by Casey Dawes
She seemed to wake from her daze and looked at the tray. Tentatively, she stuck the carrot in the dip. Once she tasted it, the smile he’d been waiting for broke across her face.
“Wow!”
He returned her grin.
“If dinner is this good, I’ll have to seriously reconsider marrying again.” Her face lost the slack-jaw look, and the light of determination returned to her eyes.
He sat beside her and showed her the list.
“Grace looks like she’s been here from the beginning.” Findlay chuckled. “Larger woman, gray, curly hair, and a fondness for crocheted vests, especially around the holidays, it appears.”
“I didn’t think anyone wore those anymore.”
“There’s a few. Witches and cats at Halloween. Now the turkeys and Pilgrims are coming out. I can’t wait for Christmas. I hear some of them have flashing lights.”
“Good grief.”
“The decorations in their cubes are epic.”
“I can see I have to tour my own company more.” He loaded a plate for himself.
“I thought Wayne had been in from the beginning, too,” she said, picking up another carrot stick. “I seem to remember him from some picnic or other.”
Reese searched his memory. He couldn’t picture a young Wayne in his mind, but he had a feeling she was right.
“There’s a lot of people here. Yes, there’s John Potter. He’s my team lead. Good guy. I think we can eliminate those still in the factory.”
“Yeah. I thought that, too.” He dipped the celery and popped it in his mouth. His attention was immediately riveted by the creamy mixture, a hint of a bite and an underlying richness only heavy cream could bring. “You’ll have to come to Paris with me someday.”
She sighed.
“That may have been possible once, but now . . . ” She splayed her hands.
“Kelly Anne can come with us.”
“Into all those lights, cars driving this way and that, a language she doesn’t understand, all those people? I don’t think so.”
“We can stay in the residential district, where my friends live. We’ll bring your mother. Instant babysitter.”
“I’m sure she’d be thrilled.”
“Oh, come on. She’ll be fine.” Once she got over the idea of knives in his gut.
He touched Findlay’s cheek and guided her head so she had to look at him. “A good life will be possible again. I promise.” He sealed the statement with a kiss.
No response this time. What had he said?
She pulled away, grabbed a handful of celery sticks, and began to chew them down like a rabbit who’d found a patch of especially delectable morsels.
This is when he always pulled away in negotiations—when getting the other person to agree with him seemed too hard.
Not this time.
He stared at the list again. There were only five people who worked in technology. With a little digging, he could find out about most of them from their personnel files. Maybe if he tackled his mother again, she’d give him some insight.
He’d prove to Findlay, and his father, he could make things right again.
“Why isn’t Brian Moore’s name on that list?” Findlay asked.
“You don’t think . . . ?”
“I do.” Her eyes were defiant. “He had as much chance to frame my father as anyone else.”
“But he’s not at the company now.”
“He still has control. You may think you do, but men like him never truly give up.”
She bit off another shred of celery and continued to glare.
She had a point.
“Fine.” He snatched up the list and added his father’s name. After a second, he glanced at her and wrote down, Frank/Findlay?
“What?” She stood up. “I thought you were trying to help me, not railroad me. I knew this was a bad idea. Where’s my coat?”
“Simmer down.” He stood up and placed his hands on her arms.
She shook them off.
“Look,” he said. “If you want to look at possibilities, we have to include them all.”
“My father’s dead, if you haven’t noticed. And you’re supposed to believe in me.”
“I do believe in you.” How could he explain? “Don’t run away. Face this.”
“I am.”
“Sit down.” He pointed to the couch.
She fidgeted for a few seconds then sat.
“You’ve said yourself that there is a possibility your father was guilty.”
“But I don’t actually believe it! Mom and I have been dirt poor all these years. Don’t you think if Dad had taken the money, we’d have spent it?”
“I don’t really believe he’s guilty either. But neither is my father.” He blew out a breath. “Look, how about we remove them both from the list?” He picked up the paper again.
“Okay.”
He made a great show of crossing them off before glancing up at the clock.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said. “Staying?”
“For now.”
“You sure can be difficult.”
“I do my best,” she said with a small grin.
There she was—his girl.
Except she wasn’t a girl anymore. She was all woman.
Chapter 14
Each bite of the coq au vin dynamited flavors into Findlay’s mouth. Sensations like this didn’t occur in her ordinary life—it was an ecstasy of the senses.
Could she get him to cook like this every night?
“I’ll help you clean,” she said as they surveyed the sauce-covered remains at the end of the meal, even though she was unsure if movement was possible.
He shook his head. “Guests don’t clean. Besides, we have things to discuss.”
“Clear then?”
He looked at the two plates in his hands. “Not much use. Take your wine and sit in the living room. I’ll be there in a moment.”
Instead of sitting, she took her time examining the space. Definitely a French influence, although the furniture didn’t quite fit. Quality prints of Parisian and French country scenes were simply framed and arranged on the forest green walls. She stopped in front of one with bright-hued flowers, her mood lightening simply by the sight of it.
