my truck.” He reached back in and scooped his keys off the small table in the hall. “Just be sure you shut the door behind you after you’ve gathered your stuff. Don’t want Buddy to get out.” He pointed at the cat beneath the table, watching him with blatant interest. Rick never knew what the damn thing was going to do from one minute to the next.
The lawyer glanced from the cat, to her files, to him, opening and closing her mouth as if wanting to sputter but too polished to actually indulge in something so telling. Rick took advantage of her distress and left the condo, shutting the door behind him.
He’d barely made the landing before he heard his door open and close quickly—good, no escape for Buddy today, the slippery cat—then her heels rapped on the stairs as she hurried down.
“Major Branigan—”
His attention on finding the key to his storage closet at the back of the carport, he called, “Thank you for delivering that letter, Ms. Hayes.” He passed his tarp-covered Suzuki motorcycle and when he heard her walk up behind him, he added, “At least now I know my father’s name.”
It didn’t change the way he felt about the man, or how he intended to live his life. Duty bound and with honor. All the way to the ugly end.
“Major. Rick.”
Her imploring use of his name made him glance at her as he opened the storage closet. She visibly clenched her jaw while she stared at him, single file folder gripped in her hands, marring her smooth, perfectly sculpted face.
This one didn’t back down. He liked that. But with him, such tenacity wouldn’t help her get what she wanted. Her three goals—whatever the third one was—would not be achieved.
Mustering as much finality and sincerity as he could, he said, “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Hayes.”
She studied him for a moment. Rick had the distinct impression he was being searched, that she was trying to see through him to the truth of him. To the sort of man he really was.
Wouldn’t do her any good. That man had been sacrificed to repay a debt.
He turned away and reached into the closet for his tool kit. When he straightened, she was reading the papers within the folder she had balanced open in one hand.
She mused, “So you admitted guilt to the arresting officers—”
He shut the storage-closet door. “We’ve already covered that.”
She ran a finger across a page. “But you refused any form of testing for blood-alcohol levels despite repeated warnings that doing so would be used against you at trial, and you refused further questioning.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “How do you know what I refused?”
“I have a copy of the police report right here.”
“How did you get that?”
A finely shaped black brow twitched. “The McCoys are remarkably connected, Major.”
“You mean rich enough to buy what they need.”
She slowly raised her eyes to his. “Actually, based on my experience during the five years I’ve worked for McCoy Enterprises, people are often eager to do things for the McCoys.” She shrugged. “Whether out of hope for future business opportunities or simply to be able to say they’ve had personal dealings with billionaires.”
Not interested in either of those things, and not caring to have his life bared for perusal by anyone except the military, he shifted the large, red metal toolbox to his other hand. “What else do you have there?”
Her smile was supremely confident. “I have it all, so you might as well accept the fact that I’m here to help you. I didn’t come all the way from Missouri for nothing.”
“No way, Ms. Hayes.” He turned and headed out of the carport.
She followed, her strides remarkably long and determined despite the height of her heels and the snugness of her skirt. Which were two things he hadn’t wanted to notice, given the disaster his life had become. So he stopped and asked, “Or is it ‘Mrs.’? Don’t you have a husband or someone waiting on you? Why don’t you fly home early and surprise him, ma’am.”
She made a disgusted-sounding noise. “Afraid not, Major. It’s Miss, and even if it weren’t, even if there was someone waiting for me to come home, which there isn’t, he’d just have to wait.” She glared for several moments, then her expression softened and she shifted toward him.
His survival-training-honed instincts went on high alert.
In a beguiling tone that was a far better match to her unusual eyes and full mouth, she said, “On the other hand, the more you cooperate with me, the sooner we can get you free of this unpleasantness. And the sooner you’re free of this unpleasantness, the sooner you can be rid of me. So it’s entirely up to you, Major.”
It was Rick’s turn to make a disgusted sound as he started again toward his truck. He might free himself of her, but they both knew he’d never be free of the stain “this unpleasantness” would leave on his reputation.
Nor would he be free of the McCoys, for that matter. His mood darkened further. He wasn’t about to run to them because he had nothing else to do.
He dropped his toolbox with a bang next to the crushed left front of the once dingless Dodge.
Planting his hands on his hips, he tried to ignore the woman next to him by focusing on the truck’s damage. The lights on this side were completely obliterated, the hood had buckled and the side panel was creased and streaked with black paint.
From the other car. The car of Emelie Dawson, forty-six, divorced mother of two.
If only he’d looked closer that night, he would have realized a tree hadn’t caused the damage. His throat tightened and his stomach turned.
Focus on what you have power over.
He examined the front of the truck. He’d have to pry the bumper away from the wheel to keep from further trashing the tire if he wanted to drive the truck to the repair shop rather than have it towed—a minor concession he’d make to his restrained pride. There’d be a little too much symbolism involved in having to watch his truck being winched up onto a flatbed and hauled away.
He pushed the button on the key fob and unlocked the truck so he could get a crowbar from the space in back of the seat.
Behind him, Miss Hayes said, “I’m surprised they didn’t impound your vehicle.”
“They did. My Acme lawyer got it returned to me right after the police processed it.”
Without commenting, she said crisply, “Back to the police report. You initially admitted to having driven this truck the night of the accident. Is that correct?”
Rick stifled a sigh as he backed out of the cab and straightened, crowbar in hand. Maybe if he let her see exactly how little help she could provide, she’d leave. He shut the truck’s door. “Correct.”
He’d said the words that night; now he’d pay the price.
