The Rebel
The Rebel
Adrienne Giordano
Bad to the bone…in all the right waysA brilliant civil lawyer, David Hennings has always been the outsider—at odds with his wealthy family, shunning relationships, defying convention as a sexy leather-jacketed biker. Which is why sculptor Amanda LeBlanc agrees to his request to reconstruct a skull from a cold case murder. The instant heat between them is scorching.But once Amanda takes the job and gets too close to the rebellious attorney, her carefully balanced life is upended by a series of methodical attacks. Someone doesn't want her to finish the job. Now David will risk everything not to lose the woman he unknowingly put in jeopardy.
“Damn, you’re gorgeous,” he said.
“Thank you. But, so help me, David, if you come inside, I won’t get any work done.”
At that, he laughed. He leaned over, brushed his fingers down the side of her face, slowly moving over the curve of her cheek, along her jaw to her mouth, where he ran the pad of his thumb over her lips. “If that’s meant to scare me off, it’s not working.”
She dipped her head, rubbed her cheek along his fingertips. “It is your condo. I have no right to tell you when you can be here.”
“I’m not staying,” he said. She pushed the door open but didn’t move.
A gust of wind blew her hair into her face and she shoved it back. “Okay.”
“Unless you want me to.”
The Rebel
Adrienne Giordano
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ADRIENNE GIORDANO, a USA TODAY bestselling author, writes romantic suspense and mystery. She is a Jersey girl at heart, but now lives in the Midwest with her workaholic husband, sports obsessed son and Buddy the wheaten terrorist (terrier). For more information on Adrienne’s books, please visit www.adriennegiordano.com (http://www.adriennegiordano.com) or download the Adrienne Giordano app. For information on Adrienne’s street team, go to facebook.com/groups/dangerousdarlings (http://facebook.com/groups/dangerousdarlings).
Contents
Cover (#u29211420-2417-5642-9ce6-451ed5fc39fc)
Introduction (#ucfb08983-3913-5e6d-a23d-32995b991b7e)
Title Page (#u5d0cbe41-07f8-5f2c-a14e-60d805c4dfe1)
About the Author (#u94556f25-0aca-5c35-8fb2-eac7f3fe75e0)
Chapter One (#u1932959f-6780-55fc-84de-c346a90e3ca0)
Chapter Two (#u84d0655c-c059-5540-8942-48e5a9642901)
Chapter Three (#u11eb2ad0-56f6-5313-8b64-59d4a24e9203)
Chapter Four (#u626553a3-03b3-5b3d-99e8-f961a638351a)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_e882733c-7b5b-518e-8550-a7ea8bb45433)
“Come on, boy. Another quarter mile and we’re done.”
Larry McCall whistled for Henry, his black Lab, who needed exercise more than Larry, to move along. Sunrise illuminated the sky, streaking it in shades of purple and orange that made even a grisly homicide detective marvel at the beauty of nature on an early fall morning.
With Henry busy sniffing a patch of dirt, Larry paused a moment, tilted his head back and inhaled the dewy air. Another two weeks, all these trees would be barren and the city would come in and scoop up the leaves. At which point, his body would make excuses to stay in bed rather than hoof it through ten acres of fenced-in fields on Chicago’s southwest side.
Half expecting Henry to trot by him, Larry opened his eyes and glanced to his left, where the dog always walked. No Henry. Since when had he gotten subversive? Larry angled back and found Henry still at the spot he’d been sniffing a minute ago. Only now he was digging. Hard. Terrific. Not only would he have dirt all over him, but he’d also probably snatch a dead animal out of the ground and drop it at Larry’s feet. Here ya go, Dad.
Not happening. He whistled again. “Leave it,” he said in his best alpha-dog voice.
His bum luck was that Henry had alpha tendencies, too, and kept digging. He’d have to leash him and pull him away before a dead squirrel wound up in his jaws.
Years earlier the city had torn down three low-income apartment buildings—the projects—because of the increased drug and criminal activity surrounding the place. All that was left was the fenced-in acreage that made for great walking. Problem was, there could be anything—rodents, needles, crack baggies, foil scraps—buried. Needles.Dammit. Larry hustled back to the dog before he got stuck. Or stoned.
“Whatever you found, Henry, we don’t want any part of. Leave it.”
He snapped the leash on, gently eased Henry back and was met with ferocious barking. What the hell? His happy dog had gone schizo.
“What is it, boy?”
Holding the dog off the hole he’d started, Larry bent at the waist to focus on something white—dull white—peeking through the dirt.
Henry barked and tugged at the leash.
“Okay, boy. Relax. Let me look at it.”
He led a still-barking Henry to a tree, secured the leash around it to keep him at bay and walked back to the spot. Using the handkerchief he always carried—yes, he was that old-school, so what?—to protect his hands, he cleared more of the loose, moist dirt from the top, and more white appeared. He tapped the surface. Solid. Rock solid. And Larry’s stomach twisted in a way it only did on the job.
Stop. Twenty years of working homicide told him he should. Right now. Don’t go any further; call it in.
Birds chirped overhead, the sound so crisp and incessant it sliced right into his ears. Henry apparently had riled ’em good. Still squatting, Larry scanned the desolate area. Beyond the fence at the end of the last quarter mile, the early-morning rush began to swell on Cicero.
Henry barked again. Normally calm as a turtle, he wanted to dig.
Larry cocked his head to study whatever peeked through the dirt, and once again his stomach seized. After all these years, only one thing futzed with his stomach.
Crime scene.
But, truth be told, he had a tendency to overthink things. Something else years on the job had done to him. Hell, he could be staring at an old ceramic bowl. And how humiliating would it be to call this in and have it wind up being someone’s china?
Just hell.
Henry barked again, urging him on, and Larry gave in to his curiosity and pushed more loose dirt around. At least until he hit a depression and his finger, handkerchief and all, slid right into it. Gently, he moved his finger around, hitting the outer edges of the depression, and a weird tingling shot up his neck. His breathing kicked up.
What’d this dog find?
He cleared more dirt, his fingers moving gently, revealing more and more of the surface of whatever was buried here. Once again, his fingers slipped into the depressed area and he knew. Dammit.
He’d just stuck his finger into an eye socket.
Chapter Two (#ulink_46f07fe8-743f-5395-9edf-1b7071ce2c05)
Five Years Later
Surrounded by four hundred guests, seven of them sitting at her table in the ballroom of Chicago’s legendary Drake Hotel, Amanda studied a giant photo of a fallen firefighter that had flashed on the screen behind the podium. Without a doubt, she’d botched his nose.
Ugh. How embarrassing. Any novice artist, particularly a sculptor, would see the slight flare of the man’s nostrils. She slid her gaze to the sculpture, her sculpture, a gift to the widow of Lieutenant Ben Broward, who’d died three months ago after running into a crumbling building to save a child.
The child had survived.
Ben had not.
And Amanda’s gift to his widow and their children was now worthless. At least in Amanda’s mind. Had the flaring nostrils been that obvious on the photos she’d been given? Later, when she arrived home, she’d swing into her studio and check. Just to satisfy herself.
Darn it.
Sitting back in her chair, she eased out a breath and made eye contact with Lexi, her interior designer friend who’d originally suggested she attend this fund-raiser and meet Pamela Hennings and Irene Dyce, both politically connected—and extremely wealthy—women. Amanda’s idea to donate the sculpture had come after seeing an interview with Lieutenant Broward’s wife and children. She couldn’t give them the man back, but maybe the sculpture would bring some sort of peace. Not exactly closure because Amanda didn’t buy in to that whole closure thing. What did that even mean? Tragedy was tragedy and she doubted Ben’s family would ever fully recover.
Mrs. Hennings leaned closer to speak over the chatter and the sound of clanging silverware filling the room. “Amazing likeness, dear.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Dyce said from the other side of Mrs. Hennings. “Beautiful work, Amanda.”
“Thank you.”
Not that she believed it after spotting her mistake, but coming from Mrs. Hennings, the wife of Chicago’s most brilliant defense attorney, a woman notorious for her good taste, Amanda, as she always did, graciously accepted the compliment, allowing it to momentarily smother her doubt.
At least until she looked at that nose again. Would the widow notice? Would she see the blunder every time she chose to look at the piece? Would it drive her insane? Gah.
The woman couldn’t spend years looking at a nose butchered by the artist. Amanda couldn’t allow it. She’d redo the piece. That was all. She’d make time to fix her mistake.
Done.
Over.
Move on.
A waiter slid a slice of cherry cheesecake in front of her. Any other day, she’d happily indulge, which of course wouldn’t help her lose that extra ten pounds, but a girl had a right to sugar. Simple fact. But after the beating she’d just given herself, she wasn’t sure her stomach could handle a rich dessert. Gently, she nudged the plate away, opting instead for a sip of water.
“Evening, Miss LeBlanc.”
She glanced up to where a large, barrel-chested man, late fifties perhaps, stood behind her. “Hello.”
“I’m Detective Larry McCall. Chicago PD. Homicide.” He gestured to the vacant chair next to her. “Mind if I sit?”
Oh, boy. What was this?
Whatever it was, she was thankful he wasn’t the man who’d been sitting beside her all evening. That man, a financial planner from one of the city’s big banks, had disappeared more than thirty minutes ago after she flatly told him, no, she was not interested in doing “hot” things in his bed. What an idiot. With any luck, he’d found a woman willing to take him up on his offer.
She held her hand out. “Of course. Someone was sitting there, but he’s been gone awhile.”
Hopefully, for good.
The detective glanced across the table to where Lexi sat with her boyfriend, Brodey, another Chicago homicide detective and also the brother of one of the Hennings & Solomon investigators. Seemed to Amanda that the Hennings clan had a connection to just about everyone in this city.
“Junior,” Detective McCall said, nodding a greeting.
“Lawrence,” Brodey drawled.
And how amusing was this? Clearly these two were in some kind of twisted male peeing match, and Amanda did everything in her power not to roll her eyes.
Detective McCall dropped his bulky frame into the chair beside her. “I’ll move if he comes back. Sorry if I’m interrupting.”
“Not at all. What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I checked out your bust.”
Amanda bit her lip, stifling a smile as the detective replayed in his mind the last seconds—wait for it. There.
He smacked himself on the head, then did it again, but he laughed at himself all the same. Instantly she liked him, liked his ability to find humor in embarrassing situations, liked his acceptance of his blunder without making a fuss.
“I apologize,” he said. “This is what happens when you put a guy like me in a place like this. I insult nice women.”
And he had the rough-around-the-edges grit of one of those throwback detectives she liked to watch on reruns of NYPD Blue.
“Well,” she said, “lucky for you I’m not easily offended. And what’s worse is that I figured out immediately you meant the sculpture and not my—” she looked down, circled her hand in front of her chest “—you know.”
“The sculpture. Yeah. It’s really good.”
Aside from the botched nose.
“Thank you.”
“No. I mean it’s really good. I knew Ben. Good guy. Great guy, actually. His wife is the daughter of...” He shook his head, waved it off. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. The sculpture is...accurate. Scary accurate.”
Hmm... Having been approached by detectives before, Amanda felt the puzzle pieces beginning to come together and she readied herself to ruin Detective McCall’s evening. “I had a few photos from different angles to work from.”
“Yeah, I guess that helps. Listen, do you ever do forensic work?”
And there it was.
As suspected, the detective wanted her help on a case. Probably doing an age progression on a missing child or working with a witness to identify an attacker. Because of budgeting woes and a lack of funds for full-time forensic artists, police departments sometimes hired outside the department.
None of it mattered. She’d have to turn him down. “I’m sorry, Detective. I do have an interest and have taken some classes, but it’s not work I feel comfortable with yet.”
McCall, apparently ignoring her refusal, leaned in. “I’ve got this case...”
He has a case. On countless occasions throughout her childhood she’d heard those very words from her mother, a part-time forensic artist. Amanda held her hand up. “I’d like to help, but I have little experience in forensic work. I’d do more harm than good.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Trust me. It’s a cold case. Five years now. No leads. All we have is a skull and some hairs found where it was dug up. That’s all that’s left of her.”
“Her?”
“The medical examiner thinks it’s a female. Maybe late teens or early twenties.”
“I see.”
“I actually found her.”
Amanda gawked. Couldn’t help it. “You found the skull?”
The detective shook his head as he let out a huff. “Craziest damned thing. I was out walking my dog in that vacant spot near Midway, and Henry started digging. I’ll never forget it. Whoever this girl is, she and I are a team. I made sure I kept her case. It’s mine.”
“That’s admirable, Detective. Really.”
He shrugged. “We have a sketch done by one of the department artists, but I don’t know. Maybe she got it wrong because no one is coming forward to claim this girl and we didn’t get any hits from DNA. I’m a father. It makes me sick.” He ran his hand over his thinning, gray hair as he scanned the ballroom and the people moving toward the exit. “I saw what you did with the sculpture of Ben and thought maybe you could help us out.”
Amanda glanced across at Lexi, hoping to grab her attention with the save me stare. No luck there because her friend was busy whispering in Brodey’s ear. By the look on his face, he liked what he was hearing. A flash of something whipped inside Amanda. At odd times, she missed the comfort, the familiarity, the knowing of an exclusive relationship. Casual dating didn’t provide any of that.
But a pity party wouldn’t get her assistance from Lexi or Brodey. To her right, Mrs. Hennings and Mrs. Dyce were in deep conversation about scheduling a lunch, so there’d be no help there, either. For this one, she’d fly solo. Try once again to nicely let the detective know she couldn’t help him. As much as she felt for him, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—risk involvement. She faced him again, meeting his gaze straight on. “Detective, I’m sorry. It’s just not what I do. I’ve never done a reconstruction before. I could ask around, though, and see if any of my colleagues might be interested.”
McCall hesitated and studied her eyes for a few seconds, apparently measuring her resolve. He must have received her message because he nodded, his jowly cheeks shaking with the effort. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you. I want to give this girl her name back.”
And, oh, that made Amanda’s stomach burn. Ten years ago, her mother would have loved this project.
