Delaney's Shadow

by Ingrid Weaver

  The interior of his house was a surprise. Apart from some scattered pillars, the ground floor appeared to be all one room. Sunlight poured through long, deep windows and reflected from the wood floors. Two sleek, reddish brown leather sofas stood in front of a stone fireplace that stretched across one wall while floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanked the windows of another. Only the placement of the furniture and a few low cabinets defined the separate areas of use, so it all flowed together, as unimpeded as the sunshine. The effect was airy and inviting. She wouldn’t have expected that, considering how inhospitable John was being.

  Still, no one would be in the mood to socialize less than a day after being struck by a car. It had been more than six months since her own accident, and she hadn’t yet had any desire to resume her social life. Not the one she’d had, anyway.

  Her gaze returned to the fireplace. The painting above was the only one she could see. Even from a distance, it was impressive. Phoebe had called his work intense, and she could understand why. The storm on the canvas seemed poised to stretch past its frame. She would have liked to study it more closely, but he led her in the opposite direction, past a spiral staircase and a door she guessed led to a bathroom until they reached the kitchen area.

  A counter of amber-colored polished stone nestled in the angle between two of the outside walls. It extended beneath a window, where it formed a small bar. A glass half-filled with orange juice rested on the bar in front of a padded stool. She placed the loaf beside it. “You have a lovely home.”

  He grasped the edge of the bar for support and lowered himself to sit on the stool. It was the first sign he gave that his injuries affected him. The pain that clouded his gaze was quickly extinguished. “You’ve been here before,” he said.

  “What? No, I—”

  “Out there,” he said, nodding out the window. It overlooked the deck, giving a clear view of the embankment and the trees beyond it. “You were on the old track bed last week. I saw you from my studio upstairs.”

  She took a few moments to unwrap the loaf. Great. He’d seen her spying on him. Added to the way he’d caught her staring at him yesterday, was it any wonder he’d hesitated to let her inside? “Yes, I was going for a walk when I noticed this house.”

  He studied her again, as if he were waiting for her to say more.

  “I used to work in real estate, and I can appreciate the craftsmanship that went into this home. The design is unique.”

  “Should be. I built it.”

  “Really? I should have recognized it had an artist’s touch. It’s beautiful, especially the interior. Walking inside is like taking a deep breath.”

  “Why didn’t you come in last week?”

  “What?”

  “You knew who I was then, didn’t you?”

  “I, uh, wouldn’t presume—”

  “Or is that why you didn’t come in, because you did know who I was?”

  There was a challenge beneath his words. She wasn’t sure how to respond. “I, uh, couldn’t. I was meeting someone later.”

  His jaw flexed. This time she was almost certain he was suppressing a smile.

  “I’d better get busy,” she said. “Would you like something besides that banana bread? Do you have any eggs? I make a mean omelet.”

  “What you brought is plenty. You’ll share it, right?”

  “Thanks. Where do you keep your coffee?”

  The question was unnecessary. The cabinets that ranged along the wall above the counter were glass-fronted. She got the coffee started, found a cutting board, and took one of the knives from a wooden holder to slice the banana bread. She took out some plates and reached back into the cupboard for the mugs.

  They were plain white crockery, exactly like the one she had seen Max hold.

  Her hand jerked. She fumbled with the mugs to keep them from dropping, then set them on the counter and looked at John.

  Raw hunger flashed in his gaze. It was veiled so fast she suspected she must have imagined it in the first place.

  “You mentioned you’ve been in hospitals,” he said. “What happened?”

  “I was in an accident last winter. It seems as if I haven’t had good luck where cars are concerned. I’m really sorry that you got hurt.”

  “I’m a free man. What I did was my choice.”

  “Well, it was very selfless. You . . .” She halted, struck by a detail she hadn’t considered before. “You asked me how my hands were.”

  “What?”

  “When you first woke up. Why would you ask me about my hands? How did you know they were my main concern?”

  “You just said you knew what it was like to be without the use of your hands.”

  “That was today. How did you know yesterday?”

  “You had your arms on the rail of my bed. I saw what looked like skin grafts over your knuckles.”

  She glanced down. The lines had faded substantially in the last few weeks and were barely visible. “You’re very observant.”

  “I’m an artist. I notice things.”

  “Oh.”

  “How else would I know? We’d only just met.”

  How else? Max knew. She’d told him all about it the same morning she’d seen him use that coffee mug . . . but that was crazy.

  John broke off a chunk from a piece of banana bread and popped it in his mouth. His eyes half closed as his expression softened with pleasure.

  It was exactly how Max looked whenever he cupped her breasts.

  But he couldn’t be Max. In addition to the whole impossibility of having a psychic bond with a total stranger, the idea made no sense. Because if for some reason she could wrap her head around the notion that Max was real, why would he pretend not to know her?

  “This stuff’s good.” He licked a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Ever thought of going professional?”

