wait for me to see it on the evening news.”

“He was my third call tonight.”

Sophie shook her head, making light of his doubt. “We can use this in our favor. Murder’s the kind of thing that used to happen in this neighborhood. But no more. Not with Brett Taylor on the job, transforming the dark alleys and dangerous streets into a place where families can work and kids can play.”

Brett frowned and pushed to his feet, uncomfortable with the heroic status, even if it was said in a teasing vein. He walked around the desk and picked up her cashmere stole. “You’d better hit the road. I’m keeping you from your date.”

Sophie grabbed her purse and joined him. She turned her back to him and let him wrap her shoulders in the oversize scarf. He closed his arms briefly in a friendly hug. “Thanks, kiddo. I owe you one.”

“I know. I’m keeping tabs.” A knock on the office door gave Brett the excuse to pull away. Sophie used the opportunity to pull on a pair of leather driving gloves. “Expecting any reporters?”

“No.” Maybe he was looking forward to this next visitor just a little too much. Heedless that Sophie followed him, he hurried through the outer office and opened the trailer door.

Ginny Rafferty stood outside. The harsh glare of the porch light softened in the silver shimmer of her hair. He released his anxiety on a single breath and let his features relax into a genuine smile. Her crossed arms bespoke all business, but he appreciated her sunny beauty like a breath of fresh air. And the challenging glint in those cobalt eyes stirred his thoughts away from spooked investors and a budget that wouldn’t balance.

“You said to meet you here,” she said in greeting.

Those blue eyes shuttered and darted to the side before he heard the voice beside him. “Brett?”

He stepped back, feeling ridiculously jarred by Sophie’s intrusion. The contrast between the two women rendered him silent for a moment. Tall and petite. Dark and fair. Smiling expectantly and expressionless.

Fortunately, Sophie had the sense to see him past the awkward moment. She extended her hand in polite greeting. “I’m Sophie Bishop, an old friend of Brett’s.”

Ginny shook hands. “I’m Ginny Rafferty. I’m a—”

“New friend,” he interrupted before she could rattle off her official job and title. Sophie had done enough for one night. He didn’t need her to run interference for a police investigation. He didn’t want anyone to interfere with a chance to talk to Ginny. “Soph does public relations for me.”

“I see,” said Ginny.

“Well…” Sophie smiled and excused herself. “I’d best not keep Eric waiting. I’ll call you in the morning to touch base.” With a tilt of her chin, she leaned in and kissed Brett’s cheek, then wiped the spot with her thumb as if she had left a mark of lipstick. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Brett squeezed her arm affectionately, and watched her until she climbed into her car and pulled away from the curb.

Only then did he realize that Ginny was still standing on the porch, waiting to be invited in. Brett wiped at his cheek, as if Sophie’s kiss was still visible, and concentrated on the woman before him. He stepped aside and held the door open for her. “Ms. Rafferty.”

He rolled her name around his tongue like a piece of candy. He ought to be on a first-name basis with this woman, call her Gin—or Angel, a compliment to her looks she wouldn’t want to hear.

At least, not from him.

As she stepped over the threshold, he noted the trappings of her trade, a blue plaid blazer that masked the bulk of a gun and badge at her waist. When she walked past him, tantalizing as a breeze of fresh air, he noticed her stiff posture and the cool expression on her face.

He set aside the inexplicable desire to hear her loosen up and laugh just once, and followed her into his office. He hadn’t worried about the mess before with Sophie. But when Ginny picked up an untouched sack of fast food off the chair, he wished he’d taken time to clean up the place.

She dangled the bag between her thumb and middle finger, eyeing the grease spot that had soaked through the brown paper. “Did I interrupt dinner?”

“That was lunch.” He took the bag from her to throw away—once he located the trash can. He spotted it, supporting one corner of the scale model of the revamped city block where the Ludlow, Walton and Peabody Buildings sat. “Yesterday’s.”

She perched on the very edge of the chair once it had been cleared. He lifted a corner of plywood and ditched the day-old food.

“Do you spend a lot of time in your office?” she asked. He could almost read the phrase bachelor pad on her lips, and wished he could show her the clean, uncluttered space of his condo that he’d designed and remodeled himself in a nearby warehouse.

He pulled out his own chair and sat across the desk from her. So it was to be strictly business between them. Again. Thinking of the waste of those beautiful, expressive eyes of hers, when they could be sparkling with laughter or drowsy with passion instead of so cold with single-minded determination, he tried to accommodate. “I do the paperwork here. But mostly I’m out on the work sites. Lately, I’ve been conned into attending some fund-raising events. I’m working toward three million to rebuild the Ludlow block the way I want to.”

“Three million, hmm?” Her ever-watchful eyes continued to scan the office. “I think you’d be a natural at schmoozing people for money.”

Ouch. Though the comment was superficially complimentary, her tone of voice gave her words a condemning twist.

Feeling the unjust sting of failure, he pushed to his feet and circled the desk. He couldn’t let her taunt—intentional or otherwise—go unchallenged. He shoved aside a stack of bills and sat on the edge, right in front of her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers when he crossed his legs at the ankle. He ignored the traitorous rush of heat that shot toward his toes at that slightest of contacts. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and flexed his muscles in his most intimidating display of force.

