Send Me a Hero

by Rita Herron

  Nathan quickly took the initiative. “We’re through with your apartment, Ms. Miller. Why don’t you call a service to clean up while you and I go someplace to talk?”

  Veronica’s dark eyebrows arched in surprise.

  “About your case,” Nathan clarified. “We need to discuss what we found at your apartment.” That would be the hard part, Nathan thought morosely. He had no idea how she would react to his report.

  Veronica nodded and stood. Nathan noticed her trembling hands, the way she almost collapsed against her desk as she tried to stand. “Are you okay?”

  A sudden bout of determination filled her eyes. “I will be,” she said simply. She buzzed Louise, asked her to call her usual cleaning service to clean her apartment, then grabbed her briefcase and purse and headed toward the door. “Let’s go to the café around the corner, Detective Dawson.”

  Nathan watched the way her curvaceous backside swayed in her short black skirt as she disappeared out the door. The woman definitely had a figure. Subtle round curves. Just enough breasts to fill a man’s hands. Gorgeous long legs.

  And she carried herself like she had all the confidence in the world. But he knew her bravado was a sham. When he’d witnessed her unveiled fear only moments earlier, he’d had to order himself not to wrap her in his arms and comfort her. Worse, he’d had to remind himself he was a professional, a detective, not the woman’s boyfriend or lover. Veronica Miller’s lover. Just the thought made his groin ache. But a personal entanglement with this woman would be a mistake.

  Business, buddy, strictly business, he reminded himself as he followed her to the elevator. Maybe if he told himself that fact often enough he would believe it.

  Chapter Three

  Several minutes later, Veronica seated herself at a small table in the corner of the café with Detective Dawson. She liked doing business, enjoyed working with facts and numbers, but she’d always had trouble dealing with people. Give her a calculator and a computer any day. They didn’t talk or expect anything. She couldn’t fail them, she couldn’t cause them to die.

  What did Detective Dawson know? Had he discovered the truth about her?

  Her stomach knotted with dread as he sat at the secluded table she’d chosen in the corner. Did he know who’d broken into her apartment? Had he come here to ask her to go to the police station to identify her attacker? A part of her desperately wanted that to happen, while another part of her wasn’t quite ready to face the truth.

  She slipped her hair from its clasp and finger combed through it, letting the strands float around her shoulders. Somehow the simple act helped her to relax.

  Hadn’t that been her problem her whole life? She couldn’t remember who’d killed her parents because she couldn’t face the truth. That was what the psychiatrist had told her grandmother. She could understand as a child not being able to remember, but was the truth too horrible for her to accept even now?

  Her stomach turned as the waiter placed glasses of club soda in front of them. Veronica brought her glass to her mouth merely to have something to do with her hands. She barely felt the cold liquid brush her lips before she set it back down and twined her fingers in her lap. Taking a deep breath, she looked the detective square in the eye.

  “Ms. Miller—Veronica, may I call you that?”

  Veronica nodded.

  Dawson stretched out his long legs, brushing his knee against hers. She wondered if it was accidental. She’d been too frightened the night before to notice this man’s powerful masculinity. His broad shoulders and muscular body filled out his cream-colored polo shirt to perfection. He had a hard, chiseled face with high cheekbones and a small cleft in his chin, and sandy blond-brown hair that was so thick she briefly considered sinking her fingers into it.

  “You look better,” Dawson said with a slight smile.

  “Thanks. I feel a little better.” Veronica shifted, uncomfortable. The way his deep, husky voice murmured her name sent a shiver up her spine. It was too personal. And his amber-colored eyes gazed at her with such sincerity she wanted to confide in him, to tell him the whole, sordid truth. But if she did, would he help her?

  “Okay, Detective Dawson, what did you want to discuss?” Always get to the point, Veronica had learned. Take charge of the meeting. Don’t let the other person intimidate you.