A lot had changed in ten years.
Movement from Amanda’s right drew her attention to Mrs. Hennings placing her napkin on the table. “I’m sorry to say, it’s past my bedtime.” Mrs. Hennings touched Mrs. Dyce’s shoulder. “I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll figure out a day for lunch.”
“I’ll be at the youth center. Call me there.”
“Will do.” Mrs. Hennings nodded at Lexi. “And I’ll have David call you about his new home. He needs help. Just don’t tell him I said that.”
Lexi laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. And thank you. I’m excited to work with him.”
Then Mrs. Hennings turned her crystal-blue gaze on Amanda. “My son has just moved back from Boston. Lexi will be helping him on the redesign of his condominium. I’d love to have him look at your artwork. He’s starting from scratch.” Her lips lifted into a calculating smile only mothers pulled off. “Whether he likes it or not, he’s starting from scratch.”
And from what Amanda had heard from Lexi, when Mrs. Hennings made a request, you should not be fool enough to deny her. When it came to Chicago’s upper crust, Mrs. Hennings might be their president.
“Of course,” Amanda said. “I’d love to. Lexi and I have worked together several times. Your son can come by my studio and look at some of my paintings. Or we could do a sculpture. Whatever he likes.”
The older woman reached to shake Amanda’s hand. “Wonderful. I’ll have him call you.”
* * *
“OH, COME ON, David,” Mom said. “I know you can be charming.”
David Hennings sat in the kitchen of his parents’ home, his hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, and faced down his mother, a woman so formidable and connected the mayor of Chicago kept in constant communication with her. She might be able to sway masses, but she was still his mother and, at times, needed to be told no.
Otherwise, she’d control him.
And that wasn’t going to happen.
“Mom, thank you for your never-ending encouragement.”
She scoffed at his sarcasm. “You know what I mean.”
Yes, he did. As much as he liked the usual banter between them, he didn’t want to hear about whatever scheme she had going. Not on a Monday morning when he had a to-do list a mile long, including meeting with the contractor renovating his new condo. Yep, after two weeks of living under his parents’ roof, because even he couldn’t be rebellious enough to break his mother’s heart by staying in a hotel, he needed to get that condo in shape so he could move in.
As usual, Mom kept her piercing eyes on him and with each second she slowly, methodically chipped away at him. This look was famous in the Hennings household. This look could possibly bring down an entire nation. He blew air through his lips, part of his willpower going with it. “Have you talked to Dad about this?”
“Of course.”
Lying. He eyed her.
“Well, I mentioned it. In passing.”
David snorted. “I thought so.”
After attending a fund-raiser for a fireman’s fund the night before, his mother had gotten it into her head that Hennings & Solomon, the law firm his father had founded, should have their investigators look into a cold case. An apparent homicide. All in all, David didn’t get what she wanted from him. All she knew about the case was what she’d overheard at the dinner table. One, some detective had a skull he couldn’t identify. Two, the detective wanted a sculptor to do a reconstruction.
That was it.
A reconstruction alone would be no easy task if an artist didn’t have training in forensics. And who knew what kind of credentials this particular artist had?
David might not have been a criminal lawyer like his father and siblings, but he knew that much about forensics.
Mom folded her arms and leaned one hip against the counter. “We can help. I know we can.”
For years now, the two of them had been allies. Unlike his siblings, when David needed shelter, he went to his mother. He adored her, had mad respect for her. No matter what. Through that hellish few months when he’d destroyed his father’s dream of his oldest son joining the firm because David had decided civil law—horrors!—might be the way to go, his mother had pled David’s case, tirelessly arguing that he needed to be his own man and make his own decisions.
And Dad had given in.
It might have been butt-ugly, but the man had let David go.
That was the power of Pamela Hennings.
David slugged the last of his coffee because, well, at this point, the extra caffeine couldn’t hurt.
“Okay,” he said. “You do realize I’m not a criminal attorney, right? And, considering I don’t even work at Hennings & Solomon, I’m guessing I’m not the guy for this assignment.”
“Your father said Jenna and the other investigator, Mike what’s-his-name, are too busy. And you said you were bored. Since your new office won’t be ready for a couple of weeks, you can do this. We can do this.”
Cornered. Should have known she had a counterattack prepped. So like his mother to use his own words against him after he’d complained the night before that the contractor doing the renovation on his new office was running behind. Had he known that, he’d have stayed in Boston another two weeks before packing up and moving home to open his own firm.
“But I’m meeting with my contractor this morning.”
“By the way, as soon as you’re done with him, you need to call Lexi.”
“The decorator? Why?”
Mom huffed and gave him the dramatic eye roll that had won lesser actresses an Academy Award. “Interior designer, dear. And what do you mean, why? I told you I arranged for her to work with you. Because, so help me, David, you will not be living the way you did in Boston with all that oddball furniture and no drapes. You, my love, are a grown man living like a teenager. Besides, Lexi’s significant other knows the detective from last night. When you talk to Lexi, get the detective’s name. He’ll help you. We’ll get Irene Dyce in on this, as well.” Mom waggled her hand. “She was at the fund-raiser last night and overheard the conversation. I’m about to call her to set up lunch and you can bet I’ll mention it. Between her and her husband, they know half this city. It’s doable, David.”
He sat forward and pinched the bridge of his nose. By now he should be used to this. The bobbing and weaving his mother did to confuse people and get them to relent. “What is it exactly you want me to do?”
She slapped a business card in front of him. “Talk to the artist. I got her card last night. I told her you were about to move into a new home and might need artwork.”
“Seriously? You’re tricking her? And how much is that going to cost me?”
“David Jeremy Hennings, just shush. I needed a reason to contact her again. And it’s not a trick if you hire her. Just have her do a painting or something. That’s only fair.”
If he wound up buying something, his mother was paying for it. That was all he knew. Sighing, he picked up the card. Amanda LeBlanc. Nice name. Good, solid name. “Why do I need to talk to her?”
“She told the detective she couldn’t do the sculpture. I think she’s intrigued, though. She might just need a push. And you, my darling, excel at the art of the push.”
He held up both hands. “Mom, please don’t strain yourself with all these compliments. First I’m charming, and now it’s persuasive. This might all go to my head.”
“You need to zip it with the sass. For God’s sake, you’re the intellectual around here. You love research and history and combing through information to reach a conclusion. This case would be perfect for you.”
“I’m no investigator.”
“But you don’t have to be. All you need to do is get the ball rolling. Think of the people we have at our disposal. Russ is an FBI agent. I’m sure he’d help.”
Now she wanted to drag his sister’s boyfriend into this. Great. Given David’s strained—as in they drove each other nuts—relationship with Penny, he and Russ hadn’t gotten off to the greatest of starts.
Inspired, Mom boosted herself away from the counter and sat in the chair beside his. It’s over now. When she got charged up like this, there’d be no denying her.
“David, I want you to think about this. You moved back to Chicago to be part of this family again.”
“Mom—”
“Shush. I love you, but you’ve always had an issue with feeling like the odd man out.”
Damn, she’s good.
“If you’d really like to be included in all those nasty dinner conversations about criminal cases, this is the way to start. So far, the firm’s quasi cold-case squad has solved two murders. Two, David. Do you know how many nights I’ve had to listen to your father, Zac and Penny rehash those cases?” She held up her hand. “A lot. This is your chance to finally be part of the conversation. And, frankly, I want this. For the first time, I get to be part of the conversation, too, and I like it. I’m not your father’s socialite wife anymore. I’m more than an appendage.”
Academy Award winner Pamela Hennings. “Cut that out. You’ve never been an appendage. He’s terrified of you. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone knows I’m his wife and that, yes, we have a strong relationship, but I’ve never had a job, David. All the charity work and clubs, it’s all an offshoot of your father’s work. Not that I haven’t enjoyed it, but if given the chance at a redo, I’d have a career of my own. Doing what, I don’t know. All I know is that I’m suddenly someone who can help bring justice and it’s not because it’s expected of me. So buck up and do this for your mother.”
Game over. She’d turned the entire thing around on him, playing up the guilt because she knew, when it came to her, he rarely said no. Damn. How the hell did she always do this? He ticked through the conversation, then burst out laughing.
“What’s funny?”
He grabbed his cup, rose from his chair and kissed her on the cheek. “Nothing. You’re brilliant. You’ve totally manipulated me into doing this. And I let you. Being around lawyers has rubbed off on you.”
“You’ll do it?”
“I’ll talk to the artist. Then I’m done. I’m not an investigator and have no interest in being one. I have a law practice to open.”
Mom pushed up from the table and held her index fingers up. “That’s fine. Talk her into at least doing the reconstruction. You’re better at that sort of thing than I am. Once you convince her, I’ll handle it from there.”
“I’m sure you will, Mom. I’m sure you will.”
“And, by the way, dinner is at seven-thirty tonight. Zac and Emma will be here and Russ and Penny.”
She ran her gaze over his clothes, starting at his long-sleeved henley. He knew she hated the Levi’s jeans and boots, but he wasn’t five anymore and didn’t need his mother dressing him. “Don’t start, Mom.”
“Between the clothes and that facial hair, I have to ask that you not come to the table dressed like you escaped from prison.”
Facial hair. She acted as if he had a hobo beard rather than the close-cropped one he favored. He snatched his favorite leather jacket, the one with the intricate stitching on the shoulders, off the back of his chair, and Mom’s lips peeled back. “Mom, this is a two-thousand-dollar jacket. Besides, my tux is at the dry cleaner’s.”
“Don’t be fresh.”
More than done with this conversation, he shrugged into his coat. “I’ve gotta go. You’ve convinced me to talk to this artist. I love you, but quit while you’re ahead.”
Chapter Three (#ulink_1db04459-fd89-5a47-b1a4-f802fad23aba)
Morning sun shifted, the light angling sideways instead of straight into Amanda’s studio, and she stepped back from the sculpture. She’d been messing with the lips of a cell-phone manufacturer’s CEO, bending the clay, tweaking and retweaking for two hours, and she still couldn’t get the mouth right. And worse, she couldn’t figure out why. As much as it irritated her, drove her to near madness, it didn’t matter. She’d keep at it. No matter how long it took. After the botched nose on the fireman, resulting in a shake-up of her confidence, she’d get these lips perfect.
The changing sunlight through the loft’s oversize windows didn’t help, so she adjusted the six-foot lamp behind her, directing the light in a more favorable position. Light, light and more light helped keep her focused for the sometimes tedious hours spent in front of a sculpture. Changing shadows meant time slipping from her greedy hands. She glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty. She’d been at it six hours, two of them lost on bum lips.
“Okay, girlfriend. You need to get it together here. Forget the nose. It’s one nose. It shouldn’t be a career-ending mistake.”
Intellectually, she knew it. Emotionally, that faulty nose might do her in.
The studio phone rang, filling the quiet space with its annoying blinging sound. Typically, she’d ignore the phone until her exhausted and sore fingers gave out for the day. But now, with the rotten lips, it was probably a good time to take a break. Grab a quick lunch and refocus. She scooted to her desk in the corner and snatched up the handset.
“Good morning. This is Amanda.”
“Good morning, Amanda. My name is David Hennings. You met my mother at an event last night.”
And, hello, sexy voice of my dreams. Wow. The low-pitched resonance of that voice poured over her. With her dating history, he was probably five inches shorter than her and a total mama’s boy. “Hello, Mr. Hennings. I did meet your mother last night. She’s a lovely dinner companion.”
For whatever reason, he laughed at that, the sound just as yummy as his voice.
“That she is,” he said. “She told me she mentioned I was moving into a new place.”
Seriously, he didn’t sound short. Or like a mama’s boy. If that even made sense because how could anyone know what someone looked like by the way he spoke? She had a vision, though. A good one, an exceptional one, of a tall man, fair haired and blue-eyed like his mother. And he’d wear suits every day. Slick, Italian suits that alerted the world to his blue-blood status. Yes indeed, she had a vision.
“She mentioned you’d be working with Lexi, who is a friend, by the way. Would you like to set up an appointment and we can discuss what you might need?”
“Definitely. I just spoke with Lexi. I could swing by. If you’re available.”
“Now?”
“If that works. Otherwise, we could look at tomorrow.”
Apparently Mrs. Hennings was in a hurry. Amanda swung back to her sculpture and the stubborn lips. A break might help. Discussing new projects always seemed to cleanse the palate, help her look at existing work with fresh perspective and excitement. But she wasn’t exactly dressed to meet a new client. Knowing she had a full day of sculpting ahead, she’d yanked her hair into a ponytail and slipped on her baggiest of baggy jeans and a “Make Love, Not War” T-shirt a friend had given her as a joke. The hair she could deal with by removing her hair band. The clothes? Not so much.
“Mr. Hennings, that would be fine. But I have to warn you, I’m working on a sculpture today and when I sculpt I dress comfortably. I didn’t expect to have a meeting.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m in jeans. My mother is on a mission, Amanda, and if you know my mother at all, you know that if I tell her I didn’t meet with you because of what you were wearing, she’ll skin me.”
“So you’re saying you’re afraid of your mother.”
“I’m not afraid of my mother. I’m terrified of her.”
For the first time all day, considering the lips, Amanda laughed. A good, warm one that made her toes curl. Any argument she’d had to avoid meeting with him today vanished when he’d dropped that line about his mother. Simply put, she loved a grown man who understood his mother’s power. How that grown man handled that power was a different story. Heaven knew she’d dated some weaklings, men who not only were afraid of their mothers, but also let them dictate how their lives should go. That, on a personal level, Amanda couldn’t deal with. On a professional level, she didn’t necessarily care as long as her fee got paid.
Besides, she liked David Hennings. She liked the sound of his voice even more. Call it curiosity, a mild interest in meeting a man with a voice like velvet against skin, but she wanted to check him out.
“Okay, Mr. Hennings. You can come by now.”
“Great. I’ll see you soon. And it’s David.”
