Mike parked in front of the huge white Georgian, complete with a circular portico and two-story columns. He expected a butler to answer the bell, but Blake Webb opened the door. His riding clothes bore smudges of dirt, and the high polish of his knee-high boots was dimmed by a few mud splatters. He was the epitome of the well-bred country gentleman. But under the expensive haircut, Webb’s eyes were tired. The set of his mouth and the fresh lines on his face suggested he hadn’t slept well lately. A tumbler of amber liquid dangled from his fingertips.
“Police Chief O’something, right?” Blake eyed the badge on Mike’s chest. “Are you here in a professional or personal capacity?”
“It’s O’Connell, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Rachel.”
“That isn’t an answer.” Blake wasn’t intimidated by the uniform. Rich people with expensive lawyers rarely were. He stepped back to admit Mike into a foyer flanked by curving staircases. “Well, come in. My father would be appalled to have a policeman in uniform standing on the doorstep.”
They passed under a crystal chandelier bigger than a Buick, and Mike followed Blake down a hall of gleaming hardwood into the library. The floor-to-ceiling shelves likely held more books that Westbury’s public facility.
“Is your father still active in the business?” Mike took a seat in a leather wing chair, pulled out his notebook, and watched Blake pace.
“No. Unfortunately, my father suffered a stroke a few years ago, and I was forced to take over.”
“You didn’t want the job?”
“I used to travel with Rachel wherever she was competing. I had to cut back on the globe-trotting after taking the reins, so to speak.” He dropped into the opposite chair. Blake sipped his booze and stared out the bank of windows that lined the rear wall. Outside, drizzle spotted a paver patio and disturbed the surface of the lagoon-shaped pool. “Ironically, Fleet was supposed to be my horse. But once Dad saw Rachel ride him, that was the end of that.”
Blake glanced over. “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not bitter about Dad’s decision. He was right. Anyone with two eyes could see it, and I was already in love with her. I would’ve given her anything.” He paused, swirling the liquid and ice in his glass.
“Did Rachel tell you someone was actively trying to ruin her farm?”
Blake tensed. “No. Except for that one phone call to ask me to buy her horse, we haven’t been in contact since we…broke up. I guess I should be glad she still trusts me with her horse.”
“It started out with vandalism and property damage, but someone cut the girth to her saddle this morning, and she took a hard fall.”
“Is she all right?” Blake’s face went paler than the creamy carpet underfoot.
“Yes. Just bruised up.”
“I wasn’t there when she fell in Tampa. It took me six hours to get to her.” Emotion strained Blake’s voice. He lurched to his feet and swept a frustrated hand across his blond head. “Dammit. I told her she had no business riding again.”
Mike already knew giving Rachel an order was as effectual as bailing out the Titanic with a spoon. “You had nothing to do with it?”
“I would never hurt Rachel.”
“Are you sure you don’t want her back enough to try to ruin her farm so that she’d come running back to you?”
“You don’t know Rachel very well if you think that would work.” Blake moved to a rolling cart cluttered with decanters and sparkling crystal. “Drink, Chief O’Connell?”
“No thanks. I’m on duty.”
“Ah, a man of principle. You and Rachel have a lot in common.” Blake poured three inches of booze into his tumbler. Bitterness swept across his face. He downed half the glass. “Which is probably part of the reason she was never in love with me. Rachel can’t love a man she doesn’t respect. We were great friends, though, until I fucked that up by asking her to marry me.”
Mike’s pen froze above the page.
Blake capped the decanter with a soft clink. “And, to top it off, the night she turned down my proposal, I took comfort in a bottle and a slutty blond I picked up at a nightclub. Rachel came early the next morning to apologize and found us in bed. God, she even thought my disgusting behavior was her fault. Being the coward that I am, I let her.”
