by Julie Miller
Zeke stared at her wildly. Then blinked, as if surrendering to the inevitable. “Not like you. Tall.” He pointed a twisted, grubby finger at Brett. “Like him.”
“THEY’LL EXPECT to see us together.”
Ginny glared daggers up at Brett. “When you said to meet you here, I thought the service was over and we were going to pick up Zeke and Charlie from the shelter.”
She rolled her eyes in frustration and turned away, hugging her arms around her middle, trying to rid herself of the goose bumps that pricked her skin. Pacing to the secluded corner of the elegantly appointed lobby wasn’t nearly far enough to escape the suffocating air of the Stegmeier Mortuary.
It wasn’t far enough to escape Brett’s persistent arguments, either. She felt him at her right shoulder before he spoke. “It’s just a memorial service. Sophie had Alvin cremated, so there’s no coffin. It’ll last twenty minutes, tops.”
The piped-in organ music whispered at the fringes of her subconscious mind like tiny voices telling her to run away as fast as she could. She tried to ignore the impulse, find a more dignified way to make her escape. “But I don’t do funerals.”
“What does that mean?”
She spun around, thinking that facing him would help drive her point home. “I don’t like them. I never have. I’ve been to too many of them.” With a gesture of her hands, she swept the air clear between them. “I am not staying for this one.”
His hands closed around her arms, right above each elbow, preventing her from leaving. He dipped his head closer to her level and looked her in the eye. “I’m concerned about maintaining your cover.”
“You’re kidding, right?” How the hell would sitting through twenty minutes of torturous flashbacks to her family’s deaths help maintain her cover?
“I don’t know how you handle tragedies in your family. But the Taylors stick together. Anyone who knows us would expect the people we care about to show up and support us, too.”
“But…”
“Now I know you don’t really care about me. But others believe that you do. Sophie. Mitch. Frank Rascone. Pearl Jenkins.” The ruthless set of his features seemed out of place on his laugh-lined face. “If they don’t see us together, they’ll question how serious our relationship is. If they question it, they’ll question you. You’ll become enemy number one on Market Street again, and your investigation will be over.”
A joking, flirtatious Brett she could argue with. When she’d first brainstormed this outrageous charade, she thought she could order his actions to fit her predictable, regimented life. But what she had mistaken for a lack of committment to any serious cause was merely a front for a man who did what he thought was right in a kinder, friendlier way than most.
Brett Taylor was a man with a long memory and a huge heart, instinctively smart, fiercely loyal to anyone or any cause he cared about. Just because he concentrated on the joys in life didn’t mean he didn’t feel its sorrows, too.
It was this harder, hurting man beneath the surface that she couldn’t argue with.
She twisted within his grasp, pleading for her freedom, ignoring the gathering stream of mourners waiting to sign the guest registry before going into the chapel. He might have understood her silent request, but he didn’t budge.
That left reasoning with him. She used that clipped tone he’d once said commanded authority. “We can give a plausible excuse. I have to work.”
He didn’t buy it. “Mitch is taking time off to be here.”
She snatched the lapels of his navy worsted suit, grasping at the opportunity. “Then I need to go back to the office and hold down the fort while he’s gone.”
“Kansas City will survive for twenty minutes without two of its finest.”
His sarcasm hurt when he turned it on her. Maybe she deserved it, for sidestepping the truth. But it hurt all the same. Feeling trapped now, feeling helpless, she started to squirm, kneading her fingers into his jacket and shirtfront, meeting the resistance of immovable muscle underneath it all.
“Brett, please.” His chest expanded beneath her hands in a weary sigh. She might have worn him down. He might let her go.
She was wrong.
“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.” His low voice was barely a vibration. “It’s your turn to do something for me.”
“Not this.” His viselike grip slackened, but she saw it as a gesture of trust that she would stay, not a gateway to freedom.
She’d tracked down rapists and murderers, drawn her gun giving chase and in self-defense. In the past week she’d proved she could lie in any number of ways.
