by Robin Caroll
She nodded numbly.
"Layla!"
She shivered.
"Don't give him the satisfaction of making you mess up. Put him out of your head and concentrate on me. Look into my eyes—nowhere else, just in my eyes."
She focused on the bridge of his nose and nodded.
"Okay." He let out a breath and took her hand, shaking them loosely. "Let's do this. Remember, keep your focus on me."
Oh, Lord, help me.
SHE WAS STUNNING.
Maddox swallowed back his surprise. Layla Taylor was attractive in her own way, but tonight . . . in that dress with her hair looking all silky . . . she stole his breath.
Her body moved as one with her partner's. Her eyes never left his face.
A claw of jealousy raked across Maddox's chest. He shifted in his seat.
"They're good," Megan whispered.
Maddox struggled to remember Layla was a person of interest in the case. He forced his arm draped across the back of Megan's chair not to tense. He lifted his glass from the linen-covered table and took a sip, not even tasting the sweetness of the sparkling cider.
Layla and her partner floated above the dance floor. Her dress swooshed through the air at her ankles. Her posture was picture perfect.
They rounded the dance floor closest to Maddox, and he noticed her expression. Eyes glazed over. Brow wrinkled in concentration. Neck stiff.
Something wasn't right.
Maybe that was her normal dancing posture, but Maddox didn't think so. The set of her jaw. Her unsmiling face.
Yep, something was definitely off.
He glanced over to the other side of the dance floor where he'd spied her sister earlier. Still seated and holding hands with the man Maddox could only assume was her fiancé, Alana Taylor's eyes followed every step of her sister's.
The worry lining her face told Maddox he was right. Alana saw it too.
With a final, elaborate dip, the song ended. Layla and her partner stood in the center of the floor, took a bow to each side, then eased off stage. Across the dance floor Alana stood. She kissed her fiancé, leaned over to whisper in his ear, then turned toward the side exit.
The emcee held the microphone. "And to close out this evening's performance, we welcome back Randy Dean dancing the tango with Natalie Combs."
Alana stopped in her tracks, gaping at the stage.
Maddox followed her stare to the man taking a starting position. The dancer popped a rose between his teeth and straightened his spine. Maddox glanced to Alana. She'd back-stepped to her table and sunk into her chair. Her eyes were wide. Her face pale.
Looking at the couple on stage, taking their first steps as the music started, Maddox blinked several times. What was he missing?
His heart thudded hard against his rib cage. Randy Dean. The guy Layla had been involved with.
Maddox studied the man moving across the stage. Tall. Dark hair. Was he handsome? Maddox sneaked a peek at Megan. Her eyes were wide . . . her mouth slightly parted. Yeah, she found Randy Dean attractive.
Another bite of jealousy burned in Maddox's gut.
The emcee had said "we welcome back Randy Dean," indicating he'd been gone. The look on Layla's and Alana's faces said neither knew he'd be making a return appearance tonight.
Could it have something to do with the case?
Maddox took another sip of his sparkling cider. Where had Randy been? Why was he back? Odd coincidence that he'd returned right after a home Layla built had burned down. Where was Randy on Friday night between eleven thirty and midnight?
Was there bad blood between the two of them? Enough that Randy would do something to hurt her business, like that reporter had insinuated? Maybe jealousy wasn't the motive but revenge?
Tomorrow he'd find out everything he could on Randy Dean.
WHY WAS LAYLA GETTING mixed up in the investigation?
He didn't want to hurt her—hadn't wanted to hurt anyone, but Dennis had pushed him. Had given him no choice.
But Layla?
Why couldn't she just leave the sleuthing to the cops? They wouldn't be able to piece anything together. But Layla? Well . . . there was a good chance she'd see the connection. Especially if she started looking at past records.
Records!
He needed to destroy her records, then she wouldn't put the puzzle together. And it would give her something else to concentrate on. The police could do their minor investigating, but they would eventually file the case away. Another crime would take its place.
Tonight. He'd destroy her records tonight.
By tomorrow Layla Taylor would forget completely about playing Nancy Drew.
TWELVE
"And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in a masquerade."
—ALEXANDER POPE
THE NERVE OF HIM! Coming back. Dancing with Natalie. Jeering at her with his stare.
Layla slammed the door to her truck and marched up the stairs to her cabin. Forgetting she hadn't wanted to take the time to change clothes, she stepped too hard and her heel caught in the space between the boards and broke off. She pitched forward and fell hard on her hands and knees. Her anger and frustration gave way to pain.
Hot tears slipped down her cheeks. After she'd left the performance, she had driven for hours, letting her anger and embarrassment go with the miles. But now . . . She curled into the fetal position on her cold front porch. For once she let her emotions overtake her. Why, God? Why let him come back? Not that I care about him, but . . . God, why?
The phone ringing inside the cabin snagged her attention. Who would be calling at this hour? Had to be an emergency. Or Alana calling to check on her, probably worried sick. With a slow exhale, she pushed to standing, wiped her scraped hands on her now-snagged dress, unlocked the front door, then hobbled inside as fast as possible. Stupid broken heel.