* * *
INSIDE THE STAIRWELL of the hundred-year-old building on the city’s West Side, David climbed the last few steps leading to the landing of Amanda’s second-floor studio. He loved these old structures with the Portland stone and brick. The iconic columns on the facade urged the history major in him to research the place. Check the city records, see what information he could find on who’d built it, who’d lived here or which companies had run their wares through its doors.
Structures like this had a charm all their own that couldn’t be duplicated with modern wizardry. Old buildings, this building, had a life, a past to be researched and appreciated.
Or maybe he just wanted to believe that.
He rapped on the door. No hollow wood there. By the scarred look and feel of its heavy weight under his knuckles, it might be the original door. How amazing would that be?
The door swung open and a woman with lush curves a guy his size could wrap himself around greeted him. She wore jeans and a graphic T-shirt announcing he should make love, not war—gladly, sweetheart—and her honey-blond hair fell around her shoulders, curling at the ends. The whole look brought thoughts of lazy Sunday mornings, hot coffee and a few extracurricular activities, in a bed and out, David could think of.
To say the least, she affected him.
And she hadn’t even opened her mouth. Please don’t be an airhead.
“David?”
Yep. That was the voice from earlier. Soft and sweet and stirring up all kinds of images right along with Sunday mornings and coffee. With any luck, more than the coffee would be hot.
Hokay. Mission Pam Hennings getting derailed by wicked thoughts. Time to get serious.
“Hi. Amanda?”
“Yes.” She held her hand out. “Amanda LeBlanc.”
David grasped her hand and glanced down at her long, elegant fingers folding over his. Her silky skin absorbed his much larger hand, and he might like to stay this way awhile. Nice hands. Soft hands. He’d imagined a sculptor’s hands to be work-hardened and rough. Not that she swung an ax all day, but he’d expected...different.
“Um.” She pointed at their still joined hands. “I kinda need that hand back.”
Epic fail, Dave. He grinned and regrettably slid his hand away. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but where have you been all my life?”
As recoveries went, it wouldn’t be listed among the top hundred in brilliance, but a man had to work with what he had. Still, her lips, those extraordinary, shapely lips, twisted until she finally gave up and awarded him with a smile.
“Good one,” she said. “Come inside and we’ll talk about your project.”
Right to business. Couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know him and he’d not only barged in on her day, but also hit on her. He stepped into the loft and let out a low whistle. A few walls had obviously been knocked out because her studio took up half of the entire floor. He scanned the room, his eyes darting over the open ceiling, the gleaming white walls, the easels and canvases in one corner. A large table covered with tools and brushes separated one area from a second space, where a bust was mounted on an adjustable stand.
She closed the door behind him. “I’d ask you to excuse the mess, but since it always looks like this, I won’t bother.”
“It’s a studio. I’m not sure it’s supposed to be neat.”
“We can talk over here.” She motioned him to a round table for four by the windows.
“This is a great space. Fantastic light. Do you know anything about the building?”
Her eyebrows dipped. “As in who owns it?”
“No. Sorry. I’m a history buff. Majored in it in college. The columns out front make me think early 1900s architecture.”
“Ah. A man after my own heart. Believe it or not, I’m the only tenant right now. People just don’t see the beauty. According to city records, it was constructed in 1908. I’m not sure my landlord has a clue what a gem he has. When I toured the building he told me he wanted to paint the front of it.”
David opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I know,” she said. “I had to give him the number of a company that specializes in stone cleaning and repair before he stripped the historical value out of the place.”
“No kidding.”
Amanda took the chair by the window, where a legal pad and pencil waited to be put to use. David slid his jacket off, set it on the chair next to his and sat across from her. Damn, the woman was gorgeous. All big brown eyes and soft cheeks to go with the healthy curves.
“Is that jacket a Belstaff?” she asked.
And, oh, oh, oh, she knew motorcycles. Or at least biker jackets. This expedition of his mother’s might make his day.
“It is. You like motorcycles?”
“My dad does. What do you ride?”
“A Ducati. Diavel Carbon.” He smiled. “It’s a beast.”
“It should be with a name like Diavel. You know what it means, right?”
He sure did. “Diavolo. Italian for devil.”
She grinned. “And are you? A devil?”
“My mother would say I am. I think I’m a history nerd with a thing for motorcycles.”
“Huh,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing. You’re just not what I expected.”
Now, this sounded good. Maybe. “You know I have to ask...”
“I expected someone who looks like your mother. Tall, blond hair, Italian suit. Instead I got dark with an Italian motorcycle.”
He bit his bottom lip, then ran his teeth over it. “If my brother had knocked on your door, you’d have nailed it.” He shrugged. “But hey, you got the tall part right.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
She picked up her pencil and tossed her hair over her shoulder and David’s pulse went berserk. Damn, this woman was beautiful. And not in the normal way. This was more corn-fed, casual beauty that she probably had no idea she possessed.
She angled her notepad in front of her. “Anyway, tell me about this project. What kind of paintings are you looking for?”
Nudes.
Of her.
His mother would castrate him. He cleared his throat and got that vision out of his head. The naked Amanda, not the castration. But the castration was no picnic, either.
But here was where this scenario got sticky because his sneaky mother, God bless her, had taken Amanda’s card under the guise of providing him with art for his condo. Well, he’d get the art anyway because he would not waste this woman’s time under false pretenses. “I’m not sure. I was thinking maybe we could work with Lexi on that. Something bold, deep colors. I don’t know. It’s not my thing. That’s why I have Lexi.”
“She’s good at it, that’s for sure. I can call her. Then I’ll pull some paintings I think will work. If you don’t like them, maybe I can create something specific for you.”
Which, lucky him, would give him another reason to show up and maybe convince the lovely Amanda LeBlanc to have dinner with him. “That’ll work. I have another project that my mother is interested in.”
Amanda’s eyebrows hitched up. No surprise there. His mother was notorious for spending big bucks on decorating. And landing her as a client would open a lot of doors when it came to an artist’s career.
“What does she have in mind?”
“A sculpture.”
“Oh, my specialty. Who will the sculpture be of?”
Here we go. “We don’t know.”
She laughed. “That’s a new one. All right. I’ll play. How do we find out who this sculpture will be of?”
Okay. So apparently his mother hadn’t said anything—at all—to Amanda about her interest in the cold case discussed at the fund-raiser the night before. She’d totally set him up, and he’d give her an earful about that. When he showed up wearing jeans and facial hair at dinner. That’d teach her. “Did my mother say anything to you about my father’s law firm and their side work?”
“No.”
Thanks, Mom. This right here might be one of the reasons he’d moved to Boston four years ago. Keeping up with the Hennings family shenanigans and the constant arguing and petty competition with Penny made his brain hurt. So he’d taken off. Got himself breathing room halfway across the country. Welcome home, kid.
“My dad is the founding partner of Hennings & Solomon.”
“David, everyone in this city knows who your dad is.”
True. “Right. Last fall my mom convinced him to have one of the firm’s investigators work on a pro bono case. A cold case.”
Amanda sat forward and waved her pencil. “I read about that. It involved a US Marshal or something.”
“That’s the one. His mother was murdered and the case, up to that point, was unsolved. The firm’s investigator looked into it, and between her and the victim’s son, they solved the case.”
“Yes! I remember reading about it. Fascinating.”
Glad you think so. That would only help when he ambushed her with doing this skull reconstruction his mother was so bent on. “Then my mother found another case she wanted to help solve.”
“Your mother is a busy woman.”
Honey, you have no idea. “She is. And her instincts are spot-on because the firm managed to help solve that one, too.”
“How wonderful for her. And the firm’s investigator must be excellent at what she does.”
“She is. But she’s had help. Cases like this take work and she comes from a family of detectives with major contacts.”
Amanda sat up straighter, pencil still at the ready, but her body language—stiff shoulders, pressed lips—went from curious to defensive. The temperature in the room might have plummeted to negative numbers.
This was it. Headfirst. Right here. “My mother overheard your conversation with the detective last night. The one with the unidentified skull.”
She dropped her pencil and pushed the pad away. She held her hands up and sucked in her cheeks, the look hard and unyielding, transforming her from the lush sex kitten he wanted his hands on to a woman set for battle.
Where the hell had she been all his life?
“No,” she said.
“I’m afraid my mother has you on her radar. And you’re locked on.”
“She’ll have to unlock me, then. I explained to the detective last night that I couldn’t do the sculpture. I have limited, insanely limited, experience with forensic sculptures. I’ve taken a couple of workshops, but I’ve never attempted a forensic reconstruction. I’m simply not qualified.”
“If you’ve never tried, how do you know you can’t do it?”
She set her palms flat on the table, the tips of her fingers burrowing into the wood and turning pink. “David, I’m sorry. Tell your mother I appreciate her following up on this, but my answer is no. It would be a waste of everyone’s time. The painting for your new home, I’d be happy to do.”
“Great. But indulge me on the reconstruction for a second.”
Amanda huffed out a breath, half laughing but not really. In a way, he felt bad for her. He knew exactly how pushy the Hennings bunch could be. “Trust me,” he said. “I feel your pain.”
“Are you a lawyer like the rest of your family?”
“I am.”
“Knew it. You have that lawyer tenacity.”
He grinned. “I’m civil law. Everyone else is on the criminal side. But since I have that lawyer tenacity, I’d like to make you a deal.”
“No.”
Time to try a different approach because he wanted a dinner date with this woman and he liked sparring with her. Even if she didn’t know either of those things.
Yet.
He sat forward, angled his head toward the sculpture across the room and pointed. “Looking at that, I’d say you’re a talented woman.”
“Thank you. And nice try.”
She folded her arms, visually ripping holes into his body, and the twisted side of him, the strategizer, loved it. “You’re welcome. What we have here is a detective trying to identify a body. A body deserving of a proper burial. Someone whose family is probably wondering what happened to their loved one.”
“David—”
“Even if you don’t think you have the experience, what would it hurt to try? I mean, this is fairly specialized work. I can’t imagine there are a ton of forensic sculptors in this city.”
“It would be a waste of everyone’s time.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Her head dipped. “You’ll pay me to attempt a sculpture that may or may not serve a purpose?”
Apparently so. And that was news to him, too, but he’d gotten on a roll, so why not? Cost of doing business when it came to keeping his mother off his back. “Yes. The worst-case scenario is that no one will identify the person. Best case is your sculpture helps the police figure out what happened, brings someone home and puts their family out of misery. And you’ll get paid. I don’t see the downside.”
* * *
IF HE WANTED a downside, she could give him one. One so huge that if this project failed, and it could fail in any number of ways, she might find herself emotionally debilitated for years. Having an acute sense of her own emotional awareness, Amanda chose to avoid situations involving someone else’s future. She’d learned that lesson from her now-deceased mother.
She drew in a breath and thought about the bright spring morning ten years ago when her mother had swallowed a bottle of pills. Amanda reminded herself—as if it ever went away—what it had felt like to touch Mom’s lifeless body. Before that day, she’d never known just how cold a body could get.
Right now that memory kept her focused on convincing the extremely handsome and determined man across from her just how stubborn she could be. From the moment she’d opened the studio door, David Hennings had surprised her. Not only did he not look a thing like his mother, but he also didn’t dress like any blue blood she’d ever met. If the chiseled face, sexy dark beard and enormous shoulders weren’t enough, the man rode a big, bad motorcycle known to be one of the fastest production bikes out there. That beauty did zero to sixty in less than three seconds, and something told her David Hennings loved to make it scream.
Mentally, she fanned herself. Cooled her own firing engines because...well...wow. Stay strong, girlfriend. She’d always had a thing for a man on a motorcycle. She sat back, casually crossed her legs and wished she weren’t wearing ratty jeans. “David, trust me—there’s a downside to this kind of work. People are sent to prison based on an artist’s sketch. I don’t want that responsibility.” She waved her hand around the studio. “I want to paint and sculpt for my clients’ enjoyment.”
He nodded, but he obviously wasn’t done yet. She saw it in the way he stared at her, his dark blue eyes so serious but somehow playful, as well. Whatever this was, he was enjoying it.
And between his height and his shoulders, he filled her sight line. Amazing that a man this imposing could come from a woman as petite as Mrs. Hennings. Then again, he’d clearly inherited his media-darling father’s big-chested build. A few wisps of his collar-length hair, such a deep brown it bordered on black, fell across his forehead and he pushed them back, resting his long fingers against his head for a second, almost demanding those hairs stay put. Amanda’s girlie parts didn’t just tingle, they damn near sizzled.
Whew.
The object of her indecent thoughts gestured to the piece she’d worked on that morning. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He took his time getting to the sculpture, his gaze on it as he moved, and Amanda’s skin caught fire. Prowling, sexual energy streamed from him as he contemplated her work, head cocked one way and then the other, that strong jaw so perfect she’d love to sculpt it.
And her without a fan.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think your work is exceptional. And I’m not saying that because I want something from you.” He smiled. “Certain lines I won’t cross, and doling out high praise when it’s not warranted is one of them.”
“Thank you. I take it you like art?”
He shrugged. “I like to study things. To research them. Like this building. I saw it and had to know its history.”
“All right, what do you see in that sculpture?”
“The mouth.” He went back to the photo on the stand. “It’s not quite there yet.”
Amazing. “I worked on the lips all morning. Something isn’t right.”
Now he looked back at her, a full-on smile exploding across his face, and Amanda’s lungs froze. Just stopped working. To heck with Michelangelo, Amanda LeBlanc now had a David of her very own.
“I have another deal for you.”
Her lungs released and she eased out a breath. “You’re full of deals today.”
“I’m a lawyer. It’s what I do.”
“Fine. What’s your deal?”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is with your sculpture if you go with me to see this detective.”
Moving closer, she kept her gaze on him and the not-too-smug curve of his mouth. “You know what’s wrong with the lips?”
“I believe I do.”
As a trained artist, one with a master’s in fine arts, she’d spent hours trying to figure it out, and now the history major thought he knew. Oh, this was so tempting. She’d love to prove him wrong and knock some of that arrogance right out of him. But, darn. The way he carried that confidence, that supreme knowing made her stomach pinch.
“What’s wrong, Amanda? Cat got your tongue?”
