by Carol Caiton
Kyle stared. He checked his wristwatch. It was nearly six o'clock on a Saturday. There wasn't an open bank anywhere, probably not in the entire country. Yet Jessica had the personal number of the regional manager programmed into her phone and the woman had answered.
He heard her mention the name of his bank, then gave the faceless Marjorie his name and account number and was put on hold. A couple minutes later she smiled, told Marjorie yes, the weather had been lovely all day, and disconnected.
When she looked up, she told the salesman which banking institution would be financing the loan, gave him a phone number, along with the rest of the information she'd jotted down. Then she informed Kyle that he'd be happier with the arrangement she'd made for him—at less than one percent interest.
After that, she refused all dealer add-ons, bought down the prep fees, and insisted on taking as much time as she wanted to examine the sales contract. And the piece of shit car he'd been about to junk? The one being towed to the dealership as they sat there? She'd gotten an amount equal to the blue book value as a trade-in. Sight unseen.
Honey, you're in trouble now.
By the time the deal was closed, she'd come away seven thousand dollars under the sticker price. The salesman was no longer smiling and his supervisor stood nearby, courteous, but sober.
Jessica, however, was satisfied. And Kyle, while still a little bemused over the entire transaction, was happy as a pig in shit.
A few minutes later, the ATV he'd just bought was driven out of the showroom. The salesman somberly shook hands with both of them, saying it was a pleasure doing business, and Kyle almost laughed. The look in the guy's eyes said he hoped he never saw either one of them again, not in this lifetime, and maybe the next one too.
Jessica's stomach growled as he walked with her toward the Mercedes, a new set of keys in the palm of his hand.
"Follow me in your car and let me take you out to dinner," he said as she reached inside her purse.
She hesitated, then drew her key ring out. "I should go home."
She pressed the remote that released the lock and he opened the door for her. He didn't want her to leave yet. Not yet.
"Do you have other plans?" he asked. He'd be surprised if she did because she'd told him she hadn't formed any new friendships yet. But this was Saturday night. If she told him she did have plans, that could mean she was seeing someone.
"No," she said. "I have no plans, but—"
"Then let me take you to dinner. It's getting late and we're both hungry."
As if to support his argument, her stomach growled again and he grinned.
She shook her head but said, "All right, Kyle. Thank you."
The sun was starting to go down, but the air was still warm enough to leave the soft top off his new jeep. Ten minutes down the highway he pulled into the parking lot of an Italian restaurant and glanced in his rearview mirror to make sure she followed. She parked her Mercedes in the slot beside his and he opened the driver's door for her while she reached for her purse.
"Do you like Italian?"
"Yes, very much."
A week ago, or even yesterday, he would have placed a guiding hand at the small of her back. But there was something extra in the mix now, something more between them that she wasn't ready to acknowledge. If he put a guiding hand on her back now, he couldn't guarantee she wouldn't turn back around, get into her car, and drive away.
So he walked beside her, together but not touching. He tried to figure out the best way to get more information out of her without sounding like an interrogator, and followed behind as they were led to a quiet table.
But she beat him to it, cutting right to the heart of things as usual.
"Will you tell me about your family now?"
He'd put her off the last time she asked. Sitting in RUSH's administrative lobby where the receptionist had probably been listening to every word she could catch, he hadn't wanted to discuss anything personal. He still didn't. But this was a two-way street. He wasn't going to get anything out of her unless he was willing to share as well.
He waited until they ordered, then told her, "I was raised by foster parents. They live in Philadelphia."
"Do you know where your birth parents are?" she asked.
"I don't know about my father. He left when I was five, and my mother died when I was twelve."
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "How did your mother die?"
He considered how to answer because one question always led to another, then another. "She had an infection. A bad one." Hell, the past had come up in conversation more this last month than it had in years. "She was given a mega dose of medicine she was allergic to."
"She didn't tell the doctor of her allergies?"
"She was incoherent by then." He hesitated. Then he said, "But I kept shouting about it when they wheeled her out of the house on a gurney."
"They didn't believe you?"
He grunted. "I was a snot-nosed street kid, Jess. A lot had happened that day and I was screaming at everyone—cops, paramedics . . . . They'd stopped listening."
She thought about that for a minute. "Were you old enough to understand you could file a lawsuit?"
"I was old enough to know that only people with money hired lawyers. But my foster family looked into it," he told her.
"They're nice people? Your foster family?"
"They're very nice people. I lucked out."
Just as he'd known, the questions piled up. But he didn't mind telling her about Derek and Kathy. They were the best part of what came out of that miserable time. He'd been like a wild, wounded animal back then.
"I had a social worker with the patience of God," he said. "She actually listened while I was yelling and carrying on. Her uncle was a beat cop. He's a detective now and her aunt's a lawyer. They're the people I ended up with, and her aunt sued on my behalf."
"I'm glad for you. Very glad. A child needs to know there's justice when terrible things happen to him."
