by Julie Miller
The broad-shouldered detective with the stubbled jaw and wrinkled shirt was as different from Richard’s suit and tie and courtly charm as a man could be. He was right to keep his eyes hidden behind the mask of those sunglasses. On first glimpse, those deep blue irises had been full of ghosts and despair. But upon a closer look, a quick shift in attitude revealed a frightening sort of defiance—as though some great pain was crushing in on him before he summoned his considerable strength or pure cussedness or both and crushed it, instead.
He’d grabbed her, sworn his frustration with a vast vocabulary of objectionable words, accused her of lying, gossiped with the neighbors about her, made friends with her dogs and then invaded her personal space and gone vulgar and insulting again. He couldn’t be more unsuited to her guarded sensibilities.
But it wasn’t the lack of manners or even the not-so-subtle doubts about her innocence that stuck with her an hour after he’d driven away.
She’d forgotten how warm a man could be.
The heat of the summer sun on his skin mixed with temper and muscle—Max Krolikowski didn’t have to touch her for her to be aware of the furnace of heat that man could generate. Yet he had touched her, singeing her skin with his abundant warmth. Rosemary wiggled her fingers around the strap of her purse, remembering the shock of his rough hand sliding over her arm. No man who wasn’t her brother—she sneaked a glance up at Howard—or a brotherly type, had touched her since long before Richard’s death. Frissons of white-hot electricity had danced across her skin beneath the sweep of the detective’s hand. She’d reacted to his touch.
And then she’d touched him. Her hand had encountered a wall of warm, immovable muscle when she’d pushed against his chest. For a split second, her fear and fortitude had given way to a reaction that was purely female. Surprisingly aware. Completely out of character for her now.
She remembered closeness. Wanting. She remembered she was a woman.
Rosemary twisted her neck from side to side in discomfort, feeling as if the cold steel walls of this elevator were closing in on her. Why would her hormones suddenly awaken and respond to an ill-mannered beast like Max Krolikowski? Did she have no sense when it came to men? She’d never had a thing for bad boys before. Of course, she hadn’t had the chance to have much of a thing for any man. But wasn’t rule one that she needed to feel safe? Could it be that six years of isolating herself in order to recapture control over her own life had left her so lonely that any man barging past those meticulously erected barriers was bound to trigger a reaction?
It was all very unsettling. Max Krolikowski was unsettling. Knowing she was still thinking about him, wary of him, curious about him, wondering why Trixie and Duchess had taken to him so readily, was messing with her carefully structured, predictable world.
“We’re here.” The elevator dipped as it came to a stop, startling her from her thoughts as much as Howard’s interruption had. But by the time the doors slid open, Rosemary had her chin and armor back in place. She arched her back away from the brush of Howard’s hand there, hugged her purse to her side and hurried on out the door.
Rosemary stepped out into the cold, modern decor of the Raynard Building’s top floor into the Bratcher, Austin & Cole, Attorneys-at-Law, reception area. Before she reached the granite-topped reception counter, Howard wrapped his fingers around her elbow and pulled her to a stop so he could whisper against her ear. “I thought, perhaps, you’d let me take you to lunch afterward.”
She didn’t immediately process that he’d asked her out on another date, because her mind was too busy comparing the light, cool clasp of his fingers to the purposeful heat of Max Krolikowski’s grasp.
Really? She groaned inwardly. Although she couldn’t say if her dismay stemmed from her unwanted obsession with the bullying detective or Howard’s puppylike determination to turn their relationship into something more than a friendship. How many ways could she say no without hurting his feelings?
Pulling away, she offered him a wry smile. “I don’t think that will work today. I’ve got so much to do at home. There’s still a ton of Mom and Dad’s stuff to go through.”
Howard’s smile dimmed. “I understand. Rain check?”
An office door clicked shut at the north end of the hallway and a woman’s shrill voice bounced off the sterile walls. “What’s she doing here?”
Rosemary’s day went from bad to rotten as she turned to face Charleen Grimes. It was impossible not to feel like a frump in the face of the blonde woman’s artful makeup and thoroughbred legs. It was impossible not to feel the resentment licking through her veins, either. “Howard is my attorney. Why are you here?”
“You don’t have to engage her, Rosemary.” Howard put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his side. This time, she didn’t pull away. Nothing like a run-in with her dead fiancé’s mistress to sap her strength. “Charleen, what are you doing here?” he demanded with courtroom-like authority. “I thought I made it clear you needed to find different representation.”
“You mean besides your brother? I did. I just had an appointment with Mr. Austin.” Charleen sauntered across the gray carpet, bringing a cloud of expensive perfume and vitriol Rosemary’s way. “You’re the one who’s got a lot of nerve, showing your face here. I loved Richard. Why couldn’t you just let him go?”
After his first attack, Rosemary had been in shock. But after the second time, when he’d twisted her arm so violently it snapped, she’d been more than willing to push Richard Bratcher out of her life. “I told Richard it was over between us. The two of you could have been together. With my blessing.”
“Liar.”
Rosemary’s shoulders pushed against Howard’s arm as indignation kicked in. How many people were going to accuse her of that today?
