Defending the Heiress

by Susan Kearney

  Daria’s horrified gaze shot from Harry to her sister. Fallon’s yawn had disappeared and was replaced by an unnatural paralysis.

  “Fallon? What’s wrong?”

  Fallon didn’t answer. Within seconds, her sister’s eyes dilated, her pupils enlarging so much that Daria could barely see the whites of Fallon’s eyes. Her face masklike, her expression fixed straight ahead as if she’d been drugged, Fallon didn’t move. Didn’t scream.

  Harry’s face had the same deathlike mask as her sister’s.

  Daria didn’t waste one second checking for a pulse. Scrambling to the phone, tripping once, she dialed 911. “I need an ambulance.”

  The operator, her voice calm in contrast to Daria’s spiking fear, confirmed her address and asked the nature of the emergency.

  “They aren’t moving. Or breathing. Hurry.”

  “They?”

  “My sister and her husband.” Harry’s chest wasn’t going up and down. Her sister stared sightless at the ceiling. “Oh, God. I think they’re dead.”

  “Is there a pulse?”

  On knees weak with terror, Daria knelt and felt her sister’s neck, then Harry’s. She might have missed the pulse, but she knew with an icy dread and horror that even if the paramedics materialized inside her office right now, they wouldn’t be able to revive them.

  Six weeks later

  RYKER STEVENS BLINKED as a knock interrupted his latest attempt to integrate an unbreakable encryption program with his operating system. The techies down at Langley had come up with an awesome Java script, but installing the bugger had him bummed after he’d crashed his computer for the third time. Now nothing worked.

  The door of his office opened. As Ryker took in his visitor, he lost all interest in his computer for the first time in several weeks. How could he think about software with the achy-breaky-heart hardware coming in his direction?

  A high-maintenance woman like this one had never graced Ryker Stevens’s office before, and he could barely hold back an appreciative whistle. She didn’t just walk, she strode toward him with a sexy sway of hips encased in a flowing black ankle-length skirt that ended at leather boots. Her soft tailored blouse welled and nipped in at just the right places. He raised his eyes to her face, and she attempted a tentative smile of greeting, which failed.

  This woman didn’t need to smile to look good. She didn’t need the designer clothes she wore to draw attention to her killer body or the expertly applied makeup to improve her skin. Lordy, she was perfect, hot, except for the dark circles under her eyes that her makeup couldn’t quite hide. She was the kind of woman a man fantasized about after he fell asleep surfing the Net, then woke up to find it’d all been a dream. Women like her came from uptown, the other side of the tracks, and they rarely sized him up with burdened hazel eyes that told him trouble weighed on her like a five-hundred-pound monster.

  “Are you Ryker Stevens?” She spoke in a voice rough and low as if she’d spent too many hours in long conversations or smoke-filled rooms.

  “That depends on who wants to know.” Ryker had been in tough spots quite a few times in his thirty years, and he immediately recognized the combination of hope and desperation on her expressive face.

  “Let’s not play games.” The stranger opened her purse, took out a gold pen and a checkbook in elegant gilded leather. She scrawled her name across the signature spot, ripped a blank check free and shoved it across his desk, leaving him to fill in his name and the dollar amount. He wondered if the lady was usually into grand gestures, because she didn’t seem the type. Despite her display of boldness, she was classy, refined, understated.

  He read the name printed across the top of the check—Daria Harrington—then ignored the payment, making no move to touch the check. But suddenly Ryker’s prodigious memory and ability to sort through seemingly stray facts kicked in. An old acquaintance of his, Harry Levine, had married a Harrington. If this woman was Harry’s wife, his old friend had not only married money and class but beauty, too. Harry had invited him to the wedding, but he’d received the invitation months too late after returning from a mission in Saudi Arabia. Some guys had all the luck—even if their wives didn’t take their names after the wedding ceremony.

  “You’re Harry Levine’s wife?”

  “Sister-in-law,” she corrected him, and before he could decide how he felt about that news, she threw him a zinger. “Harry’s dead. I killed him.”

  Ryker would have laughed at the impossibility of that statement, except, at the admission, her back straightened and her face paled. She tipped her chin up, but her lower lip quivered.

  “Was it an accident?” he asked.

  “I murdered him.”

  She couldn’t have shocked him more if she’d claimed to be an alien from Mars.

  Harry Levine, one of the CIA’s top operatives, dead? Killed by her after some of the most highly trained and skilled agents in the world had tried and failed?

  Ryker cursed himself for holing up in his office to work steadily since he’d returned from Zaire, instead of paying attention to the news. He’d been living on pizza and Chinese food for weeks. Since his office was the front room of his apartment, he could delve into a problem for as long as he wanted without leaving his place. Running a hand through his ragged hair, he tried to recall exactly how long it had been since he’d read a newspaper, watched television, called up a headline on the Internet or even listened to a radio. Maybe several weeks. No wonder he hadn’t heard about Harry’s death, which had to have made the papers since he’d married into such a prominent family.

