Sudden Engagement

by Julie Miller

  Ginny stopped at the broad expanse of red-and-white flannel. Damn the man! Couldn’t he put his flirting on hold for two minutes?

  “Mr. Taylor, let me pass.” She looked up to add a practiced glare to the authoritative pitch of her voice. She gripped her toes inside her shoes to conquer the urge to take a step back. The teasing light that danced with perpetual humor in his eyes had disappeared behind a mask, cold and clear like the sapphire gems they resembled. He was sending her a silent message, telling her, warning…oh hell. She didn’t understand the silent message.

  She never could read men. Not on a personal level, at any rate. And this smooth-talking con artist, with the old-fashioned chivalric edge she’d discovered the last time their paths had crossed, really perplexed her.

  So she did what she had always done when she felt at a disadvantage. She buried her emotions, sucked in a deep breath and pretended she had everything under control.

  “Mr. Taylor,” she repeated, glossing over the husky catch in her voice, “I am a detective, first-grade, KCPD, assigned to the Special Investigations Unit. I’m here to look into a possible homicide. Right now, you’re obstructing justice. I can have you arrested.”

  “Then do it.” A hard chill had seeped into his chest-deep bass voice. “I’m trying to spare you a nightmare tonight, Detective.”

  He propped his hands at the waistband of his jeans, an inherently masculine pose that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders and the imposing girth of his biceps and forearms.

  He was such a big man. But then, next to her, most of them were. She’d fought the good fight her entire adult life. At five-three, she’d barely made the cut to enter law enforcement. But her determination had made the difference.

  Too pretty, too petite to be taken seriously in a man’s world, she was used to having to prove herself. She trained harder, worked longer, studied more carefully than most of her male counterparts. She’d earned her badge, earned her rank and earned some respect.

  But all that meant nothing each time she came up against a Wyatt Earp wannabe like Brett Taylor. A man who imagined himself to be a larger-than-life folktale hero, who still believed it was his mission to protect the little woman from the big bad world.

  Acutely aware that he made up two of her, Ginny pocketed her flashlight and pulled out the one symbol of authority that most men did respect.

  Her badge.

  She jabbed it right at his chin, forcing him to turn his face to the side. “Move it, Taylor.”

  He swept his gaze from the badge down to her upturned face. Considering the amount of time she spent on her feet in this job, it had always seemed impractical to wear high heels. But right now, she’d trade that badge for a pair of three-inch pumps.

  Control, she reminded herself. If she didn’t feel, she couldn’t be hurt. It always came down to staying in control.

  She refused to even blink.

  Brute strength finally bowed down to sheer will. With a tired sigh, he relaxed his stance and moved aside. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Not allowing herself time to savor the small victory, Ginny clipped her badge to her belt and stepped inside the brick alcove. Darkness rushed at her, making her head spin. She squeezed her eyes shut against the dizzying sensation and struggled for a clear thought. She breathed in deeply, gagged on the stale air.

  And then it hit her. She’d turned off her flashlight to haggle with Brett. Plunging her fingers into her pocket, she curled them around the reassuring bulk of stainless steel, the one weapon to fight her phobia. She pulled it out, flipped the switch on and opened her eyes.

  “Oh God.” The scene before her wasn’t much better than what her fears had conjured.

  Steel rivets bolted into the wall. Attached chains showing signs of rust from years of disuse in the damp air. A tiny stainless-steel bell hanging around his neck. Bony fingers clasping a chipped cup in its lifeless grasp.

  Ginny snapped a mental picture, then tucked it away in a hidden corner of her mind to deal with later. She turned off her emotions and tuned in to logic and the power of her five senses.

  She noted the partial decomposition of the body. The stale smell resulted as much from the lack of fresh air in the chamber as from the death itself. Even now, the faint crumbling sounds, showers of brick dust and dry mortar, told her the wall had been sealed together by an amateur. She ran her fingers along the original bricks. Age had taken its toll on the wood-and-iron framing down here, but the old masonry had stayed intact.

