was a tall man, an inch over six feet. When he looked in her eyes, they weren’t that far beneath his own. “You’re not asking. I’m offering.”
Her expression closed, but not before he saw a glimpse of how she really felt. She wanted his assistance, wanted it desperately, but for some reason, couldn’t allow herself to accept it.
“No.” Her voice was firm now. “I can’t let you do that.”
His curiosity got the better of him, and he pushed, more than he usually did. “I’m offering you some help. Why don’t you want it?”
She blinked at his bluntness, a sweep of dark lashes falling over her eyes before she looked at him again. “April will turn up sooner or later,” she said in a stilted voice. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer, but I don’t want to pull you into our personal problems. I can handle it by myself. I always have.”
Something in the way she spoke took his curiosity to another level, it raised his antennae. His cop antennae. “You have some personal problems?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He didn’t answer, but let the silence build. Most people felt uncomfortable with the quiet. He found out all kinds of interesting things when they started to talk to fill the void. Elizabeth Benoit simply stared at him.
“Then she’s not in any kind of trouble?”
She hesitated only a second, no more. “Not that I’m aware of.”
They stared at each other a moment longer, then she extended her hand. “Thank you for listening to me, Mr. Mallory. I won’t bother you again.”
He took her fingers in his, the touch impersonal, the message clear. “I hope things work out,” he said, his voice equally neutral.
They shook hands, then Elizabeth turned and walked away. John watched her until she disappeared around the corner.
SHE COULDN’T get him out of her mind.
The following morning, as Elizabeth sat at her desk and stared out the window, all she could think about was John Mallory’s offer. God, it’d been hard to turn him down! She’d wanted so badly to accept his help, but it’d been so long since she’d trusted anyone she’d said no without even thinking. He’d looked at her with such sympathy, though, such patience. Something in his gaze had made her want to trust him. Maybe because he’d listened to her story without even blinking. Of course, he was a cop and that did make a difference, she supposed. She shook her head in disbelief. How long had it been since she’d let anyone see her cry? Since she’d cried, period?
Had she lost her mind?
She focused on the traffic outside her window. It was as snarled and tangled as her nerves, but she knew one thing for certain. No one ever got a free ride. No one. People—men, especially—didn’t offer their help without expecting something in return. She’d been on her own, taking care of April and her mother, since she was twelve years old, and if she hadn’t learned that particular lesson, she’d learned nothing at all.
Why did he want to help her, anyway? Was he simply that nice? Was anyone?
Just the previous week she’d seen John and a little girl—his daughter, she presumed—crossing the street out front. He’d had the child’s hand in his, and they were obviously going to the park. Elizabeth had watched them from her living-room window, a lump forming in her throat as she’d remembered holding her own father’s hand. Until his death, she’d thought he’d hung the moon and the stars, as well. Everything he did was perfect. He’d supported them all, Elizabeth, April and their mother, in high style, and he’d seemed to be the most loving, wonderful man on earth. The best father a child could possibly want. A faultless husband, too. Until things had changed.
Her intercom buzzed, and she answered, her eyes focused on the window and the traffic below, her mind focused on her father and the child she’d been.
“Linda Tremont is here.” Betty sounded worried, and Elizabeth tensed. Her secretary was usually unflappable. “She doesn’t have an appointment and I tried to get her to wait, but she’s insisting.” Betty lowered her voice. “She seems quite upset. Can you see her?”
Elizabeth held back a groan. She didn’t want to deal with this now, not with April on her mind, but she couldn’t put it off forever. “Send her in.”
A second later the door opened. As Linda Tremont crossed the carpeted expanse between the door and her mahogany desk, Elizabeth noticed that the woman seemed to have aged ten years since the first time they’d met. Behind the glasses she wore there were puffy circles of worry under her eyes, and her mouth was a thin line of tension. Even her posture was stiff and anxious.
She perched nervously on the edge of one of the pair of wingback chairs in front of the desk. “Have you finished the report yet? I need to know,” she said without preamble. “I heard from another investor this week who’s very worried. Word’s getting out that Tony’s being investigated—”
“Mrs. Tremont—”
“Call me Linda,” she broke in, her voice rising slightly. “I prefer anyone who gives me bad news to at least use my first name.”
Linda looked as if she might shatter, and Elizabeth gazed at her with compassion. She liked her and could certainly understand her worry.
“I haven’t finished my report yet,” Elizabeth said gently. “I’ve done some preliminary work, but I can’t give you any details, and I’m sure you understand why.”
“But you contacted me! Why can’t you tell me more?”
“I had to talk to you in order to obtain your records, and you’ve been very cooperative, which I appreciate. But I can’t get into the facts of the case with you, Linda, I’m sorry. That’s just not how I work.”
“Don’t give me the specifics, then,” she urged. “But please…I need to know for my clients’ sake as much as for my own. Is…is Tony in trouble?”
Elizabeth sipped from a glass of water on her desk, trying to buy time and figure out how to say what Linda needed to hear without giving away too much. She had to be very careful. She chose her words with precision. “Are you familiar with the term churning?”
“Of course I am. That’s when brokers have their clients buy and sell stock just to generate more commissions for themselves.” Her eyes grew large. “Are you saying Tony’s been churning accounts?”
Elizabeth kept quiet. S.E.C. investigations were not secret affairs; they couldn’t be because of their complex nature and the longevity of the task, but Elizabeth had her own set of rules. She’d already said more than she usually did.
Taking Elizabeth’s silence for the answer it was, Linda Tremont removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “How much?” She didn’t look up.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Linda Tremont’s voice went up. “Thousands? Millions? Can’t you give me some idea?”
Elizabeth glanced down at her desk, then up again. “If churning were involved, and I’m not saying it is, then I’d point to the