  He stared at Daria. From her chin-length chestnut hair down to her expensive boots, she looked like a socialite, a debutante, as if she belonged in the pages of a fashion magazine. Her eyes held his, but he sensed the effort it took. He saw determination, but not the eyes of a killer. Besides, wealthy daughters of prominent citizens usually didn’t commit murder and then openly admit it. Yet Daria Harrington would hardly have come here claiming to be a murderer if she didn’t believe her statement. Unless she was crazy.

  She didn’t look crazy. She looked worried.

  And her brother-in-law had pulled Ryker’s ass out of the fire once in Beijing and again in Panama. If not for Harry’s impeccable timing and bravery, Ryker might still be rotting in a foreign prison. So he owed Harry, and even if Ryker did come from poor white trash, he always paid his debts.

  That he had minutes ago been fantasizing over Harry’s murderer disgusted him. And angered him. His voice was colder than he’d intended. “Please have a seat, Ms. Harrington.”

  “Where?” She looked at the only other chair in the room. It was filled with old circuit boards, a mouse, a broken motherboard, an Ethernet card and several empty pizza boxes.

  He leaned over his desk, tilted the chair, ignored the crash as the equipment and trash toppled onto the floor, then righted the chair. He supposed he should have stood and offered her a seat right off, maybe a drink to put her at ease. But what did he care about putting Harry’s murderer at ease?

  He still didn’t completely believe she’d killed Harry, and he intended to get the entire story from her—especially why she wanted to hire him. If what she said was true, if she’d killed Harry, he was the last person to come to for help.

  Had her rich father with his connections galore suggested she hire the services of the Shey Group? But money wasn’t enough to hire the team Ryker worked with. They only accepted the cases of the good guys. The Shey Group wasn’t just pricey, they were picky.

  As a covert team of men with top-secret government clearances, the Shey Group took on dangerous and seemingly impossible missions. They had the luxury of turning down more assignments than they accepted, despite the very hefty fees they charged.

  Ryker loved the interesting nature of his work. Top-secret clearances meant access to the latest technological wizardry. And their boss Logan Kincaid’s unique and close ties to the intelligence community, as well as his influence, which was rum
ored to reach directly into the White House, allowed the team access to information unavailable to private citizens.

  Even if Daria convinced Ryker to help her, he’d have to take the mission to Logan Kincaid for approval. Although the team worked together, they were a loose-knit organization, living in different parts of the country between missions. Kincaid believed in paying his people well, in allowing them partial ownership in the Shey Group, and he preferred the team to rest well between their often dangerous missions. Ryker wondered what Kincaid would think about what Daria was about to tell him.

  At a time like this, his sophisticated leader would no doubt fall back on impeccable manners and the most courteous of tones, giving himself time to fully assess the situation. But the polite manners of society hadn’t been drilled into Ryker early enough to come automatically. As a child he’d been too busy dodging the slaps of his alcoholic father. In college he’d worked three jobs to pay his way through.

  The kind of women who didn’t need to say a word for others to recognize that they shopped in the up-scale department stores and breezed through life on daddy’s connections usually had no interest in Ryker, nor he in them, so he hadn’t had much practice dealing with a lady like Daria Harrington.

  Nope, Ms. Daria Harrington certainly wasn’t his usual type, but she fascinated him as she tried to withhold her dismay at his messy office. Especially as dust from the spilled materials rose up from the floor and caused her to sneeze.

  “Sorry.”

  She took several tissues out of her purse and used one to wipe her almost-perfect nose all so delicately. With a second tissue, she wiped the dust from his chair before sitting on the edge with her back ramrod stiff. She acted as though slouching or relaxing was a shooting offense.

  And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand how the woman could worry about dust on her chair after the bombshell she’d just dropped on him. But people reacted differently to stress.

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “Harry’s attorney told me to hire you.”

  The Shey Group had hired Harry’s attorney when they’d needed legal counsel. So it wasn’t surprising that she’d shown up here.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” he suggested, working to keep his tone civil.

  She replied almost primly. “Six weeks ago, Harry and Fallon, my sister, came to my office for a meeting.”

  “About?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” At her startled jerk he added, “Okay?” to soften his statement. He had to remind himself that this woman had probably never been questioned roughly. But he was getting ahead of himself.

  “Fallon came to my office at my request. Harry always accompanies her, but never interferes, never interfered, in the business.” She’d corrected her tense as if she had trouble remembering or believing that Harry was actually dead. “My sister wanted to open a branch in Tokyo and—”

  “What kind of work do you do?” he asked, finding himself more intrigued by the minute. He’d figured her for one of those women who did charity work and spent the rest of the day having her nails done. So much for first impressions. But then he’d always been better with machines than people.

  “We own, I own, Harrington Bouquet.”

  “The fancy flower shops?” He should have realized sooner. But first she’d bowled him over with her looks and then swept him away by her murder confession.

  She nodded. “Fallon was opening new shops faster than I could keep up with the paperwork.”

  He couldn’t imagine this woman hunching over a desk dealing with paperwork, and realized he’d judged her more like a kid from the poor side of the tracks than a man who had seen more than his share of the world. Lots of wealthy women worked. He knew that, once he actually stopped to think. And he recalled from a business article in the Wall Street Journal, which he’d read last year during a trip from Casablanca to Istanbul, that Harrington Bouquet was quite the success story.

