Defending the Heiress

by Susan Kearney

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. “You call that an attack?”

  “You implied you had no need for me. That’s a put-down.”

  “I didn’t realize you had such a fragile ego.”

  He grinned. “Another put-down.”

  “You’re being deliberately obtuse. Stalling. I’d like you to go now.”

  He ignored her request. Since she wasn’t volunteering information, she forced him to pry. “Who called?”

  “It’s a private matter.”

  “Look, everyone you talk to is my concern. Every business deal, every phone call, every contact you have with another human being is my business until we find Fallon and Harry’s killer.”

  As he spoke, she yanked the blanket up, then folded her arms over it to keep it in place. She glared daggers at him. And then she spoke one word. “Okay.”

  Had she actually agreed with him?

  The lady was full of surprises. Clearly she didn’t like telling him about her personal life, but she saw the necessity. He sat at the foot of her water bed next to the cat, tried not to think how the undulations caused them both to rock and waited for her to organize her thoughts.

  He didn’t mind the wait. He’d never seen a woman look so fragile and strong at the same time. With her hair tousled and the makeup washed from her face, she appeared more vulnerable and younger than earlier—until she came to some kind of decision, indicated by the angle of her chin and the determination in her hazel eyes.

  “The phone call was from Mike Brannigan.”

  “Of Brannigan Industries?”

  She nodded. “He wanted to let me know that he’s still interested in buying Harrington Bouquet.” She held his gaze, then looked away as if there was more that she didn’t want to tell him.

  “How long since he first approached you about buying your company?”

  “Six months. He thinks the floral boutiques will fit in with their corporation’s high-end chocolate shops and extravagant jewelry stores. They also have some floral shops in large hotels and think Harrington Bouquet will upgrade their image.”

  Ryker didn’t want to pry, but he needed answers. “Does Brannigan have a key to your office or apartment?”

  “I never gave him a key. But we went out to dinner a few times.”

  “So he had access to your purse?”

  “I’m afraid so. But he would have no motive to plant poison in the coffee I served my sister.”

  “Of course he would. With Fallon dead and you in jail, you may have to sell Harrington Bouquet.”

  “Mike Brannigan, a Princeton graduate with a Harvard law degree, set me up for murder so he could buy Harrington Bouquet? Don’t you think that sounds a little far-fetched?”

  “Can you think of any scheme that includes framing you and poisoning Fallon and Harry that isn’t far-fetched?”

  She sighed. “You’re just full of good cheer. Am I going to have to suspect all my friends, family and business acquaintances?”

  “Probably. Once my computer equipment arrives in the morning, I’ll start to narrow down the list.”

  “How?”

  “By looking into your acquaintances’ backgrounds to find out if any have criminal records.” At the frown on Daria’s face, he knew he had struck a sensitive nerve. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t hold out on me.”

  “She can’t have anything to do with…”

  “Who is she?”

  “I’m a Big Sister to a young girl named Tanya Johnson.” He recognized the program that paired troubled kids from broken homes with volunteers who took an interest in the children. “We do things together once a week. In the summer, she works in the New York store. She’s fourteen and has a criminal record. And she would have absolutely no motive to frame me—although she does have this interest in poisons.”

  From her tone she felt protective about the kid, another admirable trait. “What kind of police record?”

  “Drugs. Prostitution.”

  “What do you mean she’s into poisons?”

  “When we first met, I tried to teach her how the stuff she ingested would kill her just like poisons in some of my plants. I figured if she understood what the chemicals were doing to her, it might help her fight the addiction. She’s been clean for a while now. And she’s fascinated by my plants. I thought she might work full-time for me one day…”

  “Tell me more about her interest in poisons,” he prodded.

  Daria shrugged and the blanket slipped a little. “You know how kids are. Death fascinates Tanya. Maybe it’s because when she was three years old the social workers didn’t find her until several days after her mother died. I think she takes comfort in knowing that if life gets too tough she can end it.”

  “You’re saying she’s suicidal?”

  “I’m saying her life is tough. She has no family and some learning disabilities.”

  “What kind?”

  “ADHD. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. She’s very smart, but she’s hyper and has a short attention span.”

  “Is she violent?”

  “Not anymore. Not since she kicked the drugs.”

  “So Tanya had access to the keys in your purse, and she’s familiar with the poison flower that—”

  “Yes. But she has no reason—”

  “Maybe she was jealous of your relationship with your sister.”

  “Tanya never liked Fallon. She was jealous of how close I was to my sister but the idea that she would kill her is outrageous.”

  “Who knows what goes through the mind of an ex-addict.”

  “Do you realize that in just a few hours you’ve named as suspects my parents, my brother, my friend Elizabeth and now Tanya?”

  “And Mike Brannigan. Maybe him most of all.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s smart. Whoever planned this was meticulous and cunning.” Ryker thought hard. “Tell me, of all our suspects, which of them knows that you don’t drink coffee?”

  “All of them. But none knew that I saved the Jamaican Blue Mountain for Fallon.”

  “That could be irrelevant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if someone wanted to frame you, they might not care who you killed.”

