of him. She was feeling guilty. That much was plain.
“I’ve been begging him for years to do something fun. I pushed extra hard this year. I even booked the flight and hotel myself. I wanted him to get away and have a good time. Even if I had to bully him into doing it.” She sighed. “I fully expected him to cancel the reservations. But he didn’t.” Softly, she added, “And I remember how happy I was about that.”
The deep crease etching her brow marred her beautiful face.
“This was going to be the first trip he’d taken…”
A lump of emotion seemed to swell in her throat. She attempted to swallow around it, and the effort seemed painful.
“…since Mom died.” Her gaze glittered with moisture. “Rafe, they’ve confiscated his passport, the airline tickets, everything. They really do believe Dad’s a flight risk. They really believe he’s guilty of these charges.”
So, the reality of things was setting in, Rafe saw.
Yes, she was an attorney. In her San Francisco practice, she represented myriad clients who faced allegations just like these every single day. Rafe was sure she had understood the seriousness of her father’s predicament all along; however, when it came to one’s family, it was hard for a person to really imagine anything bad happening. But it seemed that the direness of her father’s situation was finally sinking into her head…into her heart.
The sympathy Rafe felt ached from down deep in his soul. He didn’t want to care about this woman. Couldn’t afford to. Caring made a man weak. And he’d vowed years ago, that weak was the one thing he wouldn’t allow himself to be.
But seeing her haunted gaze, understanding the frustration she was experiencing, imagining the guilt she was feeling over what she saw as her part in providing evidence against her father in the form of those trip reservations, Rafe couldn’t just sit by, see the misery in her gorgeous eyes and do nothing. But he didn’t dare surrender to his desire to touch her. He didn’t dare yield to the urge to take her in his arms and reassure her.
Instead, he said, “Did you ever think that maybe David is better off behind bars?”
She whirled on him. “How can you say that? That place is horrible. He’s penned up in that little cell with nothing to occupy his mind. He’s—”
“Got three hot meals a day,” he interjected, “a clean, warm bed to sleep in and a bevy of armed guards to protect him.”
That’s more than you have at the moment, he wanted to remind her. But he didn’t.
Bewilderment wrinkled her forehead.
From the moment he’d spied her on those courthouse steps, heard her declaring loud and long her intentions of clearing David’s name, Rafe had experienced the strangest sense that Libby might be in danger. Not from the reporters and not from the picketers. But from someone. Some unseen, unknown force.
When he’d sought her out at her father’s house to offer his investigative services, something gut-deep made him hold his tongue regarding his opinion that she needed a bodyguard. Working for her as a P.I., he’d figured, would give him plenty of opportunity to keep a watchful eye on her. And after having spent some time getting to know her, even if it had been just a couple of days, he knew for certain that she wouldn’t appreciate hearing that he thought she was in any kind of jeopardy. She was most definitely the kind of woman who felt certain she could look after herself. Maybe, though, he could plant a small seed of warning in her head by using her father as an example.
“Someone dumped that dimethyl-butyl ether,” he quietly explained. “And since we both know David wouldn’t go near DMBE, then the guilty party is out there somewhere. Waiting to see how things pan out. Hoping your dad takes the fall.”
Her brow smoothed somewhat. But then her brilliant, jewel-toned eyes glittered with new understanding.
“If there is evidence that points to David,” Rafe continued, “then it just might be unwise for him to be walking the streets, if you know what I mean.”
She nodded, silent and suddenly pensive.
He didn’t want to frighten her. Fear often paralyzed rather than readied a person. His only intention was to make her aware of reality.
“Speaking of evidence…” He’d made his point, he felt, so now was the time to change the subject. “What’s the D.A. got on David that would lead to this arrest? Can they actually prove anything?”
“Well, I can’t say for certain until I get my hands on copies of the evidence. I’ve filed for discovery. Soon we’ll have access to everything: physical evidence, depositions, police reports…” She shook her head. “It must be a mountain of stuff.”
He shot her an expression that had her expounding on her last statement.
“The day I arrived in Prosperino,” she said, “the police searched the house.”
“You allowed that?”
She shrugged. “They had a warrant. But I wouldn’t have stopped them. Dad said he had nothing to hide. That he gave his permission for the authorities to search anything and everything he owned.” Libby sighed. “They carried out a whole file cabinet and boxes of other files as well. Everything that had anything to do with his finances—bank records, credit card statements. And his PC.” Again she shook her head and shrugged. “A mountain of stuff. And there’s no telling what was seized from his office at Springer.”
“It can’t all be evidence against him.”
“No.” Reaching up, she absently combed her fingers through her thick tresses. “I don’t expect anything from home to point to Dad’s guilt. But I am worried about his office at work. Anyone could have had access to it since his arrest, couldn’t they? And the prosecutor will use the other things—the information about Dad’s finances—to try to explain motive, I’m sure.”
Silence settled over them, and while Libby busied herself with thoughts of her father’s case, Rafe took a moment to look around him.
The Corbett home was huge compared to houses on the rez. The floors were constructed of rich, golden-hued oak, waxed and gleaming, and covering them were Oriental carpets that were most obviously costly. The room was elaborately trimmed in decorative moldings at the baseboard and around the ceiling. Such detail spoke of money. The furniture was heavy, luxurious stuff. Many pieces looked, to his untrained eye, to be antique.
He imagined Libby growing up here. Running and squealing and laughing through these rooms with caring parents to tend her, nurture her, love her. He pictured Libby enjoying holidays eating at the long, walnut table he’d seen in the dining room. Blowing out candles on a fancy birthday cake. Decorating a Christmas tree here in the living room. Celebrating Independence Day with sparklers and cookouts in the spacious and shady backyard.
A youngster would have enjoyed an idyllic childhood in this lovely house. A pampered and pleasant existence surrounded with lots of family and friends.
Visions of his own youth came flooding into his mind, and seemingly out of nowhere hot emotion prickled the backs of his eyelids.
What the hell? he wondered. Shoving against the arms of the chair in which he sat, he stood and paced to the nearest window. Not because
