She wished she had more cheese. Might even have been tempted to run her finger along the edges of the pot—to hell with the burn—if it had still been there. They’d removed it, returning with a different kind of pot filled with oil, which was presumably heating to a temperature that would sear meat.
Distraction was what she needed. Not more of those sincerely heart-stopping blue eyes giving her their full attention. She wasn’t as great as that look was making her feel.
“Julie sits on a couple of charitable boards and some committees. She attends meetings. It’s not that she has a problem with going out. She has a problem with who she might run into.”
Chantel sat up straight.
“Like Patricia Reynolds?”
Tilting his head for a second, he shrugged. “That was a new one.”
“So she has...like...hallucinations?” That wasn’t good. Probably worse than agoraphobia.
“No!” He gave her a twisted smile, then shook his head. “I’m trying so hard to be careful here, to protect her privacy, and instead I’m making it sound worse than it is.”
There were times when a cop needed to help her subject give her the information she needed.
And she needed to know about Julie now. She just did. Running the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip, she lifted her glass and at the last minute remembered to soften her voice. “So why not just tell me what’s going on? As you said, she opened the door...”
He nodded. Appraised her. If he gave her a genuine precious-metal test, she’d fail. And be miserable. Lifting her chin, she looked him straight in the eye. Intending to keep her silent promise to protect whatever he told her. To protect his sister. At all cost.
That was her job. To protect others.
“Ten years ago Julie was brutally raped.”
The quick intake of breath, the gasp, Chantel let loose was not ladylike. A passing waitress looked over at her.
She knew she was in over her head.
She also knew she had to learn fast how to swim. There was no other choice.
CHAPTER TEN
EVERY NERVE IN Chantel’s body stood up.
Leslie Morrison, probable victim of abuse, was friends with Julie.
Julie was certain the commissioner’s wife had been sent to watch over her because of a correlation being drawn between something that had happened to her and the recent revelation regarding Ryder and Leslie Morrison.
Whether that last was true or not, Chantel drew a correlation. Because Julie, who knew facts of both situations, had drawn her own.
Would finding out more about Julie lead her to the evidence she needed to save Leslie and Ryder Morrison from further harm?
It should. If she was connecting her dots right...
And what about sweet Julie? Colin’s baby sister?
Having some idea of what a girl felt like after she’d been morally and physically abused, Chantel wanted to cry for the woman she’d just met but cared about already.
“I don’t know what to say.” The words, Chantel Harris speaking for Chantel Johnson, were completely authentic. As was the pain in her voice.
Colin swallowed, appearing to do so with difficulty. The tightness in his jaw told the rest of the story.
“Did they catch the guy?” Could she have given them enough determiners? Did they get a good enough composite sketch? Was he convicted?
Thinking of Leslie, of Julie’s conviction that someone didn’t want her speaking about the past in relation to the rumors regarding Ryder Morrison’s collage, Chantel had a really bad feeling about the whole thing.
“They didn’t have to catch him. He was right where everyone knew he would be—home in bed. Julie knew him. They were at a party together. She was his date.”
Oh. This was going to be bad.
“I’ll leave any details to her to tell, if she ever needs or wants to tell you. But in order for you to understand yesterday, and the door Julie opened...the guy is a member of our social circle. Julie told me what had happened as soon as she got home that night. I took her to the hospital. A report was made. I stayed on top of it by the minute. But the case stayed hushed behind closed doors. A couple of days later, the story was that the sex had been consensual, that when Julie found out that sex was all it was, that the guy wasn’t interested in a relationship, she made the accusation of abuse out of bitterness and hurt. No charges were ever filed, and as far as we know, no one in our circle even knows they were ever even considered. It was said that the secrecy was to protect Julie from any possible embarrassment or repercussion for making a false report.”
The commissioner had to hear about this. Chantel was going to tell him. There was no other choice.
“Who was it?”
His gaze dropped, but only for a second. “I can’t tell you that.”
“The doctor’s report...did you see it? Medical reports are pretty specific. The doctor would have said if there’d been any...” She’d almost said tearing, but realized Chantel Harris’s dinner conversation could not come out of Chantel Johnson’s mouth.
Pushing her glass of wine farther away, she bowed her head. She had to be careful here. More so now than ever.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking back up at him. “I just... This is so upsetting. I don’t really know what a medical report would say...just what I see on television, and I know how naive it sounds of me to think that in real life...”
He shook his head, his look all intimate again. “No, you’re absolutely right,” he told her. “They can tell if there was...force. And, well, let’s just say it was obvious. But what I was told was that rough sex is not all that uncommon these days. It was very clear that Julie and I were going to get no help. Either we agreed to be quiet about the matter, or she would be charged with false accusation and sued for slander. I told her I would proceed, that I would stop at nothing to get her the representation she needed to win her case. But she said no. It would be her word against his, and the family is prominent. And well liked. Julie and I had only each other, and I was still in law school. It was somewhat known that Julie had had a thing for the guy. She’d agreed to attend the party with him. Had arrived with him. We had money to buy the best of the best, but so did her opponent.”