  The detective’s mouth curved into a smile as if he knew exactly what she was doing. She shifted again, this time brushing her leg against his. The soft fabric of his khakis felt warm against her stockinged thigh. He smiled again.

  “Detective?” She raised her glass for another sip of her club soda.

  His gaze followed the movement, then suddenly, as if he realized what he was doing, he straightened in his chair and assumed a more businesslike pose. His smile faded, and a serious expression darkened his eyes.

  Veronica decided she preferred him the other way.

  “Like I said, the police finished combing your place.”

  “And?” Veronica’s pulse jumped.

  “They didn’t find anything to indicate an intruder.”

  Veronica’s hands tightened around the glass. “How about the blood on the knife?”

  The detective sipped his drink, then set his glass down with a thud. “The tests aren’t finished yet. There weren’t any fingerprints though. Except yours, of course.” He paused as if he was waiting for her reaction. “If someone was there, they wiped their prints and blood off the knife after you passed out.”

  Veronica leaned back and closed her eyes momentarily. Could she have imagined the whole thing? As a child, she had such vivid nightmares that she swore they were real. Could it be happening all over again? When she opened her eyes, Detective Dawson was watching her.

  “You want to tell me about the music box? Why did it set you off like that?”

  Veronica swallowed, tried to lift the glass for another drink, but her sore arm ached and she spilled the cold liquid down the front of her blouse. Dawson calmly handed his napkin to her, his intense gaze unnerving her even more. He stared at her arm where she’d been wounded the night before. She was grateful the long sleeve of her blouse covered the bandage, although the imprint of it could be seen through the sheer material.

  “Tell me about it, Veronica.”

  Deep down inside, Veronica’s heart twisted. How she wished she could tell someone the awful haunting secrets she kept buried inside. For some reason, it seemed especially important that she make this man believe her.

  But when she opened up to people, they thought she was nuts. She’d only shared her fears and details of her past with a couple of men in her life, and they’d turned away from her. She couldn’t bear to open herself up to that kind of pain again.

  Dawson folded his hands on the table. “Veronica, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

  She laid the soggy napkins on the table and met his gaze. “It was nothing. It just reminded me of the movie.”

  “Yeah. Almost everyone’s seen The Wizard of Oz, but most people don’t freak out when they hear the theme song.”

  Veronica squelched the retort on the tip of her tongue. She might as well tell him as much of the truth as possible. He would probably find out everything about her when he checked into her past. “My mom used to sing me that song before she died.”

  Dawson rubbed his thumb over his chin. “I can understand how that would upset you. But you don’t know who sent it?”

  Veronica shook her head. “I told you in my office, I have no idea.”

  “Maybe someone in the family?”

  “I don’t have any family.” Veronica’s hands squeezed her glass. “I’m sure you’ve discovered that by now.”

  Dawson’s brief nod told her all she needed to know. Of course he’d read her history. Was he here just to satisfy his curiosity or did he really want to help her?

  “And you live alone? Not even a pet? Cat or dog?”

  Veronica shook her head. “No. I don’t like cats. I’m thinking about g
etting a dog, though.”

  Dawson downed the rest of his drink. “Hmm. There were cat hairs in your apartment.”

  Veronica glanced up, her eyes wide. “Cat hairs. Then that proves it, someone must have been there.”

  “That proves a cat might have wandered in sometime when you left the door open. It doesn’t prove a person was there.”

  Veronica frowned.

  “Okay, let’s get back to the music box. Why did it upset you so much?” Dawson asked softly.

  Veronica hesitated, cupping her empty glass in her hand and swirling the ice cubes around. “My mother gave me a music box that played the song for my seventh birthday. It was a few days before she died. No one knew about it except my grandmother.” Veronica sighed. “And my grandmother is dead.”

  Dawson nodded, his expression unreadable. “What about a housekeeper?”

  “We didn’t have a housekeeper. And the strange thing is that I think it’s the same music box.”

  Dawson drummed his fingers on the table. “What makes you think that?”