  “You mean that they might not have deliberately planned for me to kill my sister?”

  “It’s possible. And so is the reverse. We need to look at Fallon’s and Harry’s enemies. Maybe someone wanted to kill them and you just got used.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Daria awakened to the aroma of frying bacon and perking coffee.

  Last night Ace, the traitor, had departed with Ryker, leaving her to toss and turn alone in her bed. When she’d finally fallen asleep, she’d slept deeply and still felt a tad groggy.

  A shower woke her fully. She dressed with more care than usual, picking out a green blouse, long gray skirt and soft kid boots. She French-braided her hair, skillfully weaving in a few sprigs of jasmine.

  When she entered the kitchen, Ryker was in the process of transferring crisp bacon from the frying pan to a plate. Wearing jeans and a sexy white T-shirt, he looked comfortable in front of the stove.

  When he saw her he gestured to a chair. “Morning.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  She took a seat and placed a napkin on her lap. He’d squeezed fresh orange juice and with a spatula removed an omelette from a pan and placed it on a plate before her.

  “I’m an early riser. My clothes and equipment were delivered earlier. There were no prints on your computer or keyboard.”

  “Not even mine?”

  “Nope. Someone was very careful and wiped it clean.” He poured her tea and himself coffee, then sat across the table from her and dug into his eggs.

  Usually, she skipped food in the morning and just read the paper over a cup of tea, but the food smelled so good that she opted to eat breakfast.

  She took a bite of the omelette and
delicate flavors assaulted her taste buds. “You can cook for me anytime.”

  He grinned and passed her the bacon. “You’re so good to me.”

  She swallowed and wiped her mouth. “I thought I heard banging while I was in the shower.”

  “You did. The locksmith has come and gone.” He dug into the back pocket of his jeans and handed her a key on a string. “Wear this around your neck.”

  Daria sipped her orange juice, noting that the command in his tone didn’t allow for any argument. Between bites of omelette, she spoke, “Elizabeth needs a key to get in and take care of my plants and so does my cleaning lady.”

  He added sugar and cream to his coffee. “Can that wait a day or two?”

  “Why?”

  He stirred the coffee, sipped, then added more sugar. “I’m installing a security system. It’ll take a key and a code to get inside. With the system I have in mind, each person will have their own code, including you.”

  “Okay.”

  He eyed her thoughtfully over the brim of his cup. “You’re agreeable this morning. Do you always wake up in such a good mood?”

  When a handsome man cooked her breakfast? Yes. With her favorite Western omelette prepared just the way she liked it? Oh yes. There was just something sexy about eating food he’d prepared for her. Something homey about sharing breakfast and conversation instead of running out the door.

  However, she had no intention of sharing her thoughts. Last night she’d known he’d been teasing her when he’d come to her bedroom, but he’d also been testing her resolve. In some ways she’d felt threatened by his invasion of her privacy, but in other ways she’d felt comfortable sharing her problems as well as her private space.

  Daria knew she spent too much of her downtime alone. But when she forced herself to go out, she often couldn’t wait to shed her date and retreat to her penthouse. The thought of allowing a man to come here usually never entered her head.

  Ryker’s presence didn’t seem like an invasion. He fit in. As he fed a piece of bacon to Ace, she realized that even her persnickety cat liked him, although the other two had yet to come out of hiding.

  Just because the man could cook didn’t mean she considered him compatible as a lover. No man she’d ever dated would have come into her room without an invitation—or refused to leave. But, while she’d been slightly uncomfortable, she’d also felt more alive than she had in a long time.

  Fear never entered the picture. The man had too much cool control over himself to cross certain boundaries, but clearly he drew the line in a different place than she did.

  She washed down the last of her egg with a sip of tea. “What’s today’s agenda?”

  “You tell me.” He eyed the last slice of bacon on her plate. “What’s your routine?”

  She offered him the bacon. “I go to work.”

  “Then that’s what we do.” Using his fingers, he plucked the piece from her plate and finished it in three bites. “I want to assess your books, meet your employees, get a handle on the flow of traffic in your office.”

  “Sounds good.” She eyed his clothes, totally unsuitable for the office, and wondered if he even owned a suit.

  As if reading her thoughts, he raised an eyebrow. “Along with my equipment, I brought over business attire.”

  She frowned at him. “Are my thoughts that obvious?”

  “Yes.” Then he winked at her. “That’s why I’m so positive that you find me charming.”

  “Really?”

  “And irresistible.”

  “If you’re so irresistible, then why did I send you away last night?”

  “Because you’re fighting yourself.”

  “Do you always live in a fantasy world?” she countered with a shake of her head.

  He chuckled. “You’re doing it again. Attacking when you feel defensive.”

  The man was utterly impossible. She didn’t need his pop psychology, she needed answers to who’d laced the coffee in her office with poison and who’d stolen her backup tapes and wiped her hard drive clean. “Look, could we stick to talking about my case?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Only if you stop looking at me like a sex object.”

  “I do no such thing.”

  “Right. Then how come you were staring at me like a woman starved for a man?”

