Defending the Heiress

by Susan Kearney

  “I always wanted to go in my sleep,” she admitted somewhat timidly, yet her eyes flashed with a certain defiance, too, daring fate, apparently, to see what her future held.

  “If you die in your sleep, then you don’t get to say goodbye.”

  His statement seemed to startle her for a moment, as if she wanted to ask him why he thought the way he did, but then she pulled back into herself.

  “Will you help me?” she asked again.

  Despite the plea in those appealing hazel eyes, Ryker didn’t immediately answer Daria’s question. In fact, he refused to meet her eyes. For the moment, he wanted to keep a clear head, and he refused to allow her grief to influence his decision.

  He made up his mind by going with his gut feelings, then told her what he needed. “For starters, I’d like you to try and write down for me every question that the homicide detectives asked you. I also need a list of everyone who has access to your office, your purse and your home. Everyone. Cleaning people, employees, friends, family. Lovers?”

  “No one right now.”

  “Ex-lovers, then.” Ruthlessly he shut down any personal reaction to her admission that she was depending on him. “I’ll also need a separate list of people who know that you don’t drink coffee and that your sister did. Meanwhile, I’ll try to obtain a copy of the police and autopsy reports.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I have an old friend in the medical examiner’s office and Logan Kincaid is…connected.”

  She took a pen and pad out of her purse and made several quick notes. “What else?”

  “I’ll need access to your office. And I’ll need an inventory of every poisonous cleaning agent in your office.”

  “What about poisonous flowers and plants?”

  “Those, too.”

  She handed him a business card, then removed a spare key from her key ring and placed it on top of the blank check. “I’ll have most of the information you requested ready by tomorrow afternoon.”

  He made his next statement as matter-of-fact as the others and watched her closely to gauge her reaction. “I’ll also need to insert myself into both your business and your personal life on a continuous basis.”

  Her eyes widened, the hazel in them reflecting curiosity and a startled wariness. “Excuse me?”

  “If the Shey Group takes you on as a client, I’ll be with you 24/7. You said you were hiring an accountant. That could be me. While I don’t have a CPA’s license, I do have an MBA, and the job would give me the opportunity to go through the books, ask questions in every department.”

  She frowned, her eyebrows drawing downward. “But I wouldn’t give my accountant the right to stay in my home. You did say twenty-four hours a day?”

  He grinned at her, suddenly pleased with his idea. Spending days and nights with this woman had an intimate appeal that intrigued him. All his life he’d been the boy from the bad part of town who had kept his distance, respected that certain lines were never crossed, but now he’d get to step across the line and see firsthand how the other half lived.

  He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “You’re going to take a romantic interest in your new accountant.”

  She shook her head. “Look, I’ll do whatever it takes to find Fallon and Harry’s killer. But no one will believe we’ve suddenly hooked up.”

  He rocked back even farther in his chair and lifted a brow. “Really?”

  “I just lost my sister. I’ve been grieving. And even if I could fake grabbing on to you to ease my sorrow, I never mix business and pleasure.”

  “You’ll make an exception.”

  “No one will believe that I’m starting an affair with my new accountant when I’m being accused of murder.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” She hesitated, searched for words, then threw her hands into the air. “That’s not me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t do affairs. I don’t do one-night stands. And I don’t do flings.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “I suppose you don’t go on casual dates?” he challenged her.

  “Sure, I date.” The hazel in her eyes deepened to a steady green flame. “But I don’t ever bring a casual date back to my home. And my family and friends know how I feel. The only way to make a relationship between us believable is if I pretend to have fallen in love with you. And how likely is that while I’m facing a murder charge?”

  “Of course people will believe you,” he insisted. “The enormous stress you’re under can alter the behavioral patterns of a lifetime. You can’t deal with the pressure alone, and so you turn to your handsome, brilliant—”

  “—and oh-so-modest—”

  “—new accountant to lean on.”