“He pitied you. He said you needed him too much to ever leave you.”
What he hadn’t wanted to leave was her money. He’d made it clear that he would continue to have Charleen or whomever he pleased in his bed after their marriage because no uptight, inexperienced, overworked mouse like her would ever be able to satisfy a man’s appetite. And if Richard’s words weren’t cruel enough, the slap across the face had been. She’d pulled off his ring and held it out to him. But he’d twisted her arm and the nightmare started.
Rosemary gritted her teeth, blanking the memory of running for her life yet not being able to escape her own home or Richard’s torture until he’d run out of cigarettes and had gone for more. “I don’t know what to say, Ms. Grimes. Clearly, you’re still grieving.”
“Grieving? I’m mad because he’s dead, and it’s your fault.”
Apparently, Richard hadn’t treated his mistresses like the punching bag she’d been. Rosemary’s love for him had died long ago. Why hadn’t Charleen’s? “It’s been six years.”
“Feels like yesterday to me. Maybe because two detectives—Watson and Parker—came to my boutique this morning and asked me questions about Richard’s death. That’s why I’m here—to alert my attorney.” Charleen towered over Rosemary with her three-inch heels and movie-star figure. She used that height to her advantage to sneer down her nose at Rosemary. “But I told them who I suspected.”
“That’s enough, Charleen.” Howard removed his arm to clasp Rosemary’s shoulders with both hands and turn her to face him. “Is that true? Has KCPD started a new investigation?”
Rosemary shrugged out of his grip. “Why are you asking me?”
The tall blonde laughed. “Because he thinks you did it, too.”
“Suzy.” Howard snapped his fingers at the receptionist gaping behind her desk. “Escort Ms. Grimes back into Mr. Austin’s office.”
“But Mr. Austin has a client with—”
“Get her out of here!”
“Yes, sir.” The dark-haired receptionist hurried around the stainless counter. “Ms. Grimes, m
ay I take you to the lounge and get you some tea or coffee?”
Rosemary had flinched at Howard’s raised voice, but Charleen seemed amused by his anger. “Your brother would never speak to me like that.”
“My little brother did a lot of things I didn’t approve of.” Howard moved his tall body in front of Rosemary, blocking her view of the other woman. “If you want to continue to be a client of this firm, I suggest you learn how to keep your mouth shut and behave like a lady.”
“Like boring little Miss March?”
“Do you understand what slander charges are, Charleen? I won’t have you accusing Rosemary of something she didn’t do.”
Rosemary heard a snort of derision. “How do you know she didn’t kill Richard?”
Howard’s shoulders lifted with a deep breath as Charleen followed the receptionist down the long hallway to the other attorney’s office suite. With a hand at Rosemary’s back, he escorted her in the opposite direction. Once he closed the door to his inner office behind him, he tried to take Rosemary into his arms. “I’m so sorry the two of you had to run into each other.”
But comfort was the last thing she wanted, especially with her temper brewing in her veins. She pushed away from his hug and circled around his desk to look out at the Kansas City skyline. Maybe the world was more normal outside that window. “Six years. I thought...” She crossed her arms in front of her as a shiver ran down her spine. “It was foolish to hope the nightmare of your brother was all behind me. I guess people won’t leave me alone until his murder is solved and the real killer is in prison.”
Howard shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, coming up behind her. “Did the police question you about Richard?”
Rosemary nodded. “Two detectives came to see me this morning, too.”
“You should have called me right away. I don’t want you talking to the police without me present.”
When his hands settled on her shoulders again, Rosemary moved away. “Why? I didn’t kill him. I don’t have anything to hide.” Although she hadn’t really answered any of Detective Krolikowski or Dixon’s questions once she realized they weren’t responding to her complaint about the harassing calls and ugly threat. She stopped her furious pacing and inhaled a calming breath. It was wrong to take her frustration out on her friend. “I’m sorry, Howard. This must all be difficult for you, too. Not knowing who’s responsible. I’m guessing the police will be questioning you again, as well.”
He waved off her apology and followed her around the desk, where he pushed aside some knickknacks and perched on the corner. “Let them come. My alibi’s as solid now as it was six years ago. I’m not worried.”
“Still, the memories of your brother—I know you loved him. Our reasons may be different, but you need closure as much as I do.”
“I’m so sorry, Rosemary. So sorry for everything. I knew Richard had a temper, but I never knew he was hurting you. Maybe if I had known, I could have done something to stop him. But he was so ambitious, so greedy. He never wanted to put in the time and the hard work to pay his dues and get ahead. He always looked for the shortcut. I guess I thought he’d grow out of it one day. I thought you were a good influence on him, that your marriage would be a success.” He glanced toward the door, indicating the confrontation with Charleen Grimes. “You were certainly a better class of woman than those floozies he was always taking to bed. As talented a litigator as he was, he was an embarrassment to the reputation of the firm. Cost us clients. Our father went to his grave thinking Richard was never going to amount to anything worth making him a full partner.”
“I don’t blame you for anything Richard did. You weren’t your brother’s keeper.”
