Griffin Chase, corporate attorney and vice-president of Chase Electronics, squeezed the receiver of the phone, its plastic edges biting hard into his palm. “What? She what?”
He’d left some papers at the family home this morning, forcing him to rush away from his office at Chase Electronics to retrieve them. With his parents and the housekeeping staff on vacation, he’d naturally picked up the ringing phone, only to find himself in a strange conversation with a detective from the Strawberry Bay Police Department.
Now the man patiently went through the facts all over again. Earlier that morning, an armed gunman had robbed the Savings and Loan branch at Kettering and Pine. The customers in the bank at the time—witnesses—were in transport to the police department to give their statements. And Annie Smith, little Annie Smith, the daughter of their former housekeeper, was one of those witnesses.
“She gave the officer in charge this number,” Detective Morton said. “We’re calling families to come in. It might reassure the witnesses to see a friendly face after their ordeal.”
Ordeal. Griffin squeezed the phone again, remembering shy, quiet little Annie Smith. He wasn’t even quite sure he knew how old she was now.
“I’ve been working out of the country for two years and just returned to town earlier this week,” Griffin said, still trying to take it all in. “Did you say a robbery like this one has happened before?” Good God. Just a few months before, Strawberry Bay had been rattled by earthquakes. Now this.
The other man’s voice turned professionally cautious. “I can’t say for sure that it’s the same robber, but the M.O. is the same. Anyway, sir—”
“I’ll be there shortly.” Griffin was already digging for his car keys.
“Or, since you’re not related to her, Mr. Chase, I can have her call you if she truly needs assistance,” the detective suggested.
That image of a slight, big-eyed Annie sprang into his head once more. “I’ll be there shortly,” he said again. Then he tossed the phone back onto its receiver, dashed down the stairs and headed for his car.
When a paddy wagon pulled up to the sprawling, one-story police complex, Griffin was already inside the building, propped against the lobby wall and staring through its smoked-glass windows. As an officer opened the back doors of the vehicle, Griffin pushed away from the wall and strolled toward the lobby entrance, his hands shoved in his pockets.
His eyes narrowed as people slowly descended from the vehicle. Would he recognize her? She had to be twenty-something now, because he remembered his mother saying she’d gone to cooking school and was running a catering business from the housekeeper’s cottage on the estate.
But he hadn’t caught a glimpse of her since returning a few days ago. Even though he was back home, the cooperative deals he’d brokered between Chase Electronics and several Pacific Rim countries during the past two years continued to consume his time and attention.
A young woman with wavy, blondish-brown hair and big brown eyes jumped from the paddy wagon. He glimpsed a small, triangular-shaped face and his belly clenched. Even as she turned to help someone else out, he was certain.
Annie. He recognized her—no, it was more than that. He knew her.
Without thinking, Griffin found himself pushing through the glass doors and hurrying down the cement steps. An officer held out a hand. “You’ll have to stay away from the witnesses, sir.”
Griffin didn’t take his gaze off Annie. Yes, it had to be Annie. She wore slim-fitting black pants topped with a hip-length blouse that buttoned down the side and was printed with brightly colored kitchen utensils. As she peered into the paddy wagon, she gave herself a hug as if she was cold.
“I’m her attorney,” he said shortly, nodding in her direction.
At the sound of his words, she stilled. “Griffin?” She turned, and her silky brows rose over her pretty brown eyes.
He was surprised she had recognized his voice. Hers was throaty and soft, a woman’s voice. He didn’t associate it with the bashful little girl, clinging to her mother’s hand, who had arrived at the estate all those years ago.
He saw her swallow and color rushed up her cheeks. “Wh-what are you doing here?” She swallowed again. “I don’t need an attorney.”
He moved forward and touched her shoulder. Though it strangely reassured him that beneath the starchy fabric of her blouse she felt solid and warm, he’d never noticed how delicate a woman’s shoulder could be. Little Annie Smith’s shoulder. “You gave the police the house number. They called.”
“Oh.” Her face flushed deeper. “I guess I said it automatically. My mother…”
“Worked there for eighteen years. It would be natural in a time of stress to rattle it off.”
Lord. Little Annie Smith had actually been a witness to an armed bank robbery. Griffin’s belly clenched again. He thought maybe she swayed a bit, so he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
There. That probably made her feel better. Her blondish hair tickled his chin. “Let’s get you inside.”
Griffin had known Annie Smith since she was four years old and he was eleven. She’d come to live on his parents’ estate when her mother became the family housekeeper. Though he’d never paid much attention to her, he remembered her following him around a time or two. She’d been much younger, and a girl, so he’d mostly ignored her.
But now a breath of a light, sweet scent and the sensation of her warm body against his arm and his side made it quite clear that Annie Smith wasn’t a little girl anymore. Griffin frowned. He shouldn’t be noticing something like that about Annie. She wasn’t his type.
After two years out of the country, two years of virtually non-stop traveling and dealmaking to position the family company for even greater success in the next decade, he was glad to be home in California. There was still more work to be done—as always, he looked forward to it—but he planned to carve out a little time to play or he was going to be a very dull boy, indeed.
He’d already made a few get-reacquainted phone calls to the kind of women he did well with. Sophisticated women who knew what Griffin’s commitment to the company meant he could offer—occasional opportunities for conversation, companionship and sex when the attraction warranted it. Sophisticated women who knew what he didn’t offer—marriage.
So he had no business seeing Annie Smith—whose big, trusting Bambi eyes and soft mouth told him exactly what kind of hearth-and-husband woman she was—as a…well, woman. He inhaled another breath of that subtle, sweet scent of hers and almost groaned. It was vanilla. She smelled of sugar and vanilla. No wonder she made his mouth water.
But she’s the hearth-and-husband type, he reminded himself. Don’t forget that. For a man who worked intensely and had sex casually, it was better to think of her as that quiet, bashful kid.
They were steered toward the desk of the police officer who had phoned him. A woman in a no-nonsense business suit lingered nearby and introduced herself as Agent Blain of the FBI. But she gestured toward the man seated behind the desk. “The officer will be asking the questions, Ms. Smith. You tell Detective Morton everything you remember and then we’ll get you out of here.”
Annie