“I’m doing a good deed here, angel. At best, I’ll break even. Any profit I might end up with will be reinvested in future projects to improve the neighborhood.”

Undaunted by his face-saving attack, she tipped her chin and looked straight up into his eyes. “You seem to have several projects in mind, Mr. Taylor. You’re quite the philanthropist. How much money have you raised so far?”

Damn, she was a cool customer. Instead of taking offense, the blood surged through Brett’s veins at her show of strength. Why the hell did he have to get twisted up inside over this pint-size bundle of woman who was all backbone and beautiful eyes? He was a healthy male, more than decently attractive, according to the women he’d dated. He knew his manners and how to make a woman laugh.

And yet this one, Ginny Rafferty, with the Nordic looks and Arctic demeanor, got under his skin. The one woman whose only interest in him applied to whatever information he could give her in a murder investigation, fascinated the hell out of him.

He liked the challenge of sparring with her. He’d like it even better if he knew this battle of wills was leading someplace interesting. “We’re halfway there. We’ve pledged about one million in donations. And I put up half a million of my own money.”

“Really.”

One elegant eyebrow, a darker shade of blond than her silvery hair, arched above her skeptical gaze. He felt her scrutiny from the shoulders of his worn flannel shirt to the toes of his scuffed work boots. He seemed to fall short, in her opinion, judging by the doubt etched on her face, an observation that rankled his male ego. He’d butted heads with beautiful women before, and had never failed to charm his way into their good graces.

But Ginny was different. She didn’t play the game at which he excelled. With her, the battle of wills was for real.

Brett couldn’t help but defend himself. “My business is successful.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of lying.”

“Then what are you accusing me of?”

His taunt seemed to strike a nerve in her. She averted her face and blew out her breath on a long sigh. In the space of a heartbeat, Brett’s adversarial instincts switched to an uncomfortable mix of guilt and concern. She rose to her feet, a coordinated series of movements blending grace and control.

Regretting his self-serving need to strike back, to assert himself, Brett chose to remain seated. She stood beside him, not quite face-to-face, and he could see the ultrafine spider-web of bluish veins beneath the pale porcelain of her skin.

He curled his fingers into his palms, combatting the urge to touch her, to see if her cheek was as smooth and soft and fragile as it looked. He’d forgotten her job for the moment, given vent to his frustration. He’d simply reacted. Without much thought or consideration of the consequences.

“How much do you stand to lose if the Ludlow project fails?” She didn’t look at him until she’d finished the question.

When he turned his face to her, he nearly sank to the floor. Eye-to-eye, mere inches away, he felt the gentle heat of her reaching out to him like a tentative caress.

He must be tired and imagining things, he thought. He’d seen those eyes cool and blank. He’d seen them wide and dark with fear.

But he’d never seen them as he did now. The tiniest of frowns made a shallow dent between her eyebrows, and her eyes gleamed with a warmth that reminded him of sunshine streaming in through a stained-glass window.

The uncustomary openness in her expression triggered an unexpected response inside him, a desire to be equally frank, without sugarcoating the truth with a smile or a clever joke.

“I could lose my shirt, if I’m not careful. If this project fails and I have to repay my investors on top of the accumulated debt, I’ll go bankrupt. Taylor Construction would be no more.”

“What about your personal assets?”

His family suspected he was in this building campaign up to his eyeballs, but he’d never shared the extent of what he had laid on the table to make this reclamation project happen. But alone in his office with the bright-eyed detective, the words spilled out. “I could lose everything.”

She uttered a sound like a gasp of disbelief, then turned and paced to the far end of the room. When she spun around, Brett sat up straighter. That brief glimpse of compassion he’d imagined had vanished. She was primed for battle again.

“Then why do this? Why not take the renovation one building at a time?”

He took the offensive, standing and bracing his hands on his hips. “Are you investigating me or the murder?”

“This is personal for you, isn’t it?” She walked closer, each step a brick of suspicion building against him on some unknown case. “Does this have anything to do with Mark Bishop’s death?”

Brett turned his face to the ceiling and swore. When he looked at her again, he didn’t bother softening the blow. She hadn’t pulled any punches, and neither would he. “You got a lot of nerve, lady.”

“I understand Mark Bishop was a friend of yours.”

He shook his head, admiring her gall, if not her choice of topic. “That woman you just met was his sister. The Bishops were like family to me.” A defensive edge slipped into his voice. He didn’t try to mask it. “I met Mark through the Big Brother program. He was a good kid who needed a break. I tried to give him one.”

“What can you tell me about his death?”

“Somebody beat the hell out of him, then left him without any medical attention. Why do you want to know?”

“That body in the basement could be Mark and Sophie’s father, Alvin Bishop.”

“Hell.” He collapsed back onto the desk. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t have the forensics yet, but the timeline fits. It’s a possibility.”

It seemed impossible. To hear that name again. Twelve years after the man got away with murder…or maybe he hadn’t, after all. Brett looked Ginny square in the eye. Her phone message had said she wanted to discuss the case. But which one?

