“Sure, I do,” she said, trying not to show the tension in her throat.
Mackenzie rubbed her arm and stared at the ice. “Do you remember what you told me that day?”
Primarily that Miranda was her mother. “I…guess I said a lot of things.” That day was horrible. She’d been doing her best to forget it. “What are you getting at, Mackenzie?”
The girl inhaled and put her hand to her lips. “You told me…about my father.”
Miranda sucked in the cold air so hard she thought she might choke. She’d forgotten the little detail that had slipped out when she’d been too angry to think straight. The girl had challenged her. And in trying to keep her safe from untold harm, she’d had a choice of telling Mackenzie her father was a crazed psycho or a rapist.
She’d opted for the truth. Or rather, she’d blurted it out. “I was raped,” she had said.
She’d give anything to have that moment back. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. A lot.”
“I…wish you wouldn’t.” It wasn’t something a young girl should think about at all.
“I’ve been wondering…what it means. I mean, how it’s going to affect me.”
Affect her? Miranda’s mind raced. Mackenzie had been a little snot when she’d first met her.
But the girl was different now. She’d had a real change of heart after coming close to death. Was she worried she’d turn into the nasty little shrew once again? Whether she’d become a criminal herself when she grew up? Disease?
Maybe all of it. But none of that would happen. Miranda knew it in her bones. Her daughter was a good kid. She had been raised by one of the best families in Atlanta. She’d turn out to be a model citizen.
What could she tell her? Memories of a dark snowy alley outside Chicago came back to her. Struggling. The sense of being held down against her will. Her skin meeting the frozen air as her clothes were ripped off of her. The smell of wool and aftershave.
“It’s probably best not to dwell on it,” she blurted out, rubbing her arms against the cold of the ice rink. Not a satisfying answer, she supposed, but avoidance was the only way Miranda could deal with it after all these years.
“You don’t understand. I want you to find him.”
“What?” Miranda gasped. The girl’s words made her feel lightheaded. She must have misheard her.
“You’re a private investigator. I want to hire you to find my father.”
Now Miranda laughed out loud. “I’m a PI, not a magician.”
“So?”
She let out an exasperated breath. “I—I never saw my attacker. He wore a mask that night. I didn’t report it. There’s no record of it.
Mackenzie turned to her, her deep blue eyes moist with tears. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”
Miranda couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have come here today. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. On many levels.”
“I see.”
She watched the girl fight for control. Whether of her temper or her disappointment, Miranda wasn’t sure.
At last she shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how painful for you this would be. I—I wasn’t thinking. I sorry.” And she turned and hurried away to the restrooms.
Miranda didn’t follow her. She wouldn’t know what else to say to her. But she had a feeling if Mackenzie had as much determination about finding her father as she’d had about ice skating, this wouldn’t be the end of it.
When at last Miranda reached the drive of the southern castle in Mockingbird Hills that was now her home, she decided she made a lousy mother. She should have been comforting. She should have soothed Mackenzie’s concerns with some wise, maternal words. The kind that could make even the worst problem seem small.
Trouble was, she didn’t have words like that. Not for her daughter. Not for herself.
She’d have to leave that job to Colby Chatham. But Miranda had a feeling Mackenzie’s adoptive mother wouldn’t be hearing about her desire to find her biological father any time soon.
Better to leave it that way and not get involved. After all, what could Mackenzie do? There was no way to find the man who’d attacked her mother on a dark Chicago street fourteen years ago and caused her conception.
Best to let sleeping rapists lie.
She turned off the car and stared at the shadows of the oak trees dancing across the stone balustrade that bordered the ten-bedroom estate. The Parker mansion had been in the family for generations but it had been Parker’s real estate mogul father who had remodeled the place and turned it into a comfortable dwelling for his family.
And now it was her abode.
She’d always felt it was too much house and too much ritz to suit her. But after her encounter with Mackenzie, it felt like welcoming arms. Maybe that was because of the arms that were waiting for her inside.
Parker’s.
Suddenly eager to feel them around her, she got out of the car and went inside.
The massive entrance hall was quiet as a church, its crystal chandeliers glittering mutely off the mirrors and edges of the classy furniture below and making the marble tile of the floor gleam.
There was no scent of anything yummy being cooked up. She wondered if Parker wanted to dine out tonight when her gaze traveled over the tall oil paintings on the high walls to the ornate mahogany staircase.
Parker appeared at the top, still in the deep blue suit and blood red silk tie he’d worn to work.
He began to descend, the usual debonair saunter in his stride, and she took in the form of the agile body beneath that suit that made her heart race. As he went, he pushed back a stray strand of his neatly styled salt and pepper hair that fell just over his ears. He caught her gaze with his gunmetal gray eyes, and she drank in that to-die-for face that every woman in Atlanta lusted over.
Her heart soared.
How did an ordinary former construction worker who’d never had a lot of money wind up with the likes of him? All she knew was she was the luckiest girl in the world to be married to this man. Not because of his wealth or his impossible good looks or even his unmatched investigative skills.