Their food arrived and he kept the conversation general while they ate, biding his time. But he kept an eye on her plate and when she was nearly finished he asked, "How did your father die?"
Right away she looked down at her food, her fork suddenly still in her hand, and all his instincts went on alert. He wasn't going to like her answer. Her body language and his years in law enforcement told him her father's death hadn't been a circumstance of natural causes.
"My father was murdered," she said quietly. She looked up and met his eyes. "He was poisoned."
The questions he would have asked if she'd been a witness hammered at his brain, clamoring to be answered. But if he started drilling her and sounded like a cop, she might clam up and stop talking.
"Do you know who was responsible?" he asked carefully.
"Yes. I know who did it."
He weighed his next words. "Was the person who did it arrested? Is he—or she—in prison now?"
"No."
Shit.
Exasperated, he held onto his patience and decided on a different angle. "Are you in any danger?"
She blinked. "From the person who killed my father? No. I'm in no danger from him."
"How do you know that for sure?"
Slowly, almost carefully, she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. Was she stalling for time? Then she set the napkin down on the table, stared at it, and said, "I know because . . . it's been taken care of."
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Jesus Christ. He didn't need to ask what those words implied. Whoever had murdered her father had been removed from the equation and was now just as dead.
The alarm bells sounding off in his head demanded to know if she'd contracted a hit. She might be shy and uncertain when it came to her personal life, but there was another side to her. She was confident, assertive, and efficient when it came to finance. Hell, she was a walking dynamo.
He proceeded cautiously. "Do you know why your father was poisoned?"
She looked u
p but in the next second her eyes lowered to his chin, then his chest, then the table. "He was murdered because of me."
Because of her? "Jessica look at me."
She brought her gaze back up to his. But her pretty gray eyes looked at him with guilt and suffering in their depths. Guilt because she thought her father had died on her account? Or guilt because of another reason entirely?
Part of him wanted to offer comfort, he couldn't deny it. He was personally involved here. But a bigger part of him wanted answers. She'd been a contradiction since the day he met her and it was time he had all the pieces of the puzzle.
"Why do you think your father was killed because of you?"
She looked down at the table again. She smoothed her fingers along the hem of her napkin. "Because a man," she said, "—a very wealthy businessman—wanted to buy me."
Ah, fuck. He swore under his breath. "Tell me what happened."
Color seeped into her cheeks, something she couldn't have faked if she'd tried.
"There were three offers within two weeks," she said. "After the second offer, my father knew there would be trouble. He hired bodyguards. Three of them. And they went with us everywhere, day and night."
She swallowed and looked up again and the emotion he'd taken for guilt might have been regret, he thought now. But he wasn't going to assume anything.
"He took other precautions as well," she continued. "Legally, I was already his business partner. But when his third refusal wasn't well received, he made certain my name was attached to everything he owned. It was as though he knew, Kyle . . . as though he'd been granted just enough time to put everything in order, knowing death was inevitable. We talked about it." She made a brief, helpless gesture. "He talked about it," she amended. "Then we began to liquidate our investments. I told him I didn't want his money. I wanted him to come with me and leave that part of the world. But he said it wouldn't matter where we went. He was an obstacle that could be removed too easily. His money—everything he had earned and invested all those years—was always meant to be his gift to me and to Hannah. That's what he told me. He said I was to move it where it needed to go, guard it for my sister, and make my way back to the United States."
Christ. And Kyle thought she hadn't seen anything of life yet.
"I did as he said, but I waited a few weeks in France . . . for justice."
Fuck.
"What kind of justice?" It was looking more and more as though she'd negotiated a hit on the bastard.
"A message was sent to me. A letter. I don't know who wrote it, but I've sometimes wondered if it was Henri's father. Inside was written, 'An eye for an eye. Vengeance will be swift.' And it was signed, 'A friend.' So I waited to see what was going to happen. And I kept two of the bodyguards with me."
Okay. Good. That was smart. He took a breath and felt the tension in his shoulders begin to unwind. She hadn't been part of it. She hadn't conspired to commit murder.
"Why do you think it was Henri's father who wrote it?"
She gave a small shrug. "It's just a feeling really. There were many who profited because of my father's knowledge and advice. None of them would be pleased by what happened. He had a few very good friends, as well. Powerful friends. So it could have been anyone. But the envelope was hand-delivered to one of my bodyguards while I was in Paris. I'd just met with Henri's father a couple of days before and he'd introduced me to his son. Then the letter came, and Henri began to address me, and two weeks later it was . . . finished."
"You think Henri and his father worked it together?"
"I . . . I don't know. It's the succession of events that caused me to wonder."
"How long did you keep the bodyguards?"
"Three more weeks. Until the day I left France."
"You kept them for three weeks after the threat had been removed?"
Her expression grew thoughtful. Puzzled. "Perhaps it was a sixth sense. Or maybe I'd become overly cautious by then."
"Did Henri ever say anything to make you suspect he or his father knew something they shouldn't?"
"No. Never."
"Did he ask why you kept the bodyguards on?"
"No."
