the narrow aisle that separated him from Veronica Overton, intending to bow graciously, and did a double take. Right straight to the marrow of his bones. An arrow with his name on it. She’d looked at him and his heart had taken off and sped unerringly to her. Get ahold of yourself, man. This spelled trouble, because she’d reacted to him as surely as he had to her. Quickly, he focused his attention on the papers in front of him. She’d been looking at him again and had diverted her gaze when he caught her at it. He ran his fingers through the thick black wavy hair that disputed the purity of his African heritage. Now, what was that all about?
Veronica glanced up just as the tall, distinguished-looking man entered the far side of the chamber. Schyler Henderson. A giant of a man. At least six feet five inches tall, though trim as an athlete. She’d never realized he was so tall and, for reasons she refused to examine, imagined that he’d dwarf her five feet ten inches. Not that she wouldn’t like it; she enjoyed being with a man who made her feel soft and feminine. She settled her gaze on him. She wouldn’t say he was a knockout, but…He looked at someone in front of her, smiled, and long strides brought him to within a few feet of where she sat. His smile claimed his whole face as he shook hands with the man before going to the table reserved for him and sitting down.
The bottom dropped out of her belly, and she knew what Enid meant about blood flowing backward. She stared at his back while something leaped within her, quickening her insides. She couldn’t move her gaze from him. He sat alone, without a lawyer, leaning back, as relaxed as a marathon runner at the end of a race. She brought herself under control and breathed. Lord, she’d never seen such eyes.
The judge called the proceedings to order, and Brian Atwood read the charges. She marveled at her ability to sit quietly through it. Her agency’s lawyer refuted the charges, and she strummed her fingers on her knee. Such a waste of time and money. It hadn’t occurred to her that Schyler would be the one to argue on behalf of Advocates for the Child. She bristled at the assurance with which he read the brief he’d written as a friend of the court.
“No matter what CPAA’s reputation is, it cannot be allowed to endanger our children. The tragedy of Natasha Wynn has sullied the commendable reputation that this agency established during the previous three years. But saving a hundred children does not excuse the loss of one.”
Angry at him as Veronica was, he fascinated her. And thrilled her. She watched, spellbound, as he strolled from one end of the bench to the other, a consummate actor.
He spread his hands as though helpless. “Of course, Your Honor, we can pat them on the back and say, now you be good little boys and girls and don’t do this anymore. Sure, and we could be right back here a month, two, three or a year from now with another tragedy.” He looked over at her and smiled. “We wouldn’t want that, Your Honor.” To her surprise, he called her to the stand.
Veronica took the stand. “Thank you for the opportunity to speak on my behalf, Mr. Henderson. Not many of us can claim to have achieved perfection in every aspect of our lives as you so obviously have, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t blow my own horn and let the agency’s record speak for itself.”
She could see that she’d stung him, but he was only momentarily nonplussed. “When we’re dealing with people’s lives, we’d better be perfect,” he replied, his tone gentle and his manner respectful.
She refused to allow him the last word. “Since you know that, Mr. Henderson, I’d think you’d have gotten your facts straight before you took an action that could destroy my life.”
A look of distress flashed across his countenance, and she got a sense that he regretted the entire affair, but he quickly replaced it with an expression of confidence and asked the judge for a ruling against CPAA.
The judge, apparently having heard enough, announced that he’d render a decision within ten days and dismissed them.
Veronica marched out of the chamber, head high, without a glance in Schyler’s direction. He’d had the temerity to accuse her agency. She couldn’t think of any torture good enough for him. As the crisp March air hit her face, enlivening her skin, invigorating her, his long shadow paired with hers, and she didn’t doubt that he’d maneuvered it so that they’d leave the building together.
She didn’t look at him. Deliberately. She didn’t want any of his magnetism, though it seemed to radiate from him even when she wasn’t looking at him. “I’m surprised you’d care for my company, Mr. Henderson. It taxes my credulity to think you’d allow yourself to be seen with such an irresponsible person as me, a menace to the well-being of Baltimore’s children. Sure you haven’t mistaken me for someone else?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This isn’t personal, Ms. Overton. I’ve admired your work, but this tragedy requires restitution.”
She stopped walking and looked up at him. “And you don’t care who pays. Is that it? You don’t even know that there is a tragedy. She’s missing, but for all you know she could be safe. Where there’s no body, there’s no murder; any detective will tell you that. Make a name for yourself at somebody else’s expense, please.”
He faced her, towering over her, either unable or not caring to hide the sensual awareness making itself known through the prisms of his remarkable gray eyes. “I’m not a crusader, Ms. Overton. I’m trying to protect children because they can’t do that for themselves. I’d never set out to hurt you. You…you’re…” He looked into the distance, protecting his thoughts, and when he looked back at her, she couldn’t mistake the compassion his eyes conveyed for anything but what it was. He did dislike hurting her.
He stared down at her, his gaze unfathomable. A half-smile formed around his sensuous mouth. Then he winked. “See you next week.” And he was gone.
Schyler’s steps slowed when he approached the restaurant where he’d told Brian they could meet for lunch, as his mind grappled with the enigma that was Veronica Overton. Once there, he ordered a hamburger with french fries, coleslaw and a dill pickle, and a chocolate sundae for dessert.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Brian asked, as he watched Schyler pick at his food.
“I don’t know. I just don’t feel that spurt of adrenaline, that excitement that I usually get on a case. I don’t feel like making the kill. Maybe I ought to turn this job over to somebody else and stick to engineering.”
“This doesn’t surprise me. It’s a real bummer. The woman’s standing in the community didn’t happen accidentally. She had to work her tail off for it, man. You’re going to make yourself a bunch of enemies.”
“I know, but I can’t help it. When I became head of Advocates for the Child, I took an oath to pursue vigorously every case in which a child had been put at risk. It’s my job, and I have to do it, but I…” He rubbed his forehead. “You don’t know how I hate the thought of jeopardizing that woman’s career.”
“Well fasten your seat belt, man. I’ve got some news for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Those foster parents have separated. I got it when I called my office just before you walked in here. You can’t lose this one.”
“Separated after twenty-three years? What about?”
“Seems she’s tired of doing everything in the house while he comes home at night, buries his face in a book or newspaper and cultivates his mind. She’s mad as hell and she’s not taking it anymore.”
Brian’s