  “The food smelled good. I was hungry. And you’re really out there, way off base, you know that?”

  He didn’t say a word, he just shook his head with that superior smirk of his that raised her blood pressure. She’d attacked him again, and no doubt he thought she was being defensive, but what woman wouldn’t be? The man had an ego the size of the Empire State Building.

  She almost retreated to her room and left the dishes to him, but fair was fair, he’d cooked, she’d clean up. “Why don’t you change, and I’ll load the dishwasher.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mind if I finish my coffee first?”

  “Take it with you.”

  He rose to his feet. “Is there a hurry?”

  She scraped the plates and placed them in the dishwasher. “I don’t like to be late.”

  He sat back down. “Today should be the exception.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you’re going to introduce me as your new lover and in-house accountant, we want people to speculate about us.”

  She could tell he was enjoying himself. Damn the man. He intended for them to come in late so her employees would believe they’d spent the night making love.

  And she’d agreed to this crazy plan.

  What she hadn’t counted on was the awkward flutter in her stomach. Playacting should have been easy. But there was nothing easy about pretending to be his lover—because he’d been right earlier. She was fighting an attraction to him.

  Chapter Five

  Ryker changed into one of the Armani suits that Logan Kincaid had insisted he include in his wardrobe during a mission to protect a Saudi prince. The Shey Group paid Ryker very well, and he could easily afford designer clothes. Since he’d socked away approximately ninety percent of his pay over the last five years and had invested wisely, Ryker didn’t need to work at all. But acquiring material objects had never been important to him. Neither were clothes. Although he saw the logic of wearing suits that allowed him to fit in, he’d resented buying a designer wardrobe that he didn’t want and shoes that cost enough to pay a family’s food bill for several months.

  But the look of surprise on Daria’s face when he reappeared in her kitchen was worth every penny he’d paid. Her jaw actually dropped, and he would have sworn that for a second she’d stopped breathing.

  “Do the clothes make the man?” he teased.

  “The clothes show off the shoulders,” she teased right back. “I figured you worked at home in jeans.”

  “You figured I couldn’t afford these threads,” he countered.

  “Not true.” She picked up her purse and led the way to the front door. “With what I’m paying you, you can afford to wear Presidential Platinum Rolex watches on both wrists and diamond rings on your toes.”

  He locked the door behind them, then enjoyed watching her drive smoothly through the traffic to her office. He would have liked to bring his computer system along, but he didn’t want anyone asking questions about his fancy hardware. For now, he’d make do with whatever systems she had and upgrade later if necessary.

  They arrived through her private entrance they’d used before, bypassing the busy boutique on the ground floor, which fronted Fifth Avenue. Daria walked through the hall with quick steps, her boot heels clicking on the tile, a sound he found both provocative and irritating.

  “This floor consists of my office, which you’ve already seen. My secretary, Jeanie Banks, works in the area outside my office.”

  “So to lace the coffee with poison, someone would have to get past Jeanie?”

  “Not necessarily. She frequently leaves on errands, and I often work late, Jeanie has kids to pick up from day care
by six.”

  Jeanie, a tall, slender woman with curly brown hair, started to greet Daria, then did a double take when she noticed Ryker holding Daria’s hand. Much too polite to make a comment, her eyebrows nevertheless raised, drawing attention to her pierced eyebrow.

  Daria stopped at Jeanie’s desk and picked up a stack of messages. “Jeanie, this is Ryker Stevens, our new accountant.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Jeanie gave him the once-over and her lips melted into a grin she couldn’t keep back. “Very pleased.”

  From here Ryker could see the conference room, a unisex rest room and four other offices, one of which had been turned into a kitchen. Besides her secretary, Daria employed a full-time bookkeeper, a purchasing agent and a customer service specialist who also doubled as a floral designer. Down a floor was construction, real estate development, and advertising and marketing.

  Either Jeanie was the most inefficient secretary he’d ever met, or she needed more help. Papers in need of filing sat piled on her desk, trickled over the edge and puddled in a two-foot stack on the floor. Four phone lines had the lights lit up, and Jeanie actually had one message pinned to her blouse.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” She tugged the message free and handed the note to Daria. “This one’s important.”

  “What?”

  “It’s from one of our greenhouse growers in Brazil. He sounded frantic, but said he’d be out of touch for the next hour.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Daria clutched the note in her hand, clearly needing to make her phone call. “I’ll introduce Ryker to everyone, then call him back.”

  Daria’s overworked purchasing agent, Isabelle White, an African-American woman in her sixties, looked just as busy and harried as Daria’s secretary. Isabelle hung up the phone just as Daria knocked, and Ryker followed her into the office. Apparently Isabelle liked plants, too, but unlike Daria, who was careful not to overwhelm the senses with too much scent, Isabelle’s office reeked with a blatant floral mixture that had knockout potential.

  He breathed through his mouth, but Daria didn’t seem to mind. She appeared to be more concerned with Isabelle’s reaction to meeting him. “I’ve hired us an accountant. Ryker Stevens will smooth out our operations.”