Blake walked back to the chair and sat down. He leveled his red-rimmed gaze at Mike. “If I could go back in time and undo just one thing in my entire life, it would be that first time I kissed her. She was here, still recuperating from the accident. She’d just learned that her career was over and was at the lowest point in her life. I had no business taking advantage of her. She was vulnerable, but I wanted her so damned much I did it anyway. I am a selfish bastard. I betrayed her and tossed away a ten-year friendship. I knew damned well she didn’t feel the way about me that I felt about her.”
“That had to hurt, though, that Rachel didn’t return your feelings,” Mike pressed.
“Rachel isn’t capable of falling in love.” Which wasn’t really an answer. Blake was on his feet again and headed back to the drink cart. Good thing he could afford a new liver.
“I don’t understand.”
He poured himself a double and refreshed the ice in his glass. “Have you met Rachel’s father?”
“No.”
“If you do, you’ll understand why she is the way she is.” Blake swallowed the rest of his drink and refilled, obviously bent on a serious binge. “She wouldn’t talk much about her past, but five minutes with her father and any idiot can see that her childhood left some pretty deep scars. Some wounds just don’t heal.”
“She didn’t trust you?”
“It has nothing to do with trusting others. Rachel doesn’t trust herself. She’s so afraid of hurting people. She’ll never let herself fall in love,” Blake slurred as he sank into the leather chair. “Her heart has been locked away for so long, she’s lost the key.”
“Call me if you remember anything else that might help me protect Rachel.” Mike tossed a business card on the coffee table. Blake didn’t respond, and Mike let himself out.
As he headed back to Westbury, he wondered if Blake were right. Was Rachel too damaged to recover?
Chapter Eighteen
Rachel shoved the truck door open.
“Hold on, there.” Sean jogged around the vehicle and took hold of her good elbow. “A face-plant wouldn’t help matters.”
She slid out of the passenger seat and stared at the silver Mercedes parked a few feet away. Rojas! Wait a minute. Twilight was descending on the farm, which meant it was somewhere around six. Lucia’s lesson was hours ago.
Rachel groaned. “I forgot to call my lesson and cancel.”
“I think you’ll be forgiven.” Sean escorted her across the grass.
“Are your workers still here?”
“They’d better be. In fact, the system should be ready to test.”
Rachel spotted the two assistants doing something to the back of the house. A power tool was running, but at this point, she was so tired, she didn’t really care what was going on. Climbing the back stoop took an enormous amount of energy. Rachel stepped into the kitchen, dreaming of sweatpants and her pillow. She wanted out of her riding boots and into a hot shower. The smells of honest-to-God food hit her nose. Her stomach growled at the thought of her sister’s cooking. Maybe food, then bed.
Sean stopped abruptly and whispered in her ear. “Do you know him?”
Rachel looked up. Cristan Rojas sat at her kitchen table. His expensive, tailored clothes were incongruous with her ugly old kitchen. An aristocrat visiting his tenant farmer. Sarah was pouring him a cup of coffee.
He’d never been in her house before. He’d never expressed anything but animosity toward her.
“Mr. Rojas. This is a surprise.”
Rojas stood. He and Sean exchanged cold stares, as if they were gunslingers on opposite ends of the street at the OK Corral. As they sized each other up, Rachel gave them a mental e
ye roll and introduced them.
“Please, call me Cristan.” His dark eyes were full of concern and sympathy as they swept her body from head to toe. Hmmm. Maybe he didn’t dislike her as much as she thought.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call to cancel Lucia’s lesson,” Rachel said.
“Your omission is understandable under the circumstances.” Cristan nodded. “The evening wasn’t a total loss. Your sister was gracious enough to offer Lucia and me dinner.”
The sound of the older girl’s voice was barely audible through the swinging doors. It sounded like she was reading a story.
“It wasn’t much. Just pasta.” Sarah blushed at Cristan, then faced Rachel. “Can you eat?”
“God, yes.” Rachel lowered her aching body into a chair. “I missed lunch.”
Sarah went to the stove, removed a lid from a pot, and stirred something. “How about you, Sean?”
