by Julie Miller
As much as he wanted to find a connection between his father’s death and her report, the facts just weren’t there to make it happen. He turned away, wondering how far a man should trust his instincts and when he should stick strictly to the facts. Clearly, his dealings with Cain Winthrop’s daughter had muddied his perception of what was real and what wasn’t.
But Claire was nothing if not relentless. She snagged his arm and slipped in front of him before he could sit. “Please. Detective Rodri…Rod…” She caught her breath to slow her speech. She was struggling with the R sounds in his name. “Detective Rod…ri…guez.”
Hell. Why not? “Call me A.J.”
Her lips trembled with a sigh as she watched his own mouth say the words. “Thank you.” Her breathing seemed to relax, her grip on him loosened and her fingers began a slow, no doubt unconscious massage across his skin. But those blue eyes never looked away. “Please, A.J. If he figures out that that pin belongs to me, he’ll know I was there last night. What if he comes after me? Just because everyone else thinks I’m crazy, doesn’t mean he won’t believe me.”
This wasn’t about a missing piece of jewelry. The woman was truly scared. And that got to him more than it should.
A.J. tilted his face to the ceiling, still debating the wisdom of trusting instincts over facts. Claire braced herself against his arms and stretched up on tiptoe—to keep his mouth in view and the lines of communication open, he supposed.
Conceding to her need to see his beat-up features, A.J. looked down into her upturned face. Pretty wasn’t exactly the way to describe her. The short nose was cute, the line of her jaw striking. Her lips, as expressive and finely drawn as her graceful hands, landed somewhere closer to sassy. There was barely a blemish on her creamy skin, not a wrinkle to be seen.
She was an interesting combination, refined by pure class. A smart man would never get tired of noticing the details about her.
Her hair had fallen back, exposing a pair of sapphire stud earrings and the hearing aids she wore in each ear. It was a sobering contrast, as bleakly evocative as the colors of their skin. Claire Winthrop was a rich woman, with every opportunity in the world at her fingertips. But she was oh, so vulnerable. She probably had dozens of people on the family payroll, lined up to help her, to protect her, to listen.
But she didn’t trust any of them. She’d come to him.
She needed him.
The realization was both potent and humbling. And guaranteed to cause him trouble.
“A.J.?” His gaze flicked back to her mouth. “You’re staring.”
“I’m deciding.”
MAN, HE WAS GOING to regret this.
Instincts won out over facts.
It was something about her hands, clutching at him with a needy force and sensuous artistry, he admitted, that seemed to seep through his skin and touch him deeper inside. Her words might not have been convincing, but her hands had finally persuaded him.
Claire Winthrop needed his help.
Without turning his head from the list of street contacts he was analyzing, A.J. shifted his gaze to the glass that separated the bustling offices from Interview Room 3. Claire sat at the long table inside, surrounded by a stack of mug-shot books. She’d left the blinds and door open, claiming she needed lots of light to see. But he wondered if she simply wanted a clear view to the world outside, so she wouldn’t feel quite so isolated. She’d been working methodically for over two hours without complaint, slowly making her way through every page in every book until she found a familiar face.
He didn’t really expect her to find anything. The majority of outstanding warrants were on computer now. And as the records division kept adding more information on convicted criminals, parolees and suspects to the KCPD and State of Missouri databases, some of the hard copy books were even getting to be out of date.
But one thing he remembered his father trying to teach him was that work kept the mind occupied. Busy hands and engaged minds created hope, and hope kept fear at bay. If looking at the faces of hundreds of convicted and suspected murderers from across the country made her feel useful instead of victimized—if doing something gave her any kind of hope—then he’d let her sit in that room all day long.
Definitely the hands, he mused, forgetting the list on his desk.