  “I’m not in the habit of leaning on anyone—” her voice broke “—except Fallon.”

  “But now you need me. All you have to do is be convincing and people will buy your act.”

  “I’m a businesswoman not an actress. And what you’re asking me to do will provoke the suspicions of my family and friends.”

  She sounded so positive. He raised an eyebrow. “You sure you aren’t overreacting?”

  “Look, I’ve owned my penthouse apartment for two years. You’ll be the first man I’ve ever invited inside.”

  Obviously she didn’t think much of his plan. But he needed to be with her to help her. The lady’s back was up against the wall. So he pushed and ended the meeting. “I don’t see another way to go. I’ll call my boss and get back to you tomorrow.”

  DARIA CHECKED her watch. Six o’clock. She should go back to her office. Between meetings with her attorney, interviews with the cops and avoiding the press, work had piled up.

  But it was going on alone that weighed so heavily on her heart. The work that had once brought her so much joy seemed empty without Fallon. Harrington Bouquet had meant the world to both of them because they’d succeeded together. Yet if Fallon was still here, she would tell Daria to go on for both of them.

  Daria forced her mind back to the business. She would have thought that since the bad publicity over Fallon’s and Harry’s deaths, business would be off. But the old saying that any publicity, even bad publicity, was good for business must be true. Harrington Bouquet could barely keep up with the orders.

  And now she couldn’t even hire an accountant to take off some of the load. Not with Ryker Stevens intent on claiming the position. Daria hoped she’d done the right thing by throwing herself on his mercy, but she felt she had to. She didn’t think that even her high-priced attorney believed in her innocence. And if he didn’t believe her, he would be looking for legal technicalities to get her off instead of finding justice for Fallon and Harry.

  Someone like Ryker Stevens wouldn’t be concerned with legal maneuvering. He had struck her as a man who aimed for his target and was accustomed to striking the bull’s-eye. Direct, honest—he was just what she needed to boost her confidence and strength to keep fighting.

  She couldn’t cry anymore. She’d had to do something, and after speaking with Ryker her confidence that she might eventually find her sister and brother-in-law’s murderer rose a smidgen.

  With a sigh she slipped behind the wheel of her car and drove toward her office. While owning a car was totally impractical in the city, she loved driving. She didn’t mind the traffic, including trucks or taxi drivers, and just merged with the flow.

  All too soon she arrived at the garage where she leased parking space that cost a small fortune. Well lit and guarded, the garage was conveniently across the street from Harrington Bouquet Number One—their very first store. Apparently the reporters hanging around outside had finally gone home and she could get some work done. From her parking place Daria could see the manager, Elizabeth, closing the shop, the assistants placing the unsold arrangements in large refrigeration units where the flowers would stay fresh. The Open sign winked out, although the elegant
lavender sign advertising the shop remained on.

  Normally, Daria wouldn’t have waited for everyone to leave before she entered the building, but she was simply too tired to put on a brave face. After fortifying herself with a cup of hot tea—tea that came directly from a sealed packet in case she, too, might be a target for the poisoner—she intended to go straight to her office and work, probably until midnight.

  But the moment she unlocked the door that served as her private entrance, she sensed someone in the darkness.

  She flipped on the light. “Ryker?”

  What was he doing here?

  Before she could ask him, she heard voices coming from her office. Ryker put a finger to his lips, signaling her to be silent. Then he cocked his head upstairs, a gesture that he wanted her to listen.

  The familiar voices of her family drifted down to her. Damn. She didn’t want to see or speak to them. Not to her powerful father, who had never once approved of anything she did, nor to her simpering stepmother, Shandra, who lived to please her husband, nor even her half brother, Peter, the pride of the family. Everyone liked Peter—even she and Fallon liked the young heir to the Harrington dynasty.

  “Mom, we shouldn’t be here,” Peter insisted.