He shook his head. “No thanks. I’m going to go check with my men. Excuse me. We’ll be testing the system. Don’t be alarmed when the siren goes off.”
Sarah slid a plate of pasta in front of Rachel, and she concentrated on eating with some semblance of table manners.
“I’d better let the children know about the alarm.” Sarah went into the den. Soft giggling drifted into the kitchen as the door opened and closed. Rachel didn’t miss the lingering glance from Cristan as her sister left the room.
Interesting.
“I am glad to see that you are all right.” Cristan sipped his coffee.
“Omigod.” Rachel put a palm on the table and shifted her weight to rise. “Talk about brain fog. I almost forgot to feed the horses.”
Cristan leaned across the table and put a hand on her arm. His dark eyes sparkled. “I fed the horses an hour ago according to your very detailed chart in the barn.”
Was he mocking her? Rachel decided she didn’t care. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” His eyes dropped to her feet, still clad in knee-high riding boots. “May I assist you?”
“I can get it. There’s a boot pull in the mudroom.”
But Cristan merely turned, straddled her legs, and, with a firm hand cupping her heel, eased the boots off one at a time like a pro.
“You’ve done this before.”
“I played much polo in Argentina.” He set her boots by the door and returned to his seat.
Argentina was home to the best polo players in the world, and Cristan had the lean, tough body of an athlete. “Then why are you paying me to teach your daughter to ride?”
“Daughters do not always learn well from their fathers.” Cristan smiled wearily at the den door. Through it, Rachel could hear Alex and Em giggling. “Lucia’s mother died when she was an infant. She needs a strong female role model. It is not easy for a girl to be raised without a woman’s influence.”
His grief left an indelible print on his face.
“I can understand that. My mother was…very ill.”
“I am sorry,” he commiserated.
“Me too.”
A siren blared, interrupting their touchy-feely moment. The sound ceased as suddenly as it began.
Cristan finished his coffee. He rose and carried the cup and saucer to the sink. Since when did she have saucers? Or decent cups? “Will you be able to manage the stairs on your own?”
She nodded. “It’s just a few bruises. I’ve had worse.”
“If there is nothing else that I can do for you, then I will bid you good night.” He called gently for his daughter. Sarah and the three children came in. Lucia greeted Rachel politely and followed her father out the door. “Sarah, thank you for dinner. The company and the food were most enjoyable.”
Sarah flushed. Again. Well, well. Even after all she’d been through with Troy, her sister wasn’t immune to Cristan’s Latin looks and charm. Rachel had to admit, the accent was killer.
Two months of giving Lucia’s riding lessons, and Rachel knew nothing about this man. Basically, they’d argued twice a week. It appeared as if he wasn’t a complete jackass. Under that layer of arrogance, Rojas was smooth—too smooth. Was he attracted to Sarah? Or was there some other reason for his sudden interest in them? The guy was waaaay too good looking for anyone’s good.
Sean came back in and went into the pantry. A series of soft beeps sounded. He leaned his head out. “We’re done. Can we go over how this all works?”
“Sure,” Rachel said.
Sarah gave the girls each a cookie. She gave them a pointed look. “Sit at the table for a few minutes.”
The left wall inside of the pantry had been transformed into command central. A digital control panel and a black-and-white monitor had been mounted at eye level. “It’s the Bat pantry.”
“Oh, look.” Sarah pointed over Rachel’s shoulder. “We can see the front porch and the back stoop.”
“You need to pick a four-digit passcode,” Sean explained and demonstrated the basic operations of the system.
“You have a bill for me?” she asked when he had finished.
“I do.” He handed her his clipboard, and Rachel read the invoice. The total at the bottom was absurdly low.
“You’re kidding, right? Where’s the rest of the bill?”
“I gave you everything at cost.” Sean ripped the top sheet off and set it on the table. “You don’t like it, take it up with Mike.” He sauntered out.
She planned to. No matter how much she pushed Mike away, he kept coming back with relentless determination. She balked. He said please. She was rude. He was extra polite. It was annoying. And sweet. Bah!