"Do you still have the letter?"
"Yes. I kept it."
He glanced at her plate. Her fork and knife rested across the center, side by side, though a quarter of her dinner remained uneaten. She'd placed her napkin on the table as soon as he began questioning her. Preparing to stand up and leave if he'd pushed too hard, he wondered?
"No more questions?" she asked.
"Just one." He tried to soften the moment with a smile. "Would you like dessert and coffee?"
"No. Thank you. But the food here is good. I'll remember and come back again another time."
He nodded. "Okay. Let's get out of here."
He signaled for their check, then left sufficient cash to cover the total and a tip.
When Jessica stood up, he waited until she slid her purse over one shoulder, then went to her other side and slid his arm around her waist. It wasn't a proprietary move, and it wasn't sexual. It was an offer of comfort and support. And when they reached her car, he turned her to face him and slipped both arms around her shoulders and held her. Just held her. Because he didn't think anyone had been there to hold her when her father had been murdered. And there probably hadn't been a shoulder to cry on while she moved his money all over the world, guarding it for her sister. Or when she traveled with bodyguards, trying to stay alive. Or wising up to an asshole Frenchman who had been taking her for a ride.
At first she stood stiffly against him, enough for him to know she was still wary. After another minute though, she started to relax. Probably because he stood still long enough for her to understand what he was offering. And finally she sighed and her body became soft and pliant. Her arms slid around his waist and she rested her cheek on his chest.
He remembered when she'd tapped a fist to her breast, telling him that sometimes the loneliness was overwhelming. So he stood with her like that for a long while, just holding her. He rested his cheek against the silky softness of her hair and let her know without words that he cared. Then he pressed his lips to the top of her head
"Come on, honey, I'll follow you home and walk you to your door."
She eased back and looked up at him, her eyes warm now and soft with friendship. "You don't have to follow me home."
"Yes I do," he argued. "It's dark out and you've had a long day. Plus, I've got a white knight complex, remember?"
That brought a smile to her lips. "Yes, I remember." She released him and stepped back. "I live downtown near Orange Avenue."
"Lead the way."
Inside his new ATV, trailing behind her Mercedes, he considered all she'd told him. Some shithead had wanted to buy her. What was the going rate for a very pretty, business-savvy, multi-lingual young woman these days?
He gripped the steering wheel. What were the chances she'd been wanted for her intelligence? Yeah, right.
He parked out on the street while she pulled into the parking garage, then they met again in the lobby. Just how much money did she have? This was no low-budget hole in the wall. It reminded him more of an upscale hotel with its polished floors, posh seating arrangements, and artwork on display.
They got off the elevator on the seventh floor and he noticed an extra deadbolt had been installed on her door whereas all the others only had one.
She used two separate keys to unlock them, then turned to face him. "Thank you, Kyle, for inviting me to share your day."
"Honey, you're the one who rescued me out on the highway." He smiled. "Then you drove me around and saved me thousands of dollars."
She smiled. "Yes, I did."
He snorted. "Don't be humble or anything."
She continued looking up at him for a minute then said, "You call me honey a lot of times."
"Yes, I do."
He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
&n
bsp; "Kyle," she said softly, "I'm going to apply for a blue link as soon as Hannah receives hers."
"I haven't forgotten."
She was such a combination of woman and girl. Innocent, guileless eyes, and the mind and body of a woman. He slid his hand to the back of her neck and began to lower his head.
"Tell me you don't want this, Jess, and I'll stop."
But her eyes grew smoky and her lids began to lower. Her breath caught on a small intake of air and he felt the fluttering of her pulse beneath his thumb.
So he slid his other arm around her waist and stepped in flush against her body. He wanted to feel those full firm breasts pressed to his chest. He wanted to know how their two bodies fit. And call him every name in the book, but he wanted more as well. He wanted the selfish gratification of holding that intimate part of her no man had touched against the hard fly of his pants.
Her lips trembled.
He'd never felt a woman's lips tremble beneath his own. He told himself she was too young for him. He told himself he was too old for her. He told himself she was off limits. Then he urged her mouth open and slid his tongue inside because he didn't want to listen to himself. And because she was small and he liked the way they fit together. And because he was fully, heavily aroused.
Just a few more seconds, then he'd let her go. Just a few. But then she moaned a soft, yearning sound. So he sank his fingers into her hair and deepened the kiss, nearly groaning himself when her hands slid along his arms, up to his shoulders.
Over and over he molded her mouth to his, holding her hips against the hard ridge in his jeans, unable to control the need to press against her softness. She'd already unlocked the door. All he had to do was turn the handle and back her inside.
But he didn't. If he wanted her trust, if he wanted the freedom to kiss her again the next time he saw her—and he would kiss her again—then she needed to know she was safe with him, that he wouldn't take advantage.
So he drew on his self-control and softened the kiss, slowly bringing them back to a rational plane. He relaxed the pressure of his hand on her lower back, ran his tongue along her upper lip, then eased his mouth away and rested his forehead against hers.