  Veronica chewed her lip. “I’d forgotten about it until I saw it. Then my memory came flooding back. It had this little crack in the bottom left corner where I dropped it, but Daddy glued it back together.”

  “And this one has a chip in the same place?”

  “Yes.” Veronica was quiet. “I haven’t seen that box in years. I didn’t even remember it existed, much less know what happened to it years ago.”

  Dawson made a mumbling sound. “Okay, let’s assume someone found it and sent it to you. When your grandmother passed away, maybe she’d kept it with some of her things. Did she leave you anything valuable? Money, property, jewelry?”

  Veronica wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m looking for an angle. I thought if she did, perhaps there’s another family member out there who wants the inheritance, too. It might explain the attack. Has anything like this happened before?”

  “No.” Veronica mulled over the possibilities. “And there wasn’t any other family that I’m aware of. Besides, my grandmother didn’t have much financially. Just a small house, a few personal things. We weren’t wealthy by any means.”

  “What happened to the house?”

  “I sold it,” Veronica said. “I couldn’t stay there without her.”

  Dawson ran a hand through his thick hair. “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt you? Any enemies? Someone who might have a vendetta against you? Co-workers or clients you’ve made angry in the past?”

  Veronica shifted uneasily as Wayne Barrett’s arrogant face flashed before her, his threat echoing in her ears. He had lost two million dollars. Still, she hated to accuse him of trying to hurt her when she had no proof.

  Detective Dawson covered her hand with his. “If you want me to help you, you have to trust me.”

  Veronica’s jaw ached from clenching it. Trust. The seventy-five-million-dollar word. She’d never totally trusted anybody, not even Ron. It had eventually destroyed their relationship.

  “Come on, Veronica. These are routine questions any detective would ask. We can go down to the station to finish this if you’d rather, but I thought you’d feel more comfortable here.”

  “All right,” she began. “In my business, I’ve made a few clients angry, usually by not saving them as much money as they want.”

  “Lost any cases recently? Had to turn anyone in to the IRS?”

  Veronica smiled. “I don’t lose, Mr. Dawson.”

  “Nathan.”

  “What?”

  “If we’re going to be working together, I’d just as soon you call me by my first name.”

  “Is that normal?”

  Nathan grinned. “It is for me.”

  Veronica couldn’t resist a smile. The man could probably charm Uncle Sam out of an audit.

  “I’d like you to get me a list of all your clients. Highlight any who haven’t been pleased with their settlement.”

  Veronica nodded, and glanced up at the waiter. “Would you like to order dinner?” he asked.

  As if on cue, Veronica’s stomach growled. “Sure. I skipped lunch. I’ll have a salad and quiche.”

  “Real men don’t eat quiche,” Nathan muttered. Veronica smothered a laugh. His mouth quirked into a smile as he met her gaze. “You’re beautiful when you smile.” He handed her the bread basket and she blushed. “Bring me the ribs.”

  Veronica laughed again, this time unable to smother the sound. “A real macho man, huh? I suppose you want your meat bleeding?”

  “Sure, it’s juicy and tender that way,” Nathan said with a grin.

  As the waiter placed their orders, Nathan turned back to Veronica. “So you may have a disgruntled client in the wake. How about boyfriends? Any lovers or ex-ones we should worry about?”

  Veronica tensed and tore her roll in half. How in the world could she answer that?

  “Are there, Veronica?” Nathan’s husky voice made her squirm. “Are you involved with anyone I should know about?”

  She slathered butter haphazardly all over her roll. “No,” she said softly. “No one you should know about.”

  THERE WASN’T A MAN in her life. A ridiculous sense of relief filled Nathan. After following Veronica home and making sure her apartment was secure, he headed to the station.

  Veronica’s lack of a boyfriend eliminated the possibility of an ex-lover trying to hurt her, but he had a disturbing feeling that wasn’t the reason he felt relieved. Damn. He couldn’t do this. He could not get involved with her. He could not be suckered in by her big doelike eyes or that lyrical voice of hers. He could not care about Veronica Miller.

