Czytaj książkę: «The Taylor Clan»
“Your men are watching us.”
Brett angled himself to shield Ginny from his crew’s prying eyes. “Maybe we’d better kiss instead. Make this charade look real.”
“No.”
“No? We’re supposed to seal an engagement, not a traffic citation.”
Her deep, fortifying breath matched his own. “I hate it when you’re right.”
She pressed her lips together, zeroing in on his mouth.
Brett caught her chin in his palm and stroked his thumb across her lips. “Relax. I’ll meet you halfway.”
Ginny sank back as he lowered his head and replaced his thumb with his mouth. The lower arc of her sweet lips trembled. Drawn to the tiny flutter of movement, Brett pressed the generous curve between his own lips.
Her lips barely moved.
Her hands were another story altogether.
Her fingers dug into his chest, then crept up to his shoulders, holding herself steady or holding him close, Brett couldn’t tell. He wondered if she even knew.
Sudden Engagement
Julie Miller
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie Miller attributed her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.
THE TAYLOR CLAN
| Sid and Martha Taylor: | butcher and homemakerages 63 and 62 respectively |
| Brett Taylor: | contractorage 38the protector |
| Mac Taylor: | forensic specialistage 37the professor |
| Gideon Taylor: | firefighter/arson investigatorage 35the crusader |
| Cole Taylor: | the mysterious brother (the family’s not quite sure what kind of work he does—undercover)age 30the lost soul |
| Jessie Taylor: | the lone daughter antiques dealer/buyer/restorerage 2the survivor |
| Josh Taylor: | police officerage 27at 6'3", he’s still the baby of the familythe charmer |
| Mitch Taylor: | Sid’s nephew—raised like a son police captainage 39the chief |
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Detective Ginny Rafferty—As a rule, this headstrong cop works alone. So temporarily joining forces with her potently sexy “fiancé” is bound to wreak havoc on her steely self-control—and on her heart.
Brett Taylor—This neighborhood hero would do anything to protect his family or a friend. And he never forgets a promise, especially when it is made in the heat of passion to the woman he can’t resist.
Sophie Bishop—She survived a treacherous past. But will she survive her future?
Eric Chamberlain—Attorney-at-law. Brett’s high-school rival still wants to be #1.
Pearl and Ruby Jenkins—This mother and daughter have their sights set on Brett.
Dennis Fitzgerald—Ginny’s attentive neighbor knows a lot more about her murder investigation than he’s letting on.
Detective Merle Banning—Is Ginny’s true-blue partner jealous of the new man in her life?
Zeke—Just another homeless guy. Or does his occasionally lucid mind hold a decade-old secret?
Amy Rafferty and Mark Bishop—These star-crossed lovers paid dearly for their dreams.
Alvin Bishop—The neighborhood bully finally got what he deserved. But who put him out of his misery?
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my two ace research assistants, who possess a lifetime of expertise on Kansas City, Missouri, and its history—aka Mom and Dad!
Dedication
This book is for the Mom’s Group, especially my friends Linda Whitely and Lee Carter—because I promised.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
“Brett. Over here.”
Brett Taylor ducked beneath the yellow tape that marked off the condemned building as a crime scene. He took the concrete steps two at a time and joined his younger brother at the top.
Mac Taylor adjusted the wire-rimmed frames of his glasses, pulled off his plastic gloves and extended his hand to greet him. “I said I’d call you when I knew something. What are you doing here?”
Brett shook hands, then splayed his fingers on either side of his denim-clad hips. He looked down a couple of inches at his tall, fair-haired brother. “I’m saving the world. What does it look like?” He surveyed the team of men and women in black Kansas City Police Department jackets, who were swarming in and out of crumbling doorways and kicking up dust from the disintegrating brickwork. The old Ludlow Arms apartment building was an accident waiting to happen. Apparently one already had. “Your people know to watch their step, don’t they?”
He crossed the entryway to a hole in the plaster. He glanced at the connecting struts within the wall, then reached inside and pried loose a rotting two-by-four. He turned and displayed the evidence of age and neglect for his brother. “This is one gal I can’t fix.”
“We understand ‘structurally unsafe.”’ Mac shook his head. “Though I still don’t get the concept of buying this old place if all you’re going to do is tear it down.”
Brett wasn’t sure he could explain the tricky combination of memories and guilt and dreams that had prompted him to take out a loan against his business to buy a block of dead buildings in his old neighborhood. “This old Victorian lady—” he said, giving the structure a feminine appellation like any devoted captain. He tilted his chin and cataloged the remains of the intricate molding that outlined the ceiling, appreciating their elegant curves the way he’d appreciate any woman’s figure “—is beyond help. But I can turn the acreage into a pocket park to add value to the other sites I’m remodeling.”