“I wish she’d fought, anyway.”
“I know. But I agreed with her decision to let it go. She was right—her chances of getting a winning judgment against the powers on the other side weren’t good.”
“The powers? You’re telling me that a judge was involved?”
“I’m neither confirming nor denying that. Powerful people in prominent positions need only to have one highly appointed, respected confidant to make things disappear. It shouldn’t be that way, but you know as well as I do that in our world that’s how it happens.”
Just like all Chantel Johnson knew about cop work was what she’d seen on TV, all Chantel Harris knew about his world was what she’d either seen on TV or read about in the past weeks. So she took his word for it and nodded. “You didn’t have a higher higher-up you could grease,” she guessed.
She hated the idea of living in such a world. And hearing her cop radar buzz over and over.
Julie had refused to press charges, to fight the beast who’d hurt her, because she knew she couldn’t win. Leslie Morrison was refusing to press charges, denying any crime had been committed against her. Because she knew she couldn’t win?
Judging by Leslie’s hospital records, Morrison’s abuse of her—if it was real—had been going on for some time. Which meant Leslie had been hiding the truth for a long time. Hiding her pain, living without justice.
Was that what the two women had in common?
And this “higher-up” with greased palms—was he the same, too? Was that why Julie was certain that people wanted to keep her quiet?
/> “The Fairbankses don’t grease palms.” Colin’s expression had firmed, losing the warm touch.
And Chantel realized that she’d made another blunder. A big one.
She nodded. And then grinned. A quiet, classy grin...she hoped. In a lowered voice, she said, with complete and utter honesty, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that, Colin.” And then added, “Because neither do the Johnsons, and as you say, in our world you only know who’s who when you’ve lived among them for a while. Being new here...”
She broke off, hoping he’d get her point. “Anyway, I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“I’m finding it difficult to believe I took offense,” Colin told her with a slightly boyish grin. He sipped his wine, watching her as he did so. “I’ve always been the guy who could let boulders roll off his back without cracking a sweat. I don’t know what it is about you that has me acting so out of character...”
“Well, I hope you’ll understand, then, that I’m struggling with the same malaise...” She’d heard a woman use the word in one of the documentaries she’d watched about the rich and famous and had had to go look it up. “Please forgive anything I do that might appear out of character—it’s because I don’t quite know how to handle myself around you. I’m feeling a mixture of giddy excitement and complete discomfort all rolled into one.” Total honesty on that one. And a perfect cover for her, too.
* * *
COLIN WASN’T SURE if the blow to his head was figurative or if he’d somehow been in an accident that had been so severe he’d forgotten about it. Of course, as soon as he had the thought, he knew how ridiculous it was. Ludicrous, really. There was nothing wrong with his head.
It was something else that was out of kilter. Unbalanced.
“You’re knocking at walls that are miles thick,” he said aloud. And immediately wanted the words back. He was coming across like some kind of needy lecher who’d never been exposed to a beautiful woman before.
Like a man who didn’t know the ropes. Or how to respect boundaries.
“I’m sorry,” he said before she could respond. “I’m embarrassed by my behavior. Please, can we go back to the part where I pick you up from the hotel lobby, tell you you look beautiful and ask if you like fondue? I swear, I’ve been on a date before and do know the proper etiquette. Which I will show you if you’ll give me the chance.”
He was going to kiss her. Soon. Maybe within seconds. Before she agreed to go back...
Or...he’d kiss her good-night.
Either way, he was going to kiss her.
“Are you looking for an honest answer?”
The woman took his breath away. “Always.”
Anyone he’d ever been out with, everyone he’d ever been out with, would have taken this opportunity to escape speaking of embarrassing emotions, or getting too emotionally personal and moved on.
“Then no, I’d rather not go back.”
He had no idea what to do with that. The situation was becoming disturbingly familiar.
And delightfully different, too.
“My sister tells me that I’m known, among our female set, as a fun companion as long as my dates always wear sweaters.”
Her frown was cute. And drew attention to eyebrows that didn’t look fake. Neither drawn on, nor artfully waxed. They were shaped. Beautiful. But...unusual, now that he noticed them.
Striking. Like everything else about her.
He had a feeling that he could spend a lifetime with her and still not see all of the unique things about her...
“I don’t understand,” she said, drawing him back to the conversation.
“I’m apparently considered to be emotionally cold.” Slow to trust, he’d take that label. But cold? Not true at all. Still, the reputation served its purpose.
Until now.