  “You and your sister argued?”

  “We disagreed at first, but had come to a compromise. She agreed to stay in New York long enough to help me hire more in-house staff.”

  “And Harry took no part in this discussion?”

  “I don’t believe he said a word.”

  “Okay. What happened next?”

  She didn’t shift uncomfortably in her chair. If anything, she held every muscle tight, holding perfectly still. “I served them coffee and opened a tin of cookies. They drank the coffee, ate the cookies and then…they died.”

  “How?”

  “From the way they looked as they died and the questions the police asked me, I’m fairly certain they were poisoned. The police probably think I poisoned either the cookies or the coffee.”

  “Why aren’t you in jail?”

  “The only reason I haven’t been arrested is that the toxicology reports aren’t back yet. That and the fact that I passed a polygraph test.”

  “I see.”

  Her explanation certainly illuminated how she might have fooled Harry. The CIA operative wouldn’t have expected his sister-in-law to poison him. If she’d attempted to employ a weapon, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. But spiking coffee or cookies with poison—a woman’s trick—had taken Ryker’s old acquaintance by surprise. And if she was that under-handed, she might know how to fool the lie detector, since the machines were only as good as their operators.

  As if realizing what Ryker needed to know without him prodding her further, probably from her statements to the police, she added, “I never drink coffee, and I didn’t eat any of the cookies since I have to watch my weight.” Her voice dropped. “But I didn’t…at least not…on purpose. I didn’t know about the poison. I loved my sister, and I loved my brother-in-law. I would never do anything to deliberately hurt them. You must believe me.” She dropped her face into her hands. “Oh, God. I promised myself I wouldn’t beg, but I don’t believe the police will ever clear my name. And even more important, my sister and Harry’s killer is out there somewhere, free to murder someone else. I want justice for them.”

  Chapter Two

  Daria raised her head and spoke in a flat tone. “I don’t believe the police are even considering another suspect.”

  “Why?” Ryker asked again.

  “They took my computer, they’re questioning my employees and my friends. The investigation seems focused on me. Me and only me. What unnerves me is that they’re so positive I’m guilty they aren’t even looking at any other possibilities. If they continue as they are, Fallon and Harry will never have justice.”

  “And what exactly do you want from me?” Ryker asked, considering whether or not to speak to his boss about taking her case. And he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he admired the strength he saw in her as she so valiantly tried to hold back tears. He certainly respected the intelligent way she’d laid out the facts and the courage she’d exhibited by coming here alone. He wondered why her family hadn’t accompanied her and whether they blamed her for her sister’s murder.

  She leaned forward slightly in the chair. “I want you to find Harry and Fallon’s real killer. Will you do it?” She glanced from the blank check on the desk back to his face.

  “I’ll need much more information first. And my boss will have to approve this mission.”

  She straightened up, all signs of her tears gone. “Harry’s lawyer told me Logan Kincaid’s a fine man. And he liked you, too. That’s why I came here.”

  He ignored the soft plea in her tone. He didn’t mention that if she turned out to be guilty, justice for Harry might mean her spending her life behind bars.

  Without leaving his office, Ryker could start an investigation. His specialty was computer research, and his first rule of inquiry was to find, analyze and follow the money trail. Yet, he also knew that investigating motivations for criminal actions often produced good results, too. “You and Fallon are the sole owners of this business?”

 
; “Yes.”

  “And with Fallon and Harry now out of the picture…?”

  “I own it all.” She held her head high. “That’s why I’m the prime suspect. According to the police, I had means, opportunity and motive.”

  “I understand their logic.”

  “But I have no need for more money,” she protested.

  Yeah, right. “I see.”

  He’d answered noncommittally, totally unwilling to believe her statement. Not for the first time he wondered if she was lying to him, putting her own spin on the truth. Who didn’t need more money except maybe Bill Gates?

  Her hands shook and she took one into the other to control the trembling. “I was framed. But the worst part, the absolute worst part, is knowing I gave Harry and Fallon that poison.”

  Despite the rigidity of her body, she shuddered slightly, and even through his skepticism he couldn’t help sympathizing with what she was going through. Obviously she found the memory of her sister’s and Harry’s deaths extremely painful. But was she feeling remorse and regret?

  Ryker had the urge to go to her and comfort her but he didn’t. However, he couldn’t let her rip herself up without trying to console her, either. Not after he’d heard the raw pain in her voice that she’d tried and failed to hide. If he couldn’t hold her, he could at least attempt to give words of comfort.

  He didn’t have to force genuine warmth or concern into his voice. “If you didn’t know what was in the coffee or cookies, you can’t blame yourself.”

  As she remembered the deaths, he had to steel himself against the bleakness in her eyes. “Poison is not a good way to die.”

  The childhood memory of a policeman pulling back his own mother’s bloody face from a smashed windshield after a traffic accident that had killed her flashed through his mind. The blood on the cracked glass still gave him occasional nightmares. “There’s no good way to die.”