Even when she wasn’t signing, Claire’s small hands conveyed her emotions. The precise way she folded her fingers around her disposable coffee cup showed determination. When she flicked them through her chic cut of golden hair and rubbed her temples, he thought he detected frustration. She carefully grasped each page and turned it as if the stains of those men’s crimes could be commuted through her fingertips from a photograph.
Some people might think he was reading more into Claire Winthrop’s body language than a veritable stranger could. But he’d survived for years on the streets—first as a troublemaker, then as a cop—because he could read people. If he studied them long enough, he could almost tell what they were thinking. He could tell if they had secrets, if they wanted something. Sometimes, he could almost read their minds.
He could tell Claire was scared—of reality or of her own imagination, he wasn’t ready to bet on yet. But she felt safe here at Precinct headquarters. She felt useful. She had hope.
And if hanging around here gave her a reprieve from the nightmares that haunted her eyes and made her cling to him, then she could stay. She could stay until she realized she didn’t belong in his world. She needed to be at home in her mansion, with her designer clothes and heirloom jewelry. Where Daddy and his armed security team could listen to her stories and make her feel safe.
In the meantime, he’d do his job. He’d taken Claire’s statement about the missing pin and added it to his report. He’d talked to Detective Banning and gotten the computer whiz to start digging up everything he could find on Winthrop Enterprises. A.J. had filled in his partner, Josh, on Claire’s most recent concerns, tended to his other cases, and deflected the curious questions about the woman he’d sequestered away in Interview Room 3.
A wad of crumpled up paper pinged him in the middle of the forehead. “Yo, amigo.”
A.J. glared across the adjoining desks at the amused smirk on Josh Taylor’s face. That ass was having way too much fun minding his business. He was the senior partner here. Where was the respect? “Who taught you how to be a detective, amigo?”
Josh didn’t miss a beat. “You, my friend. But you trained me to be your partner, not your replacement.” He tossed a stack of manila folders across the desk. “Now quit staring at the babe through the window and help your partner do some work.”
Babe? Is that how he saw Claire Winthrop? What happened to victim? Crazy lady? Pampered rich kid? Heiress?
A.J.’s gaze took a guilty swipe at the interview room. She was up and moving now, stretching her legs, arching her back and pulling her clothes taut over that sweet little rump.
Madre dios. A.J. quickly looked away. She might be young, but she sure as hell wasn’t any kid. He wished he hadn’t noticed. Wished Josh hadn’t put his subconscious thoughts into words. Now he couldn’t deny them.
Claire Winthrop was a babe.
He hadn’t been studying her with any detached, deductive analysis. His body knew the truth, at any rate. He’d been checkin’ her out.
Though his reaction had already given him away, A.J. pretended that he’d only responded to what any red-blooded American male would see. “She’s okay.”
“She’s more than okay.”
“I was graduating high school the year she started kindergarten.”
“She looks all grown up to me.”
Josh was looking? Thankfully, A.J. had a tight rein on his emotions, or else he might have snapped something about Josh already having a beautiful wife of his own, and to keep his eyes to his own damn self, before he realized the big bastardo was just trying to get a rise out of him.
A.J. wouldn’t play. He forced out a calming breath. “You know where I come f
rom. Check out her daddy’s address. She’s from another planet as far as I’m concerned. I’m just doin’ my job.”
“It’s okay to be human like the rest of us.”
“Uh-huh.” Josh’s good-natured gibe was a reminder that he wanted to keep his association with Miss Winthrop in the business-only department. A.J. thumbed through the stack of files on his desk. “You find something?”
Josh followed his lead and let the subject drop. “Check ’em out. I got my brother-in-law at the FBI to fax us rap sheets on alleged enforcers in the drug trade who’ve popped up on the radar across the country. Maybe if we could place one of them in the Kansas City area—”
“—we could find out who’s trying to eliminate the competition and move their business into town.”
They spent several minutes poring over the information, setting aside rejected files and putting together a list of suspects whose profile indicated the ability to kill by multiple means. Stabbing. Car bomb.
