she thought of that? She rarely gave the number to clients, but Danny had been—no, had seemed—so fragile and ruined over Maryanne’s death, she’d made an exception in his case. In doing that, she’d given him a pipeline directly to her.
But not for long.
Trembling, she turned her cell back on, then speed-dialed Stuart, knowing he’d still be at the office.
“I just heard from him,” she said when he answered. “He called my cell phone. Stuart, he said he was at my apartment today. Is that possible? Could he—” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Could he have done something in there?” She lived in a secure building, but Danny was a manipulative charmer, and he was capable of fooling people. He’d certainly fooled her.
“Anything’s possible,” the elderly attorney returned, his agitation evident. “But I suspect he was lying. Did he threaten you in any way?”
“No.” And that meant there was no crime. Stalking was a difficult charge to prove. She’d given Danny her number willingly, which gave him the right to use it, and there was no law against a former client calling to say hello.
Stuart spoke again. “I’ll have security check your apartment and get back to you. In the meantime, you need to change your cell phone number.”
“I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
“Good.” He paused then, his voice lowering in grandfatherly concern. “Abbie, are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes,” she repeated through a breath. “I’m fine. At least, I will be in a minute.” Then again, how fine could she be when she was hiding out in a restroom? “But now that I’m thinking more clearly, I feel like a fool for bothering you with this. I’ll call building security myself.”
“As you wish,” he said gently. “But it would’ve been no trouble. I want to help in any way I can.”
“I know,” she murmured, “and that means more to me than I can say.” She inhaled deeply. “Stuart, I need to make that call now.”
“Call me back.”
“I will.”
Minutes later, after she’d learned that Danny had lied about going to her apartment, they’d spoken again. Stuart had made a phone call, too, bringing the detectives up to speed, though they’d said there was little they could do. Then Stuart had pressed her again to put the whole thing out of her mind and do something that would make her smile.
Smiling was a stretch, she decided. Especially when seven pairs of eyes turned from the table when she entered the meeting room—but only six of them were welcoming.
She nearly walked back out.
Ida Fannin rocketed out of her seat and rushed to greet her. “Abbie, what a lovely surprise! How nice of you to join us! Give me your coat, then help yourself to the coffee and donuts. Sorry, but they’re all glazed. I don’t like making food decisions when I’m in a hurry.”
Feeling a bit glazed herself, Abbie slipped off her coat and Ida wrestled it from her hands. Could this night get any worse? “Ida, I’m afraid I’m late. Maybe I should—”
“Go? Goodness, no. We’re just trying to decide who’s going to handle publicity for the event. Everyone,” she called out, crossing to the coatrack, “this lovely young woman is Morgan Winslow’s daughter, Abbie. A few of you might remember her. She lives and works in Los Angeles now, but she’s come home for her daddy’s wedding.”
Then she made the introductions, and before Abbie could draw more than a half dozen breaths, Ida had her in a seat across from Jace.
Her frazzled nerves frayed a little more. Few men could look darkly dangerous, sexy and utterly delicious all at the same time. But as Abbie took in his thick, collar-skimming black hair, compelling gaze and the grim curve of his mouth, she had to admit that Jace pulled it off without breaking a sweat. Then again, in her mind, he always had. Tonight he wore an open-throated black polo shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and drew her gaze to the muscular arms that had held her last night.
“Hello, again,” he said politely, then pushed to his feet. He scanned her jeans and hip-length burgundy sweater. “How did you hear about us?”
“My dad’s fiancée. Miriam knows I like to be busy, and she thought volunteering would give me something to do while I was in town.”
His mouth twisted with irony, and his dark brows lifted. “Imagine that.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Imagine.”
His gaze shifted to Ida, who was pulling her pen and tablet close again. The next words that passed his lips made Abbie wish she’d stayed in the ladies’ room.
“Ida, Abbie and I can handle the publicity. She’ll only be here for a short time, and that’s a job that can be completed early.” He faced her again, but continued to speak to Ida. “Having her on board could be a nice bonus for us. She’s connected. She might be able to convince a few of her country-club friends to make big, tax-deductible donations.”
Abbie felt herself pale as all eyes slid her way. “I—I’m not sure I’m the best person for the job. I’ve been away for years, and I’m afraid I don’t have many contacts in town anymore.”
Grinning in delight, Ida reached over to pat her hand. “Then won’t it be lovely to get reacquainted, dear? And if you have questions or problems, Jace will be there to help.”
An hour later, feeling shell-shocked and uneasy, Abbie said good night to everyone and hurried through the grainy, swirling snow toward her dad’s car. For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why Jace would suggest they work together when they needed their own public relations guru just to keep them from sniping at each other. Had he done it because they needed the money he assumed she could get for them? Or was the reason more personal than that?
Clouds scudded overhead, nearly concealing a handful of stars and the white quarter-moon. As Abbie hunched deeper into her upturned collar and knitted scarf, she heard the crunch of footsteps behind her. After feeling his eyes on her for the past hour, there was no doubt that those footsteps belonged to Jace. Reaching the SUV, she turned to see what he wanted.
“You don’t have to work with me,” he said soberly, his breath clouding as he approached. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, but you obviously have reservations. I’ll find someone local who wants to help.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to help.”
“Neither did I.”
“I think you did, and you’re wrong. I have no problem helping with the dinner. You’re the reason I have reservations.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she repeated. Was his memory that bad? Abbie stared at him for several seconds, then sighed. “Never mind. I have to go.”
Pulling up on the door lever, she tried unsuccessfully to open it—tried again, but it still wouldn’t budge. “Wonderful,” she breathed.
“It’s unlocked, right?” he said from behind her.
Irritated
