what? The siege of Kansas City?”
Her cheeks flushed and she quickly glanced back down to her purse. She propped one knee up like a stork and rested her bag on her thigh to get to the very bottom. “With my inheritance from my parents, my aunts and I bought a small stone church that we had gutted last fall. Now we’re remodeling the inside, shoring up the structure and modernizing the place, putting in central air—we’ve hired a contractor, of course. But it’s only partially finished inside—a bedroom for them, one for me, a bath and part of the kitchen.”
When her balance started to waver, Atticus wrapped his hand around her upper arm to steady her. “Easy.”
Her foot plopped to the ground and he released her as she kept on talking—using more words than he’d ever heard her string together at any one time. “We barely have closets and we’re living out of suitcases because there’s still so much dust from the ceiling and drywall work in the main room and the sun porch and deck they’re adding on, that I never know when things will be clean or if I can get to them, so I carry… Victory!”
The word klutzy had already come to mind by the time she fished out her ring of keys and beamed in triumph. It took another few moments to sort through all of them to find the remote and beep the lock open. There was an endearing absent-minded professor quality to Brooke that was at the far end of the spectrum of chic femininity from a polished professional like Hayley Resnick. Something about her sweet lack of artifice made him want to straighten her glasses on her nose and join the victory celebration with her.
“Allow me.” The smile that lightened Atticus’s face and mood while he opened the door for her was genuine. With a high-stress job such as his father’s, he could definitely see why he’d choose an assistant like Brooke over someone more staid, or perhaps even more experienced. She was uncomplicated. As straightforward and eager to please as she seemed awkward within her own skin. Usually quiet, as she’d said, though he might attribute her bursts of rambling to nervous energy.
And when she smiled as she had a moment ago—over something as inane as finding her keys—the words plain and frumpy seemed to disappear from Atticus’s extensive vocabulary.
“Thank you.” She tossed her bag across to the passenger seat where it landed with a thunk. She pushed the door farther open and the rain whipped inside before Atticus could adjust the umbrella. Brooke squinched up her face as the water hit her and she quickly slid behind the wheel and closed the door—leaving a good ten inches of her dark flowered skirt and khaki-green raincoat hanging out and soaking up water from the pavement.
Atticus reached for the door handle at the same time Brooke shoved it open from the inside. The steel door cracked against his knuckles, shooting a tingly flash of pain along every nerve right up his arm. “Damn.”
He shook his hand, stirring feeling back into the tips of his fingers.
“I’m sorry.”
He flexed his fingers as normal sensation quickly returned. “It’s only a minor compound fracture.”
“What?”
Her crestfallen look made him feel guilty about the joke. “Relax. It’s nothing. I’ll live.” He opened the door wide and stooped down to rescue the hem of her dress and coat.
She’d turned in her seat, her eyes following his every movement. “I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t. Sorry, that is. Not with the view he was getting. Right in front of him, stretching out for what seemed like miles and miles, was a smooth, creamy thigh. Long. Shapely. Fit.
When the hell had mousy Brooke sprouted legs like that?
Why did she hide them under long skirts and slacks?
And why the hell did he care about unflattering clothes? Or surprisingly flattering appendages?
Rationalizing the instinctive reaction to a pretty stretch of leg as the by-product of the day’s stress, Atticus pulled her dress down, covering her up to a more familiar, less distracting level.
“Atticus?” She reached out, her touch so light on his shoulder, he could barely feel the weight of it.
“I’m okay, I promise.” He tucked the wet material inside the car and stood, dismissing her touch and her concern. “I’ll see you at Mom’s.”
She nodded, waiting to make sure Atticus stepped safely aside before pulling the door shut. “See you.”
He retreated another couple of steps to allow her to pull into the procession of exiting traffic.
Masking his scrutiny with the scalloped point of his umbrella, Atticus scanned the vehicles to make sure Hayley and her male friend had gone. Good. Not a platinum blonde in the bunch. Atticus breathed a heavy sigh, cleansing his conscience. Maybe he should feel bad about using Brooke as an escape from a painful episode from his past. After all, what made his relationship with Hayley so painful was the fact that she had used him.
But right now, as he watched the little blue VW zip around a turn and head down the road toward the exit, he was glad he’d chosen to take his walk with Brooke. Not only because she knew more about his father’s work than anyone at KCPD, but also because he could use a little peace on a day like today. Might be his only respite for a while. And though Brooke could be a little dangerous to herself and others, she was on the whole, well…peaceful.
Feeling centered enough to get down to the business at hand, Atticus noted the empty copse of trees and set out to join the impromptu Kincaid family reunion.
Chapter Two
Summer…
“You’re no Audrey Hepburn.” Brooke Hansford’s deadpan critique was as plain and uninspiring as the reflection staring back at her from the plastic-wrapped mirror. So much for the new glasses working miracles.
True, the lenses were narrower and reduced the pop-bottle effect that distorted her nearsighted eyes. And the subtle design of the copper metal frames was more modern and colorful than her last pair had been. She turned her face from side to side, assessing each view.
“Maybe Katharine Hepburn?” Her breath seeped out on a wistful sigh and she reached for her hairbrush. “You wish.”
The old movies lied. Switching to contact lenses and trimming three inches off her hair hadn’t transformed her from gal Friday to femme fatale. The only male who had gone out of his way to notice her without her glasses was her opthamologist—who’d looked deep into her eyes to study the weeping red irritation of her allergic reaction to the lenses, not because he was entranced by any sudden beauty discovered there.
The UMKC extension class in assertiveness training that she’d taken the past semester had recommended emphasizing her strengths to build confidence when facing a new or difficult situation. Apparently, twenty-twenty vision would never be one of hers. So new glasses it was.
She pulled the brush through the long hair and tamed the bundle into a ponytail. The golden highlights the hairdresser had added were barely noticeable. “Maybe I should go red like Aunt Lou,” Brooke speculated, trying to envision how adding an auburn wash to her blond-brown-blah color might somehow help the long curls cooperate with the humidity that was already making the morning air sticky. She should probably take some of the money she was using to make over the
