by Gina Wilkins
Tara wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “A case? You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” He took another sip from his mug. “You make great coffee. Did you bake these cookies? They’re good.”
“No, I got them at a bakery,” she answered absently. “Blake, I’m not sure I understand. If you need clerical help, I’m really not...”
He shook his head. “I know you’re way too overqualified for that. I need you to do a bit of undercover work with me.”
Now she knew she must have misunderstood him. Blake was a private investigator. She was a tax attorney—or at least, she had been until two weeks ago. How could she help him?
“Does this case involve tax fraud?” she hazarded.
“No. What bakery?”
She blinked. “What do you... Oh, the cookies. They came from Miller’s Bakery, a couple of blocks from here.”
He took another bite, then washed it down with more coffee. “Really good,” he murmured appreciatively.
“Blake, try to stick with the conversation, will you?” she asked, losing patience. “Why did you come here?”
He set his coffee cup on the table, linked his hands in front of him and leaned slightly toward her. “I need you, Tara McBride. Will you help me?”
LATER THAT EVENING, Blake stood once again at Tara’s door, pleased with himself that he’d convinced her to go out with him that evening. It had been a spur-ofthe-moment plan, and he was glad he’d pitched it as though he needed her to help him, rather than the other way around.
She definitely needed to get out, he’d decided after seeing her that afternoon. Though he’d managed to hide it, his first glimpse of her this afternoon had shaken him.
Blake had known Tara McBride for almost two years. He’d made it a point to spend a little time with her whenever he visited the offices of Carpathy, Dillon and Delacroix, her former law firm, and he’d always thought she was a beautiful woman with brains, ambition, determination, and a limitless future. From what he’d discreetly found out about her, he knew she’d been small-town-raised and Harvard-educated.
Way out of his league, in other words.
He’d never imagined he’d ever see her looking lost, vulnerable, frightened or defeated. Until today.
He’d told himself that the only reason he’d looked her up today was to make sure she was okay. He’d been shocked when he’d found out from the rather gossipy receptionist at the law firm that Tara had been summarily fired after a conflict with the senior partners. The receptionist had confided to Blake that Tara had left looking as though she’d “run smack into a brick wall.” Carrying her belongings in her arms, she’d left without saying a word to anyone.
“I thought she was going to cry,” the receptionist had whispered to Blake. “She didn’t, but she looked like she might. I never thought I’d see Ms. McBride looking so devastated.”
That had been two days ago. Blake had worried about Tara ever since, until finally he hadn’t been able to resist seeing for himself that she was okay. He’d had a feeling that something was very wrong.
And when he saw her, he’d known that, once again,. his instincts were on target.
She’d been resistant at first to going out with him. But she’d seemed intrigued by the idea of working with him on a case. Could it be that the buttoned-down attorney had been hiding a craving for adventure behind that gorgeous, corporate-clone facade? Blake could give her a taste—even if that was all he had to offer a woman like Tara McBride.
Wryly aware of how much he was anticipating spending the evening with her, he ran his right hand through his hair and reached out to press the doorbell.
The woman who opened the door to him this time bore little resemblance to the woebegone waif who’d greeted him earlier, he noted immediately. In her place was the poised, competent professional he’d known and admired—from afar—at the law firm.
She’d swept her shoulder-length, white-blond hair into a neat, firm twist at the back of her head. Her makeup was light, but skillfully applied. She wore a tailored black dinner suit with high-heeled black pumps. The fitted jacket came together in an intriguing, but tasteful V, and was fastened by glittery black buttons down the front. Deep pockets on the sides emphasized the curves of her slender hips. Her skirt was straight, and ended just above her knees, showcasing her long legs. Her jewelry consisted of diamond stud earrings, and a pearl choker clasped around her slender throat.
She was beautiful. And she represented everything that was missing from Blake’s life.
Quickly shoving that unexpected insight to the back of his mind, he smiled and extended his left hand, in which he held a single, deep red rose in full bloom.
“This reminded me of you,” he said. Classy, formal, stylized and beautiful, yet its bold coloring hinted at passion in the same way Tara’s glittering, blue-violet eyes had often made Blake wonder what secrets lay behind her polished facade.
He made sure his fingers brushed hers when she reached out to accept the bloom. The all-too-brief contact jolted Blake, who was immediately hit with an urge to pull her into his arms.
Careful, son. That’s not what this evening is about.
This evening was for Tara, not for Blake. And he would do well to keep that in mind.
CHARMED against her better judgment, Tara couldn’t help lifting the fragrant flower to her nose. It was a nice gesture on Blake’s part, she thought a bit wistfully, but she found it hard to believe this lusciously ostentatious rose had reminded him of her. A white rose, maybe, or a cool lavender orchid. But nothing as bold and splashy as this gorgeous bloom.
“Thank you,” she said, making an effort to keep her voice steady and assured. “I’ll put this in water and then I’m ready to go. Unless you’d like something to drink first?”
He shook his head. “No. But thanks.”