The smell of rich, dark coffee steamed past A.J.’s nose, alerting him to the woman at his side. Claire pushed aside a notepad and set a fresh cup of the hot brew on his desk. “I was getting myself a refill and thought you might like some.” She held out a second cup. “Josh?”
His partner stood and reached across the desks to accept the gift from her outstretched hand. “Sure, thanks.”
A.J. ignored Josh’s less-than-subtle wink and angled his face toward Claire. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“No, but it’s a nice gesture. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Who knew a person could sign sarcasm? It had to be the hands.
A.J. apologized for his rudeness. “Thank you. How do you sign that?”
Claire touched the fingers of her right hand to her lips and moved them forward, saying the word as she signed it. A.J. spun his chair to face her, touched his right hand to his mouth and imitated her. “Thank you.”
But instead of approval or correction, Claire’s eyes widened, focused at a point beyond his shoulder. Her cheeks blanched lily-white. A.J. clasped his hands around her slender waist, thinking she was about the faint. “Claire?”
Her gaze came back to his. She placed her hands over the top of his and held on as she forced her attention back to the open file on his desk.
“That’s him.”
Her fingers chilled against his skin. A.J. reached for the straight-backed chair beside his desk and sat her down before her legs gave way.
“Claire?” He glanced over his shoulder to see what she saw, then slipped his palm up to cup her trembling jaw. “God, you’re like ice. Talk to me.”
“That’s the man in black.” A.J. scanned the bio at the bottom of the page. Dominic Galvan. Nicknamed “The Renaissance Man” of enforcers for his intellect and the variety of methods with which he killed his victims—making it virtually impossible for the authorities to profile him and track his MO. A man who, according to his case history, cared more about his perfect record of hires and hits than about the wealth he’d accumulated over his twenty-year career.
Perfect record.
No witnesses.
He snatched the grainy black-and-white photocopy and held it up for Claire to study one more time. “This is the man you saw at the Winthrop Building?”
She nodded.
He crumpled the picture in his fist and squeezed her knee. “Please tell me you’re making this up. That you pointed out that picture because you’re too exhausted to look any further.”
“He’s the man I saw in Dad’s office.” She started signing again. “Why? Who is he? You’re scaring me.”
A.J. tossed the picture across his desk to Josh. His partner had already risen to his feet in concern about Claire’s reaction. He read the same information. “Son of a bitch.”
Josh’s reaction said it all. A.J. suddenly had a very sick feeling that everything Claire Winthrop had told him was true.
She’d witnessed a murder.
“Josh. Call the D.A.’s office. We might have a case again.”
“I’m on it. I’ll call Sam and put him on alert, too.” His brother-in-law worked in Kansas City’s FBI field office and could mobilize an entire network of support if Galvan truly was in town. “What about her?”
A.J. leaned forward, touched her cheek, looked into her eyes and gauged the truth. Instinct beat facts.
“I believe you,” was all he said.
Chapter Four
If she closed her eyes and used her imagination, Claire could almost hear the notes of Debussy and Strauss floating through the mansion.
Personally, she preferred the drama of an Aaron Copland suite or Tchaikovsky overture. Even rap music suited her tastes better. With its strong rhythms and unapologetic use of bass instruments, she could actually feel the music. She could imagine herself back on the stage at one of her ballet or modern dance recitals.
She pushed up onto the toes of her gray silk pumps and followed the imagined beat into the foyer away from the pungent smoke filling the conservatory. After dinner, her father, Gabe, and their guests who were interested, had retired to the music room to sample Japanese wines and the cigars from Cain’s collection. She’d stayed long enough to be polite, but even with twenty-three years of proper decorum bred into her, she had to get away. She needed fresh air. Quiet. Something more meaningful to talk about than how many days she thought the spring rains might last.
She needed a reprieve from the uniformed guard who shadowed her every move. Aaron Barnette was a nice enough employee, but his presence set her apart from the others at the party and reminded her of the threat that might really be surrounding her.