And ohmygod, he was such a weasel. A playful weasel, but still. She snorted. “Please. The cat having my tongue has never been an issue. Perhaps I’m merely stunned by your gigantic ego.”
“Oh, harsh.” He splayed his hand and his beautifully long fingers over his chest, but his face gave him away, all those sharp angles softly curving when he smiled. “You wound me.”
Such a weasel. From her worktable, she grabbed her flat wooden tool. “Okay, hotshot. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“If I tell you and it works, you go with me to see that detective. That’s the deal.”
“Yes. If it works, I’ll go with you.”
Silly, silly girl. All this to prove him wrong. Something told her, if he nailed this, she might never hear the end of it.
He smiled at her, spun to the sculpture and, without touching it, pointed to the right corner of the mouth. “It’s not the lips so much but the small depression that should be right there.”
What now? Lunging for the photo, she analyzed the corner of the CEO’s mouth. Dammit. Right there. Well, not right there. The dimple was so slight it couldn’t even be called a dimple. Her issue hadn’t been the lips at all, but the mouth in general. And, oh, she could rail about how David had tricked her, about how she specifically meant the lips and the deal would be negated.
But she should have caught that. Even the tiniest of details, as they’d both just learned, could ruin a project.
“David Hennings, I don’t know whether to kill you or kiss you.”
His hand shot up. “Can I vote?”
She cracked up. “No. But darn it, I can’t believe I didn’t catch that.”
“You were looking too hard. Happens to me sometimes when I’m working cases. I’ll be searching for precedents and—bam—someone else reads my notes and in five minutes knows exactly what I need. It’s irritating as hell.”
“It sure is.”
“That being said...”
He strode back to where they’d been sitting, his smile growing wider by the second. So smug.
And she’d just handed him that victory.
He slid his phone from the side pocket of his jacket and held it up for her to see. “What time shall I tell the detective we’ll be there?”
* * *
DETECTIVE LARRY MCCALL ushered Amanda and David into a small conference room at Area North headquarters. The old building didn’t have the charm her building had, but with a few fixes and a splash of fresh paint the dreary and dull white walls wouldn’t feel so confining. Then again, Amanda supposed a police station wasn’t meant to be paradise.
Inside the room, a veneer table large enough for six had been jammed into the corner. Probably the only way it would fit. Five chairs—what happened to the sixth?—were haphazardly pushed in, a couple almost sideways. Maybe the last meeting had ended in a rush.
Amanda took the chair Detective McCall held for her while David remained standing, casually leaning against the wall directly across from her. “Thank you,” she said.
“No,” the detective said. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Detective, please, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. As I said—”
McCall waved her off. “Yeah, I know. You’re not a forensic artist and you’re only having a look. I get it. Still, I appreciate whatever you can do.”
He slapped a file onto the table, the fwap reverberating in her head, making her ears ring. What am I doing? She shouldn’t be here. She’d spent years running from the lure of this kind of work. Years. And for good reason. As talented as her mother had been, her work with law enforcement had been the end of the fairy tale. For Amanda. For her father. And most of all, for her mother.
David shifted, drawing her attention, and she brought her gaze to his. He cocked his head—he did that a lot—and stared at her face while she worked on arranging her features into neutral. No clues here. Still, he narrowed his eyes and she knew he’d sensed something. Those haunting dark blue eyes of his burned right through her.
The file McCall had slapped on the table was open in front of her and she pulled her gaze from David, needing to be free of whatever psychoanalysis he performed on her. In front of her was a two-dimensional facial reconstruction—a detailed sketch—of a woman with shoulder-length dark hair flipped up at the ends. Big eyes. So young. The woman appeared to be late teens, perhaps early twenties. If so, the hair was wrong. No teenager would wear her hair in that style.
Not my call.
Keeping her hands in her lap, Amanda leaned forward. The drawing had been done on bristol paper, its surface rough and able to tolerate abundant erasures.
She glanced at McCall. “Was this done from the skull itself?”
“Uh, no.” He reached over, shuffled through some pages in the file and pulled out photos of the skull. “These. Why?”
“Photos can distort the skull. If the lighting is wrong, the artist can misinterpret something.”
Which could have been her problem with the photo of the firefighter.
“No foolin’?”
Amanda sat back, still refusing to touch the pages. If she did, they’d somehow bond her. “It can happen. The hair is long. Was there hair found near the skull?”
“Yeah. A few strands. We have it in evidence.”
Okay. Well, she knew that was right at least. But truly, if they wanted an accurate image, the artist should have been given access to the skull.
“Did you have any hits at all on the drawing?”
“Not a one.”
David finally moved from his spot against the wall and looked over her shoulder at the photo. His presence behind her, looming and steady, sent her body mixed messages. Messages that made her think he could handle anything. That the sheer size of him wouldn’t relent. Ever.
Her gaze still on the composite, Amanda cleared her throat. “No missing-person reports?”
“Nothing that fits the timeline. Or her age.”
“I’m assuming an anthropologist has studied the bones and given an age estimation?”
“Yeah. His notes are in there. He thinks she was early twenties. White.”
Amanda dug through the stack of papers, located the anthropologist’s notes and began her review, alternately checking the photos of the skull until she’d read the entire report.
David moved back to his spot against the wall, this time crossing his legs at the ankles and sliding his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “What do you think?”
“About?”
He shrugged. “Anything. The photo, the file.”
“The drawing is good. At least from what I can tell. One thing that’s bothering me is that the artist didn’t have a chance to study the skull. If I’d been assigned this, I would have requested to see the actual skull.”
“What would that have done?”
“Sometimes photography distorts images. As I mentioned, the lighting could throw something off. Plus, I’d want to check tissue-depth data and get a frontal and lateral view of the actual skull. Looking at these photos, it’s hard to tell how big it is. All of that plays in to the drawing.”
And might be why they didn’t get any hits on this poor woman. The artist, although quite good, could have missed something simply because he—or she—was not given the actual skull to sketch from. This victim was buried in a field, tossed away like trash, and the drawing might not even be accurate.
Which meant a family somewhere was still wondering where their loved one could be. And that old yearning for her mother kicked in.
At least she knew where her mother was.
She glanced at the drawing again, and McCall jumped all over her. “What if I could get you the skull? I cleared you with the brass already. They’re on board with any help you can offer.”
Oh, no. She stacked the papers, setting the anthropologist’s report on top of the drawing and the photos of the skull so she didn’t have to see them. Didn’t have to feel the pull of a dead woman begging for justice.
She bit her bottom lip, really digging in because—what am I doing?—as hard as she tried to bury the image of that young woman, it was there, flashing in her mind.
“Amanda?”
David’s voice. He was still leaning against the wall, once again studying her, trying to read her. Such a lawyer. Damn him for bringing her here. And damn her for allowing him to do it. For making that stupid bet.
She shoved the folder toward Detective McCall. “If I can see the skull itself, I’ll do another drawing so you can compare it to what the other artist did. Having the actual skull might make a difference. That’s as far as I’ll go, Detective.”
McCall bobbed his head, smiling as if he’d won the lottery. “No problem. I’ll call the lab, tell ’em you’ll be over. Anything you can do is great. We—uh—can’t pay you, though. You know that, right?”
Now she looked back at David, grinning at him, returning the smugness he’d hit her with earlier. “Detective, it’s your lucky day because Mr. Hennings has agreed to pay my fee. So, as soon as you arrange for me to see that skull, I’ll get to work and hopefully, we’ll find out where this woman belongs.”
* * *
WANTING TO BE done with the entire situation, Amanda had agreed to go right over to the lab. Like Pamela Hennings, the detective was on a mission. Which meant David had had to drive her home to pick up her tools.
She’d offered to make the trip to the lab herself, but he’d claimed the least he could do was take her and then pick her up again when she’d completed her work.
Considering her nerves and angst over seeing the skull, Amanda didn’t argue. Getting behind a wheel while distracted would do her no good.
And here they were. The forensic anthropologist, Paul something—she’d missed his last name thanks to the ringing in her ears—from the county’s forensic lab set the skull with its vacant eyes staring straight up at her on the cork ring. She clasped her fingers together, squeezing hard enough that her knuckles protested, and snapped her mind back to her task rather than her nerves.
Dull beige walls and glaring overhead lights added to the sterile, stark atmosphere of the lab and sent a fierce chill snaking from her feet right up into her torso.
She forced her thoughts to the gloved hands positioning the skull inside the ring. Paul tilted it up another half inch so it would rest against the back of the ring, his hands gentle—reverent even—as he completed his task. This person, whose only remains were the skull in front of them, belonged somewhere.
Give her a name. Whether Amanda could complete that task would be determined, and she’d resist pressuring herself. For now, she’d be an artist, studying a subject, keeping her emotional distance, but doing her best to re-create a drawing that might help identify the victim.
Amanda squeezed the pencil in her hand, then relaxed her grip before she broke the thing. “Tell me about her.”
“She’s in remarkably good shape considering the elements. Based on the teeth and shape of the head, we’re estimating her age at early twenties. Maybe late teens. We made a cast of the skull in case of reconstruction, but there’s never been one done. Budgeting issues.”
“So the cast is already made?”
Ugh. Amanda closed her eyes, thought of her mother and let out a frustrated laugh. It would be so like her mom to throw this project in her path, urging her to press on because, yes, they had a cast already made and she could take possession of it. To at least try the reconstruction. Nice, Mom.
“Yes,” Paul said. “It’s been sitting here waiting for someone to work on her.”
Amanda brought her attention back to the skull on the table. Detective McCall had told her the anthropologist had determined the victim was a white female, and the flatness of the face and the long, thin nasal openings appeared to represent that.
“She’s a Caucasoid,” Amanda said.
“Yes.” He pointed to an area at the back of the skull. “In terms of injuries, there’s a small, depressed spot here. Looks like she was hit with something small, but it was a forceful impact. From the shape of the wound, it could have been a hammer. It fractured her skull.”
“Poor thing.”
“Whoever buried her didn’t dig far enough. That’s why the dog dug up the skull. We never found the rest of the bones. Animals may have gotten to them and dragged them to another spot. That field is too big to dig up the entire thing looking for her.” He held his hand out. “This is what we have.”
Amanda’s stomach twisted. “If they’d buried her deeper, she might never have been found.”
“Probably not.”
“I’ll do another sketch. See if it’s any different than the last one. I brought everything I need.” She pointed her pencil at the table. “Can I work here?”
“That’s fine. Holler if you need me.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Paul wandered off to a lab table with a giant microscope on the far side of the room. From the looks of all the equipment stacked on shelves and the shiny tables, he had plenty to do.
She dug her iPod from her purse, shoved the earbuds in place and scrolled her music library. For this, she knew exactly what she needed. A nice classical mix. She poked at the desired playlist, aptly named DESPERATE, and got down to business.
From her briefcase, she pulled a small stack of tracing paper, pencils and her copy of the tissue-depth table for Caucasoids. In the file Paul had left her, she located the life-size frontal and lateral photographs of the skull, set them side by side on her drawing boards and taped the corners. Over the frontal photograph, she placed tracing paper and began outlining the face while Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2 softly streamed through her earbuds.
Song after song played as she carefully outlined, corrected and outlined again, taking her time, double-checking each element until it was time to call Paul over to help with tissue-depth markers. Then she’d begin filling in the face, adding the contours of the jaw and cheeks and then the eyebrows and hairline. The tiny details she could add later, but for now she focused on a blueprint to work with. Little by little, each element brought some new aspect to the face, giving it lifelike qualities.
The hair. Detective McCall had told her they’d found a few long, dark hairs with the body. How long, she wasn’t sure, but she’d try shoulder length. After outlining the overall shape of the hair and filling in the length based on the hair found at the scene, she added subshapes—loose waves in the front—and then blended dark and light tones for contrast.
Chopin shifted to Beethoven again. Could that be? More than two hours’ worth of a playlist? And she still had to fill in the details on the frontal eye–nose area. She stopped shading and glanced around. Paul had moved to a desk in the corner of the lab, clearly unconcerned about the approaching end of the workday.
Amanda sat back and stretched her shoulders as a beautiful young woman with sharp cheekbones and a small button nose stared back at her.
A woman with a hole in the back of her skull.
Stomach knotted, Amanda closed her eyes, forcing herself to detach. To not get sucked into the mind-ravaging warfare this case would create. Her mother had done this work on a regular basis, felt this pull of longing and heartbreak. Amanda supposed a person eventually got used to it. After all, the cause was noble, if not emotionally eviscerating.
She opened her eyes to someone whose family had yet to know her fate. Amanda thought back to those first brutal days without her mom, to the shock and anger and bone-shattering ache that came with sudden and tragic loss.
To this day, she didn’t fully understand—probably never would—how her mom had thought suicide was the only option. Obviously, the emotional place her mother had reached was too dark, too painful to find her way free. Her work as a forensic artist probably hadn’t helped, but Amanda would never truly know why her mom had done what she did.
At least Amanda had a place to visit. A place to sit and talk and grieve.
A proper grave site.
She ran her fingertips over the edge of the paper she’d sketched on. This woman’s family had no answers. Maybe they assumed she was dead. Maybe not. Maybe down deep they held on to hope that she’d walk back into their lives.
And that tore into Amanda like a rusty chain saw. At least she knew her mother was gone.
“I’ll bring you home,” she said.
Chapter Four (#ulink_bb922353-b738-5d73-8a7b-96a93647bfad)
While David stood beside her at the lab table, Amanda stored her drawing boards, wondering what kind of coward buried a woman and walked away, leaving her body to be ravaged by animals and the elements.
She didn’t know. Didn’t care to. All she knew was sitting in that lab, staring at the skull, sketching based on estimations of tissue depth, she’d experienced a buzz, the high of having the ability to change the course of an investigation—something her mother used to talk about. Amanda had never experienced it. Never quite understood the lure of forensic work. As a kid, she’d thought it all seemed...morbid...and she hadn’t grasped what her mother found so intriguing.
Until today.