  “Your father believes we need a family chat away from the servants,” Shandra told him in her deep Boston accent. “Daria’s been avoiding us. We are her family, and she didn’t even come to the special church memorial after Fallon and Harry’s funeral.”

  Daria had gone to the funeral, but she couldn’t bear to put up a brave front any longer, so she’d gone home.

  The disapproval in her father’s tone was unmistakable, even as he defended her. “She sent flowers.”

  “For the sake of the family,” Shandra complained, “we all need to keep up appearances. Even Daria.”

  “She’s grieving in her own way,” Peter argued. “Fallon and Daria were close. Can you imagine how she feels?”

  “Who cares how she feels?” Shandra asked. “What matters is what she does.”

  “What she’s done is drag the Harrington name through the mud.” Daddy’s predictable roar of anger merely showed that he cared more about the Harrington name than he did about the death of his daughter. In her father’s eyes, daughters were good for only one thing—marriage and giving him grandchildren, preferably grandsons. And both daughters had failed him. Daria because she’d remained single and Fallon because she’d married a “nobody.”

  Harry Levine hadn’t been from old money or even from new money. That he’d been bright and witty and a loving husband didn’t count—not to Rudolf Harrington.

  As Daria listened to her family squabble, she wondered what had put Ryker on alert. He was tense, his muscles tight, almost as if he expected to fight off an attacker.

  She hadn’t expected to hear from him until tomorrow. So what was he doing here, arriving before she had and skulking around in the dark? Eavesdropping on her family’s private conversation.

  “I told you that we should have made an appointment,” Shandra whined.

  “I don’t need a damn appointment to speak with my own daughter,” her father fumed.

  “You do if she won’t take your phone calls.” Peter sounded bored. “Not that I blame her after the way you acted at the funeral. A hug might have been appropriate.”

  “Peter, don’t criticize your father. Harringtons don’t show affection in public.”

  “She and Fallon were always tight. Daria had to have been hurting.”

  “She didn’t shed one tear.” Shandra’s shrill tone sounded almost pleased.

  “Mother, not everyone wears their emotions on their sleeve.” Peter spoke to his parents without fear of reprisal. Always the favorite, he’d grown up spoiled, but he had the gumption to stand up to his parents, and Daria admired him for it. He’d stood next to her at the funeral and he was standing up for her again, now.

  “Mom, if you’d stop protecting Dad, maybe he’d learn some manners.”

  “That’s enough.” Rudolf must have been desperate to talk to her if he’d come all the way across town. He’d never been in her office before. He probably bought flowers from her competitors. The thought smarted. No matter how predictable her father was, his coldness never quite stopped hurting her.

  Beside her, Ryker placed a hand on her shoulder. “I spoke to Logan Kincaid on my cell phone as I drove here. He okayed the job.” Before relief washed over her, he continued, “Why don’t you introduce me to your family.”

  “You sure?”

  He nodded. “Don’t forget. I’m the new love of your life.”

  Her heart skittered a few beats before settling. “Daddy will have your background checked out within the hour.”

  “I’m good to go.”

  The Shey Group worked fast. Too fast. She wasn’t ready. To fake a relationship, she and Ryker should have at least discussed the basics—like where and how they’d supposedly met. But Daria took one look at his determined face and saw a predatory gleam in Ryker’s eyes.

  Her father might be about to meet his match.

  “PLEASED TO MEET YOU, sir.” Ryker offered to shake hands with the distinguished silver-haired father of his client. The head of the Harrington family rose to his feet from behind the desk until the two men stood eye to eye.

  Rudolf shook hands and glanced from Ryker to Daria and back. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

  Clearly, Harrington Sr. wanted an explanation for Ryker’s presence. Mrs. Harrington watched her husband for clues as to how to react, while Peter feigned boredom. Interesting.

  Deliberately, Ryker ignored Harrington Sr.’s comment. Instead, he turned what he hoped was an adoring look on Daria. “I didn’t expect to meet your family so soon.”