Because of his heart of gold.
“I was just about to call you,” he said in his low, aristocratic southern accent that was as rich as his bank account. “You left work early.”
“I went to the skating rink.”
“I thought as much.” He could always guess what she was up to.
He reached her, took her in his strong arms.
Relishing the comfort of his embrace, she leaned her forehead against his shoulder and ran her hands up his biceps, drinking in the feel of the expensive fabric of his suit jacket and the well-formed muscles beneath it.
He lifted her chin with a finger and kissed her lips.
She reveled in the touch of his mouth, his heady, masculine scent. An image flashed through her mind of tearing each other’s clothes of and getting it on right there on the marble floor under the bold light of the chandeliers, until he pulled away.
“Are you all right?” His handsome face was creased with concern. He was reading her mind again.
She opened her mouth.
She couldn’t tell him about what Mackenzie had asked her to do. He’d only worry about her and he’d done enough of that lately.
She just shrugged. “You know how teenage girls are.”
The concern on his face relaxed into a smile. “I do.” He’d raised one himself. Or he and his wife had. The wife he’d lost three years before Miranda came along. She knew that loss had almost been the end of him. “I have something to discuss with you.”
“Oh?”
“Let’s talk over dinner.” He took her hand and ushered her toward the hall that led to the kitchen.
“Without even changing?”
He shook his head as his pace picked up. “There won’t be time.”
Chapter Three
They ate in the kitchen at a small round oak table tucked away in the alcove, which they’d been using for awhile instead of the fancy one in the dining room.
Eating here suited them both, and Miranda was glad for the homemade chicken pot pie their cook, Emily, had left them.
Comfort food. Just what she needed tonight.
“So what do you want to talk about?” she asked after downing a savory forkful of the gooey concoction.
Parker took a sip of the coffee he’d opted for over beer or wine as his expression turned pensive. “Late this afternoon I received a call from an old friend of my father’s.”
“Oh?” She wondered what that had to do with them.
“It seems he’s had some serious trouble.”
She reached for her own cup and eyed the dark liquid that smelled as rich as Parker himself. Of course it was that expensive brew he always had imported from St. Helena. She didn’t want to admit she was getting hooked on it. “Go on.”
“He’s the director of a museum and one of its recent acquisitions has been stolen.”
Acquisitions? “Okay.”
“He’d like us to investigate.”
She put her cup down without taking a sip, despite how good it smelled. “A museum case?”
“A friend’s case.”
Uh huh. They’d just started a new venture together, which they’d decided to call simply Parker and Steele Consulting. As an adjunct to the already thriving Parker Investigative Agency, they planned to take on cases anywhere in the world from anyone who’d ask for help. They were supposed to be difficult cases. Cases that had stumped the locals, the cops or even the FBI.
So far they’d only had one case. And just because things got a little dicey at the end, Parker had wanted to put restrictions on the operation.
They’d been arguing about it since they’d gotten back from Vegas. Parker kept using words like “safety” and “precautions” and “defensive measures.” Miranda had interpreted those words as “repression” and “smothering” and “paranoia.”
Okay. She understood where he was coming from, how he felt. He’d suffered losses. Terrible, painful, crushing losses that would bring most men to their knees. He didn’t want to lose her, so he didn’t want her taking “unnecessary risks,” as he called them.
But what was she supposed to do? Stuff herself in a straitjacket and lock herself in a closet?
And what about that dream or vision or whatever it was she’d had in the hospital? She’d seen her life flashing before her, as they say, and her dead brother told her she had a destiny to fulfill.
So now Parker wasn’t going to take on a challenging case that might pose some danger? No, he was going to play it safe and have them hunting down some stupid museum piece.
“Sounds pretty boring,” she said flatly and watched his gray eyes turn dark with flame.
Parker’s grip tightened on the porcelain coffee cup in his hand as he fought back his temper and studied his stubborn wife’s face. The lines in her brow were twisted into knots of anger and her deep blue eyes with their fringe of long black lashes glowed with defiance and seemed to accuse him of being too obtuse for words.
She gave her wild dark hair an irritated flip over her shoulder and despite her attitude, the movement tinged his mood with arousal. Her feistiness always aroused him as much as it infuriated him.
She wore a simple blouse in the dark colors she preferred trimmed with a deep red piping that reflected her bold spirit. The spirit he adored. The spirit he could not live without.
He eyed the spot near her heart where the bullet of a madman had pierced her flesh over eighteen months ago. She was well and strong now. Or so she claimed. But he had almost lost her. He would never take that risk again.
Calmer now, he sat back with a casual air. “Boredom is often in the eye of the beholder.”
Ha. Miranda gritted her teeth and met Parker’s steady, penetrating gaze. Did he think he could pull those suave tricks of persuasion on her? “So what would we be looking for? Some ancient statue of King Tut? Or a painting? Maybe a nude?”
He smiled as if he thought he was making progress. “It’s a dagger.”
Miranda’s brows rose. “You mean something you stab people with?”