  Kneeling down, she reached inside the skeletal fist and touched the china cup. The victim wasn’t inclined to release it. Ginny set her flashlight on the floor beside her and angled the beam at the milk-colored porcelain trimmed in blue and gold. Touching only the inside of the cup with her gloved fingers, she lifted it from the floor and turned it, along with the hand, to read the pattern name on the bottom. Liberty.

  “What’s with the good china?” She spoke her thoughts aloud, wondering at the scenario of a man left for dead, yet being given something to eat or drink.

  While she pondered, the cup slipped from her grasp. Ginny snatched at the falling arm, but as she shifted, she kicked her flashlight, jarring the electrical connection and plunging the tiny alcove into absolute darkness. The skeleton toppled onto its side, leaving only the sounds of the ringing bell and her pounding heart to keep her company in the darkness.

  She squelched the instant panic with a useless trick she’d taught herself long ago. She squeezed her eyes shut, pretended the light was still there, pretended there were no enemies lurking in the dark, then groped through the shadows for the missing flashlight.

  She touched Liberty Man’s arm instead.

  Her breath whooshed out as fear and memories won out over logic. She pushed to her feet and whirled around, seeking light, needing light.

  She shot through the opening, her fist pressed tightly to her mouth. She would not scream. She would not let this beat her.

  Quick, purposeful strides took her to the ladder. There, she latched onto the fourth rung and tilted her face into the lantern light filtering down from the floor above. Her shoulders rose and fell in rapid gasps.

  “Gin, are you all right?”

  Five gentle fingertips touched her shoulder and she jerked away as if they’d singed her. Damn. She’d forgotten anyone was here. So dark. She’d forgotten. He’d seen her.

  She dredged up enough voice to answer Brett. “I’m fine.”

  It wasn’t her best lie, but she didn’t care. She didn’t owe him any explanation. She began to climb, attacking the rungs of the ladder as if the darkness itself pursued her. In her haste, she misjudged a step and slipped.

  Instead of falling, twin vises caught her thighs. Big hands. Brett’s hands. Long, strong fingers and supple palms that nearly spanned the circumference of each leg. Supporting her weight with effortless ease, he guided her feet back to the second rung.

  “Easy.” He crooned the warning in that cavernous voice. The sound of it skittered along her spine, sending soothing tendrils of comfort along her sparking nerve relays. She cursed her body’s foolish reaction to the sound.

  Once on solid footing, he released her. Ginny clung to the ladder and quieted her pulse. The imprint of warmth from his hands stayed with her, mocking her attempts to ignore him and don her detective facade once more.

  “Claustrophobic?” he asked.

  “No.” She spun around and looked straight into eyes of sapphire blue.

  He stood a bit too close. Close enough to see the stubble of dark brown beard shadowing his jaw. Close enough to smell the honest scent of wood and work on him. Brett was clearly a man who built things with his hands. It was evident in the outdoorsy tan of his skin, the rough rasp of his fingertips, the minuscule bits of sawdust that clung to the coffee-brown twists of hair that brushed his collar.

  Years of practice made it possible for Ginny to note her observations without attributing any emotional or physical response to them. She c
ataloged her reaction to Brett the same way she cataloged her observations of a crime scene. “It’s the—”

  Ginny snapped her mouth shut. She couldn’t let this man know her weakness. Her fears were her own to handle. She would not be made vulnerable. One of the ugliest aspects of her job—of her life—was seeing how cruel the world could be to anyone who was vulnerable.

  Let him think the close quarters had gotten to her. A white lie would be better than the truth.

  “Maybe a little.”

  He backed off a step. “Sorry to crowd you.”

  The considerate move surprised her. Maybe there was a touch of real hero beneath his thick, flirtatious veneer, after all.

  “You work in construction, right?” she asked.

