The Taylor Clan

“I see,” said Ginny.

“Well…” Sophie smiled and excused herself. “I’d best not keep Eric waiting. I’ll call you in the morning to touch base.” With a tilt of her chin, she leaned in and kissed Brett’s cheek, then wiped the spot with her thumb as if she had left a mark of lipstick. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Brett squeezed her arm affectionately, and watched her until she climbed into her car and pulled away from the curb.

Only then did he realize that Ginny was still standing on the porch, waiting to be invited in. Brett wiped at his cheek, as if Sophie’s kiss was still visible, and concentrated on the woman before him. He stepped aside and held the door open for her. “Ms. Rafferty.”

He rolled her name around his tongue like a piece of candy. He ought to be on a first-name basis with this woman, call her Gin—or Angel, a compliment to her looks she wouldn’t want to hear.

At least, not from him.

As she stepped over the threshold, he noted the trappings of her trade, a blue plaid blazer that masked the bulk of a gun and badge at her waist. When she walked past him, tantalizing as a breeze of fresh air, he noticed her stiff posture and the cool expression on her face.

He set aside the inexplicable desire to hear her loosen up and laugh just once, and followed her into his office. He hadn’t worried about the mess before with Sophie. But when Ginny picked up an untouched sack of fast food off the chair, he wished he’d taken time to clean up the place.

She dangled the bag between her thumb and middle finger, eyeing the grease spot that had soaked through the brown paper. “Did I interrupt dinner?”

“That was lunch.” He took the bag from her to throw away—once he located the trash can. He spotted it, supporting one corner of the scale model of the revamped city block where the Ludlow, Walton and Peabody Buildings sat. “Yesterday’s.”

She perched on the very edge of the chair once it had been cleared. He lifted a corner of plywood and ditched the day-old food.

“Do you spend a lot of time in your office?” she asked. He could almost read the phrase bachelor pad on her lips, and wished he could show her the clean, uncluttered space of his condo that he’d designed and remodeled himself in a nearby warehouse.

He pulled out his own chair and sat across the desk from her. So it was to be strictly business between them. Again. Thinking of the waste of those beautiful, expressive eyes of hers, when they could be sparkling with laughter or drowsy with passion instead of so cold with single-minded determination, he tried to accommodate. “I do the paperwork here. But mostly I’m out on the work sites. Lately, I’ve been conned into attending some fund-raising events. I’m working toward three million to rebuild the Ludlow block the way I want to.”

“Three million, hmm?” Her ever-watchful eyes continued to scan the office. “I think you’d be a natural at schmoozing people for money.”

Ouch. Though the comment was superficially complimentary, her tone of voice gave her words a condemning twist.

Feeling the unjust sting of failure, he pushed to his feet and circled the desk. He couldn’t let her taunt—intentional or otherwise—go unchallenged. He shoved aside a stack of bills and sat on the edge, right in front of her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers when he crossed his legs at the ankle. He ignored the traitorous rush of heat that shot toward his toes at that slightest of contacts. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and flexed his muscles in his most intimidating display of force.

“I’m doing a good deed here, angel. At best, I’ll break even. Any profit I might end up with will be reinvested in future projects to improve the neighborhood.”

Undaunted by his face-saving attack, she tipped her chin and looked straight up into his eyes. “You seem to have several projects in mind, Mr. Taylor. You’re quite the philanthropist. How much money have you raised so far?”

Damn, she was a cool customer. Instead of taking offense, the blood surged through Brett’s veins at her show of strength. Why the hell did he have to get twisted up inside over this pint-size bundle of woman who was all backbone and beautiful eyes? He was a healthy male, more than decently attractive, according to the women he’d dated. He knew his manners and how to make a woman laugh.

And yet this one, Ginny Rafferty, with the Nordic looks and Arctic demeanor, got under his skin. The one woman whose only interest in him applied to whatever information he could give her in a murder investigation, fascinated the hell out of him.

He liked the challenge of sparring with her. He’d like it even better if he knew this battle of wills was leading someplace interesting. “We’re halfway there. We’ve pledged about one million in donations. And I put up half a million of my own money.”

“Really.”

One elegant eyebrow, a darker shade of blond than her silvery hair, arched above her skeptical gaze. He felt her scrutiny from the shoulders of his worn flannel shirt to the toes of his scuffed work boots. He seemed to fall short, in her opinion, judging by the doubt etched on her face, an observation that rankled his male ego. He’d butted heads with beautiful women before, and had never failed to charm his way into their good graces.