  “Funny you should mention that. It was one of my earliest career ambitions.” She filled the mugs—the plain, white crockery mugs that were probably sold by the thousands—with coffee and slid one along the counter toward him. She didn’t bother looking for cream or sugar, because Max drank his coffee black. Evidently John did, too, since he accepted it without hesitation. Keeping her gaze on his face, she pulled a second stool from beneath the bar and sat. “You remind me of someone,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “A friend of mine. We were children together.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “We lost touch for years, but I met him again recently.”

  He ate another chunk of banana bread.

  “We’re very close.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yes, it is good. Everyone should have a friend they can rely on and be totally honest with. Did you ever have anyone like that, John?”

  “Sure, and then I grew up.” He hooked his finger through the handle of the coffee mug. “Was that who you were thinking of when you smiled at me?”

  “When?”

  “In the arts and crafts tent yesterday. You damn near singed my toes.”

  “I, uh . . .”

  “I figure there had to be more behind that smile than just recognizing me from my picture.”

  “That’s right. That’s what happened. I was thinking of him.”

  “Lucky guy. Where is he?”

  “I wish I knew. He comes and goes.”

  “Some men are like that.” He shifted on the stool, hooking his heel over a rung. His knee bumped her leg. “Did you know that I followed you?”

  Her leg tingled from the glancing contact. She thought of rain and the feel of his mouth on her skin. “Uh, followed me?”

  “To the parking lot.”

  His admission didn’t surprise her. On some level, she must have realized it. How else would he have gotten to her side in time to save her? “Why?”

  “It’s what any man would do when a beautiful woman gave him a smile like the one you gave me. Too bad I hadn’t known it was for someone else.”

  He�
��d called her beautiful. He wouldn’t if he knew what was under her clothes.

  Yet he was regarding her as if he knew exactly what her blouse concealed. She could almost imagine the sensation of his fingers slipping beneath the cotton to stroke across her skin.

  This time she was the one who shifted on her stool. She pressed her knees together and smoothed her skirt over her thighs. “Well, I’m fortunate you were there, whatever the reason. You risked your life to save mine. Detective Toffelmire should be recommending you for a citizen’s award.”

  He laughed. It was short and sharp and entirely without humor. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Why are you dismissing what you did?”

  “Have you talked to Toffelmire today?”

  “No, not yet, but I already told him everything at the hospital.”

  “Did he warn you about me?”

  “No. Why should he?”

  “I gave him that nose.”

  “It must have been a long time ago.”

  “He’s got a long memory. What about your grandmother? She told you about me, right?”

  “I won’t lie and pretend I haven’t heard about the troubles in your past, John. Willowbank’s a small town.”

  “Troubles, huh?” His lip curled. “Never heard it put like that before. Then you know I’ve been to prison.”

  “Yes, but we all make mistakes. I wouldn’t presume to pass judgment on anyone.”

  “You should listen to what they say. Just because I’ve got one arm in a sling doesn’t mean I’m harmless.”

  “Are you deliberately trying to make me uncomfortable?”

  “Is that what you feel, Delaney?”

  She choked down a wild laugh. Her mind spun with confusion while her body was humming with a purely physical reaction to his proximity. No, having one arm in a sling didn’t put a dent in his appeal. He radiated virility. Discomfort was the least of the feelings that were rolling around inside her. She stood. “You must be tired. I’ve intruded long enough.”

  He reached for her wrist. The movement didn’t alarm her because it seemed perfectly natural. He paused a scant inch before he made contact and frowned at his outstretched fingers. A second passed. Then two. The air between them warmed. The edges of her vision began to shimmer.

  She locked her knees to keep from swaying toward him. She remembered stroking his chest and fitting her hands to the curves of his biceps . . . “I’d better go,” she murmured.

  “Yeah.” His voice tingled across her skin like an extension of the touch that hadn’t happened. He lifted his gaze to hers. “Maybe you better.”

  It was more than hunger that flashed in his eyes this time; it was yearning. Despite his beard stubble, despite his harsh features and the strength that was so obvious in the set of his shoulders and his outstretched hand, for an instant she saw a lost boy, searching for a home.

  Or was that her imagination, too? She bit her lip. Max? For God’s sake, if that’s you, why don’t you answer me?

  The shutters came down on John’s gaze even faster this time. The child disappeared. He closed his fingers into his palm and dropped his hand. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “Thanks for saving my life.”

  “Anytime.”

  TWENTY

  THE WHINE OF ELECTRIC SAWS REACHED HER THE MOMENT Elizabeth stepped off the elevator. She headed for the noise. “What’s the repair estimate?”

  Alan fell into step beside her. “I can’t give you a dollar number until we determine the source of the leak.”

  “The water should have been shut off immediately. That would have confined the damage to the twentieth floor.”

  “There was a miscommunication. The drywallers had been backed up waiting for the plumbers to finish. We had to bring in a new crew over the weekend to keep to the schedule Tirza set.”

  “And the new crew didn’t understand how to turn off a valve?”