But she had no strength, no weapon against what he was asking of her. She gentled her grip on his clothes, smoothed out the wrinkles in the cotton and wool. But ultimately, to be truly honest, she had to tilt her chin and look all those miles up into his deep blue eyes.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why my father has never called you to check out what kind of man his little girl is marrying? Why my mother has never taken me to lunch to talk flowers and bridesmaids’ dresses?”
“I assumed your folks live out of town.” She saw the first chink in that unfamiliar cold armor he wore. “Ah, hell.”
“I’m an expert at funerals, Brett. You already know about Amy. It’s just me in the Rafferty family. The rest are all gone.”
His hands rubbed soothing circles where he’d gripped her. One slipped up to squeeze her shoulder, cup her jaw. But the dam had already opened. And no amount of gentleness or regret or compassion could stop it now.
“To be more precise, my sister was murdered, my mother killed herself, and my father died of a broken heart.” A pain welled up in her gut, sharp and piercing, making it hard for her to breathe.
Without asking permission, Brett gathered her in to his chest, wrapping her snugly in the cocoon of his arms. “Angel, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His lips stirred the crown of her hair as he spoke. She turned her cheek into the front of his jacket, seeking the steady beating of his heart beneath her ear. There were no tears to shed, that well had gone dry. There was only the pain, the choking, squeezing pain in her chest.
She couldn’t control it. She couldn’t keep it in. “Brett?” She forced his name out on a strangled whisper of air, a cry for help before the panic consumed her.
“Shh, angel, shh.” Locking her hands at his waist, he pulled his shoulders back to create a space between them. He feathered his fingers into her hair and tipped her face up, forcing her to meet the concern etched in his eyes. His face swam before her. She couldn’t focus.
The softest of kisses touched her lips, startling the breath into her lungs. He kissed her again. She could feel her own heart beating once more. His lips touched hers a third time, and Ginny kissed him back. Curious. Hopeful.
At that slightest of responses, he claimed her mouth with a force that stunned her. The essence of Brett Taylor poured into her, seeking that empty part of her that once knew how to love and be loved. She raised up on tiptoe and met his challenge, absorbing his scent, his strength, his healing touch.
When she knew herself again, knew Brett, she broke the kiss and buried her face in the front of his jacket. The rasp of wool at her cheek, the soft silk tie at her nose, the scent of soap and man, the enveloping warmth all comforted her.
And with comfort came rational thinking. “I think I just had a panic attack.”
His hands rubbed life and warmth into her shoulders and back. “You should have said something. I wouldn’t have asked you to come.” His hands stilled, allowing reality to creep into their hidden corner of the room. “But then, you don’t share things like that, do you. If it’s personal, it’s a state secret with you.”
Ginny stepped back, hearing regret, not spite in his voice. “That’s not fair. This isn’t a real relationship.”
“So you keep reminding me.”
She broke contact entirely, struggling to close the wounds inside her that a stiff chin and cool words co
uld never really heal. “I’m just trying to protect myself.”
“Ah, hell.” To her surprise, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the exit. “I’ll get you out of here.”
Unlike Sophie’s pessimistic complaint yesterday, a good number of people had shown up to pay their respects to Alvin. Or more likely, as Brett had intimated, to show their support for Sophie. With a few brief nods and acknowledgments, Brett moved them closer to the door. When he stopped abruptly, Ginny had to double-step to keep from stumbling.
“Too late.”
She glanced up at the ominous import of his words. She saw nothing but the bottom of his jaw as he stared straight ahead.
“Brett!”
Ginny turned toward the unfamiliar female voice. A tall woman, with striking silver hair and deep blue eyes opened her arms and stepped away from the crowd.
Brett removed the security of his arm from Ginny’s shoulders and bent to exchange hugs and plant a kiss on the older woman’s lips. “Ma.”
Ginny stiffened.
A large, stocky man, only a couple inches shorter than Brett, with streaks of gray peppering his dark hair, joined them. The two men shook hands and hugged. He pulled away, slightly breathless. “Son.”
