this had to do with the sister’s children? Guardian ad Litems were always appointed to be a child’s advocate—in fact, they were deemed the one person involved in a court case whose sole concern was the best interests of the child. “Does the case involve Tito?”
“Yes.” She didn’t embroider the bald answer. “I’d like to meet so that we can talk.”
Tito had stopped and stood dribbling the ball, watching him, although he was too far away to be able to hear even Duncan’s end of the conversation. From the apprehension on the boy’s face, Duncan realized his expression must have given something away.
“I’m with him right now,” he said curtly. “Tomorrow morning…”
“Evenings are better for me.”
He raised his eyebrows. Guardians ad Litem were paid, if minimally; many worked out of counseling services or the like. It would be normal to conduct business during the day.
Silence was an unbeatable tool for interrogation. He employed it now, and finally, grudgingly, she said, “I own a business. Dance Dreams.”
He knew every business within the Stimson city limits, his jurisdiction, at least by sight. He’d never had occasion to step foot inside Dance Dreams, which sold dancewear, presumably including tap shoes and toe shoes, tutus and a lot of pink sparkly stuff that appeared in the window. Not his kind of place—and the juxtaposition of pink tulle and sometimes ugly dependency court hearings seemed to be a strange one.
Meeting Ms. Jane Brooks might be interesting.
“Evening, then,” he agreed. “Tomorrow?”
“That would be great.” She hesitated. “Shall we make it a coffee shop?”
“Why don’t you stop by my place? We won’t want to be overheard.”
She agreed and he gave her his address. Duncan ended the call and returned to Tito. He conducted a lightning-quick internal debate and decided to say nothing yet. He’d find out what was going on first.
“Business,” he said, then grinned. “What say we hang it up and go get something to eat? I didn’t manage dinner and I’m starved.”
“Pizza?” the boy said hopefully.
“Burgers.” Duncan laughed at his expression. “Pizza next time.”
Tito sighed with exaggerated disappointment. Somehow or other, he’d manage to force himself to chow down a cheeseburger, a good-sized helping of fries and a root beer float at a minimum.
Hey, maybe he’d have that growth spurt yet.
CHAPTER TWO
AT SEVEN IN THE EVENING, it was still full daylight in the Puget Sound area. Darkness wouldn’t fall until eight-thirty or nine. The day had been hot for early May, and the heat still lingered when Jane arrived at Duncan MacLachlan’s.
She loved his home on sight. It was distinctive enough she suspected it had been custom designed and built. The lot wasn’t huge, but the houses on his side of the street all backed up to Mesahchie Creek and the greenbelt that protected it. Right here in the city, he had his own slice of wilderness.
The house was one story, sided with split-cedar shingles. Trim was painted forest green. From the driveway she could see interesting angles, bay windows and skylights, and a wooden arbor over a flagstone paved path that led around the side of the house.
Unable to repress a sigh, she got out. She was already afraid she was going to have the hots for him, and now she’d succumbed to his house before she even stepped inside.
I am unbiased, she reminded herself firmly. I’m being paid to think of Tito first, last and always.
She rang the doorbell and, as she waited, listened to the delicate music played by an unusual wind chime, long, thin shards of obsidian suspended from a branch of driftwood. It distracted her enough that she was startled when the door opened. She gave a betraying jerk, then felt her cheeks warm when she most wanted to be completely poised.
The man filling the doorway studied her thoroughly. “No wonder you opened the store. You were a dancer,” he said, in the deep, somehow velvety voice she recognized from television interviews.
But his words helped her get a grip. “No.”
“You look like one.”
“I never had the opportunity,” she said flatly. She held out a hand. “Captain MacLachlan.”
He didn’t smile. “Ms. Brooks.” His very large hand enveloped hers for the briefest possible time considered civil. “Please come in.”
She stepped inside, trying very, very hard to shut down her physical awareness of him, but not succeeding. It wasn’t that he was huge; at a guess, he was about six feet tall, maybe even a little less. At five foot seven herself, she shouldn’t feel dwarfed by him. It was that he had…presence. She couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. He was the kind of man people would always look at first, no matter how big the crowd. Even when, like now, he wore neither uniform nor the kind of suit he was usually photographed in. He must have changed when he got home, to well-worn jeans, athletic shoes and a long-sleeved dark blue T-shirt that hugged broad shoulders.
He did indeed have a great body—lean and athletic. Not overmuscled, not thin. Perfect. His face wasn’t model handsome, not by a long shot. He had broad, blunt cheekbones, a heavy brow, too many furrows and a crooked nose. His eyes were a wintry gray, clear and penetrating.
And, damn it, her knees wanted to buckle because he was right there, so close she could have touched him. I did touch him, she thought, and rolled her eyes at herself when he turned to lead the way into the living room. Apparently her inner teenager was alive and well.
Even though mainly focused on him, she was aware enough of her surroundings to know instantly that she loved the interior of his house as much as she had the exterior. Wide-planked wood floors, wooden blinds, cushiony leather furniture in a warm, chestnut brown underlaid by the contrasting elegance and color of Persian rugs. Bookcases, packed full, flanked a river-rock fireplace. For the walls, he favored art-quality photographs over paintings. Above the rough-hewn mantel hung a large framed photo of a bald eagle sitting on a snag above a river. The doors of an antique armoire stood open to display a large-screen television and, below, a fancy-looking audio system.
“Coffee?” Captain MacLachlan asked.
“Thank you.”
He excused himself and disappeared, leaving her to wander and examine his books—an exceptionally eclectic mix of science fiction, thrillers, historical fiction and nonfiction that covered a gamut of subjects.
He returned with a tray and gestured her toward the sofa then sat across from her in a recliner that rocked forward as he added cream to his mug of coffee. Jane doctored her own with both sugar and cream then straightened.
“All right.” His tone was abrupt, his expression uncompromising. “What’s this about?”
She cleared her throat, going into professional mode. “Has Tito told you about his living situation?”