  “They were working on the eighteenth. They weren’t aware of the problem on the twentieth until the water seeped through.”

  “Need I remind you these units have to be finished by the end of the month, Alan? The ads have been booked. The sales team is already taking advance offers. The success of this condominium project is crucial to the smooth transition of the company.”

  “I’m aware of that, Elizabeth.”

  The noise of the saw cut off. She pulled in front of him in order to move around a series of crates. More plumbing fixtures waiting to be installed. She stepped through the roughed-in doorway of what was slated to become one of the model suites and came to a dead stop.

  The destruction was worse than she’d anticipated. Large pools of water dotted the floor. The hardwood hadn’t yet been sealed and was visibly buckling. Huge holes had been cut into the drywall to reveal lines of copper piping. Two men were shining flashlights into the holes as the remainder of the crew stood gawking with their hands in their pockets.

  She strove to hang on to her temper. “Alan, perhaps you could find something else to keep these men busy.”

  He stepped around the water and crossed the floor to issue orders, sending half the crew to one of the other floors and putting the rest on cleanup. By the time they dispersed, one of the plumbers had pinpointed the source of the water.

  “A join between two pipes was improperly soldered,” Alan told her when he returned. “I’d say it was a result of this schedule.”

  “It is a result of shoddy workmanship and lack of supervision.”

  “It was Tirza’s weekend to babysit. The men don’t like her pushing so hard. If you ask me, she’s part of the problem.”

  Before Elizabeth could respond, she spotted the site foreman in the doorway. He was pointing her out to a middle-aged, balding man in a shoddy sport coat. Like Alan and her, the man wore a white visitor’s hard hat. He moved purposefully across the floor. “Miss Elizabeth Graye?” he asked as he neared.

  Judging by his attire, he wasn’t a banker or a buyer—his crooked nose lent him the appearance of a thug—but since the foreman had escorted him up, he must have a valid reason for seeking her. She gave him a gracious but I’m-very-busy smile. “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Toffelmire of the Willowbank police.” He held out his credentials. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  It took her an instant to change mental gears. The condo project, the delay, the consequences of failing to bring in the job on budget withdrew from her mind like a receding wave, leaving a hollowness in its wake. How had Delaney known?

  But she could ride this out. They had no proof of anything, she reminded herself. She excused herself from Alan and guided the policeman back through the doorway. “I’m afraid we’re in the midst of a crisis here, so I can only spare you a few minutes. You’re from Willowbank, you said?”

  “That’s correct. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Only so far as my late father’s wife came from Willowbank.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with Delaney Graye?”

  The corridor was empty of people. Once she passed the crates of plumbing fixtures, she stopped and turned to face him. “I don’t think either of us wants to waste time, Detective, so I won’t do so. It’s no secret that I never approved of my father’s marriage to that woman. She was the trophy wife of an aging, extremely wealthy man. She has inherited his entire estate. The situation is intolerable.”

  “I understand you’re currently suing her for his wrongful death.”

  “That’s correct. And if you know that, then you also must know that her lawyer has just retaliated by filing a restraining order against me in the most vindictive way possible.”

  “Mrs. Graye received some disturbing material in the mail several days ago. Would you know anything about that?”

  She kept her gaze steady on his, aware he was likely paying more attention to her body language than to her words. She shouldn’t have brought up the restraining order. The thought of it enraged her. “I have no idea wh
at you’re talking about.”

  “Photographs, Miss Graye. Very graphic ones of your late father taken at the accident scene.”

  Bile rose in her throat. She restrained herself from swallowing because he would be sure to see it. “That’s shocking, but I fail to see how it concerns me. Now, if you don’t mind, I have other matters that really can’t wait.”

  “Just a few more routine questions, Miss Graye. You own a black Mercedes sedan, is that correct?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Did you drive it here today?”

  “No, it’s at the repair shop.”

  “Mechanical problems?

  “It was damaged at a parking garage last week. Apparently some skateboarder ran into it.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I usually use the company car and driver when I’m on business.”

  “Would you mind if I took a look at your car?”

  “For what reason?”

  “I’d rather you agree voluntarily, but if you refuse to cooperate, I can get a court order.”

  “Then I’m afraid that’s what you’ll need to do, Detective. That’s not being uncooperative; that’s being prudent. It seems as if you’re accusing me of something.”

  “Where were you on Sunday afternoon between four and six?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is there some reason you don’t want to answer the question?”

  “I was at home.”

  “Here in Manhattan?”

  “Yes, at my apartment.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  A bead of sweat trickled from her armpit and over her ribs. She had no cause to feel guilty. Her crime was negligible compared to what Delaney had done. She strove to keep her face expressionless. “Perhaps it’s time for me to call my lawyer.”

  “Miss Graye was with me.”

  Elizabeth started at the sound of Alan’s voice. She hadn’t heard him approach.

  He moved to her side and thrust his right hand toward Toffelmire. “Alan Rashotte,” he said. “I’m Miss Graye’s fiancé.”