But Ginny was different. She didn’t play the game at which he excelled. With her, the battle of wills was for real.

Brett couldn’t help but defend himself. “My business is successful.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of lying.”

“Then what are you accusing me of?”

His taunt seemed to strike a nerve in her. She averted her face and blew out her breath on a long sigh. In the space of a heartbeat, Brett’s adversarial instincts switched to an uncomfortable mix of guilt and concern. She rose to her feet, a coordinated series of movements blending grace and control.

Regretting his self-serving need to strike back, to assert himself, Brett chose to remain seated. She stood beside him, not quite face-to-face, and he could see the ultrafine spider-web of bluish veins beneath the pale porcelain of her skin.

He curled his fingers into his palms, combatting the urge to touch her, to see if her cheek was as smooth and soft and fragile as it looked. He’d forgotten her job for the moment, given vent to his frustration. He’d simply reacted. Without much thought or consideration of the consequences.

“How much do you stand to lose if the Ludlow project fails?” She didn’t look at him until she’d finished the question.

When he turned his face to her, he nearly sank to the floor. Eye-to-eye, mere inches away, he felt the gentle heat of her reaching out to him like a tentative caress.

He must be tired and imagining things, he thought. He’d seen those eyes cool and blank. He’d seen them wide and dark with fear.

But he’d never seen them as he did now. The tiniest of frowns made a shallow dent between her eyebrows, and her eyes gleamed with a warmth that reminded him of sunshine streaming in through a stained-glass window.

The uncustomary openness in her expression triggered an unexpected response inside him, a desire to be equally frank, without sugarcoating the truth with a smile or a clever joke.

“I could lose my shirt, if I’m not careful. If this project fails and I have to repay my investors on top of the accumulated debt, I’ll go bankrupt. Taylor Construction would be no more.”

“What about your personal assets?”

His family suspected he was in this building campaign up to his eyeballs, but he’d never shared the extent of what he had laid on the table to make this reclamation project happen. But alone in his office with the bright-eyed detective, the words spilled out. “I could lose everything.”

She uttered a sound like a gasp of disbelief, then turned and paced to the far end of the room. When she spun around, Brett sat up straighter. That brief glimpse of compassion he’d imagined had vanished. She was primed for battle again.

“Then why do this? Why not take the renovation one building at a time?”

He took the offensive, standing and bracing his hands on his hips. “Are you investigating me or the murder?”

“This is personal for you, isn’t it?” She walked closer, each step a brick of suspicion building against him on some unknown case. “Does this have anything to do with Mark Bishop’s death?”

Brett turned his face to the ceiling and swore. When he looked at her again, he didn’t bother softening the blow. She hadn’t pulled any punches, and neither would he. “You got a lot of nerve, lady.”

“I understand Mark Bishop was a friend of yours.”

He shook his head, admiring her gall, if not her choice of topic. “That woman you just met was his sister. The Bishops were like family to me.” A defensive edge slipped into his voice. He didn’t try to mask it. “I met Mark through the Big Brother program. He was a good kid who needed a break. I tried to give him one.”

“What can you tell me about his death?”

“Somebody beat the hell out of him, then left him without any medical attention. Why do you want to know?”

“That body in the basement could be Mark and Sophie’s father, Alvin Bishop.”

“Hell.” He collapsed back onto the desk. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t have the forensics yet, but the timeline fits. It’s a possibility.”

It seemed impossible. To hear that name again. Twelve years after the man got away with murder…or maybe he hadn’t, after all. Brett looked Ginny square in the eye. Her phone message had said she wanted to discuss the case. But which one?

He schooled what was left of his patience and asked, “Just what is it you want from me?”

“Do you have any idea who’d want to kill Alvin Bishop?”

“Me, for one.”

“Brett.”

He liked the sound of his name in her crisp, clean voice, even if it was couched in a reprimand. But she’d made it more than clear that he was just a means to an end of a case for her. Keeping that sobering thought in mind, he answered, “Just about anybody in town back then. He wasn’t a nice guy.”

She moved a step closer, folding her hands together and beseeching him in an unconscious gesture that he found difficult to ignore. “Mac says you know more about the neighborhood’s history than anyone. Records about the Ludlow tenants are sketchy and outdated. Do you think you could give me some specifics?”