“You sure you can afford a project this size?”
“I have investors.” Brett tossed aside the beam—and Mac’s concern—and got down to business. “Now show me this dead body you found.”
“Not me. A couple of homeless guys tried to camp out in the basement.” He checked the notepad he carried. “A Zeke and a Charlie. No last names. Heard sounds in the walls. Thought the place was haunted. Went to check it out.”
Brett laughed. “Yeah. Old Zeke’s a war vet. The only enemy he’s afraid of is the real world.”
Mac nodded and led the way downstairs to the basement. “I guess. He called 911 and said he’d pulled a buddy from a foxhole.”
Brett’s admiration for the seventy-eight-year-old gave way to habitual worry. “I’m hoping to turn the old Walton Building into a shelter. Put in office space upstairs. Maybe we can get the therapists and clients in the same building and save a few bucks.”
“You really are out to save the world,” Mac teased.
“Just my corner of it.”
Maybe this time he’d get it right.
The Ludlow Arms hadn’t seen electricity for years, but the path was lit by a series of battery-powered lanterns, spaced evenly between puddles where the steady drizzle of rain leaked in. Even inside his red-and-white flannel shirt and thermal top, Brett felt the drop in temperature as they descended into the unheated darkness.
“You know this place has a subbasement?” asked Mac.
Brett trailed his hand along the cool concrete walls. The drowsy sunshine of early April would never penetrate this far. Layers of plaster dust and ancient dirt and moldy slime came away on his fingertips. He curled his fingers into his palm and crushed the sensation in his fist. This place was as dark and unwelcoming as it had been fifteen years ago when Mark Bishop had first brought him down here.
The best place to hide from my dad, he’d said with a laugh that hissed through his broken tooth and bloody lip. Right beneath the old man’s nose. Brett had suggested the hospital emergency room as a better place to go after that fight. Mark had been little more than a kid then, an honorary little brother. But with no money and no insurance, with nothing but a young man’s pride to sustain him, Mark had wanted to hide out down here. Brett had brought him ice, peroxide and some food for the night. Mark took strength from their friendship, and from the idea that his dad, Alvin Bishop, would never be smart enough or sober enough to find his way down to the basement.
If only he’d known.
“Brett?” Mac was staring at him in that quizzical way of his that questioned everything but revealed nothing.
He quickly pulled himself back to the present and processed Mac’s question. “Yeah. It’s on the old blueprints. This is one crazy lady,” he added. “I wish I had more time to check out all the nooks and crannies. Abandoned dumbwaiter shafts, stairwells boarded over for remodeling.”
Mac had stopped them at a trapdoor in the floor. His grim sigh put Brett on guard. “I don’t think this particular nook shows up on your blueprints.”
Wary, but equally intrigued, Brett climbed down the ladder after Mac. As his work boots hit the dirt floor, he inhaled sharply and winced. The air smelled stale. Cold and damp like a cave, with no circulating breeze to cleanse the heavy air.
The basement had been chilly. The subbasement raised goose bumps along his forearms. He adjusted his yellow hard hat on top of his head and gazed into the darkness made dim by Mac’s flashlight and a lone stationary lantern. He followed him over to the collapsed section of bricks built up around the iron infrastructure of the building. Mac stepped aside and shined his flashlight into the closet-size hole.
The smell of rust and rot hit him a split second before he looked inside. He pulled his head back and spun around, cutting across the room with the calculated prowl of a caged animal. He swore low and viciously.
Mac remained cool and detached. A prerequisite for the kind of job he did, Brett knew, but still… He stopped in the center of the room and pointed toward the manmade hellhole. “Doesn’t that make you sick? We grew up in this neighborhood. Stuff like that…”
Hell. He wasn’t the eloquent one. He had no words for the gruesome sight, for the personal violation he felt at seeing a corpse like that in his building, in his community, in the place his friend had considered a haven.
“Stuff like that makes me angry, too,” Mac conceded. But unlike Brett, he kept his emotions firmly in check. “I have to ask you to delay demolition of the building until we’re satisfied with the crime scene.”
Brett returned his hands to his hips and nodded. “Any idea who? Or why? Or even how long he’s been in there?”
“Obviously, we’re beyond the fingerprint stage, so I won’t have any ID for a while. I’m not even up to motive yet. And as far as time, the dampness down here accelerates decomposition. But, nobody’s lived in this building for five years or so, right?”
“Eight years.” Brett breathed in, needing fresh air. “Do you think he was alive?”
Mac’s uncharacteristic hesitation snagged his full attention. “Yeah. I do.”
Brett cursed the cruel inhumanity of the crime. He went to Mac and squeezed his shoulder, offering a degree of comfort he’d yet to find for himself. He’d been half joking about saving the world. He’d like to reclaim at least a part of it for his mother and father and younger siblings.