She thought about her workbench back in the studio where a forensic workshop registration—the one she kept putting off—was weighted down by a giant conch shell she’d found on a trip to Florida when she was nine. A shell her mother had uncovered while wading in the surf.
I know, Mom. I know. Every day she’d been without her mother, she’d never doubted her presence.
Beside her, David stepped closer and she glanced up, their gazes locking because when he pinned those haunting dark blue eyes on her, she couldn’t resist the pull of them reaching right in and paralyzing her.
Something she didn’t want to feel. With anyone.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
Breaking eye contact, she studied the intricate stitching on the shoulder of his jacket and the way the seam fell at exactly the right spot, the cut so perfect for his big body that she realized it might be nice, sometime soon, to have sex.
And wow. What a mess her mind was today. She couldn’t deny there was a certain heat between them. From the time she’d opened her front door, she’d felt it. That simmer.
“This project,” she said, keeping her voice low so she wouldn’t be overheard by Paul, who patiently waited for them to get packed up. “It’s complicated.”
Receiving her message that she didn’t want Paul eavesdropping, David dipped his head lower. “The sketching?”
No. You. “It’s more than that.”
Because with him she felt things, tingly things that made her system hum, gave her a little high. If only she liked that high. Highs and lows, in her experience, shattered lives. But it had been so long since she was beyond her personal safe zone. Since she allowed herself to immediately feel a certain way about a man. About this man. Feelings like that messed with her emotions, brought her to places that terrified her. For ten years she’d worked to not turn into a person tortured by her own emotions.
But David kept surprising her. In a good way. In a way that made something warm and gooey chase away the cold, empty heartbreak she’d felt in the lab. That alone was worth...she didn’t know. She’d simply never met anyone who affected her this way. And so quickly.
Needing to get her mind right, she shook her head and stored her iPod in her bag while the quiet in the lab made her arms itch. Too quiet.
“When I was nine,” she said, “my mom found a conch shell on the beach in Florida. I have it on my workbench where I can see it every day. It’s a paperweight for important things. Right now one of those things is a registration form for a forensic workshop I’ve been thinking about taking. Pretty high-level stuff. I keep putting off registering.”
“Why?”
She gave up on packing her things and faced him. “My mother was a forensic artist.”
His eyebrows lifted. “She doesn’t do it anymore?”
“She died. Ten years ago. Killed herself.”
Wow, Amanda. Totally on a roll here. That miserable fact had only been spoken a handful of times and each time to people who’d proved their loyalty. People she could trust. Apparently, David was now one of those people.
“I can’t imagine that. I’m sorry.” He stood, unmoving, his face completely neutral, no judgment or horror, just a mild curiosity over whether she’d continue.
“Thank you. But I’m only telling you so you understand. She did a drawing once that helped convict a man of murder. He went to prison for a few years and was later exonerated. She never forgave herself.”
His head snapped back and Amanda held up her hand. “She didn’t kill herself over it, but it didn’t help. My mother always battled depression. She may have been bipolar. I’m not sure. All I know is that there were tremendous highs followed by days she couldn’t get out of bed. Work was her savior. She loved making a difference. After that man was exonerated she never did another sketch. Never. I think the loss of her work sent her into a spiral she couldn’t come out of.”
“And now we’re asking you to do a reconstruction.”
“Yes.”
David cracked his neck, finally showing some indication of his thoughts. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have pressured you.”
“I’ll do the sculpture,” she said.
For a moment he stood in his spot, his face deadpan, not even a flinch as dead air clogged the space between them. “I’m... Wow. What made you change your mind?”
So many things. My mother. An unidentified dead woman. She pointed at the image she’d created still sitting on the lab table. “Look at her. She was a beautiful girl. At least from my interpretation.”
He reached for the sketch, then stopped, his hand in midair. “May I?”
“Sure.”
“Your work is amazing.”
He set the image back on the table and angled back to her. “Are you okay?”
“I am. I thought doing the work my mother loved would be this big dramatic scene where I’d be doomed by my own emotional sludge. Turns out, it wasn’t so bad. If anything, I got a taste of what my mom went through each time. It’s odd, but it was like I had a piece of her right there with me, and that made me come alive a little bit.” Oh, what a thing to say to a man she barely knew. “I’m just babbling.”
“You’re not. I get it.” He winced. “Ew. Sorry. No, I don’t get it. Not really. What I should have said was I can see where, in a weird way, you’d connect with the work.”
All she could do was nod. Talking about this, letting him dissect her and examine her motivations, wouldn’t help her stay detached.
From the work or him.
“If they’ll give me the cast of the skull, I’ll try it. The reconstruction will be 3-D and have much more detail than my sketch.”
Appropriate or not, and definitely not caring that Paul sat just across the room, she stepped closer, slid her hand under David’s jacket around his waist and went up on tiptoes to hug him. “Thank you for being a pushy Hennings. After spending the afternoon in the lab, I believe my mother is letting me know it’s time I use my talent for more than what I’ve been doing.”
He backed away from the hug and hit her with one of his amazing smiles, not lightning quick but a slow-moving and devastating one that creeped across his face and kicked off a tingle low in her belly.
“Well, we Hennings people like to do our civic duty. How about as a thank you for saving me from my mother’s wrath, I buy you dinner one night this week? I can’t do it tonight because I’m expected at my mother’s.”
“You don’t have to feed me.”
“Yeah, I do. You’re doing this for us despite what you’ve been through. Besides, what I really want is a date with you, so a dinner kills two birds with one stone. As they say.”
So slick, this one. Total charmer. And such trouble. But trouble, right now, might be nice. “I think I’d like that.”
* * *
“JUST PULL UP in front and drop me off,” Amanda said as David turned the corner leading to her building.
He double-parked and turned off the engine. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“David—”
But he’d already hopped out to get the door for her, which, the girlie-girl buried deep inside admitted, gave her a little thrill.
The door flew open and he waved her out, adding a little bow that made her laugh. How she loved a man who could make her laugh.
“Do you need help getting upstairs?”
“No.” She retrieved her briefcase and tote from the backseat. “I’m all set. Thank you, though.”
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
Early-evening darkness had fallen and the streetlamps gave her building a creepy glow. Having been gone all day, she’d neglected to leave any interior lights on. As she approached, she spotted something white stuck to the front door of the building. Vendors were constantly leaving bagged flyers hanging on the door handle, but no one had ever fixed anything to the door. The nerve.
Using the flashlight on her phone, she read the notice—what the heck?—marked City of Chicago, Building Department. Below the letterhead in thick, bold letters the sign left no doubt of the city’s request. OFF-LIMITS. DO NOT ENTER.
She tilted her head, pondering this not-so-minor development. It had to be a joke. She glanced back at David a few steps behind her, thinking maybe he’d have... Nah. He hardly knew her well enough to pull this kind of prank. One she wouldn’t think funny.
At all.
“What’s up?” David asked. “Did you forget something?”
“I...” Stumped, she held her hand to the door. “I don’t know. There’s a sign from the city telling me not to enter.”
Has to be a joke. Right? Because if it wasn’t, she had big problems. But why would her building be sealed? Something odd squeezed her stomach, shooting tension right into her chest. Without access to the building, she’d be locked out of her studio and home. Out of her life.
Frowning, David looked up at the door. “Why?”
As if she knew. She shone the flashlight on the paragraph below the big block letters and scanned it while the pressure in her head skyrocketed and a sharp throb settled behind her eyes. “It says the building must remain vacant until further notice. Are they kidding me? My entire life is in this building.”
“They must have the wrong location. Plus, they haven’t barricaded or padlocked the door.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the building isn’t going to collapse. If it was they’d block the entrances. The city can’t afford to barricade every door and window on every building. If the problem is due to contaminants and the building won’t collapse, they do signage. Which they’ve done, so don’t panic. Call your landlord and find out what’s happening.”
Yes. The landlord. The city had to have contacted him. Quickly, she scrolled through her contacts and found the number. “I’ve been trying to convince him to apply for landmark status on this building. And they want to condemn it?”
The phone rang a third time and Amanda grunted. “He never answers when I call.” She left a voice mail explaining the situation, then disconnected. “I’m calling the building department.”
“You can try, but it’s after five. They’re probably gone for the day.”
She’d try anyway. Couldn’t hurt. Not wanting to deal with searching for the number on her phone, she dialed information and was connected to the city’s building department, where—yes—she received a recorded message telling her the office was indeed closed.
Terrific. She tapped the screen and scrunched her eyes closed. Stay calm. Just a mix-up.
Opening her eyes, she once again read the sign as her thoughts raced. Work. Clothes. Checkbook. Her damned allergy medicine. Everything was inside.
Forget calm.
Forget not panicking.
All at once, her body buzzed and throbbed and itched and all this emotional garbage was so not good for her, the woman who kept her life in a constant state of neither ups nor downs. Well, this was one heck of a down. “I don’t know what to do. My clothes are all in there!” She flapped her arms. “My work is in there.”
“Hang tight.” David retreated a few steps and stared up at the darkened building, obviously formulating some kind of plan. “There’s a back door, right?”
“Yes.”
“We’re going in the back.”
“The sign says...”
“Yeah, but you just said you don’t have any clothes. We’ll sneak in the back door, hope we don’t get caught and you pack up whatever you need for a few days until this gets hashed out.”
Without the studio, she couldn’t work. Without work, she couldn’t earn. Her draining checkbook—the one inside the no-access building—filled her mind. “I lease a storage unit, but there’s not enough room for me to work in there. I have a sculpture to finish!”
David slid the tote and her briefcase off her shoulders, walked back to his SUV and stowed them. “I’ve got this. My condo is still being renovated. You can use one of the bedrooms that’s not being worked on. I’ll put you in the guest room.”
Amanda’s head dipped forward. “You’re letting me turn your condo into a studio?”
“Why not? The place is empty. You might as well use it until I can move in.” He waved his hand at the building. “This’ll get straightened out in a few days and you can move back here. No problem.” He inched closer and grabbed both her hands. “We’ve got this. We’ll load as much as we can and take it over to the condo.”
The idea might not be a bad one. It might, in fact, be a short-term solution. “We can use my car also.”
“Good. Then we’ll get you set up in a hotel for the night. Is that a plan?”
“David Hennings, I could love you.”
He threw his hands up, grinning at her. “Let’s not get crazy now or you might be stuck with me.”
At the moment, as she thought about every minute she’d spent with this man since he’d walked into her studio earlier that day, being stuck with him might not be a bad thing. She grabbed hold of his jacket, the leather Belstaff she loved so much, and dragged him closer. Going up on tiptoes, she kissed him. And it wasn’t one those tentative let’s-test-this kisses where they sort of eased into it. This one left nothing on the table. Tongues were involved.
And she’d started it. Total insanity.
But he certainly wasn’t rejecting her. He made it worth her while by wrapping his arm around her and pulling her right up against him. A few seconds later a bulge at his crotch area announced itself in a truly obvious way, and her heart slammed. What he wanted couldn’t have been clearer. No doubt. At all.
“Dude,” a guy passing by said. “Lucky dog.”
David pulled back and his amazing lips tilted into a wicked grin. “Dude,” he said, “don’t I know it?”
* * *
DAVID SET THE last box of supplies they’d taken from Amanda’s in his extra bedroom and did a quick survey of the place. The walls were still unpainted and the drywall dust left a weird coating on the floors. For what she needed, it would do. If the dust didn’t give her an asthma attack. “We’ll run out tonight and get you a couple of tables to set up. It won’t be perfect, but this is triage.”
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Adrienne Giordano
Bad to the bone…in all the right waysA brilliant civil lawyer, David Hennings has always been the outsider—at odds with his wealthy family, shunning relationships, defying convention as a sexy leather-jacketed biker. Which is why sculptor Amanda LeBlanc agrees to his request to reconstruct a skull from a cold case murder. The instant heat between them is scorching.But once Amanda takes the job and gets too close to the rebellious attorney, her carefully balanced life is upended by a series of methodical attacks. Someone doesn't want her to finish the job. Now David will risk everything not to lose the woman he unknowingly put in jeopardy.
“Damn, you’re gorgeous,” he said.
“Thank you. But, so help me, David, if you come inside, I won’t get any work done.”
At that, he laughed. He leaned over, brushed his fingers down the side of her face, slowly moving over the curve of her cheek, along her jaw to her mouth, where he ran the pad of his thumb over her lips. “If that’s meant to scare me off, it’s not working.”
She dipped her head, rubbed her cheek along his fingertips. “It is your condo. I have no right to tell you when you can be here.”
“I’m not staying,” he said. She pushed the door open but didn’t move.
A gust of wind blew her hair into her face and she shoved it back. “Okay.”
“Unless you want me to.”
The Rebel
Adrienne Giordano
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ADRIENNE GIORDANO, a USA TODAY bestselling author, writes romantic suspense and mystery. She is a Jersey girl at heart, but now lives in the Midwest with her workaholic husband, sports obsessed son and Buddy the wheaten terrorist (terrier). For more information on Adrienne’s books, please visit www.adriennegiordano.com (http://www.adriennegiordano.com) or download the Adrienne Giordano app. For information on Adrienne’s street team, go to facebook.com/groups/dangerousdarlings (http://facebook.com/groups/dangerousdarlings).
Contents
Cover (#u29211420-2417-5642-9ce6-451ed5fc39fc)
Introduction (#ucfb08983-3913-5e6d-a23d-32995b991b7e)
Title Page (#u5d0cbe41-07f8-5f2c-a14e-60d805c4dfe1)
About the Author (#u94556f25-0aca-5c35-8fb2-eac7f3fe75e0)
Chapter One (#u1932959f-6780-55fc-84de-c346a90e3ca0)
Chapter Two (#u84d0655c-c059-5540-8942-48e5a9642901)
Chapter Three (#u11eb2ad0-56f6-5313-8b64-59d4a24e9203)
Chapter Four (#u626553a3-03b3-5b3d-99e8-f961a638351a)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_e882733c-7b5b-518e-8550-a7ea8bb45433)
“Come on, boy. Another quarter mile and we’re done.”