Rachel went into the pantry and punched the passcode into the alarm panel.
Sarah watched. “Little green light’s on.”
“Guess that’s it, then.” She winced. Her shoulder was stiffening by the second. The ibuprofen wasn’t making a dent. She went to the freezer for an ice pack.
“You might want to take something stronger for that.”
“Maybe. I’ll try the ice first.”
Sarah steered the girls toward the hall. “Bath time.”
Slowly, Rachel trailed her sister, nieces, and the dog down the hall. A shower beckoned. “Hey, where’d we get the saucers?”
“Found them in the attic. Must’ve been Gram’s.” Sarah paused on the second-floor landing. “I’ve been thinking. We should have an antique dealer go through the attic and basement. Some of the stuff looks really old.”
“Good idea.” China cups and skeletons. What other surprises were lingering?
Mike spent the hour in his office, signing paperwork and trying to attend to at least a few of the administrative duties stacked up in his bin. Someone knocked on his door. “Come in.”
Ethan entered. “No luck on identifying the owner of that Jeep. The VIN number had been removed.”
“Probably stolen, then. Back-burner it.” Mike’s phone signaled that it was time to walk over to the community center, where the council members had established temporarily offices.
He stepped out into the crisp, damp air and scanned the street. Pumpkins adorned doorsteps, blow-up ghosts occupied lawns, and orange lights lighted bushes. Halloween was just two weeks away.
The four councilmen and the mayor were already gathered at a long table in the large meeting room of the community center. Vince and Lee Jenkins, were conspiring with Mayor Fred at one end. Opposite, pharmacist Frank Bent and Herb Duncan, owner of the Main Street Inn, looked worried.
Mike slid into a seat in the center. He opened his notebook and pulled a pair of reading glasses from his chest pocket. He jumped in with his agenda. “All officers are scheduled for both Halloween and Mischief night.” Mike quickly reviewed the plans that had been finalized since the last meeting, including extra patrols, parade details, and curfew hours. No one objected.
“The next item on my agenda is potential for flooding this weekend. As you all know, local waterways are already topped out from recent heavy rain. There are several bridges I’m particularly worr
ied about. We should prepare to evacuate flood-prone areas and open shelters as necessary.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little premature?” Vince’s condescending tone grated.
“No, I don’t,” Mike answered. “There are low spots that are already close to flooding, and some of those residents are damned stubborn about leaving. There isn’t much we can do to prevent property damage, but loss of life is unacceptable.”
“We can’t make them leave their homes.”
Mike chewed his molars. “No, but we can get the word out.”
“But if the rain doesn’t pan out, we look like fools.” Vince glared at Mike.
“Our public images aren’t as important as saving lives,” Mike shot back. “And let’s not forget our emergency crews. They risk their lives every single time they respond to a water rescue.”
Vince opened his mouth, but across the table, Herb cleared his throat. In a cashmere sweater and casual slacks, the former chef looked every inch the country inn owner. “Do you have an update on the fire, Mike?”
Mike consulted his notes. “I spoke with the state arson investigator. His initial impression is that the fire was arson. There were traces of what appear to be accelerants near the point of origin, which was the basement. Labs tests and the official report, however, will take some time.”
“Arson?” Vince smacked the table.
Under his thick white hair, Herb paled. “Someone set that fire? With all those people inside?”
“I’m afraid so.” Mike closed his notebook. “On a positive note, the sprinklers kicked in right away. The stuff that was in long-term storage in the basement is trashed. Upstairs, most of the damage is from smoke. Have you checked with the structural engineer, Fred?”
The mayor cleared his throat. “Yes. He said he’ll get the inspection done by the end of the week.”
“Obviously the fire was an attempt to stop Lawrence Harmon from giving his presentation.” Vince jabbed a pencil at Mike. “You should investigate every single protestor. It’s clear one of them is behind the fire and the vandalism out at the project site.”
She Can Tell Page 17