It had occurred to her as she’d dressed for dinner that this was the first time in two weeks that she’d actually looked forward to getting out of her apartment. The fact that she was going out with Blake—well, that certainly added to her anticipation. But it wasn’t only that.
She was tired of sitting alone, moping. She’d had two weeks to get that out of her system, but now it was time to get on with her life...even if she had no idea what she would do next.
She’d always been a fighter—which was part of the reason she no longer had a job. It was time for her to start fighting depression and get back on her feet.
She had nearly lost all that newfound confidence again when she’d opened the door and seen Blake. He looked...gorgeous, she thought with an inward sigh. He was wearing a loosely constructed, silvery-gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a blue-and-silver patterned silk tie. He’d left off the fedora this time, and his dark-gold hair was brushed into a sexy, disheveled style that made her itch to run her fingers through it.
He was spectacular, and—as much as she would like to believe otherwise—completely wrong for her. He was dashing, exciting, eccentric and unpredictable—things Tara might have always secretly wished to be, but wasn’t. She was about as exciting as...as...well, as the tax codes she spent so much time studying, she thought with another hidden sigh. She really couldn’t fathom why Blake had bothered to look her up.
After putting the rose in a crystal bud vase, Tara picked up the slim black purse she’d packed for the evening, took a deep, calming breath and turned to Blake, who was watching her with a bit too much perception behind that deceptively lazy smile of his.
In a courtly, old-fashioned gesture, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Tonight is only business, Tara reminded herself. We’ll have dinner, he’ll make his pitch, I’ll turn it down, and then send him on his way.
But there was no reason she couldn’t enjoy the evening while it lasted, was there? She smiled and took his arm.
Their smiles faded as both of them looked down at her fingers curled around his forearm. He felt surprisingly strong beneath the loose fabric of his jacket, s
uggesting that his slender physique was a bit misleading. She looked up, only to find him gazing into her eyes, and she suddenly realized how very close they were standing.
She cleared her throat. “I’m ready when you are.”
This time his smile was purely sinful. “Sweetheart—I’m past ready.”
Still trying to decide how to respond, she allowed him to tow her out of the apartment and into the beautiful spring evening.
“AN ART GALLERY? We’re having dinner at an art gallery?” Tara looked at Blake in confusion when he turned the car in to the already crowded lot of the exclusive Buckhead establishment.
Though there were available spaces much closer to the door, Blake chose a parking space just inside the entrance to the parking lot. Tara thought it was a little strange but assumed he just wanted a space close to the exit, so he wouldn’t get hemmed in when they were ready to leave.
After he’d turned off the car’s engine Blake smiled at Tara. “Actually, we’re having dinner later. We’re here now because of the case I told you about.”
She felt her eyes widen. “The case? You mean, you’re working now? And I’m here to help?”
He nodded. “Yeah. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“But, Blake, I—”
He opened his door, cutting off her arguments that she’d never agreed to this and that she wasn’t qualified to assist a P.I. in any assignment, regardless of what it might be. Her only expertise was in tax law. But he rounded the front of his sleek black sports car, opened her door, and helped her out before she could manage to ask him to take her home.
“I don’t even know what you want me to do,” she murmured to him as he drew her inexorably toward the gallery doors.
“Smile and look beautiful,” he advised her casually, then nodded genially at a wealthy-looking middleaged couple who reached the doors at the same time.
Tara swallowed hard and tried to smile.
A rather intimidating man with a clipboard stood at the entrance to the crowded gallery. “Name?”
“Bill Austin,” Blake supplied smoothly, then smiled at Tara. “And guest.”
The guard glanced at the list, nodded, and scrawled a check mark on the page. “Have a nice time,” he said, waving them in.
“I didn’t know your last name was Austin,” Tara whispered as they entered the room full of interesting-looking, fashionably dressed guests.
“It isn’t,” he replied quietly, snagging a glass of champagne from a conveniently located table. He offered it to Tara, who took it automatically as she tried to figure out what on earth was going on.
“Look over here, darling,” he said a bit more loudly, guiding her toward an easel on which stood the most incredibly ugly painting Tara had ever seen. “Isn’t this breathtaking?”
“It certainly is,” she muttered, trying to find anything at all of interest in the muddy swirls of green, brown and yellow. “Looks like something you’d find on the floor of a barn. I’m surprised there aren’t any flies buzzing around it.”
Keeping his eyes fixed on the canvas, Blake cleared his throat. There was just the slightest quiver in his voice when he asked brightly, “Wouldn’t you love the opportunity to own a genuine McCauley painting?”
She cocked her head. “If this is a McCauley, I’d just as soon have an Elvis on black velvet. With sequins,” she added, making sure no one but Blake could hear her.
Blake took her totally by surprise when he bent his head and pressed a quick, firm kiss against her lips.
“I knew you’d be as enthusiastic about it as I am,” he said as he drew away. While his tone was innocuous enough, his bright blue eyes gleamed with what might have been amusement.
Tara struggled to remember how to breathe again. She certainly didn’t want Blake to know that his brief, impulsive kiss had set her pulse racing.