Larry McCall whistled for Henry, his black Lab, who needed exercise more than Larry, to move along. Sunrise illuminated the sky, streaking it in shades of purple and orange that made even a grisly homicide detective marvel at the beauty of nature on an early fall morning.
With Henry busy sniffing a patch of dirt, Larry paused a moment, tilted his head back and inhaled the dewy air. Another two weeks, all these trees would be barren and the city would come in and scoop up the leaves. At which point, his body would make excuses to stay in bed rather than hoof it through ten acres of fenced-in fields on Chicago’s southwest side.
Half expecting Henry to trot by him, Larry opened his eyes and glanced to his left, where the dog always walked. No Henry. Since when had he gotten subversive? Larry angled back and found Henry still at the spot he’d been sniffing a minute ago. Only now he was digging. Hard. Terrific. Not only would he have dirt all over him, but he’d also probably snatch a dead animal out of the ground and drop it at Larry’s feet. Here ya go, Dad.
Not happening. He whistled again. “Leave it,” he said in his best alpha-dog voice.
His bum luck was that Henry had alpha tendencies, too, and kept digging. He’d have to leash him and pull him away before a dead squirrel wound up in his jaws.
Years earlier the city had torn down three low-income apartment buildings—the projects—because of the increased drug and criminal activity surrounding the place. All that was left was the fenced-in acreage that made for great walking. Problem was, there could be anything—rodents, needles, crack baggies, foil scraps—buried. Needles.Dammit. Larry hustled back to the dog before he got stuck. Or stoned.
“Whatever you found, Henry, we don’t want any part of. Leave it.”
He snapped the leash on, gently eased Henry back and was met with ferocious barking. What the hell? His happy dog had gone schizo.
“What is it, boy?”
Holding the dog off the hole he’d started, Larry bent at the waist to focus on something white—dull white—peeking through the dirt.
Henry barked and tugged at the leash.
“Okay, boy. Relax. Let me look at it.”
He led a still-barking Henry to a tree, secured the leash around it to keep him at bay and walked back to the spot. Using the handkerchief he always carried—yes, he was that old-school, so what?—to protect his hands, he cleared more of the loose, moist dirt from the top, and more white appeared. He tapped the surface. Solid. Rock solid. And Larry’s stomach twisted in a way it only did on the job.
Stop. Twenty years of working homicide told him he should. Right now. Don’t go any further; call it in.
Birds chirped overhead, the sound so crisp and incessant it sliced right into his ears. Henry apparently had riled ’em good. Still squatting, Larry scanned the desolate area. Beyond the fence at the end of the last quarter mile, the early-morning rush began to swell on Cicero.
Henry barked again. Normally calm as a turtle, he wanted to dig.
Larry cocked his head to study whatever peeked through the dirt, and once again his stomach seized. After all these years, only one thing futzed with his stomach.
Crime scene.
But, truth be told, he had a tendency to overthink things. Something else years on the job had done to him. Hell, he could be staring at an old ceramic bowl. And how humiliating would it be to call this in and have it wind up being someone’s china?
Just hell.
Henry barked again, urging him on, and Larry gave in to his curiosity and pushed more loose dirt around. At least until he hit a depression and his finger, handkerchief and all, slid right into it. Gently, he moved his finger around, hitting the outer edges of the depression, and a weird tingling shot up his neck. His breathing kicked up.
What’d this dog find?
He cleared more dirt, his fingers moving gently, revealing more and more of the surface of whatever was buried here. Once again, his fingers slipped into the depressed area and he knew. Dammit.
He’d just stuck his finger into an eye socket.
Chapter Two (#ulink_46f07fe8-743f-5395-9edf-1b7071ce2c05)
Five Years Later
Surrounded by four hundred guests, seven of them sitting at her table in the ballroom of Chicago’s legendary Drake Hotel, Amanda studied a giant photo of a fallen firefighter that had flashed on the screen behind the podium. Without a doubt, she’d botched his nose.
Ugh. How embarrassing. Any novice artist, particularly a sculptor, would see the slight flare of the man’s nostrils. She slid her gaze to the sculpture, her sculpture, a gift to the widow of Lieutenant Ben Broward, who’d died three months ago after running into a crumbling building to save a child.
The child had survived.
Ben had not.
And Amanda’s gift to his widow and their children was now worthless. At least in Amanda’s mind. Had the flaring nostrils been that obvious on the photos she’d been given? Later, when she arrived home, she’d swing into her studio and check. Just to satisfy herself.
Darn it.
Sitting back in her chair, she eased out a breath and made eye contact with Lexi, her interior designer friend who’d originally suggested she attend this fund-raiser and meet Pamela Hennings and Irene Dyce, both politically connected—and extremely wealthy—women. Amanda’s idea to donate the sculpture had come after seeing an interview with Lieutenant Broward’s wife and children. She couldn’t give them the man back, but maybe the sculpture would bring some sort of peace. Not exactly closure because Amanda didn’t buy in to that whole closure thing. What did that even mean? Tragedy was tragedy and she doubted Ben’s family would ever fully recover.
Mrs. Hennings leaned closer to speak over the chatter and the sound of clanging silverware filling the room. “Amazing likeness, dear.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Dyce said from the other side of Mrs. Hennings. “Beautiful work, Amanda.”
“Thank you.”
Not that she believed it after spotting her mistake, but coming from Mrs. Hennings, the wife of Chicago’s most brilliant defense attorney, a woman notorious for her good taste, Amanda, as she always did, graciously accepted the compliment, allowing it to momentarily smother her doubt.
At least until she looked at that nose again. Would the widow notice? Would she see the blunder every time she chose to look at the piece? Would it drive her insane? Gah.
The woman couldn’t spend years looking at a nose butchered by the artist. Amanda couldn’t allow it. She’d redo the piece. That was all. She’d make time to fix her mistake.
Done.
Over.
Move on.
A waiter slid a slice of cherry cheesecake in front of her. Any other day, she’d happily indulge, which of course wouldn’t help her lose that extra ten pounds, but a girl had a right to sugar. Simple fact. But after the beating she’d just given herself, she wasn’t sure her stomach could handle a rich dessert. Gently, she nudged the plate away, opting instead for a sip of water.
“Evening, Miss LeBlanc.”
She glanced up to where a large, barrel-chested man, late fifties perhaps, stood behind her. “Hello.”
“I’m Detective Larry McCall. Chicago PD. Homicide.” He gestured to the vacant chair next to her. “Mind if I sit?”
Oh, boy. What was this?
Whatever it was, she was thankful he wasn’t the man who’d been sitting beside her all evening. That man, a financial planner from one of the city’s big banks, had disappeared more than thirty minutes ago after she flatly told him, no, she was not interested in doing “hot” things in his bed. What an idiot. With any luck, he’d found a woman willing to take him up on his offer.
She held her hand out. “Of course. Someone was sitting there, but he’s been gone awhile.”
Hopefully, for good.
The detective glanced across the table to where Lexi sat with her boyfriend, Brodey, another Chicago homicide detective and also the brother of one of the Hennings & Solomon investigators. Seemed to Amanda that the Hennings clan had a connection to just about everyone in this city.
“Junior,” Detective McCall said, nodding a greeting.
“Lawrence,” Brodey drawled.
And how amusing was this? Clearly these two were in some kind of twisted male peeing match, and Amanda did everything in her power not to roll her eyes.
Detective McCall dropped his bulky frame into the chair beside her. “I’ll move if he comes back. Sorry if I’m interrupting.”
“Not at all. What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I checked out your bust.”
Amanda bit her lip, stifling a smile as the detective replayed in his mind the last seconds—wait for it. There.
He smacked himself on the head, then did it again, but he laughed at himself all the same. Instantly she liked him, liked his ability to find humor in embarrassing situations, liked his acceptance of his blunder without making a fuss.
“I apologize,” he said. “This is what happens when you put a guy like me in a place like this. I insult nice women.”
And he had the rough-around-the-edges grit of one of those throwback detectives she liked to watch on reruns of NYPD Blue.
“Well,” she said, “lucky for you I’m not easily offended. And what’s worse is that I figured out immediately you meant the sculpture and not my—” she looked down, circled her hand in front of her chest “—you know.”
“The sculpture. Yeah. It’s really good.”
Aside from the botched nose.
“Thank you.”
“No. I mean it’s really good. I knew Ben. Good guy. Great guy, actually. His wife is the daughter of...” He shook his head, waved it off. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. The sculpture is...accurate. Scary accurate.”
Hmm... Having been approached by detectives before, Amanda felt the puzzle pieces beginning to come together and she readied herself to ruin Detective McCall’s evening. “I had a few photos from different angles to work from.”
“Yeah, I guess that helps. Listen, do you ever do forensic work?”
And there it was.
As suspected, the detective wanted her help on a case. Probably doing an age progression on a missing child or working with a witness to identify an attacker. Because of budgeting woes and a lack of funds for full-time forensic artists, police departments sometimes hired outside the department.
None of it mattered. She’d have to turn him down. “I’m sorry, Detective. I do have an interest and have taken some classes, but it’s not work I feel comfortable with yet.”
McCall, apparently ignoring her refusal, leaned in. “I’ve got this case...”
He has a case. On countless occasions throughout her childhood she’d heard those very words from her mother, a part-time forensic artist. Amanda held her hand up. “I’d like to help, but I have little experience in forensic work. I’d do more harm than good.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Trust me. It’s a cold case. Five years now. No leads. All we have is a skull and some hairs found where it was dug up. That’s all that’s left of her.”
“Her?”
“The medical examiner thinks it’s a female. Maybe late teens or early twenties.”
“I see.”
“I actually found her.”
Amanda gawked. Couldn’t help it. “You found the skull?”
The detective shook his head as he let out a huff. “Craziest damned thing. I was out walking my dog in that vacant spot near Midway, and Henry started digging. I’ll never forget it. Whoever this girl is, she and I are a team. I made sure I kept her case. It’s mine.”
“That’s admirable, Detective. Really.”
He shrugged. “We have a sketch done by one of the department artists, but I don’t know. Maybe she got it wrong because no one is coming forward to claim this girl and we didn’t get any hits from DNA. I’m a father. It makes me sick.” He ran his hand over his thinning, gray hair as he scanned the ballroom and the people moving toward the exit. “I saw what you did with the sculpture of Ben and thought maybe you could help us out.”
Amanda glanced across at Lexi, hoping to grab her attention with the save me stare. No luck there because her friend was busy whispering in Brodey’s ear. By the look on his face, he liked what he was hearing. A flash of something whipped inside Amanda. At odd times, she missed the comfort, the familiarity, the knowing of an exclusive relationship. Casual dating didn’t provide any of that.
But a pity party wouldn’t get her assistance from Lexi or Brodey. To her right, Mrs. Hennings and Mrs. Dyce were in deep conversation about scheduling a lunch, so there’d be no help there, either. For this one, she’d fly solo. Try once again to nicely let the detective know she couldn’t help him. As much as she felt for him, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—risk involvement. She faced him again, meeting his gaze straight on. “Detective, I’m sorry. It’s just not what I do. I’ve never done a reconstruction before. I could ask around, though, and see if any of my colleagues might be interested.”
McCall hesitated and studied her eyes for a few seconds, apparently measuring her resolve. He must have received her message because he nodded, his jowly cheeks shaking with the effort. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you. I want to give this girl her name back.”
And, oh, that made Amanda’s stomach burn. Ten years ago, her mother would have loved this project.
A lot had changed in ten years.
Movement from Amanda’s right drew her attention to Mrs. Hennings placing her napkin on the table. “I’m sorry to say, it’s past my bedtime.” Mrs. Hennings touched Mrs. Dyce’s shoulder. “I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll figure out a day for lunch.”
“I’ll be at the youth center. Call me there.”
“Will do.” Mrs. Hennings nodded at Lexi. “And I’ll have David call you about his new home. He needs help. Just don’t tell him I said that.”
Lexi laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. And thank you. I’m excited to work with him.”
Then Mrs. Hennings turned her crystal-blue gaze on Amanda. “My son has just moved back from Boston. Lexi will be helping him on the redesign of his condominium. I’d love to have him look at your artwork. He’s starting from scratch.” Her lips lifted into a calculating smile only mothers pulled off. “Whether he likes it or not, he’s starting from scratch.”
And from what Amanda had heard from Lexi, when Mrs. Hennings made a request, you should not be fool enough to deny her. When it came to Chicago’s upper crust, Mrs. Hennings might be their president.
“Of course,” Amanda said. “I’d love to. Lexi and I have worked together several times. Your son can come by my studio and look at some of my paintings. Or we could do a sculpture. Whatever he likes.”
The older woman reached to shake Amanda’s hand. “Wonderful. I’ll have him call you.”
* * *
“OH, COME ON, David,” Mom said. “I know you can be charming.”
David Hennings sat in the kitchen of his parents’ home, his hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, and faced down his mother, a woman so formidable and connected the mayor of Chicago kept in constant communication with her. She might be able to sway masses, but she was still his mother and, at times, needed to be told no.
Otherwise, she’d control him.
And that wasn’t going to happen.
“Mom, thank you for your never-ending encouragement.”
She scoffed at his sarcasm. “You know what I mean.”
Yes, he did. As much as he liked the usual banter between them, he didn’t want to hear about whatever scheme she had going. Not on a Monday morning when he had a to-do list a mile long, including meeting with the contractor renovating his new condo. Yep, after two weeks of living under his parents’ roof, because even he couldn’t be rebellious enough to break his mother’s heart by staying in a hotel, he needed to get that condo in shape so he could move in.
As usual, Mom kept her piercing eyes on him and with each second she slowly, methodically chipped away at him. This look was famous in the Hennings household. This look could possibly bring down an entire nation. He blew air through his lips, part of his willpower going with it. “Have you talked to Dad about this?”
“Of course.”
Lying. He eyed her.
“Well, I mentioned it. In passing.”
David snorted. “I thought so.”
