in those. Or should I say infamous?”
He watched with grim satisfaction as her blue eyes flashed, boring into him like a pair of cold lasers. If he couldn’t trust himself to keep his distance, he could at least make sure he was the last man she’d want to be around.
Allie tightened her fingers on her glass. She understood why Rafe wasn’t interested in letting bygones be bygones. Her testimony had been one reason he’d lost two years of his life. Still, she wasn’t interested in spending time with a man who felt free to judge the woman she’d become based on past behavior.
“Since you’re here to work, I won’t take up any more of your time,” she said coolly. “I haven’t seen your client’s wife and son yet. Perhaps you’d better wait by the door so you’ll know if Ellen and Will Bishop actually show up.”
“Allie!”
Pasting on a smile, Allie shifted in the direction of the female voice that had called her name.
Katie Jones, twentysomething and so painfully thin that her eyes looked like they’d been drawn by a cartoonist, rushed to Allie’s side. “I about freaked when I heard you found my uncle’s mistress dead. And then almost got killed yourself! It must have been awful.”
“It was.” Allie didn’t have to glance across her shoulder to know that Rafe was still there. It was as if she could sense all the prickly intensity that seemed to simmer inside him. No doubt he had heard Katie’s comment and decided to hang around to hear what Hank Bishop’s niece had to say. Fine, she thought, angling her body back toward his. He was there to interview members of his client’s family. The sooner Rafe did that, the quicker he would be gone.
“Katie Jones, this is Rafe Diaz,” Allie said. “He’s a private investigator, working to clear your uncle.”
Pursing her mouth, Katie gave Rafe an appraising look. “According to my aunt, hiring you is a waste of time and money. She hasn’t come out and said it, but I think she’s convinced Uncle Hank is guilty.”
“I hope to prove him innocent,” Rafe said easily.
“Katie, how is your family?” Allie asked. “I’m sure this is a difficult time.”
Katie nodded. “Aunt Ellen has flipped out. So has my mom. She’s too upset to deal with all the stuff that needs to be done for my wedding. My dad said things at his and Uncle Hank’s office are super-stressed.” Tears welled in the young woman’s huge eyes. “It’s a terrible strain on everyone.”
Allie gave the girl a hug, which was the equivalent of embracing a bag of bones. “Is your fiancé here tonight?”
“He and Will are getting drinks,” Katie said, gesturing toward the far side of the ballroom. The movement sent light shooting off the gumdrop-size diamond on her ring finger. “Allie, will you be able to finish my trousseau?”
“Of course.” Allie frowned. “There’s no reason for you to worry about that.”
The girl’s face cleared. “I’ll tell Mom. We didn’t know how badly you were hurt.”
In reflex, Allie lifted a hand to her temple. She’d covered the bruise with makeup, but she was still plagued by a leftover ache from the concussion.
“I’m fine. And I’m looking forward to your fitting next week.” She patted the girl’s painfully thin arm. “Your trousseau is going to be gorgeous. I promise.”
Katie beamed. “I can’t wait to try everything on.” She glanced over her shoulder, waved to someone in the crowd. “I’d better get back to my family.”
Frowning over the young woman’s thinness, Allie watched Katie disappear through the throng of bodies.
“Something wrong?” Rafe asked.
She looked up. The intensity with which he studied her was unnerving. “No.” She forced a polite smile. “Thanks to Katie, you know that Will Bishop is at one of the bars, getting drinks.” Allie took a step backward. “Because he’s one of the two people you want to interview, I won’t keep you.”
“Careful,” Rafe said at the same instant he gripped her elbow and nudged her sideways.
She glanced across her shoulder, realized she’d almost stepped in the path of a waiter balancing a tray brimming with flutes of champagne.
“Thank you,” she said, conscious of the strength of the hand that gripped her elbow.
Their bodies were close enough to brush now, close enough for Rafe’s warm, masculine scent to slide into her lungs. When she felt everything female inside of her respond, she took a step backward, forcing him to drop his hand.
“Even though you didn’t come here because of the auction, you might want to bid on some of the items. In fact, there’s an Art Nouveau lamp that’s particularly interesting.”
His expression remained unreadable. “I’ll check it out.”
“Good. I need to touch base with the staff overseeing the auction. Hopefully you’ll be able to interview Ellen and Will Bishop while you’re here.”
“That’s the plan.”
She turned and walked away. And because she couldn’t help herself, she settled her hand over the spot where Rafe’s fingers had gripped her arm. She told herself it was just her imagination that her flesh still held the heat from his touch.
She had no hope, however, of discounting the fact that she was somehow far more aware of his touch than she’d ever been of any other man’s.
Having studied photos of Will Bishop in the society pages, Rafe easily spotted his client’s son among the attendees.
That done, he milled through the crowded ballroom, observing the young man. All the while, he felt himself being pulled, tugged at, by thoughts of Allie Fielding.
She was trouble. A smoldering package of temptation he in no way needed or wanted.
It rankled that there seemed to be various faces—bold, fragile, sexy, sensitive—of the woman he once believed shallow. Then there was the disconcerting knowledge that he’d spent the previous night with her face lodged in his dreams when he had worked so hard to erase that vicious wedge of his past she was a part of.
He shouldn’t even be here, he admitted. If he’d given it some thought, he could have come up with some other way to question his client’s son and wife. Allie Fielding was only a small part of the case, and he’d gotten all the information from her that he could. Instead, here he was, standing in a crowded ballroom, imagining he could still smell her sexy, compelling scent. He needed to get away from her—and stay away.
Forcing his focus back to his case, he watched Will Bishop step to one of the small bars set up around the outer edge of the ballroom. While he ordered a refill, Rafe studied his quarry.
Hank Bishop’s son was in his late twenties, lanky and good-looking, with longish sun-streaked blond hair and a deeply tanned face. He wore an expensively cut tuxedo, but had left the collar of his crisp, pleated shirt unbuttoned and forgone the requisite bow tie.
Rafe