  “Contractor. Run my own business.” If he thought anything strange or rude in her abrupt change in topic, he didn’t comment.

  She let her gaze move past his shoulder to that shadowy void that reminded her of more than she cared to remember. “Can you tell me anything about that new wall? The one built to seal him in?”

  She averted her gaze from the dark chasm. Some memories refused to die.

  “Yes.” He lifted his left hand in a timeless gesture of “ladies first.” “But let’s talk outside. I could use some fresh air.”

  Ginny recognized the gallant gesture for the excuse it was, but appreciated it anyway. She gave him a curt nod and climbed the ladder. The basement brightened into artificial twilight. And when she emerged on the front steps of the concrete stoop, she breathed in the mist-filled air like sunshine.

  With her phobia behind her, Ginny could think clearly again. She’d been shaken by the darkness, that was all. Any traitorous response her body had had to Brett Taylor had simply been the result of humiliating fear. She was too smart to be attracted to a charmer like him. Way too smart.

  This time, she heard the weight of his tread on the threshold and knew he stood behind her. She pulled out her pen and notebook, and turned to meet him. “So, Mr. Taylor, do you think you can tell approximately when that alcove was built? And can you verify that it was built by a nonexpert? The mortar seemed to be inferior grade, falling apart. Maybe it wasn’t mixed together properly.”

  He answered her questions with a laugh. “You are one tough cookie, aren’t you.”

  Ginny lifted her gaze with a stern look that only seemed to fuel his good humor. “The term ‘cookie’ went out with girdles and seamed stockings. You can call me Ms. Rafferty or Detective.”

  He sputtered as he struggled to contain his laughter. “You can call me Brett.”

  “I don’t have to call you at all.”

  He jabbed a finger in the air at her. “That’s it. That’s the voice.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  His hands settled on his hips. “That tone of voice you get that says you are too tough to care. The one that could lay out a platoon of soldiers at fifty yards.”

  “If you’re referring to the tone of authority…”

  “I’m referring to the show you think you have to put on for people to take you seriously.”

  Ginny’s confusion puffed out on an abrupt sigh. “Excuse me?”

  “All you have to do is talk to me.” He leaned toward her, his height putting him head and shoulders above her. She tilted her face to maintain eye contact. He never stepped closer, never touched her. Yet she felt the breadth and power of him surrounding her, as if he hovered above her, circled around her. A show of force? Or a shield of protection? “You don’t have to talk down to me.”

  For a rare instant in time, she stood speechless. No clever zinger sprang to mind, no command seemed appropriate. No one had ever complained about her professional demeanor before. She never meant to be insulting. Damn him, anyway, for taking a criminal investigation and turning it into something personal.

  With a surprising degree of decorum, Brett was the first to resume business as usual. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He slid out a business card and pressed it into her hand.

  “Here’s my card. Call me if you need anything, or you find out something. I have a great deal of money and time and history invested in the Ludlow.”

  His odd statement triggered her curiosity, overrode her self-conscious habit of feigning emotional control. “History? What do you mean?”

  The look that darkened his face revealed Brett Taylor wasn’t all fun and games. But the grim expression was fleeting. He smiled once more, a handsome crease that formed dimples on either side of his mouth. Ginny wondered if, in her own hypercritical state, she had imagined his quick revelation of sorrow. But he gave no explanation.

  “In answer to your questions about the wall, I’d say it was put up ten, twelve years ago. And yes, the mortar work was amateurish. Maybe done in haste, maybe done by someone who didn’t know any better.”

  She jotted down the information, too dutiful a cop to do otherwise, but her attention remained focused on his previous cryptic words. “You didn’t answer my question. What history are you talking about with the Ludlow? Is it related to the murder?”

  “No. It’s just that…” He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket. Ginny recognized the procrastination of buying time before an unpleasant task. But to his credit, he looked her straight in the eye before answering.

  “That’s not the first dead body I’ve seen at the Ludlow Arms.”