“Maybe I should have been.” He reached for her hand, and she forced herself not to dodge his grasp this time. “I intend to take care of you, though, to make up in some small way for the grief he caused you.”
Rosemary managed to drum up a smile of thanks before pulling away. “How about you show me those papers you worked so hard to prepare.”
Fifteen minutes later, the papers were signed and she was ready to leave. “I’ll drive you home,” Howard offered.
But Rosemary slung her purse over her shoulder and urged him back to his chair. “I can call a taxi. I know you have work to do.” Besides, she’d already spent most of the patience and socializing she had in her today and needed some time alone to decide how best to manage—or avoid—all this attention suddenly being thrust upon her. She needed to set her emotional armor back into place. “But thank you. And thanks for running interference with Charleen.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “My pleasure. If you say you didn’t kill Richard, then I believe you. And I’ll defend your innocence until my dying breath.” He tugged her closer and Rosemary put a hand on his stomach to keep him from completing the embrace. Still, he lowered his head to rest his forehead against hers. “Even if you did kill that bastard brother of mine in self-defense or because he deserved it, I’ll defend your innocence.”
Um, thank you? Her chest tightened at his declaration of support that sounded vaguely as if it wasn’t real support at all. Before he could dip his lips to hers, Rosemary pushed away. “I didn’t kill Richard.”
“Of course not.” Why didn’t that throwaway remark sound as convincing as it might have even an hour earlier? When Howard circled back to his chair, Rosemary hurried to the door. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
Not too soon, she hoped. But she kept the thought to herself and closed the office door behind her.
* * *
AFTER A WALK with the dogs to maintain their training and give them exercise, several laps in the pool to work her vexation with Howard out of her system, and chicken from her back patio grill for dinner to fill her stomach, Rosemary settled down in the library with a glass of wine to attack another box of family papers and photographs.
Sorting through items from her and Stephen’s past, as well as those things that had belonged to her parents, served several purposes. From the most practical—the long-term project gave her something meaningful to do with her time since the suspicion of murder had made it practically impossible to find a teaching job at any certified school. The settlement gave her plenty to live on, but she was a grown woman with two college degrees and a fertile brain. If she couldn’t occupy her thoughts and work toward goals, she’d go mad. One of those goals was to possibly sell this place, or at least clear out enough space so she could significantly remodel the interior. There were a lot of good memories here. But there were a lot of bad ones, too. And while the familiarity of her childhood home made it a little easier to cope with the grief, panic and uncertainty of these past few years, there were days like this one when the same-old, same-old felt more like a prison where she was destined to live out her days as the neighborhood pariah—the woman who’d benefited from her parents’ deaths, the woman who’d gotten away with murder.
Instead of letting the loneliness and fear take hold, Rosemary plunged into the never-ending—sometimes sentimental, sometimes sad—task of sorting papers, mementoes and heirlooms into piles of things to treasure, items to store or sell and things to throw away.
And so, with the drawn shades and night outside her windows closing her into solitude, Rosemary sat on the thick braided rug in the middle of the library floor, with piles of letters and photographs spread out around her. Duchess stretched out on the cool wood at the edge of the rug while Trixie claimed the couch.
Humming along with the Aaron Copland ballet music playing softly in the background, Rosemary smiled at an image of her father in his Army pilot’s uniform, taken a few years before her birth. He’d had that freckled, youthful look for as long as she’d known him, even when his hair had started to gray. Not that the silver strands were that noticeable with his hair cropped so closely to his head. He used to j
oke that it was time for a trip to the barber if a strand of hair so much as tickled his ear.
Memories of her father drifted to another man with the same broad shoulders and buzz cut. Max Krolikowski was taller than her dad, thick chested and muscular instead of lean and lanky, more tawny haired than strawberry blond. And he certainly lacked that boyish smile. But she could picture the gruff detective dressed in a similar uniform. She could picture him in a gritty, action-packed war movie. What was she thinking? There was nothing fake about Max Krolikowski. She could picture him marching across an asphalt tarmac, boarding a troop transport like the one her father had flown, heading off to fight in a real war.
Rosemary’s blood rushed a warning signal to her brain. She shouldn’t be picturing the surly detective at all.
With a guilty start, she tucked the tiny snapshot back into the envelope with the letter to her mother. Max Krolikowski was nothing like the quiet gentleman Colonel Stephen March had been. Why couldn’t she let her fascination with that rude excuse for a cop go?
Focusing on happier times, she retied the ribbon around the bundle of letters her mother had kept from the correspondence she and her father had traded when he’d been away on his first post after graduating college on his ROTC scholarship. Remembering the love her parents had shared chased away her troublesome thoughts, and Rosemary rose up on her knees to reverently place the love letters in a box marked Keep.
She hiked up the wrinkled hem of her dress to crawl over to the box she was sorting and pull out another stack of bound envelopes. But as she sank back onto the rug, her smile faded. “What are these doing here?”
In the chaos surrounding Richard’s ultimatums and his subsequent murder, she must have tossed these letters into the wrong box. They weren’t correspondence between her mother and father, but a bundle of envelopes from Richard addressed to her.