After attending a fund-raiser for a fireman’s fund the night before, his mother had gotten it into her head that Hennings & Solomon, the law firm his father had founded, should have their investigators look into a cold case. An apparent homicide. All in all, David didn’t get what she wanted from him. All she knew about the case was what she’d overheard at the dinner table. One, some detective had a skull he couldn’t identify. Two, the detective wanted a sculptor to do a reconstruction.
That was it.
A reconstruction alone would be no easy task if an artist didn’t have training in forensics. And who knew what kind of credentials this particular artist had?
David might not have been a criminal lawyer like his father and siblings, but he knew that much about forensics.
Mom folded her arms and leaned one hip against the counter. “We can help. I know we can.”
For years now, the two of them had been allies. Unlike his siblings, when David needed shelter, he went to his mother. He adored her, had mad respect for her. No matter what. Through that hellish few months when he’d destroyed his father’s dream of his oldest son joining the firm because David had decided civil law—horrors!—might be the way to go, his mother had pled David’s case, tirelessly arguing that he needed to be his own man and make his own decisions.
And Dad had given in.
It might have been butt-ugly, but the man had let David go.
That was the power of Pamela Hennings.
David slugged the last of his coffee because, well, at this point, the extra caffeine couldn’t hurt.
“Okay,” he said. “You do realize I’m not a criminal attorney, right? And, considering I don’t even work at Hennings & Solomon, I’m guessing I’m not the guy for this assignment.”
“Your father said Jenna and the other investigator, Mike what’s-his-name, are too busy. And you said you were bored. Since your new office won’t be ready for a couple of weeks, you can do this. We can do this.”
Cornered. Should have known she had a counterattack prepped. So like his mother to use his own words against him after he’d complained the night before that the contractor doing the renovation on his new office was running behind. Had he known that, he’d have stayed in Boston another two weeks before packing up and moving home to open his own firm.
“But I’m meeting with my contractor this morning.”
“By the way, as soon as you’re done with him, you need to call Lexi.”
“The decorator? Why?”
Mom huffed and gave him the dramatic eye roll that had won lesser actresses an Academy Award. “Interior designer, dear. And what do you mean, why? I told you I arranged for her to work with you. Because, so help me, David, you will not be living the way you did in Boston with all that oddball furniture and no drapes. You, my love, are a grown man living like a teenager. Besides, Lexi’s significant other knows the detective from last night. When you talk to Lexi, get the detective’s name. He’ll help you. We’ll get Irene Dyce in on this, as well.” Mom waggled her hand. “She was at the fund-raiser last night and overheard the conversation. I’m about to call her to set up lunch and you can bet I’ll mention it. Between her and her husband, they know half this city. It’s doable, David.”
He sat forward and pinched the bridge of his nose. By now he should be used to this. The bobbing and weaving his mother did to confuse people and get them to relent. “What is it exactly you want me to do?”
She slapped a business card in front of him. “Talk to the artist. I got her card last night. I told her you were about to move into a new home and might need artwork.”
“Seriously? You’re tricking her? And how much is that going to cost me?”
“David Jeremy Hennings, just shush. I needed a reason to contact her again. And it’s not a trick if you hire her. Just have her do a painting or something. That’s only fair.”
If he wound up buying something, his mother was paying for it. That was all he knew. Sighing, he picked up the card. Amanda LeBlanc. Nice name. Good, solid name. “Why do I need to talk to her?”
“She told the detective she couldn’t do the sculpture. I think she’s intrigued, though. She might just need a push. And you, my darling, excel at the art of the push.”
He held up both hands. “Mom, please don’t strain yourself with all these compliments. First I’m charming, and now it’s persuasive. This might all go to my head.”
“You need to zip it with the sass. For God’s sake, you’re the intellectual around here. You love research and history and combing through information to reach a conclusion. This case would be perfect for you.”
“I’m no investigator.”
“But you don’t have to be. All you need to do is get the ball rolling. Think of the people we have at our disposal. Russ is an FBI agent. I’m sure he’d help.”
Now she wanted to drag his sister’s boyfriend into this. Great. Given David’s strained—as in they drove each other nuts—relationship with Penny, he and Russ hadn’t gotten off to the greatest of starts.
Inspired, Mom boosted herself away from the counter and sat in the chair beside his. It’s over now. When she got charged up like this, there’d be no denying her.
“David, I want you to think about this. You moved back to Chicago to be part of this family again.”
“Mom—”
“Shush. I love you, but you’ve always had an issue with feeling like the odd man out.”
Damn, she’s good.
“If you’d really like to be included in all those nasty dinner conversations about criminal cases, this is the way to start. So far, the firm’s quasi cold-case squad has solved two murders. Two, David. Do you know how many nights I’ve had to listen to your father, Zac and Penny rehash those cases?” She held up her hand. “A lot. This is your chance to finally be part of the conversation. And, frankly, I want this. For the first time, I get to be part of the conversation, too, and I like it. I’m not your father’s socialite wife anymore. I’m more than an appendage.”
Academy Award winner Pamela Hennings. “Cut that out. You’ve never been an appendage. He’s terrified of you. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone knows I’m his wife and that, yes, we have a strong relationship, but I’ve never had a job, David. All the charity work and clubs, it’s all an offshoot of your father’s work. Not that I haven’t enjoyed it, but if given the chance at a redo, I’d have a career of my own. Doing what, I don’t know. All I know is that I’m suddenly someone who can help bring justice and it’s not because it’s expected of me. So buck up and do this for your mother.”
Game over. She’d turned the entire thing around on him, playing up the guilt because she knew, when it came to her, he rarely said no. Damn. How the hell did she always do this? He ticked through the conversation, then burst out laughing.
“What’s funny?”
He grabbed his cup, rose from his chair and kissed her on the cheek. “Nothing. You’re brilliant. You’ve totally manipulated me into doing this. And I let you. Being around lawyers has rubbed off on you.”
“You’ll do it?”
“I’ll talk to the artist. Then I’m done. I’m not an investigator and have no interest in being one. I have a law practice to open.”
Mom pushed up from the table and held her index fingers up. “That’s fine. Talk her into at least doing the reconstruction. You’re better at that sort of thing than I am. Once you convince her, I’ll handle it from there.”
“I’m sure you will, Mom. I’m sure you will.”
“And, by the way, dinner is at seven-thirty tonight. Zac and Emma will be here and Russ and Penny.”
She ran her gaze over his clothes, starting at his long-sleeved henley. He knew she hated the Levi’s jeans and boots, but he wasn’t five anymore and didn’t need his mother dressing him. “Don’t start, Mom.”
“Between the clothes and that facial hair, I have to ask that you not come to the table dressed like you escaped from prison.”
Facial hair. She acted as if he had a hobo beard rather than the close-cropped one he favored. He snatched his favorite leather jacket, the one with the intricate stitching on the shoulders, off the back of his chair, and Mom’s lips peeled back. “Mom, this is a two-thousand-dollar jacket. Besides, my tux is at the dry cleaner’s.”
“Don’t be fresh.”
More than done with this conversation, he shrugged into his coat. “I’ve gotta go. You’ve convinced me to talk to this artist. I love you, but quit while you’re ahead.”
Chapter Three (#ulink_1db04459-fd89-5a47-b1a4-f802fad23aba)
Morning sun shifted, the light angling sideways instead of straight into Amanda’s studio, and she stepped back from the sculpture. She’d been messing with the lips of a cell-phone manufacturer’s CEO, bending the clay, tweaking and retweaking for two hours, and she still couldn’t get the mouth right. And worse, she couldn’t figure out why. As much as it irritated her, drove her to near madness, it didn’t matter. She’d keep at it. No matter how long it took. After the botched nose on the fireman, resulting in a shake-up of her confidence, she’d get these lips perfect.
The changing sunlight through the loft’s oversize windows didn’t help, so she adjusted the six-foot lamp behind her, directing the light in a more favorable position. Light, light and more light helped keep her focused for the sometimes tedious hours spent in front of a sculpture. Changing shadows meant time slipping from her greedy hands. She glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty. She’d been at it six hours, two of them lost on bum lips.
“Okay, girlfriend. You need to get it together here. Forget the nose. It’s one nose. It shouldn’t be a career-ending mistake.”
Intellectually, she knew it. Emotionally, that faulty nose might do her in.
The studio phone rang, filling the quiet space with its annoying blinging sound. Typically, she’d ignore the phone until her exhausted and sore fingers gave out for the day. But now, with the rotten lips, it was probably a good time to take a break. Grab a quick lunch and refocus. She scooted to her desk in the corner and snatched up the handset.
“Good morning. This is Amanda.”
“Good morning, Amanda. My name is David Hennings. You met my mother at an event last night.”
And, hello, sexy voice of my dreams. Wow. The low-pitched resonance of that voice poured over her. With her dating history, he was probably five inches shorter than her and a total mama’s boy. “Hello, Mr. Hennings. I did meet your mother last night. She’s a lovely dinner companion.”
For whatever reason, he laughed at that, the sound just as yummy as his voice.
“That she is,” he said. “She told me she mentioned I was moving into a new place.”
Seriously, he didn’t sound short. Or like a mama’s boy. If that even made sense because how could anyone know what someone looked like by the way he spoke? She had a vision, though. A good one, an exceptional one, of a tall man, fair haired and blue-eyed like his mother. And he’d wear suits every day. Slick, Italian suits that alerted the world to his blue-blood status. Yes indeed, she had a vision.
“She mentioned you’d be working with Lexi, who is a friend, by the way. Would you like to set up an appointment and we can discuss what you might need?”
“Definitely. I just spoke with Lexi. I could swing by. If you’re available.”
“Now?”
“If that works. Otherwise, we could look at tomorrow.”
Apparently Mrs. Hennings was in a hurry. Amanda swung back to her sculpture and the stubborn lips. A break might help. Discussing new projects always seemed to cleanse the palate, help her look at existing work with fresh perspective and excitement. But she wasn’t exactly dressed to meet a new client. Knowing she had a full day of sculpting ahead, she’d yanked her hair into a ponytail and slipped on her baggiest of baggy jeans and a “Make Love, Not War” T-shirt a friend had given her as a joke. The hair she could deal with by removing her hair band. The clothes? Not so much.
“Mr. Hennings, that would be fine. But I have to warn you, I’m working on a sculpture today and when I sculpt I dress comfortably. I didn’t expect to have a meeting.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m in jeans. My mother is on a mission, Amanda, and if you know my mother at all, you know that if I tell her I didn’t meet with you because of what you were wearing, she’ll skin me.”
“So you’re saying you’re afraid of your mother.”
“I’m not afraid of my mother. I’m terrified of her.”
For the first time all day, considering the lips, Amanda laughed. A good, warm one that made her toes curl. Any argument she’d had to avoid meeting with him today vanished when he’d dropped that line about his mother. Simply put, she loved a grown man who understood his mother’s power. How that grown man handled that power was a different story. Heaven knew she’d dated some weaklings, men who not only were afraid of their mothers, but also let them dictate how their lives should go. That, on a personal level, Amanda couldn’t deal with. On a professional level, she didn’t necessarily care as long as her fee got paid.
Besides, she liked David Hennings. She liked the sound of his voice even more. Call it curiosity, a mild interest in meeting a man with a voice like velvet against skin, but she wanted to check him out.
“Okay, Mr. Hennings. You can come by now.”
“Great. I’ll see you soon. And it’s David.”
* * *
INSIDE THE STAIRWELL of the hundred-year-old building on the city’s West Side, David climbed the last few steps leading to the landing of Amanda’s second-floor studio. He loved these old structures with the Portland stone and brick. The iconic columns on the facade urged the history major in him to research the place. Check the city records, see what information he could find on who’d built it, who’d lived here or which companies had run their wares through its doors.
Structures like this had a charm all their own that couldn’t be duplicated with modern wizardry. Old buildings, this building, had a life, a past to be researched and appreciated.
Or maybe he just wanted to believe that.
He rapped on the door. No hollow wood there. By the scarred look and feel of its heavy weight under his knuckles, it might be the original door. How amazing would that be?
The door swung open and a woman with lush curves a guy his size could wrap himself around greeted him. She wore jeans and a graphic T-shirt announcing he should make love, not war—gladly, sweetheart—and her honey-blond hair fell around her shoulders, curling at the ends. The whole look brought thoughts of lazy Sunday mornings, hot coffee and a few extracurricular activities, in a bed and out, David could think of.
To say the least, she affected him.
And she hadn’t even opened her mouth. Please don’t be an airhead.
“David?”
Yep. That was the voice from earlier. Soft and sweet and stirring up all kinds of images right along with Sunday mornings and coffee. With any luck, more than the coffee would be hot.
Hokay. Mission Pam Hennings getting derailed by wicked thoughts. Time to get serious.
“Hi. Amanda?”
“Yes.” She held her hand out. “Amanda LeBlanc.”
David grasped her hand and glanced down at her long, elegant fingers folding over his. Her silky skin absorbed his much larger hand, and he might like to stay this way awhile. Nice hands. Soft hands. He’d imagined a sculptor’s hands to be work-hardened and rough. Not that she swung an ax all day, but he’d expected...different.
“Um.” She pointed at their still joined hands. “I kinda need that hand back.”
Epic fail, Dave. He grinned and regrettably slid his hand away. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but where have you been all my life?”
As recoveries went, it wouldn’t be listed among the top hundred in brilliance, but a man had to work with what he had. Still, her lips, those extraordinary, shapely lips, twisted until she finally gave up and awarded him with a smile.
“Good one,” she said. “Come inside and we’ll talk about your project.”
Right to business. Couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know him and he’d not only barged in on her day, but also hit on her. He stepped into the loft and let out a low whistle. A few walls had obviously been knocked out because her studio took up half of the entire floor. He scanned the room, his eyes darting over the open ceiling, the gleaming white walls, the easels and canvases in one corner. A large table covered with tools and brushes separated one area from a second space, where a bust was mounted on an adjustable stand.
She closed the door behind him. “I’d ask you to excuse the mess, but since it always looks like this, I won’t bother.”
“It’s a studio. I’m not sure it’s supposed to be neat.”
“We can talk over here.” She motioned him to a round table for four by the windows.