Oh no.
The walls closed in on her chance of escape when she saw Brett’s cousin Mitch guiding his beautiful, flame-haired wife toward them. Though she walked with a perpetual limp, she had a natural style and grace about her that made Ginny feel small and gangly by comparison.
She thought about a back door. But that meant going through the chapel.
A dark-haired woman, about her own age, got scooped up off the floor into a Brett-size bear hug. “Jessie.”
“Ginny, it’s good to see you again.” Casey Taylor, the captain’s wife, ever gracious, had made several efforts to cultivate Ginny’s friendship in the past. Now that she’d noticed her, the trap was complete.
“Hi, Casey.” The two women shook hands, and a flurry of introductions began.
Brett caught hold of Ginny’s hand and pulled her to his side, anchoring her in the oncoming storm. “Ma. Dad. This is Ginny Rafferty. My folks, Martha and Sid Taylor.”
“Oh my. You’re the one who finally caught our Brett.” Martha clasped her hands together, then held them out. A gentle nudge from Brett pushed Ginny forward, and his mother wrapped her arms around her.
Shocked by the unexpected hug, Ginny said nothing, did nothing. But Martha’s delight wasn’t daunted by her lack of a response. “I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m just sorry it isn’t under better circumstances.” She stepped back and pressed her hands together again. “Poor Sophie. This is so sad.”
Sid settled for a handshake. Mac and Mitch, she knew through work. Then there was Jessie. Gideon. All tall. All Taylors.
A police officer in his starched blue uniform jogged up behind them. “Sorry I’m late, Ma.”
This one was as big as Brett, but a decade younger. They punched playfully at each other, then traded a hug. “This is Josh,” explained Brett. “He’s the baby of the family.”
Ginny shrank back, overwhelmed by the lively give-and-take of so many people talking at once. When she felt Brett’s saving hand at her back, she leaned into him and whispered, “How many of you are there?”
“Six kids. Seven, counting Mitch. And we always count him.”
“How many did I meet?”
“All but Cole.”
Martha had a true mother’s hearing. “I saw Cole’s name in the registry. He must not have been able to stay.” The wistful concern in her voice captured Ginny’s curiosity. “I hope that boy’s taking good care of himself.”
And then Sophie Bishop walked through the chapel doors and all conversation stopped. Despite the grief of the occasion, she looked stunning in a black figure-hugging pantsuit trimmed with a long silver necklace that dipped into the jacket’s neckline, and a silver bangle bracelet. With her long hair pulled back into an elegant twist by an antique silver comb, it struck Ginny that Sophie wanted this service to be more about her than her father.
“Martha. Sid.” She greeted them with a familiar kiss, hugged each Taylor son or nephew like an old friend. She held on to Brett longer than the others, eyeing him expectantly until he dropped a kiss onto her cheek.
Then she turned to Ginny. “Detective Rafferty.”
Not Ginny. Not Ms. Rafferty. Not thank you for coming.
Detective.
Ginny knew about exclusion. A big family, close friends. She hadn’t been a part of anything like this for years. The conscious choice to avoid such painful connections had become second nature to her after being alone for so long.
That aloneness never hit home the way it did now.
But the isolation she felt never had a chance to take root. Brett untangled himself from Sophie’s embrace and slipped his arm around Ginny, silently identifying them as a couple, silently saying that she belonged.
She didn’t care if it was for show. She didn’t care if he was playing the part of her fiancé to perfection. She was grateful to have him as an ally, grateful to think of him as a friend.
She could only imagine what the protection and compassion of Brett Taylor would be like if he really loved a woman.
An unexpected fissure opened inside her armored heart as her mind jumped to the next logical question. What would it be like if Brett really loved her?
“Are you making any progress in my father’s case, Detective?”
She’d been thinking the impossible. What could Brett see in her beyond a challenge resistant to his charms? Or the link to answers in Mark Bishop’s death. What difference did it make to wonder about the way Brett loved?