A.J. wouldn’t let her leave the precinct office that afternoon until he’d had a terse, to-the-point discussion with Marcus Tucker regarding the danger she could be in, the danger that might be closing in on her family. The security chief still wasn’t buying Claire’s story about Valerie being murdered, but he knew Dominic Galvan’s name. His reputation. If the police suspected there was any connection between Galvan and the Winthrops…
Chief Tucker had shown up thirty minutes later to escort her home personally. Her father had greeted her with a hug and walked her upstairs. Then a guard had appeared outside her bedroom door. She saw more of Tucker’s men patrolling the grounds. When the shift changed before their dinner guests’ arrival, Aaron had become her new best friend.
Claire should be feeling better, now that her family was finally concerned about her claim. But all she felt was singled out, as if the spotlight shining on her had just gotten bigger and brighter.
To drown out the unsettling thought, she hummed louder and louder until she could feel the sound vibrating in her throat, and danced down the main hall toward the front of the house and the grand staircase. Her goal was her room, a bath, her bed—and putting an end to this relentless night.
As Claire rounded the corner to the foot of the staircase, two hands grabbed her from behind and hauled her back into the dim recesses beneath the stairs. Her startled yelp was muzzled by a hand over her mouth, and recognition of the familiar, cloying scent of a man’s cologne.
“Rob!” The instant her toes touched the floor, she spun around and smacked her hand against Rob Hastings’s laughing chest. “You startled me.”
“Hey, blondie.” He seemed disproportionately amused by an action that left her pulse pounding and her breath coming in short, deep gasps. He nudged her back against the gilded trim that decorated the white paneling and cornered her between his body and the staircase. “Grabbing you is the equivalent of jumping out and saying boo to your sister.”
One, Gina Gunn was technically her stepsister, and two, if Gina enjoyed having her heart stopped periodically as some kind of teasing foreplay, then that was her business. And three—she flattened her palm at the center of Rob’s chest and pushed him back a step—he’d have better luck wooing her with insults.
“I was on my way upstairs. With a major headache,” Claire added for good measure. She stra
ightened the neckline of her beaded silk jacket and tugged her hemline down to her knees, in case he saw a hint of leg or cleavage as an invitation to touch her again. “This really isn’t a good time for me.”
He slipped his arm behind her waist and pulled her hips against his. Apparently, he didn’t think he needed an invitation. “But we haven’t had a private moment all night.”
“Rob.” She wedged her arms between them. “I said ‘No.’”
“You said it wasn’t a good time,” he corrected, lifting her chin so she could still see his bland green eyes and understand him. “Have you seen Gina?”
He put his arm around her and asked about another woman? He just wasn’t scoring any points in the charm department. But her father had hired Rob for his logistics skills, not his charm.
She might have thought he needed to speak to Gina on a business matter, but Rob was just a little too ebullient for her to believe he was thinking business right now. “She went with Deirdre and some of the guests to tour the house. As far as I know, they’re still upstairs.”
Aaron appeared beside them as Claire tried to twist out of Rob’s grasp. The security guard rested one hand on his billy club, the other on his gun. “Miss Winthrop, is everything all right?”
Rob shook his head and huffed out a saki-tainted sigh. “No problem, officer. Now get out of here.”
Aaron stood his ground. “That’s not your call, sir.” His gentle brown eyes sought out hers. “Miss Winthrop?”
She briefly considered asking Aaron to show Rob the door. But it was just Rob, after all—six feet of business wizardry, buffed nails and boyish humor. She appreciated that Aaron was so conscientious about watching over her, but tossing one of her father’s brightest young executives out into the rain probably wasn’t the type of entertainment he wanted at his dinner party. With a reassuring nod, she sent Aaron back to his post. “He startled me, that’s all. I’m fine. I’ll be heading up to bed soon.”