“Matisse?” she asked when he came into the room. “Original?”
“Yes. A print he made. So not unique. But it makes me happy.”
“Me, too.” They smiled at each other.
“So, how do we handle the ‘mystery of the missing funds’?” he asked, putting air quotes around the fake title.
She held up an imaginary magnifying glass. “We must search for ze cluz.” Her French accent was so miserable, she cringed.
He laughed.
“Mais oui!” He took her hand and led her back to the dining room table where he’d laid out the list and some legal pads. “Let’s write down what we know of each person—both their character and the opportunity they may have had for each problem. Then we’ll figure out what we need to fill in.”
A half hour later they had a few bits of sketchy information; that was it.
They hadn’t discovered anything new about Sam or Wayne. Other than her crocheted vests, they had next to nothing on Grace. The HR director was great for HR, but not as a master criminal.
Discouragement slumped her shoulders.
There was one more name on the list: Roger Rosentreader.
“I remember my dad talking about him,” she said excitedly. “And I think there was a journal entry where he was mentioned.”
“Do you remember what it said?”
She mentally flipped through notebook’s pages.
“No. It didn’t seem significant at the time, but I think Roger was a favorite of both our dads—smart, but quirky.”
“That’s okay. You can check later. He’s a long shot anyway. He works on the operations systems.”
His smile faded, and the corners of his lips drooped down.
“What?”
she asked, putting her hand on his.
“I don’t know. They were all so in sync back then. It’s like an evil spirit invaded their tight little group. My father isn’t the easiest person to love, but he went downhill after your dad . . . um . . . died. He’d always been physically fit, walking all over the plant, talking to people. Now . . . well, I can’t say he didn’t bring his health issues on himself. He’s overweight, sedentary, and he drinks too much. The picture of a really unhappy man.”
“I’m sorry. That’s got to be hard.” She hesitated a moment. “Especially since you already had your life back in Paris. You must miss it terribly. Will you go back when your dad is ready to take over the reins again?”
“No, that’s in the past. When I left, I left for good.”
A tension she didn’t know she was holding released from her shoulders.
He looked up at her, his green eyes earnest. “I meant it when I said I wanted to take you there. It’s a beautiful city—perhaps the most beautiful in the world. But Montana is home.” He took her hand. “I want a second chance with you—a chance to show you how good a relationship can be.”
Could their old love be revived? And did he want it for her? Or for himself?
And what did she know about relationships? What had she felt for Chris? Why had she ever married him?
It was something she needed to examine before getting any closer to Reese. He was a naive teenager’s dream of a prince; now he was asking her to see him as a real person, the good, the bad, and the socks on the floor.
Would she live up to his expectations? How would he cope with Kelly Anne on a day-to-day basis?
“That would be nice,” she said, “but a relationship with anybody is a long way away for me. My first priority is Kelly Anne.”
“Is it? Can’t you have both?”
Her breath caught in her throat. If only . . .
The promise in his eyes tempted her.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said. “If you need me to support you in any way, if you need more help with Kelly Anne or someone to come with you . . . ”
He would be there for her—walk beside her as she dealt with her problems. A warm glow infused her body. Was that what it felt like? True love? Not romantic love or lust, but the stuff that could last a lifetime?
But walking beside her didn’t mean doing it for her. In order for this partnership, for any partnership, to work, she needed to stand on her own two feet. That had been the biggest problem with Chris. He wouldn’t let her be a fully formed human.
“Thank you. I have to fight my battles myself. I will win against Chris. I have to believe that, just like I have to believe my father was innocent. I’ll prove it.”
“We’ll prove it.” His hand remained steady on hers.
“Okay. We’ll prove it. But knowing you’re by my side, supporting me? That means the world.”
“Good.” He pulled her closer, his gaze never leaving her eyes. “Next weekend we’ll take Kelly Anne somewhere. But for now . . . ” He lowered his mouth to hers and caressed her lips, softly, then more demanding.
A flame of fear flared up before she suppressed it. This was Reese. The kiss was simple, not a chip in a bargain she wasn’t even aware she was making. She could trust him, let him closer.
She opened her mouth and swept her tongue against his lips, scraping against the bristle of late-day stubble. The sheer maleness of it intensified her desire, and she curled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.
Their tongues intertwined with promise, and his thigh pressed against hers.
Too soon. The brakes went on.
“Sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to . . . it’s just not time yet.”
“Yeah.” His smile lessened her fear. “We should date a little first.”
She grinned at him. “Probably.”
“Good. Our first date is to go running again. Saturday.”
“But . . . ”
“Time to fish or cut bait, Callahan.”
She grinned at the old phrase. “Okay.”
“But make no mistake. When the time is right, we are going to make love and it will be like nothing you’ve ever experienced.”
Crap. What had she agreed to do?