He schooled what was left of his patience and asked, “Just what is it you want from me?”

“Do you have any idea who’d want to kill Alvin Bishop?”

“Me, for one.”

“Brett.”

He liked the sound of his name in her crisp, clean voice, even if it was couched in a reprimand. But she’d made it more than clear that he was just a means to an end of a case for her. Keeping that sobering thought in mind, he answered, “Just about anybody in town back then. He wasn’t a nice guy.”

She moved a step closer, folding her hands together and beseeching him in an unconscious gesture that he found difficult to ignore. “Mac says you know more about the neighborhood’s history than anyone. Records about the Ludlow tenants are sketchy and outdated. Do you think you could give me some specifics?”

The intelligent gleam in those dark blue eyes never wavered. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’m investigating a murder. I’m always serious.”

He could see that. “All right, then. But not on an empty stomach.” Her challenge galvanized him. Shoving himself to his feet, he grabbed his keys from the desk and strode toward the door. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and it’s past nine o’clock. I need to fuel up if I’m going to do this right.”

Ginny hurried after him in quicker, shorter strides. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I mean I’m hungry. I’m going to go eat.”

“Now?”

He pushed the door and held it open for her, amused by the incredulity of her question. Once she was outside, he closed and locked it behind him. “That’s the general idea.”

He heard a rapid rush of air behind him. “I’m just getting started. There’s more I need to ask.”

“I figured you’d come with me.”

He swept his arm out, indicating she precede him down the stairs. Instead, she took a step back against the iron railing. Maybe it was a trick of the overhead light, but her already fair skin blanched to an unhealthy shade of pale.

Brett reached out and touched her shoulder. “You all right?”

For an instant, time suspended itself between them. But before he could question her jumpy reaction, Ginny shrugged away his fingers and bolted down the steps. He could tell by her hushed tones that she’d dropped him from the conversation. “I’ll look up the names of some of the longtime residents of this part of the city. Maybe I can get them to talk. Forensics alone won’t tell me why that man was buried alive.”

“Time out.” He caught up to her in three long strides, and coiled his hand around her upper arm, holding on when she would have pulled away again. “I didn’t say anything about not talking. You stirred up some ghosts when you mentioned Mark and Alvin Bishop. I want to be sure I’m thinking clearly. I don’t want to make a mistake about either death.”

Beneath the coiled tension of sleek muscles, he felt…trembling. He glanced from his hand up into the smooth perfection of her face. Cool and rock-solid as always, she revealed no emotion. But the fine tremors didn’t lie. Something made her nervous. Had he startled her? Or was it the fact that he refused to let go?

He was torn between putting her at ease and demanding to know why she’d so easily dismiss his help. Conscience beat curiosity.

“Look, my uncle was a cop. My cousin Mitch, your boss, is captain of the local precinct. I have three brothers who are in law enforcement or criminal investigation. A fourth who used to be. It’d be suicide at family reunions if I didn’t help a cop when she asked me.”

No laugh.

Shrugging off his inability to coax even a smile from her, he released her. She backed off a step and buried her hands in the pockets of her blazer.

“The older a case is, the harder it is to solve,” she said, as if explaining her aversion to his touch. “If I don’t have your full cooperation, then this is pointless.”

“We’ll find out the truth. Together.”

With the challenge hanging in the air, he dared her to retreat a third time. Her gaze darted from the sidewalk to her car and back to the middle of his chest. “All right. We’ll eat.”

He rewarded her hard-won agreement with a smile, overlooking the bothersome observation that she hadn’t looked him in the eye. “There’s a diner on the next block. Since the rain stopped, we can walk.” Keeping a comfortable distance between them, Brett headed for the corner, shortening his stride so Ginny didn’t have to pump her legs in double time to keep up.

“I suppose it makes good sense.” She seemed intent on reasoning this out. “I need background. You need to eat. We can combine both and save some time.”

“See? It’s a good plan all round. Not bad for an arrogant bozo like me, huh?”

“I didn’t say…”

He sensed the snap of her head as she looked up at him. He came to an abrupt stop and turned. Whatever she was about to say died on her lips when their gazes met. She didn’t know he’d been teasing! She would have defended him against the self-mocking insult.

Big bad Brett Taylor, neighborhood hero and resident handyman, had always taken care of himself and those around him. To know this dainty bit of curves and confidence had been willing to do the same for him warmed a chilly place inside he hadn’t acknowledged for a long time. Ginny Rafferty wasn’t quite the all-business woman who fascinated him. She was human. The woman was as much of a mystery as the cases she worked to solve.

Reaching an unspoken truce of sorts, he checked for traffic, took her by the elbow and crossed the street with her. He released her as soon as they were safely across. “If we can prove that old man Bishop finally got what he deserved, I’ll answer any question you have, as many times as you want to hear it. There are plenty of folks around here who would love to know the truth.”

“One thing I’ve learned, working homicide…” He glanced down to see the wry wisdom in her voice reflected in the expression on her pretty face. “There’s always one person who doesn’t want you to find out the truth.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.