But maybe he was already too late.
“I’ll hold the crews as long as you need me to.” Taking charge came easily to him. And even though Mac was the expert here, he couldn’t help but offer, “Anything else you need from me?”
Mac shook his head. “I know where to find you.”
A reviving breath of fresh air soothed Brett’s frustrated sense of justice. He turned to the creak of footsteps on the ladder, seeking the source of the delicate, flowery scent that drifted past his nose. It wasn’t a specific perfume, but a clean fragrance, faintly scented like the purplish freesia plants his mother had cultivated to add color and freshness to the drab, overcrowded apartment where he’d grown up.
Mac moved into the light while Brett savored the memory. “Mac, have you figured out any details for us?” Brett snapped to attention at the familiar female voice sparkling with intelligence and clipped with professional patience. He remembered that voice. “What’s this unauthorized civilian doing here?”
He smiled, knowing he was the cause of her accusatory tone. Mac urged him forward, out of the shadows. “Let me introduce you to the lead investigator on the case. Detective…”
“Ginny Rafferty.”
Mac and the second man down the ladder looked at Brett, surprised by the recognition. But he had eyes only for the petite woman standing in the muted light of the lantern and flashlights.
Angelic wisps of white-gold hair, damp with rain, curled and clung to her jawline. Dark blue eyes, wide and clear as a cobalt pane in a stained-glass window, studied him without expression. She was a pint-size package of beautiful woman that didn’t even reach his shoulders.
He remembered her.
Proper and preachy and stubborn enough to get under his skin like an itch he couldn’t reach, Ginny Rafferty unsnapped the front of her jacket and fisted her hands on her slim hips, exposing the holster and badge clipped to her belt. Her proud, wary stance dared him to question her authority.
Oh yeah. He definitely remembered her.
His smile broadened a notch. “We’ve met.”
“Yes. We shared guard duty of your cousin Mitch’s wife before they were married. My boss called in all his favors to protect her from the man who assaulted her.” She let the front of her jacket slide back into place, but her tiny body retained its stern posture. “As I recall, you cheat at Scrabble.”
“Being a bad speller doesn’t make me a cheater.”
“No, but doing anything necessary to ensure a victory does make you annoying.”
She walked past him, directing the beam of her flashlight into the hidden corners of the room. Mac laughed at the clear brush-off. “Yep, big brother. She knows you, all right.”
She put on a pair of plastic gloves and knelt beside a dust-filled footprint. She measured it with her hand and made a notation in her notepad. “Anybody been down here today but the two of you?”
Mac, too, slipped into his professional mode. “The two men who found the body. The preliminary scan team. We’ve taken photos. Marked samples. It’s slow going, though. This place is falling down around us and won’t withstand a lot of traffic.”
Ginny stood and flashed her light onto Brett. “So why don’t we clear the crime scene before we disturb any more evidence.”
“Brett knows the building inside and out. He can tell us where it’s safe, and where it isn’t. Besides, he knows more history about this neighborhood than city hall. I thought he’d be a good source of information. And, he can tell us about the construction of this wall.”
Her blue eyes flashed with the same intensity as the powerful beam. “Nice defense, Mr. Taylor. I suppose you can stay.”
Brett couldn’t resist the challenge thrown up by her all-too-serious concession. “You missed me, didn’t you?”
But she didn’t rise to the taunt. Instead, she flashed her light past him to the second detective. “That’s my partner, Merle Banning.”
The trim, six-foot package of suspicion eyeballed him before shaking his hand. “Mr. Taylor.”
“Everybody calls me Brett.”
“I’ll remember that, Mr. Taylor.”
He wondered what he had said or done to earn the younger man’s disapproval. This guy didn’t look too far past the rookie stage. Maybe he was working on his tough-guy routine. He had the master champ to learn from in his partner. Brett backed off a step. “You do that.”
“Is the body still here?” Ginny asked. Apparently, what passed for pleasantries had ended.
Mac swung his light around to the hole in the wall. “In there.”
Ginny nodded, taking charge of the scene. Brett noted that his brother and her partner responded to her commands without hesitation. “Merle, you get Mac’s report. Then see if you can track down the two gentlemen who found the body. I want their statements ASAP.”
“Right.”
A split second passed before Brett understood that the others were leaving. And Ginny was heading toward the corpse. An instinct to protect, a need to shield shot through him. His property, his emotional territory had already been violated by the gruesome scene behind that wall. No one else should have to see it. Especially not a lady. With a lineman’s quick agility, he moved his big frame and blocked the opening. “Wait a minute. You can’t go in there.”
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 cataloged 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.
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