A short, portly man in a bad toupee approached them with a beaming smile. “Spectacular, isn’t it?” he asked, nodding toward the canvas.
“Incredible,” Blake replied.
The man looked at Tara expectantly.
“I...er...I’ve never seen anything like it,” she answered candidly.
Blake slipped an arm around her waist. “We were just talking about the power of it. All that barely suppressed emotion.”
The little man nodded with such enthusiasm that Tara couldn’t help watching to see if his toupee would remain in place. It did.
“This painting would be a valuable addition to any private collection,” he hinted broadly.
Blake nodded gravely. “I’m sure it would. But, of course, my wife and I would like to look at everything before we make our selection.”
Tara tried not to react to the news of her matrimonial status, but she was afraid she wasn’t nearly as good at this kind of thing as Blake was. It would help, she thought irritably, if she knew what the hell they were doing here.
“Of course,” the man said. “Please, enjoy yourselves. If there’s anything I can do to help you, my name is Botkin.”
And then he started to walk away—probably looking for another sucker, Tara decided. She turned to Blake, hoping for some explanation. But before she could ask, she blinked in astonishment. The little man had given her a familiar pat on the butt as he brushed past her! There was no way to believe it had just been an accidental touch—Botkin’s hand had slid around her side and lingered long enough to leave her in no doubt that she’d just been felt up.
Of all the nerve! she thought, turning to glare at him as he hurried away. And she’d expected this would be a classy function.
“Blake,” she began, turning purposefully toward him again.
Her “husband” tightened his hold on her waist and urged her toward the next painting, dodging people along the way, effectively preventing Tara from asking any questions.
They spent the next half hour moving from one painting to another, sipping champagne and pretending to study them all. Tara found only one among the group that she didn’t actually hate, and her comments to Blake, murmured for his ears only, grew increasingly acerbic.
“Doesn’t this place carry anything by Norman Rockwell?” she finally asked in exasperation, glaring at another example of muddy colors run amok.
Blake laughed. “Darling, I’m glad you talked me into coming tonight· I’m having such a good time.”
“I’m so happy to hear that,” she returned sweetly.
The funny thing was that she was actually having a good time, too, she thought in bemusement.
She must really have been hard up for entertainment lately.
She was hardly even surprised when Blake glanced at his watch, then turned to her and said, “Of course, dear. The ladies’ room is in the back of the gallery, I believe.”
Obviously, Blake wanted her to go to the ladies’ room. She didn’t know why, but what the heck. She hadn’t known what he wanted from her all evening. So, she would go to the ladies’ room.
Blake gallantly escorted her to the back of the gallery, through a rabbit warren of hallways and showrooms. Either he spent a lot of time here, or he’d memorized a floor plan, because he never hesitated. He nodded toward a door bearing a discreet brass plaque that said Ladies.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” he urged her. “I’ll make a quick trip into the men’s room and then meet you back here, all right?”
Thinking that this was all very strange, Tara nodded and pushed open the door to the ladies’ room.
There was no one in the elegantly appointed lounge area. Tara drifted to the large mirror that dominated one wall, set her purse on the counter and checked her reflection. She looked more like herself than she had in the past two weeks, she thought with faint satisfaction. There was actually a bit of color in her face again...left there, she had no doubt, by that brief yet memorable kiss.
After refreshing her lipstick, she picked up her purse, pushed open the door and peered out into the hallway. It was empty.
Stepping t
hrough the door, she hesitated, wondering if she should go back to the main gallery or wait where she was for Blake. It was rather eerie being in this back hallway alone, even knowing that so many people were gathered nearby. Didn’t any of these glittering, artsy-type women ever need to...
A sound from a room just down the hall made her turn in that direction.
“Blake?” she whispered. “Is that you?”
A loud thump came from the room. It sounded to Tara’s suddenly active imagination like a body hitting the floor. She swallowed, telling herself she was being ridiculous. She was in an art gallery, for heaven’s sake.
Lifting her chin and wrapping herself in the courage she’d developed through years of battling the IRS for her clients, she moved toward the open doorway of the room from which she’d heard the odd noises. If she didn’t find Blake there, she would assume he’d gone into the gallery without her.
The first thing she saw when she stepped into what appeared to be a private office was the body lying on the floor.
To her horror, Tara recognized the portly little man with the toupee, the one who’d approached her and Blake earlier at the McCauley painting. Botkin’s formerly florid face was now bleached of color, his toupee knocked askew so that it barely covered his balding scalp. The front of his once pristine white shirt was now stained red.
Instinctively, Tara dropped her purse and knelt beside him. “Can you hear me?”
He groped weakly at her jacket with one pudgy hand, tugging at the fabric. His mouth moved as if he were trying to speak, but nothing emerged except a ragged groan.
“Don’t try to talk,” Tara advised him urgently. “I’ll get help.”
“They knew...” he gasped. “The paintings were...”
The man’s hand fell heavily to the floor. His eyes rolled back. A chill crawled down Tara’s spine, along with a horrible suspicion that she had just watched a man die.
Her stomach lurched. She surged to her feet, her mouth open to scream for help.