  She was just a case. Just a strange, bizarre, fascinating case. And the first person to make him feel really alive since his accident. Since he’d come back to work, he’d mostly stuck to routine investigations. Now, he’d finally been handed something interesting. Only it wasn’t just the case fascinating him. It was the woman herself. She was beautiful and enticing, although quite possibly a mental case.

  But for some reason he believed her.

  He parked at the station, climbed out and hurried to his desk. Ford was perched on top, one leg swinging against the metal frame, his hand around a mug of coffee. Or what the precinct called coffee. It tasted more like bitter chunks of sludge, but it usually did the job—it kept you awake when duty called. And right now, duty had his number.

  “Okay, Ford, what did you find out?” Nathan relaxed into his chair, refusing to let Ford see his irritation. He knew Ford thought he was too young to be a detective, and Nathan intended to prove the man wrong. He also understood Ford’s skepticism about Veronica, and Ford had a right to his doubts. Shoot, even he had doubts.

  Ford pointed to a file on his desk. “Got some background on the Miller woman. She moved here from Fort Lauderdale a couple of months ago. Left a booming practice to branch out on her own.”

  “Any problems with co-workers there?”

  “Naw. Her boss said she was a brilliant attorney. Said she kept to herself, didn’t socialize much. Thought she was a little weird, but didn’t say anything specific.”

  Nathan opened the file. Somehow he felt guilty, as if he was violating Veronica’s privacy. He’d never felt that way before. Investigating people was his job. “Did he know why she decided to leave the practice?”

  Ford slurped his coffee. “No. Her boss seemed shocked, said her announcement came out of the blue. He even offered her a partnership, but she refused.”

  Nathan tapped his fingers on the file. Why had she left such a good position to move back here? To the town where her parents were killed—a place that must hold haunting memories for her? Was she running from someone or something back in Florida?

  “Oh, her secretary did say she thought she was seeing a counselor. Said the move might have had something to do with her boyfriend, too. They had a big fight before she left.”

  Nathan glanced up at Ford.

 
“Said his name was Ron Cox. Sent a return plane ticket to her office the day she left.”

  Nathan swallowed, angry with himself for being so gullible. Veronica had told him there was no man in her life. If she’d lied about having a boyfriend, what else had she hidden?

  VERONICA WAS MESMERIZED momentarily by the opulence of Eli’s mansion. She’d never known anything like it. The three-story Georgian home and estate had been featured in a magazine once, so she knew it had been designed with ornate Ionic columns, imported marble and tile, elaborate decorative moldings, and its extensive gardens featured statues, topiary and fountains. It certainly didn’t look like anyone’s home. Taking a calming breath, she opened her car door, made her way up the cobblestone walkway and rang the brass doorbell. A butler answered.

  “Eli, it’s so good to see you.” Veronica waved to her godfather as he crossed the marble floor of his elegant foyer and approached her. A brilliant smile spread across his face, and Veronica was grateful to see his coloring had improved from the week before.

  Dressed in a tuxedo, starched white ruffled shirt, and shiny Italian shoes, he looked distinguished and evermore the politician as he gracefully executed his way past staunch supporters and fans of his own days as senator.

  “It’s good to see you, dear.” Eli kissed her on the cheek and extended his arm to escort her into the enormous main dining room. A crowd of sleekly dressed guests were chatting and sipping champagne, or nibbling at the array of hors d’oeuvres situated artfully on white linen-covered tables. A massive crystal chandelier sparkled above the candlelit room, and additional silver trays filled with food and drinks were being passed around by waiters dressed in black.

  An uneasy feeling flitted over Veronica as she joined the party. Tension crackled through the air. Hushed murmurs and curious stares met her appearance.

  Someone was watching her. She’d had the same feeling before—twice when she’d gone walking around her apartment complex, and once on the ride to work. She’d considered reporting her fears, but she had no proof. And she knew the police wouldn’t believe her.