  Chapter Two

  “Got a new case?”

  Ginny Rafferty turned to the cemetery’s caretaker and nodded. The chocolate-brown eyes set deep in the wrinkles of the African-American man’s face looked as old as she felt. “It’s that obvious, John?”

  With his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coveralls, he twisted his face into a sympathetic frown. “You make this pilgrimage out here every time you take on an unsolved murder.”

  She turned back to the pink granite headstone, with the name Rafferty engraved upon it. “Maybe once I can solve all the rest of them, I’ll get a chance to finally solve hers.”

  More than a casual acquaintance, John McBride shared a sad, unique bond with Ginny. He might be one of the few people who understood her need to come to this remote haven nestled between busy Truman Road and Twenty-four Highway time and time again. He shrugged his shoulders and offered a fatherly smile. “It’s gettin’ dark. I’ll have to close the gates soon.”

  “Give me a couple of minutes. Then I’ll ride down with you.”

  “Sure.”

  She watched him walk down the hill to his truck, his dignity unbowed by age or sorrow. Everyone coped with loss in his or her own way. Maybe one day she’d move beyond hers and find the acceptance that John seemed to have found.

  Until then, she’d maintain her solitary vigil. She’d hang on to the love and loyalty she’d once forsaken in the pursuit of her own misguided dreams. The chilly spring rain drizzled along her cheeks, side by side with the single tear that scorched her skin.

  The trees that surrounded the hills of Mount Washington Cemetery muffled the sounds of Kansas City at twilight. The haunting silence wrapped her up in its lonely hug, a small comfort for all she had lost.

  She understood that the rest of the world moved on, despite her grief. Despite her guilt. But part of her would never understand why.

  Twelve years had passed. And she still didn’t understand.

  John had become the closest thing she had to a friend over the years. They’d first met the day of her sister’s funeral. He’d been kind enough to let her stay, long after the funeral had ended, long after the guests had departed to a reception at her parents’ Mission Hills home.

  She’d been gone a year and a half before that, painting in Europe, losing her heart, learning some harsh truths about life, while Amy learned a harsh truth of her own on a deserted pier in downtown Kansas City.

  Like this evening, John had waited with her until after dark the night of Amy’s funeral. Then he called for a taxi and paid her fare, even though sh
e had money of her own.

  Six months later, she’d lost her mother to a bottleful of the sedatives that were meant to help her cope with the loss of a child. John had been a good friend that day, too. She had needed one. With her father steeped in grief, Ginny had withdrawn to the fringes of the ceremony. An easy enough task for a shy creature like herself. She took a vow that day, made a promise to her sister and her mother. Planned her own quiet rebellion.

  John had found her then, much as she was today, standing in the rain, swearing all kinds of vengeance on the world. He’d told her of his son, an officer in the State Highway Patrol, who’d been slain in the line of duty. He shared his feelings of pride and mourning for his brave son. He truly understood her anger and her loss.

  And he inspired her.

  She’d met John again last year, finally losing her father to an overworked heart, though emotionally, she’d lost him years earlier. Her parents had never been the same after Amy’s senseless murder. Ginny was a grown woman now—no grief-stricken teen, no rebellious coed—a mature career woman of thirty.

  She’d willingly given up her scholarship to study art in Europe and enrolled in the justice studies program at Central Missouri State University in nearby Warrensburg. She’d taken care of her father, and now she took care of Kansas City, Missouri, too.

  She sought justice for the innocent victims like her sister. Like her mother and father. And like that poor man this afternoon, buried alive and left to die.

  Like a family reunion of battle-scarred survivors, she and John now met at the start of every new case. Each time, he waited patiently to drive her to her car at the front gates. And each time, she made the same promise to her sister and parents.

  She spread her palm flat over the cold granite that bore her family’s names and recited her vow. “I’ll find out who did this to us. There will be justice for the Raffertys.”

  She curled her fingertips into the grooves cut deep into the stone.