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BOOK 7
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Being Yours BOOK 7
Leaning over Rachel’s chair, Jackson braced his hands on the wooden arms and whispered against her ear, ‘You look troubled. Is there anything I can do to help?’Her soft intake of air told him he’d startled her. He hadn’t meant to sneak up on her, but she’d been so absorbed in the three cards on the table, he could have entered the room yelling and she wouldn’t have noticed.She turned her head, bringing her lush mouth within inches of his. Too close for him not to do something about it.Before he could kiss her, she said, ‘Troubled? Whatever would give you that idea?’‘You’re frowning.’She forced her brow to smooth. ‘If I were in trouble, Jackson, what would you do to help me?’With the need to touch her spreading to every part of his body, he tightened his hold on the chair before he did something that would embarrass them both. He’d known better than to get to close to her. How often had her rich, addictive scent reduced him to a state where nothing mattered except loving her with
Being Yours BOOK 7
Rachel gathered her cards and stored them in their box. Securing them in her purse, she vaguely registered the clink and rattle of dishes and the hurried steps of servants carting away trays of uneaten food. The hushed conversation among the musicians as they packed their equipment replaced the earlier sounds of music and laughter. It was nearly one in the morning, and she felt the effects of every minute she’d spent smiling, reading cards, and assuring people who had everything that they would have more.She couldn’t precisely recall what she’d told her clients. She hadn’t been able to focus after her sister’s sudden reappearance. Jackson’s comment about its being bad timing was like calling a hurricane a passing shower. If her sister had the bad judgement to leave without word, why had she chosen tonight to return? Rachel didn’t want to believe Penny had anything to do with the thefts, but her return seemed too perfect to be a coincidence.She’d also hinted that she’d done something
Being Yours BOOK 7
Jackson shoved the door to the control room open and crossed directly to Richie Collins, one of seven night technicians who manned a select group of accounts. Jackson had phoned from his car, instructing Richie on what he wanted done before he reached the office. If the younger man had thought it odd that the boss was coming in at four in the morning, he hadn’t let on.Rounding the half-circle desk that contained a fleet of monitors, Jackson said, ‘Tell me what you found. And it better be good.’‘We picked up something, but I don’t know how much it’ll help.’ Richie tapped on his keyboard,bringing up one window after another. Then, one monitor blanked to gray snow. The screen rolled and displayed a hazy black and white image of Rachel’s living room.‘What’s wrong with the picture?’ Jackson ran a hand through his hair, then leaned over the technician to use the keyboard to try and sharpen the picture. Nothing worked. ‘Shit.’‘My guess is that the RF signal from the camera needs adjusti
Being Yours BOOK 7
Rachel came to an abrupt halt by the door reserved for prisoners and stared in horror at the crowded courtroom. Behind the table where her attorney sat, leaning back in his chair with a bored expression on his plain face, her mother, Penny and Mark sat together, hands linked in the first row of wooden benches.Excited murmurs rose, then were cut off as if a dozen invisible hands had simultaneously clamped over everyone’s mouths. She felt a dozen pairs of eyes turn to her. People she recognized. Mrs Gibbons, the Donaldsons, Senator Hastings, all watched her with silent condemnation. They were clients who’d shopped in her store, women whose cards she’d read, civic leaders whom she’d helped raise money for charity. Everyone present had been a victim in the crimes. Was that why they’d jammed into the courtroom? To ensure justice was served?Linda sat beside the senator, her hands clenched in her lap, a frown pulling at her full mouth. Biting down on her lip, she looked about the room and
Being Yours BOOK 7
Rachel lurched to her feet, looking to where Linda was seated with the senator. Her chair was empty. Detective Hutchins noticed her absence at the same time as Rachel. He pulled a cellphone from his coat pocket and dialed a number, issuing orders to whomever he’d called.He hurried to Senator Hastings side and urged him up from his seat. ‘Sir, I’ll need you to come with me.’‘What’s going on here?’ Jerking free, the senator brushed a hand down his suit.The detective withdrew another photo from the envelope and handed it to the senator. ‘Your fiancee was the one who stole the statue and planted it in Miss Gold’s house. Now, if you’ll come with me.’ As they reached the door, Rachel could hear the detective ask, ‘Do you know where she might have gone?’Looking confused, his face flushing with distress, the senator stammered, ‘She . . . she said she was going to the ladies’ room.’‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll find her.’Judge Reiman cracked his gavel against the desk. ‘I suppose the evidenc
Being Yours BOOK 8
For one gut-wrenching moment Matt thought that the woman walking toward him was Adriana. Same dark curls and olive skin, same compact figure, same ridiculously high heels tapping across the airport concourse. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was standing beside him while she anxiously scanned the crowd gathered around the arrivals gate.He scowled. He really must get a grip. Close up she was nothing like Adriana. The curls were softer and shot with chestnut streaks, and her skin was honey-colored with a tiny smattering of freckles across her nose. What was the matter with him that he thought every small, dark-haired woman was his wife? Why, this one wasn’t even dressed like Adriana. Instead of high gloss and sparkle, she was wearing varying shades of beige. The slouchy trousers and T-shirt, as well as the thin sweater tied around her shoulders, were obviously aimed at travel comfort rather than elegance. Only the shoes, copper- colored sandals with a four-inch heel,
Being Yours BOOK 8
Crash pad just about described it, Alex decided fifteen minutes later as she followed him up two steep flights of stairs to a cramped attic accommodation at the top of a square, white-painted building on the outskirts of the town.The offices of Miguel & Anderson occupied the first two floors. Although not at all grand, they were cool and professional. Marble tiling in shades of cream was complemented by dark wood and modern desks. The four computers, each with a webcam, were recent models, all of which Alex found encouraging.A pretty, dark-haired woman in her midtwenties had greeted them when they arrived. She had tried not to stare at Alex as she relayed a series of messages to Matt in Spanish. He listened intently and then, with his cell phone already clamped to one ear, had made hasty introductions in English.“Conchita, this is Alexandra Moyer, our new designer. Alex, this is Conchita Eberardo, Miguel & Anderson’s office manager. Without her, we couldn’t function! She’s related
Being Yours BOOK 8
Much later, replete after a meal of fish served with a green salsa, tiny baked potatoes, and a tomato salad, Alex sipped the last of her wine and listened to Rufino and Cristina reminiscing about a touring holiday they had once had in England.“We ended up in the Yorkshire Dales,” remembered Rufino.Cristina nodded. “Yes, and the scenery was beautiful—all soft curves lit by pale sunshine and shadow—and so many sheep! Even the food was good most of the time,” she added in her attractively accented English. “It wasn’t at all what we expected. We had heard so many bad things about England and its weather.”“You were just lucky.” Matt held his empty wineglass out for a refill. “Usually it’s gray and wet, or cold and wet, or windy and wet, or just wet. Why do you think I've settled over here? What’s to choose between wet and continuous sunshine?”“That is such an exaggeration!” Alex protested as Rufino topped up her gla^s. “We have loads of good weather. Think of all the poets who’ve writt
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