The fourth ring echoed off the walls.
"Hello." She leaned against the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes.
"Layla Taylor?"
"Yes." Her hose were ruined. Her knees bloodied and scraped. And now burning. She snatched a towel from the bar, wet it, and dabbed at her knees.
"This is Homestead Security."
She dropped the towel and forgot all about her painful knees. "Yes?"
"We received an alarm notice from your business system. We tried to contact the location for the password but received no response."
"No one should be in the office."
"Yes, ma'am. Police have been dispatched."
Her blood ran colder than the dropping temperature outside. "T-thank you for letting me know."
"Yes, ma'am. We'll report back after we hear from the police whether it was an actual break-in or not."
Layla's heart started beating again. "So you're not certain there was a break-in."
"No, ma'am. As per procedure, we contacted your secondary number for notification."
"Thank you again." She dropped the phone back to its base and turned to rush out.
Her hosed feet slipped on the hardwood and she fell again. She slapped her hands on the floor. God, what is going on? Why is this happening to me? Please let the office be okay.
Only the throbbing of her knees answered her.
Using the kitchen metal trash can for support, she pulled herself to standing. She walked down the hallway to her bedroom. At a much slower pace. After a quick change into jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers, Layla grabbed her keys and headed back into the blistery wind.
She continued to pray on her drive to Taylor Construction. Her heart hammered into her throat. What if someone had read that stupid article in the paper and got ideas? What if someone had broken into the office and set it on fire, like the Hope-for-Homes site? She pressed harder on the accelerator.
Whipping onto the street that the office was on, Layla let out a little sigh. No flames licked the predawn skyline. No firefighters fought a blaze.
There was, however, an Eternal Springs police cruiser in the driveway. The strobi
ng lights sent her heart back into double speed as she parked in front of the front door and jumped out of the truck.
A uniformed officer met her at the door. "Hold it right there, ma'am. Who are you?"
"Layla Taylor. This is my office." She took in the broken window in the front. Lord, no. Don't let this be something awful.
In a moment another officer joined them. "Ms. Taylor, I'm Assistant Chief Rex Carson and this is Officer Thibodeaux."
"What happened?"
"Looks like someone broke in."
A mountain moved into her gut.
"We think they were looking for something."
"Can I go in?"
Carson shook his head. "This is a crime scene, ma'am. We've called in detectives from the sheriff's office to send over a unit to dust for prints and collect any evidence."
She swallowed against an arid mouth. "How long will that take? I need to know what's missing."
"Ma'am, I'm sure the detectives will want to talk with you, and I imagine they'll want you to walk through with them." Carson nodded toward the cruiser. "You're welcome to sit in the car where it's warm until they get here."
She chewed her bottom lip. This couldn't be happening. "I'll wait in my truck."
A chill that had nothing to do with the January weather crept over her as she climbed into the cab of her vehicle. Her teeth chattered as she gripped her hands tightly together in her lap and hunched over. Why, God, why? Why this? Why now . . . when everything was starting to go right?
Her knees began to throb, but she ignored the pain, choosing to stare at her office. Two officers stood in the doorway. Guarding it? Had they run someone off? She hadn't even thought to ask. She glanced at the cruiser with its lights still flashing. No one sat in the backseat. Obviously they didn't catch whoever had broken in.
Why would someone break into the office? She didn't keep money in there ever. There was nothing of extreme value, not even tools. She kept her tools in her truck or at the house. There was nothing of worth to anyone in the office, so why break in?
To hurt her, like that stupid article had suggested? Who would do such a thing?
Layla rested her forehead against the steering wheel. Exhaustion weighted down every muscle in her body. It was all too much. First, Randy coming back. She'd closed that part of her life off for good. Or so she thought. But his return flared the hurt and anger she'd buried deep inside. She felt raw.
And now this break-in.
A car engine hummed. She jerked up her head in time to catch an unmarked cruiser sloshing into the space beside her truck. She recognized the driver. And groaned. Seriously, God? Could her luck get any worse?
Maddox exited the car. His features were lost in the darkness but not his hulking presence. Detective Wallace stepped in front of the vehicle, its headlights shining on his wild Hawaiian-print shirt. He climbed the stairs and spoke with the officers in the doorway.
She eased open the truck door.
Maddox stood waiting against his car, his arms crossed over his chest, as she joined him. "Good morning, Ms. Taylor."
Something about his casual demeanor set her off. "There's nothing good about it, Detective Bishop."
"True." He pushed off the vehicle and dropped his arms.
"I thought you handled violent crimes or something."
"I do. But when Taylor Construction popped up on the radar, the detective recognized the name as involved in our case, so he called us."
"Involved in your case? How, exactly—?" She shook her head, remembering he thought of her as a suspect. "You know what? Never mind. I don't care. Whatever." She glanced at the doorway. One of the officers and Detective Wallace had disappeared into the office. "Can I go inside now?"
Maddox looked over his shoulder, then back at her. "In just a minute. Houston's taking some photographs of the scene without any contamination."
Contamination? She bit her lip and nodded.
"Can you think of any reason someone would want to break in?"