“Y-yes,” she stuttered, not quite able to recapture control of the calm rationality that had served her so well over the years. “I believe we’ve located a witness who may have seen your father’s killer at the Ludlow Arms. A homeless man.”
“Really?” Astonishment lit her dark eyes, disrupting the cool mask of grief. “That’s wonderful news. I’ll want to hear more, but…”
With an artful swish of her long, elegant hands, Sophie linked arms with the Taylor patriarch, Sid. “We’d better get this started.” Ginny set aside her foolish speculation and braced herself for the task at hand. Standing at the center of the Taylor clan, Sophie added, “I’m so glad you all could come.”
Seated in the second row behind Sophie and her escort, Eric Chamberlain, Ginny blanked her mind to the minister’s eulogy. She’d heard similar words before and knew them by heart. But when a faceless soprano sang a hymn from behind a curtain, Ginny had the urge to crawl right out of her skin.
In an instant, Brett’s hand was there. One big hand swallowed up both white-knuckled fists in her lap. She distracted herself by studying the nicks and calluses along his blunt-tipped fingers. She recognized it as the hand of a man who had experienced his share of hard work and hard times. The strength of his hand bespoke endurance, a steel will, courage; the gentleness of it bespoke kindness, patience and a big heart.
What could a hand like that gain from holding a hand like hers?
She still had no answer.
When the music ended, Eric Chamberlain crossed to the podium. He looked impeccable in his black pin-striped suit, a perfect match for Sophie’s fashion-model sophistication. His remembrances focused on Sophie, how she’d caught his eye when she was still in high school, even though he was eight years her senior. He talked of her educational and professional accomplishments and how her perseverance had helped her rise from poverty to enormous success. Alvin Bishop would have been proud of his daughter.
Eric ended by saying, “I’m just glad I’ve been able to help her when she needed it along the way.”
With those words, three things popped into Ginny’s mind. Sophie’s claim that Eric had always taken care of her. An unknown party who called 911 the night of Mark’s death. Zeke Jones’s mysterious guard, described only as ‘tall.’
Her fears receded and the sharp-eyed detective took over. She tipped her chin and stretched toward Brett’s shoulder to whisper, “How tall do you think Eric Chamberlain is?”
His blue eyes widened. He understood where her thoughts had taken her. He glanced at Eric, then lowered his mouth to her ear. “I’m six-four and I can look him in the eye.”
“Tall?”
He nodded. “Tall.”
Her mind leaped ahead to the pictures she wanted Zeke to look at, and she wondered if one crazy old man’s identification of a suspect would stand up in court.
Chapter Eight
Ginny fought the usual urge to close her eyes as the elevator neared the seventh floor. Her tall, dark and silent companion would question her about that, too, no doubt. But she’d already revealed too many of her well-guarded secrets to Brett Taylor.
No amount of bargaining or begging had convinced him to let her drive herself, or drop her off at the curb in front of her building. He was going to see her safely to her door before she’d ever get rid of him. Something about feeling responsible for screwing up her day, he’d said. So he’d volunteered to be her second shadow until he knew she was all right.
But she needed to be alone right now. She needed to sort through all the unwanted emotions he’d forced out of her today, to tuck them neatly back into place so she could get on with the painless precision of her life.
As long as Brett was around, there’d be no peace, there’d be no dull comfort. As long as Brett was around, she couldn’t just think, she had to feel.
She dared a glance across the elevator where he stood with hands in pockets, fixedly watching the numbers for each floor light up, poised on the balls of his feet as if ready to defend her against the elevator itself if it didn’t open its doors on the right floor.
He looked so different today from the easygoing flirt she’d first met. Though the tie had disappeared the moment they’d stepped outside the mortuary, the unbuttoned navy suit he wore emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and length of his legs. The white shirt set off his working man’s tan to healthy perfection. His long, dark hair curled over the collar and tangled in the nubby weave of the spring-weight wool.