The intelligent gleam in those dark blue eyes never wavered. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’m investigating a murder. I’m always serious.”

He could see that. “All right, then. But not on an empty stomach.” Her challenge galvanized him. Shoving himself to his feet, he grabbed his keys from the desk and strode toward the door. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and it’s past nine o’clock. I need to fuel up if I’m going to do this right.”

Ginny hurried after him in quicker, shorter strides. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I mean I’m hungry. I’m going to go eat.”

“Now?”

He pushed the door and held it open for her, amused by the incredulity of her question. Once she was outside, he closed and locked it behind him. “That’s the general idea.”

He heard a rapid rush of air behind him. “I’m just getting started. There’s more I need to ask.”

“I figured you’d come with me.”

He swept his arm out, indicating she precede him down the stairs. Instead, she took a step back against the iron railing. Maybe it was a trick of the overhead light, but her already fair skin blanched to an unhealthy shade of pale.

Brett reached out and touched her shoulder. “You all right?”

For an instant, time suspended itself between them. But before he could question her jumpy reaction, Ginny shrugged away his fingers and bolted down the steps. He could tell by her hushed tones that she’d dropped him from the conversation. “I’ll look up the names of some of the longtime residents of this part of the city. Maybe I can get them to talk. Forensics alone won’t tell me why that man was buried alive.”

“Time out.” He caught up to her in three long strides, and coiled his hand around her upper arm, holding on when she would have pulled away again. “I didn’t say anything about not talking. You stirred up some ghosts when you mentioned Mark and Alvin Bishop. I want to be sure I’m thinking clearly. I don’t want to make a mistake about either death.”

Beneath the coiled tension of sleek muscles, he felt…trembling. He glanced from his hand up into the smooth perfection of her face. Cool and rock-solid as always, she revealed no emotion. But the fine tremors didn’t lie. Something made her nervous. Had he startled her? Or was it the fact that he refused to let go?

He was torn between putting her at ease and demanding to know why she’d so easily dismiss his help. Conscience beat curiosity.

“Look, my uncle was a cop. My cousin Mitch, your boss, is captain of the local precinct. I have three brothers who are in law enforcement or criminal investigation. A fourth who used to be. It’d be suicide at family reunions if I didn’t help a cop when she asked me.”

No laugh.

Shrugging off his inability to coax even a smile from her, he released her. She backed off a step and buried her hands in the pockets of her blazer.

“The older a case is, the harder it is to solve,” she said, as if explaining her aversion to his touch. “If I don’t have your full cooperation, then this is pointless.”

“We’ll find out the truth. Together.”

With the challenge hanging in the air, he dared her to retreat a third time. Her gaze darted from the sidewalk to her car and back to the middle of his chest. “All right. We’ll eat.”

He rewarded her hard-won agreement with a smile, overlooking the bothersome observation that she hadn’t looked him in the eye. “There’s a diner on the next block. Since the rain stopped, we can walk.” Keeping a comfortable distance between them, Brett headed for the corner, shortening his stride so Ginny didn’t have to pump her legs in double time to keep up.

“I suppose it makes good sense.” She seemed intent on reasoning this out. “I need background. You need to eat. We can combine both and save some time.”

“See? It’s a good plan all round. Not bad for an arrogant bozo like me, huh?”

“I didn’t say…”

He sensed the snap of her head as she looked up at him. He came to an abrupt stop and turned. Whatever she was about to say died on her lips when their gazes met. She didn’t know he’d been teasing! She would have defended him against the self-mocking insult.

Big bad Brett Taylor, neighborhood hero and resident handyman, had always taken care of himself and those around him. To know this dainty bit of curves and confidence had been willing to do the same for him warmed a chilly place inside he hadn’t acknowledged for a long time. Ginny Rafferty wasn’t quite the all-business woman who fascinated him. She was human. The woman was as much of a mystery as the cases she worked to solve.

Reaching an unspoken truce of sorts, he checked for traffic, took her by the elbow and crossed the street with her. He released her as soon as they were safely across. “If we can prove that old man Bishop finally got what he deserved, I’ll answer any question you have, as many times as you want to hear it. There are plenty of folks around here who would love to know the truth.”

“One thing I’ve learned, working homicide…” He glanced down to see the wry wisdom in her voice reflected in the expression on her pretty face. “There’s always one person who doesn’t want you to find out the truth.”

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