"No. I don't keep cash or equipment in there."
"Any idea who'd break in? Maybe just to hurt you or your business?"
"None." She worked the clumps of mud with the toe of her sneaker. "I know that article might have given somebody ideas, but I can't think of anyone."
"What about someone who wanted revenge on you?"
She snapped her gaze to meet his. "Revenge for what?"
He shrugged. "Maybe a relationship gone bad?"
"N—" She closed her mouth. Randy was back in town. By the scowl he'd thrown at her earlier, he hated her. Although she couldn't imagine why—he'd been the one who'd left her. And she remembered her conversation with Bob Johnson. He hadn't exactly been friendly. Honestly, he'd been quite bitter.
But that didn't mean either man was involved.
"Layla?"
It wouldn't be fair to name the men without proof of some sort. "No."
Maddox's jaw tightened. "I see."
Detective Wallace emerged from the office. "Layla, you ready to walk through?"
She nodded, then tossed Maddox a final glance before she headed into her office.
Lord, don't let the damage be bad. Please.
THE CHANGE IN LAYLA . . . Maddox shook his head. Gone was the picture-perfect posture. The grace. The intensity in her demeanor.
As he followed her and Houston on the walk-through, all he noticed was the dejection. The brokenness. It was heartbreaking.
No. She was just a person of interest in one of his cases.
But she was now also a victim.
There had to be a connection.
"So, is anything missing?" Houston asked.
"My computers. I had one here in the reception area. Y'all saw it the other day. And one in my office." Her voice was without emotion as she stepped over upturned plants and scattered papers.
"The printer in your office is still there."
She shook her head. "Looks like all they took were the computers and my records." Her voice cracked. Her shoulders slumped. "And trashed the place."
Everything in Maddox wanted to go and hold her. Comfort her.
What? Where did that come from? He was a cop. She was a victim of robbery. He had no business thinking about holding or comforting her.
But despite all logic and reasoning, his arms ached to do just that.
Houston made notes, then laid a hand on Layla's forearm.
Her head popped up.
"That's all you can do for now. We have a unit coming that will dust for prints and try to recover any evidence."
Her eyes were glazed over. "Can't I start cleaning up? This is my business."
Houston shook his head. "Not until our unit finishes gathering evidence."
She sagged. Again, Maddox wanted to hold her. He needed to get a grip on himself. Maybe he was coming down with a cold or something.
He'd never been one to be attracted to weaker women. Houston said he used that as an excuse. But Layla Taylor wasn't weak. She was strong. To see her downtrodden because of something that'd happened to her beyond her control . . . well, it made his gut stir in a strange way.
One he wasn't sure he liked.
"Okay. When will that be?" She jutted out her chin as she spoke to Houston. Regaining her stance.
Good for her. A fighter. Not one to roll over and play dead when the bad stuff hit.
"Several hours. Why don't I call you when they're done?" Houston closed his notebook and stuffed it into his back pocket.
"Fine." She turned for the door.
"Layla?" Maddox called out, surprising himself.
She looked over her shoulder at him, the question in her eyes.
"We'll find out who did this."
She hesitated, then gave him a curt nod before leaving.
Houston cleared his throat.
"What?" Maddox asked.
His partner lifted his brows. "Since when do you make promises to find a B&E perp?"
Heat shot up his neck and across his fa
ce. "This is connected to our case, and you know it."
Houston laughed. "Yeah, I think so too. But making such a vow?" He continued to chuckle, which annoyed Maddox.
Only because he suspected his partner was on to something: the truth about how he was beginning to feel about Layla Taylor.
"My interviews with Fred Daly and the doctors turned up nothing."
Maddox turned back to his partner. "Odd that someone breaks in and only steals two computers and paperwork, wouldn't you say?"
"Sounds like someone's either looking for something specific or trying to destroy something."
"Because there's a link between LeJeune's murder, the Hope-for-Homes burning, and Taylor Construction."
Maddox nodded, letting his mind wander to come up with viable scenarios. "We already know who all worked on the site. Why destroy records now, if that's what they were after?"
Houston moved down the stairs and leaned on the cruiser. "Maybe the perp didn't know we already had that information."
"Maybe." But it didn't fly with Maddox. "We need to do a background check on Randy Dean. He's someone Layla was involved with who left town but has returned. Recently."
Houston's cell phone went off. He glanced at the caller ID. "Margie." He flipped open the phone. "What's wrong?"
Maddox tried not to stare, but his partner's face paled and he stared at Maddox. "Okay. I'll let him know." Houston closed the phone and shoved it back into his belt clip.
"What?"
"It's your dad."
THIRTEEN
"The value of a man should be seen in what he gives and not in what he is able to receive."
—ALBERT EINSTEIN
HE'D KEPT HIS SECRET safe.
Although he hadn't wanted to hurt Layla, he'd destroyed everything. Her records . . . her documents . . . even her personal notes.
The act gave him a measure of comfort. He'd protected himself and his family. Now the police could try to reconstruct all the information, but they wouldn't see the connection. They wouldn't figure it out. No one could.
Except Layla Taylor.