  Amusement sparkled in Daria’s hazel eyes as she strode over and slipped her arm through his. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

  “Did she just insult us?” Mrs. Harrington asked, her face smooth from Botox injections and unable to frown.

  Peter grinned. “Mother, don’t start.”

  Rudolf glared at Daria. “What the hell have you done now?”

  “Why, Daddy.” Ryker could have sworn from Daria’s lighthearted tone that she was enjoying herself. “I’ve done what you’ve always wanted. I’ve fallen in love.”

  Rudolf’s face turned an angry shade of red. “Shandra, did my daughter just tell me that—”

  “I’m afraid she did.”

  Her parents stared at Daria as if she’d just grown three heads. Even Peter’s boredom had been replaced by wide-eyed astonishment. Obviously, Daria hadn’t exaggerated when she’d explained that she was extremely choosy about her lovers.

  Rudolf’s fierce gaze narrowed on Ryker. “And just how long has this…this state of affairs been going on?”

  “Sir, Daria’s over twenty-one,” Ryker said politely, softly, to take the sting out of his words.

  “She’s still my concern. Daria is my daughter,” Rudolf protested.

  “A grown-up daughter,” Daria added defiantly. She straightened as if she’d donned invisible body armor that would protect her.

  Ryker took Daria’s hand, surprised to find her skin cold and clammy. “Is there a reason for your visit?”

  Rudolf sank back into the chair behind the desk as if that position automatically gave him power. “We’re here on family business, so if you would excuse us…”

  “I don’t think so.” Ryker made himself comfortable, half sitting on the edge of her desk.

  “Then why don’t you tell us about yourself,” Rudolf said.

  “Look, I appreciate the fact that you’re so eager to learn about me, but—” Ryker shot Daria a warm look “—we have work to do.”

  “Work?” Peter asked.

  Daria placed a possessive hand on Ryker’s shoulder. Although her words were businesslike, her implication was anything but. “I’ve hired Ryker to help me.”

  “In what capacity?” her father challenged.

/>   “What do you care?” Daria shot right back. “You’ve never before taken an interest in Harrington Bouquet or my private life.”

  “You’ve never needed me before.” Her father removed a cigar from his pocket. “I came to help.”

  Daria reached over the desk, took the cigar from her father’s fingers and stuck it back in his pocket. “Don’t light that. It’s bad for the plants, never mind my lungs.”

  Peter flopped into a chair. “Daria, you better listen to him. He’s trying to help in his own way.”

  Daria arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

  Rudolf eyed Ryker then ignored him to focus on his daughter. “My sources inside the police department tell me that the toxicology report has come back. Your sister and Harry died from ingesting the nectar of Passion Perfect with their coffee.”

  “Passion Perfect?” Ryker asked.

  Despite the dented armor, Daria stood straighter. “It’s an exotic flower from the Brazilian rain forest. Harrington Bouquet is the only florist in North America that imports that particular flower.”

  “There’s more.” Her father placed the unlit cigar between his teeth.

  Peter threw his hands into the air in disgust. “Oh, for God’s sake. Tell her, Dad.”

  “It appears that you left e-mail correspondence on your computer.”

  “So?”

  “In those e-mails, you discuss Passion Perfect’s toxicity levels with your supplier.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she denied with a touch of surprise and annoyance. “I discussed price, quantity and shipments—never toxicity levels. They must be mistaken.”

  “The police were going to charge you with premeditated murder.”

  “What do you mean, they were?”

  “Apparently, there’s a technical problem. Your computer has a virus that could have allowed someone to alter your e-mail. I don’t understand the details.”

  Ryker did. Hackers could get into any computer connected to the Internet, and if an unwary user opened an attachment, any files, including e-mails, could be modified by the hacker. Since her computer had a virus, the police couldn’t know for sure whether Daria had written the incriminating e-mails or if someone had tried to frame her.