“You are?” If she was playing with him, she was more of a master than anyone in his circle.
“I’ve actually been proud of that fact,” he admitted. “I’m rich and single. Which makes me an obvious choice for anyone looking for a husband. For herself. Or, in many cases, her daughter. Again, as I’m sure you know, business deals are made in the form of marriage. And a woman who’s grown up never having to lift a finger unless she chooses to is pretty driven to find a way to continue that lifestyle into adulthood. In order to do so, she has to find a husband rich enough to support her in the manner in which she wants to be kept.”
What in the hell was he doing? Saying?
It was to Chantel’s credit, a sign of the most elite and respectable upbringing, that she still appeared to be listening to him. And looked interested, too. It was an art, Julie had once said, a woman’s ability to look interested while bored to tears. She’d been speaking to their mother about their mother’s ability to always appear interested, when the best Julie could manage sometimes was to stay awake enough to keep her forehead out of her soup bowl.
“Go on,” she said now. “Why’d you stop?”
“Because I sound like an asshole.” Not dinner conversation with a lady—at least not in his parents’ day.
He sounded exactly like what he was. A man with trust issues.
“You sound like a man who feels hounded by members of his own clan.” She was staring at his face, her gaze roaming over it, and he felt as though her fingers had caressed him. It left him wanting more.
“If I’m going to be used, I want to know about it,” he said slowly. “And I don’t want to care. Emotions are messy. They cause mistakes.”
Which explained the mess he was making of what could have been the best night of his adult life.
He was not making it easy for himself to get to where he really wanted the evening to go—his lips on hers.
“Emotions are most definitely unreliable,” she agreed. He watched her mouth move.
“So we build walls around ourselves...” His arm slid along the back of the booth behind them; his hand dropped to touch her bare shoulder.
“Thick ones.” Her husky voice could only be heard if he leaned in toward her.
“I pride myself on not trusting anyone until their trustworthiness has been tangibly proven to me.”
Her lips were inches away now.
She licked them. “How does one tangibly prove their trustworthiness to you?”
He was going to kiss her. Right then. Right there. Protocol be damned.
“Okay, your oil should be hot enough...”
Oh, God, the fantasy was gaining momentum and getting out of control.
“I’ll get your meat right out. Would either of you like more wine? Or a bottle of water?”
Their waitress had come around the corner. Colin hadn’t kissed Chantel.
Yet.
* * *
THEIR ASSORTED BITE-SIZE pieces of meat arrived on a large china platter. Chantel listened to instructions Colin had clearly heard before as he jumped into clarify a couple of times. Or demonstrate how to handle her fork in hot oil without losing her dinner to the bottom of the pot or getting burned.
When they were once again alone, and their first pieces of meat were bubbling side by side in the pot, Chantel tried to figure out how to get the conversation back on topic. On Julie. And hopefully Leslie, too.
How to make certain it never got as personal as it just had. Fate had intervened in the form of their waitress. Chantel was certain it had been fate. The timing had been too critical. Saving her from blowing what could turn out to be the biggest job of her life. By forgetting she was Chantel Johnson and letting Chantel Harris fall for her subject.
She’d almost kissed him. Right there in the restaurant. She, who’d never, ever felt comfortable with public displays of affection.
She didn’t believe in coincidences, so yes, fate was on her side...
Colin adjusted their forks so that his wasn’t beneath hers, lifting her meat out of the oil.
“I just need to say one more thing about Julie, and then we can put difficult topics aside and enjoy our evening together,” he said, as though he knew she’d been trying to find a way back. She and this man who was way out of her league were sympatico. Chantel wished she was surprised by that.
She also wished she didn’t find the fact quite so delicious. She just needed to eat. She was starving. She should have had more cheese.
“You don’t have to entertain me, Colin. I’m happy to talk about, or listen to, anything you need or want to share.”
Surely people in his circle shared real conversations when they were out alone among themselves, in personal settings. She had to get the information she needed out of him.
And then find a way to keep herself cool while she pretended to date him for as long as it took her to find out the truth—with usable proof—about Leslie and James Morrison.
To find out who’d raped Julie Fairbanks and bring him to justice.
His look thoughtful, he nodded. “The reason Julie didn’t want to pursue charges back then...”
She raised her brow and nodded, trying to show compassion but not avariciousness in her need to know. And felt like she was on the edge of her chair.
She had to stay on track.
The more information she could take to the commissioner, the better chance they had at finding the mole in the department. Because there was no record of Julie Fairbanks ever having made a complaint against anyone, for anything.
No official record of a medical report, either.
Which meant that someone in the Santa Raquel Police Department was guilty of a cover-up. She was going to have to find out who the rapist was. And track possible connections and associations from there. Both in the police department and in the court system...
Love by Association Page 8