“That was its intended use. It’s an ancient Egyptian dagger.”
She ran her tongue over her teeth. “Why would anybody want to steal that?”
“It’s priceless. It was found in Cleopatra’s tomb, which was discovered a few years ago. It’s supposed to be the instrument Marc Antony committed suicide with. You remember the story.”
Antony and Cleopatra? She remembered the movie with Liz Taylor and Richard Burton. She’d seen it on The Late Show at a friend’s house when she was a kid. “Wasn’t Cleopatra the one who killed herself with a snake?”
“An asp, so the legend goes. Her army was defeated by the Romans and she had no other choice.”
What a wimp. Miranda pushed her plate away. “So how would a thief fence a thing like that?”
“Many ways. Black market, Asia, the Middle East.”
It could already be gone without a trace. But criminals always left clues behind. Even the good ones. Maybe this would be a challenging case. Wait a minute. She drummed her fingers on the table. “Where exactly is this museum?”
Parker gave her an I-thought-you’d-never-ask look of triumph. “London.”
She bit back her surprise. “As in London, England?”
“I don’t believe they have a museum with ancient artifacts in London, Minnesota. You have updated your passport, haven’t you?”
She had to think a minute. She vaguely recalled filling out the forms, taking the photos and going to the post office with her friends Coco and Fanuzzi, who were dying of curiosity to know where Parker was taking her. When she told them it was just business, they didn’t buy it. That was a few months ago.
“Yeah, I think everything’s kosher.”
Parker got to his feet and reached for the dishes. “That’s good because I’ve booked us a late flight.”
“We’re leaving tonight?”
“Unless you still think it’s too boring a case and want to stay home.”
She rose, picked up the remainder of the pot pie and strolled over to the counter with it, tempted to toss it in Parker’s face for stringing her along. But he was too dignified for that and besides, she’d only end up licking it off and they’d miss their flight.
She cocked her head thoughtfully. “Well, tracking down a blood-thirsty dagger thief doesn’t sound as exciting as tracking down as a blood-thirsty killer…” she paused to let him stew a bit. “But I supposed I can tag along.”
Parker set the dishes in the sink and stepped up behind her. He pulled back her hair and planted a deep kiss against her neck. “I was hoping you’d see it that way.”
Just as she was sucking in her breath and closing her eyes, he added. “And by the way. This time, I’m in charge.”
Chapter Four
Okay, it was the agreement.
They’d each take turns being in charge and last time she had been lead. If you didn’t count Parker’s pulling rank at the end.
She got it. It was fair. But Parker’s glib announcement still made her grumpy. By the time they’d packed, hurried to the airport, and caught the ten-hour flight to Heathrow, she was in a foul mood.
Dressed ready to go to work as soon as they landed in her dark slacks and jacket, she tossed and turned, if that’s what you called it when you were trying to sleep half-sitting up in an airline seat. The fact that it was first class and reclined a bit didn’t help much, and she ended up with only about three hours of shut-eye.
It seemed more like ten minutes when Miranda felt Parker shift beside her and opened her eyes to discover they were landing—and that she had a massive headache.
“Jet lag?” he asked, gentle concern in his voice.
“Uh,” she grunted as she finger combed her hair
and eyed him up and down.
In his unwrinkled traveling suit, he seemed rested. And he must have snuck off to the restroom already. He was shaved and groomed and as handsome as ever.
How did he get off looking so good? He couldn’t have slept more than she had.
A delicious smell teased her nostrils and a flight attendant handed them both coffee. Miranda grabbed her paper cup and slurped down half of the rich, delicious liquid in one gulp. She was feeling almost human again when she noticed Parker watching her, amusement in his eyes.
“Hmpf.” She turned away with a half smirk and used a finger to lift the blind on the window, feeling a bit like a vampire avoiding the sun. She peered out.
No sun. All she could see was clouds. “Is that real London fog?”
“The genuine article,” Parker grinned.
And they were supposed to slog through that vapor in search of a missing dagger like Sherlock Holmes? A bell dinged and the pilot announced they were on approach for landing.
Miranda buckled her seatbelt. “Who is this client, anyway?”
“Sir Neville Ravensdale.”
“He’s a knight?”
Parker nodded. “He was bestowed the honor a few years ago for his museum work. Cultural advancement.”
She should have known he wouldn’t be a chimneysweep. “And here I thought they only did that for men who slew dragons.”
Parker indulged her with a smile.
“How does Mr. P know him?” Mr. P was Miranda’s nickname for Parker’s father.
“They met decades ago at a London auction. I believe my father was thinking of investing in land here. We sent Sir Neville and his wife an invitation to our wedding.”
“We did?” Parker’s daughter, Gen had handled the guest list.
“He wasn’t able to come. I’m sure he’ll be happy to meet you now.”
“So he already knows we’re married.”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
Letting a client know they were a husband-and-wife team had been a sore spot on their first case. They’d decided not to reveal their marital status to clients in the future. It provoked too many personal questions. But it was too late in this case.
Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) Page 2