• • •
Findlay picked up the journal she’d been reading and curled up in the rocking chair in her room.
Locating the part about Roger Rosentreader, she laughed at her father’s description of the wired young man with red hair and bushy beard. Looks had been deceiving. The man was a Stanford-educated engineer with several published papers on the future of manufacturing by machines.
The only other mention of significance was a note on Deborah Forrester, the bookkeeper. For some reason, her father hadn’t trusted her. Nothing he could put his finger on, according to the journal, just a bad feeling. Sam had hired her over his objections.
Findlay made a few more notes on her pad.
Interesting. The more they learned, the more Deborah seemed like a pivotal source. What had happened to her? Reese had told her his mother mentioned she’d gone to Arizona. How involved had she been before she left? Could they find out more? Findlay made another note. Might be worthwhile to do an Internet search.
Had there been more than one person involved back then? It was possible. One person beyond reproach—one person who was . . . expendable.
“Don’t you think you’ve looked through enough of these?” her mother said from behind her. “It’s the past. Over. Done with. You can’t change it.”
So far she hadn’t said a word to her mother about current events. Maybe it was time to do that.
Findlay clicked off the light and closed the door.
“There’s something I have to tell you, Mom.”
A crease crossed her mother’s forehead.
After pouring a glass of water, she sat at the kitchen table, her mother following suit. Once her mother was settled, Findlay told her about the incidents that had happened at work and why it looked to others as if she might be involved.
Mom sat there in stunned silence, the skin on her face loosening with each word.
“I’m sorry, Mom, I didn’t want to tell you this.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Findlay shook her head. “But I don’t know how to prove it.”
“So that’s why you’re searching through the books.”
“Yes.”
“Find anything yet?”
“A few odd things. Do you remember Roger Rosentreader?”
“Roger!” A smile lit up her mother’s face. “I haven’t thought about him in years. He was quite a character. Your dad used to invite him and his wife over for barbecue. Roger was a delight—his wife was a little odd though. Had a fondness for hamburgers stuffed with a cream cheese slab.” She shuddered. “Is he still there?”
“Yep.”
“You don’t think . . . ?” Her mother put her water glass on the table. “Not Roger. While he has the intellect to pull this off, he wouldn’t be able to keep quiet about it. He’s one of those people with no filters.”
“We still have to look into it, though.” Findlay put a question mark next to Roger’s name.
“I suppose. But it’s not Roger. Anyone else?”
“The bookkeeper. Her name was Deborah. Dad didn’t trust her.”
Mom looked at the ceiling and chewed on her lips, a surprisingly girlish gesture.
Somehow she’d never thought of her mother as anything but old.
Would Kelly Anne think of her that way someday?
“Nope,” her mother finally said. “I remember Sally hired a bookkeeper, but I can’t say I remember much about her.”
“Oh.” Findlay traced her finger around the rim of the glass.
“As Sam gained more say in the company, your dad kind of faded into the background. Odd, because Frank was the one responsible for making sure the metal met the requirements for the cu
stomer—no customers, no money coming in. But Brian was always sure he alone was right, and as the company made money, he became a little too full of himself, I thought. Your father wouldn’t hear of it, but that’s how he was, loyal to a fault.”
Her mother’s green eyes were bright, but her smile had a whimsical quality to it.
She must still miss him.
“Is Reese helping?” Mom asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. He’s a good boy. He was just young back then. I’ve been too hard on him. He’s certainly stepping up now. Shame that Brian forced you two apart. Your father should have stood up for you. I wish he would have stood up for a lot of things.”
Her mother got up and put the glass on the counter. She leaned against it, appearing to stare out through the kitchen window at the blackness of the night sky.
“Why did Dad give up so easily?”
Her mother turned. A tear slipped down her cheek.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I begged him not to. I wanted him to fight to the bitter end. But when Brian believed what Sam told him—that your father had to have stolen the money—his old friend’s lack of loyalty crushed him. Frank had given everything to the partnership, including Sally . . . but you already know that, don’t you?” Her mother’s glance made Findlay nod. “Anyway, he gave it all to be able to create something they’d both be proud of. They’d known each other since they were in high school. They’d put all the angst of Sally’s changing men behind them. But here was this interloper telling lies. And . . . ” Her voice choked. “Worse, his best friend believed them.”
The anguish in her mother’s voice washed over her like a rogue wave on a peaceful beach.
“Do you think Sam could have been the one responsible for the thefts?” she asked.
Her mother started.
“I mean, he was in charge of the financial department—still is. He could have done it then, and he could be doing it now.”
Her mom turned back to face her.
“I don’t know. Maybe. He was a cold fish, only interested in money, and he lied about Frank’s involvement, but did he do it to protect himself? He could have, I suppose, but I always thought it was because the money was the most important thing in his life.”
Sam was the one with the most to gain.
“It has to be him,” Findlay said.
