“He was my third call tonight.”
Sophie shook her head, making light of his doubt. “We can use this in our favor. Murder’s the kind of thing that used to happen in this neighborhood. But no more. Not with Brett Taylor on the job, transforming the dark alleys and dangerous streets into a place where families can work and kids can play.”
Brett frowned and pushed to his feet, uncomfortable with the heroic status, even if it was said in a teasing vein. He walked around the desk and picked up her cashmere stole. “You’d better hit the road. I’m keeping you from your date.”
Sophie grabbed her purse and joined him. She turned her back to him and let him wrap her shoulders in the oversize scarf. He closed his arms briefly in a friendly hug. “Thanks, kiddo. I owe you one.”
“I know. I’m keeping tabs.” A knock on the office door gave Brett the excuse to pull away. Sophie used the opportunity to pull on a pair of leather driving gloves. “Expecting any reporters?”
“No.” Maybe he was looking forward to this next visitor just a little too much. Heedless that Sophie followed him, he hurried through the outer office and opened the trailer door.
Ginny Rafferty stood outside. The harsh glare of the porch light softened in the silver shimmer of her hair. He released his anxiety on a single breath and let his features relax into a genuine smile. Her crossed arms bespoke all business, but he appreciated her sunny beauty like a breath of fresh air. And the challenging glint in those cobalt eyes stirred his thoughts away from spooked investors and a budget that wouldn’t balance.
“You said to meet you here,” she said in greeting.
Those blue eyes shuttered and darted to the side before he heard the voice beside him. “Brett?”
He stepped back, feeling ridiculously jarred by Sophie’s intrusion. The contrast between the two women rendered him silent for a moment. Tall and petite. Dark and fair. Smiling expectantly and expressionless.
Fortunately, Sophie had the sense to see him past the awkward moment. She extended her hand in polite greeting. “I’m Sophie Bishop, an old friend of Brett’s.”
Ginny shook hands. “I’m Ginny Rafferty. I’m a—”
“New friend,” he interrupted before she could rattle off her official job and title. Sophie had done enough for one night. He didn’t need her to run interference for a police investigation. He didn’t want anyone to interfere with a chance to talk to Ginny. “Soph does public relations for me.”
“I see,” said Ginny.
“Well…” Sophie smiled and excused herself. “I’d best not keep Eric waiting. I’ll call you in the morning to touch base.” With a tilt of her chin, she leaned in and kissed Brett’s cheek, then wiped the spot with her thumb as if she had left a mark of lipstick. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Brett squeezed her arm affectionately, and watched her until she climbed into her car and pulled away from the curb.
Only then did he realize that Ginny was still standing on the porch, waiting to be invited in. Brett wiped at his cheek, as if Sophie’s kiss was still visible, and concentrated on the woman before him. He stepped aside and held the door open for her. “Ms. Rafferty.”
He rolled her name around his tongue like a piece of candy. He ought to be on a first-name basis with this woman, call her Gin—or Angel, a compliment to her looks she wouldn’t want to hear.
At least, not from him.
As she stepped over the threshold, he noted the trappings of her trade, a blue plaid blazer that masked the bulk of a gun and badge at her waist. When she walked past him, tantalizing as a breeze of fresh air, he noticed her stiff posture and the cool expression on her face.
He set aside the inexplicable desire to hear her loosen up and laugh just once, and followed her into his office. He hadn’t worried about the mess before with Sophie. But when Ginny picked up an untouched sack of fast food off the chair, he wished he’d taken time to clean up the place.
She dangled the bag between her thumb and middle finger, eyeing the grease spot that had soaked through the brown paper. “Did I interrupt dinner?”
“That was lunch.” He took the bag from her to throw away—once he located the trash can. He spotted it, supporting one corner of the scale model of the revamped city block where the Ludlow, Walton and Peabody Buildings sat. “Yesterday’s.”
She perched on the very edge of the chair once it had been cleared. He lifted a corner of plywood and ditched the day-old food.
“Do you spend a lot of time in your office?” she asked. He could almost read the phrase bachelor pad on her lips, and wished he could show her the clean, uncluttered space of his condo that he’d designed and remodeled himself in a nearby warehouse.
He pulled out his own chair and sat across the desk from her. So it was to be strictly business between them. Again. Thinking of the waste of those beautiful, expressive eyes of hers, when they could be sparkling with laughter or drowsy with passion instead of so cold with single-minded determination, he tried to accommodate. “I do the paperwork here. But mostly I’m out on the work sites. Lately, I’ve been conned into attending some fund-raising events. I’m working toward three million to rebuild the Ludlow block the way I want to.”
“Three million, hmm?” Her ever-watchful eyes continued to scan the office. “I think you’d be a natural at schmoozing people for money.”
Ouch. Though the comment was superficially complimentary, her tone of voice gave her words a condemning twist.
Feeling the unjust sting of failure, he pushed to his feet and circled the desk. He couldn’t let her taunt—intentional or otherwise—go unchallenged. He shoved aside a stack of bills and sat on the edge, right in front of her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers when he crossed his legs at the ankle. He ignored the traitorous rush of heat that shot toward his toes at that slightest of contacts. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and flexed his muscles in his most intimidating display of force.
“I’m doing a good deed here, angel. At best, I’ll break even. Any profit I might end up with will be reinvested in future projects to improve the neighborhood.”
Undaunted by his face-saving attack, she tipped her chin and looked straight up into his eyes. “You seem to have several projects in mind, Mr. Taylor. You’re quite the philanthropist. How much money have you raised so far?”
Damn, she was a cool customer. Instead of taking offense, the blood surged through Brett’s veins at her show of strength. Why the hell did he have to get twisted up inside over this pint-size bundle of woman who was all backbone and beautiful eyes? He was a healthy male, more than decently attractive, according to the women he’d dated. He knew his manners and how to make a woman laugh.
And yet this one, Ginny Rafferty, with the Nordic looks and Arctic demeanor, got under his skin. The one woman whose only interest in him applied to whatever information he could give her in a murder investigation, fascinated the hell out of him.
He liked the challenge of sparring with her. He’d like it even better if he knew this battle of wills was leading someplace interesting. “We’re halfway there. We’ve pledged about one million in donations. And I put up half a million of my own money.”
“Really.”
One elegant eyebrow, a darker shade of blond than her silvery hair, arched above her skeptical gaze. He felt her scrutiny from the shoulders of his worn flannel shirt to the toes of his scuffed work boots. He seemed to fall short, in her opinion, judging by the doubt etched on her face, an observation that rankled his male ego. He’d butted heads with beautiful women before, and had never failed to charm his way into their good graces.
But Ginny was different. She didn’t play the game at which he excelled. With her, the battle of wills was for real.
Brett