“This is a great space. Fantastic light. Do you know anything about the building?”
Her eyebrows dipped. “As in who owns it?”
“No. Sorry. I’m a history buff. Majored in it in college. The columns out front make me think early 1900s architecture.”
“Ah. A man after my own heart. Believe it or not, I’m the only tenant right now. People just don’t see the beauty. According to city records, it was constructed in 1908. I’m not sure my landlord has a clue what a gem he has. When I toured the building he told me he wanted to paint the front of it.”
David opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I know,” she said. “I had to give him the number of a company that specializes in stone cleaning and repair before he stripped the historical value out of the place.”
“No kidding.”
Amanda took the chair by the window, where a legal pad and pencil waited to be put to use. David slid his jacket off, set it on the chair next to his and sat across from her. Damn, the woman was gorgeous. All big brown eyes and soft cheeks to go with the healthy curves.
“Is that jacket a Belstaff?” she asked.
And, oh, oh, oh, she knew motorcycles. Or at least biker jackets. This expedition of his mother’s might make his day.
“It is. You like motorcycles?”
“My dad does. What do you ride?”
“A Ducati. Diavel Carbon.” He smiled. “It’s a beast.”
“It should be with a name like Diavel. You know what it means, right?”
He sure did. “Diavolo. Italian for devil.”
She grinned. “And are you? A devil?”
“My mother would say I am. I think I’m a history nerd with a thing for motorcycles.”
“Huh,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing. You’re just not what I expected.”
Now, this sounded good. Maybe. “You know I have to ask...”
“I expected someone who looks like your mother. Tall, blond hair, Italian suit. Instead I got dark with an Italian motorcycle.”
He bit his bottom lip, then ran his teeth over it. “If my brother had knocked on your door, you’d have nailed it.” He shrugged. “But hey, you got the tall part right.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
She picked up her pencil and tossed her hair over her shoulder and David’s pulse went berserk. Damn, this woman was beautiful. And not in the normal way. This was more corn-fed, casual beauty that she probably had no idea she possessed.
She angled her notepad in front of her. “Anyway, tell me about this project. What kind of paintings are you looking for?”
Nudes.
Of her.
His mother would castrate him. He cleared his throat and got that vision out of his head. The naked Amanda, not the castration. But the castration was no picnic, either.
But here was where this scenario got sticky because his sneaky mother, God bless her, had taken Amanda’s card under the guise of providing him with art for his condo. Well, he’d get the art anyway because he would not waste this woman’s time under false pretenses. “I’m not sure. I was thinking maybe we could work with Lexi on that. Something bold, deep colors. I don’t know. It’s not my thing. That’s why I have Lexi.”
“She’s good at it, that’s for sure. I can call her. Then I’ll pull some paintings I think will work. If you don’t like them, maybe I can create something specific for you.”
Which, lucky him, would give him another reason to show up and maybe convince the lovely Amanda LeBlanc to have dinner with him. “That’ll work. I have another project that my mother is interested in.”
Amanda’s eyebrows hitched up. No surprise there. His mother was notorious for spending big bucks on decorating. And landing her as a client would open a lot of doors when it came to an artist’s career.
“What does she have in mind?”
“A sculpture.”
“Oh, my specialty. Who will the sculpture be of?”
Here we go. “We don’t know.”
She laughed. “That’s a new one. All right. I’ll play. How do we find out who this sculpture will be of?”
Okay. So apparently his mother hadn’t said anything—at all—to Amanda about her interest in the cold case discussed at the fund-raiser the night before. She’d totally set him up, and he’d give her an earful about that. When he showed up wearing jeans and facial hair at dinner. That’d teach her. “Did my mother say anything to you about my father’s law firm and their side work?”
“No.”
Thanks, Mom. This right here might be one of the reasons he’d moved to Boston four years ago. Keeping up with the Hennings family shenanigans and the constant arguing and petty competition with Penny made his brain hurt. So he’d taken off. Got himself breathing room halfway across the country. Welcome home, kid.
“My dad is the founding partner of Hennings & Solomon.”
“David, everyone in this city knows who your dad is.”
True. “Right. Last fall my mom convinced him to have one of the firm’s investigators work on a pro bono case. A cold case.”
Amanda sat forward and waved her pencil. “I read about that. It involved a US Marshal or something.”
“That’s the one. His mother was murdered and the case, up to that point, was unsolved. The firm’s investigator looked into it, and between her and the victim’s son, they solved the case.”
“Yes! I remember reading about it. Fascinating.”
Glad you think so. That would only help when he ambushed her with doing this skull reconstruction his mother was so bent on. “Then my mother found another case she wanted to help solve.”
“Your mother is a busy woman.”
Honey, you have no idea. “She is. And her instincts are spot-on because the firm managed to help solve that one, too.”
“How wonderful for her. And the firm’s investigator must be excellent at what she does.”
“She is. But she’s had help. Cases like this take work and she comes from a family of detectives with major contacts.”
Amanda sat up straighter, pencil still at the ready, but her body language—stiff shoulders, pressed lips—went from curious to defensive. The temperature in the room might have plummeted to negative numbers.
This was it. Headfirst. Right here. “My mother overheard your conversation with the detective last night. The one with the unidentified skull.”
She dropped her pencil and pushed the pad away. She held her hands up and sucked in her cheeks, the look hard and unyielding, transforming her from the lush sex kitten he wanted his hands on to a woman set for battle.
Where the hell had she been all his life?
“No,” she said.
“I’m afraid my mother has you on her radar. And you’re locked on.”
“She’ll have to unlock me, then. I explained to the detective last night that I couldn’t do the sculpture. I have limited, insanely limited, experience with forensic sculptures. I’ve taken a couple of workshops, but I’ve never attempted a forensic reconstruction. I’m simply not qualified.”
“If you’ve never tried, how do you know you can’t do it?”
She set her palms flat on the table, the tips of her fingers burrowing into the wood and turning pink. “David, I’m sorry. Tell your mother I appreciate her following up on this, but my answer is no. It would be a waste of everyone’s time. The painting for your new home, I’d be happy to do.”
“Great. But indulge me on the reconstruction for a second.”
Amanda huffed out a breath, half laughing but not really. In a way, he felt bad for her. He knew exactly how pushy the Hennings bunch could be. “Trust me,” he said. “I feel your pain.”
“Are you a lawyer like the rest of your family?”
“I am.”
“Knew it. You have that lawyer tenacity.”
He grinned. “I’m civil law. Everyone else is on the criminal side. But since I have that lawyer tenacity, I’d like to make you a deal.”
“No.”
Time to try a different approach because he wanted a dinner date with this woman and he liked sparring with her. Even if she didn’t know either of those things.
Yet.
He sat forward, angled his head toward the sculpture across the room and pointed. “Looking at that, I’d say you’re a talented woman.”
“Thank you. And nice try.”
She folded her arms, visually ripping holes into his body, and the twisted side of him, the strategizer, loved it. “You’re welcome. What we have here is a detective trying to identify a body. A body deserving of a proper burial. Someone whose family is probably wondering what happened to their loved one.”
“David—”
“Even if you don’t think you have the experience, what would it hurt to try? I mean, this is fairly specialized work. I can’t imagine there are a ton of forensic sculptors in this city.”
“It would be a waste of everyone’s time.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Her head dipped. “You’ll pay me to attempt a sculpture that may or may not serve a purpose?”
Apparently so. And that was news to him, too, but he’d gotten on a roll, so why not? Cost of doing business when it came to keeping his mother off his back. “Yes. The worst-case scenario is that no one will identify the person. Best case is your sculpture helps the police figure out what happened, brings someone home and puts their family out of misery. And you’ll get paid. I don’t see the downside.”
* * *
IF HE WANTED a downside, she could give him one. One so huge that if this project failed, and it could fail in any number of ways, she might find herself emotionally debilitated for years. Having an acute sense of her own emotional awareness, Amanda chose to avoid situations involving someone else’s future. She’d learned that lesson from her now-deceased mother.
She drew in a breath and thought about the bright spring morning ten years ago when her mother had swallowed a bottle of pills. Amanda reminded herself—as if it ever went away—what it had felt like to touch Mom’s lifeless body. Before that day, she’d never known just how cold a body could get.
Right now that memory kept her focused on convincing the extremely handsome and determined man across from her just how stubborn she could be. From the moment she’d opened the studio door, David Hennings had surprised her. Not only did he not look a thing like his mother, but he also didn’t dress like any blue blood she’d ever met. If the chiseled face, sexy dark beard and enormous shoulders weren’t enough, the man rode a big, bad motorcycle known to be one of the fastest production bikes out there. That beauty did zero to sixty in less than three seconds, and something told her David Hennings loved to make it scream.
Mentally, she fanned herself. Cooled her own firing engines because...well...wow. Stay strong, girlfriend. She’d always had a thing for a man on a motorcycle. She sat back, casually crossed her legs and wished she weren’t wearing ratty jeans. “David, trust me—there’s a downside to this kind of work. People are sent to prison based on an artist’s sketch. I don’t want that responsibility.” She waved her hand around the studio. “I want to paint and sculpt for my clients’ enjoyment.”
He nodded, but he obviously wasn’t done yet. She saw it in the way he stared at her, his dark blue eyes so serious but somehow playful, as well. Whatever this was, he was enjoying it.
And between his height and his shoulders, he filled her sight line. Amazing that a man this imposing could come from a woman as petite as Mrs. Hennings. Then again, he’d clearly inherited his media-darling father’s big-chested build. A few wisps of his collar-length hair, such a deep brown it bordered on black, fell across his forehead and he pushed them back, resting his long fingers against his head for a second, almost demanding those hairs stay put. Amanda’s girlie parts didn’t just tingle, they damn near sizzled.
Whew.
The object of her indecent thoughts gestured to the piece she’d worked on that morning. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He took his time getting to the sculpture, his gaze on it as he moved, and Amanda’s skin caught fire. Prowling, sexual energy streamed from him as he contemplated her work, head cocked one way and then the other, that strong jaw so perfect she’d love to sculpt it.
And her without a fan.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think your work is exceptional. And I’m not saying that because I want something from you.” He smiled. “Certain lines I won’t cross, and doling out high praise when it’s not warranted is one of them.”
“Thank you. I take it you like art?”
He shrugged. “I like to study things. To research them. Like this building. I saw it and had to know its history.”
“All right, what do you see in that sculpture?”
“The mouth.” He went back to the photo on the stand. “It’s not quite there yet.”
Amazing. “I worked on the lips all morning. Something isn’t right.”
Now he looked back at her, a full-on smile exploding across his face, and Amanda’s lungs froze. Just stopped working. To heck with Michelangelo, Amanda LeBlanc now had a David of her very own.
“I have another deal for you.”
Her lungs released and she eased out a breath. “You’re full of deals today.”
“I’m a lawyer. It’s what I do.”
“Fine. What’s your deal?”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is with your sculpture if you go with me to see this detective.”
Moving closer, she kept her gaze on him and the not-too-smug curve of his mouth. “You know what’s wrong with the lips?”
“I believe I do.”
As a trained artist, one with a master’s in fine arts, she’d spent hours trying to figure it out, and now the history major thought he knew. Oh, this was so tempting. She’d love to prove him wrong and knock some of that arrogance right out of him. But, darn. The way he carried that confidence, that supreme knowing made her stomach pinch.
“What’s wrong, Amanda? Cat got your tongue?”
And ohmygod, he was such a weasel. A playful weasel, but still. She snorted. “Please. The cat having my tongue has never been an issue. Perhaps I’m merely stunned by your gigantic ego.”
“Oh, harsh.” He splayed his hand and his beautifully long fingers over his chest, but his face gave him away, all those sharp angles softly curving when he smiled. “You wound me.”
Such a weasel. From her worktable, she grabbed her flat wooden tool. “Okay, hotshot. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“If I tell you and it works, you go with me to see that detective. That’s the deal.”
“Yes. If it works, I’ll go with you.”
Silly, silly girl. All this to prove him wrong. Something told her, if he nailed this, she might never hear the end of it.
He smiled at her, spun to the sculpture and, without touching it, pointed to the right corner of the mouth. “It’s not the lips so much but the small depression that should be right there.”
What now? Lunging for the photo, she analyzed the corner of the CEO’s mouth. Dammit. Right there. Well, not right there. The dimple was so slight it couldn’t even be called a dimple. Her issue hadn’t been the lips at all, but the mouth in general. And, oh, she could rail about how David had tricked her, about how she specifically meant the lips and the deal would be negated.
But she should have caught that. Even the tiniest of details, as they’d both just learned, could ruin a project.
“David Hennings, I don’t know whether to kill you or kiss you.”
His hand shot up. “Can I vote?”
She cracked up. “No. But darn it, I can’t believe I didn’t catch that.”
“You were looking too hard. Happens to me sometimes when I’m working cases. I’ll be searching for precedents and—bam—someone else reads my notes and in five minutes knows exactly what I need. It’s irritating as hell.”
“It sure is.”
“That being said...”
He strode back to where they’d been sitting, his smile growing wider by the second. So smug.
And she’d just handed him that victory.
He slid his phone from the side pocket of his jacket and held it up for her to see. “What time shall I tell the detective we’ll be there?”
* * *
DETECTIVE LARRY MCCALL ushered Amanda and David into a small conference room at Area North headquarters. The old building didn’t have the charm her building had, but with a few fixes and a splash of fresh paint the dreary and dull white walls wouldn’t feel so confining. Then again, Amanda supposed a police station wasn’t meant to be paradise.
Inside the room, a veneer table large enough for six had been jammed into the corner. Probably the only way it would fit. Five chairs—what happened to the sixth?—were haphazardly pushed in, a couple almost sideways. Maybe the last meeting had ended in a rush.
Amanda took the chair Detective McCall held for her while David remained standing, casually leaning against the wall directly across from her. “Thank you,” she said.
“No,” the detective said. “Thank you for coming in.”
“Detective, please, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. As I said—”
McCall waved her off. “Yeah, I know. You’re not a forensic artist and you’re only having a look. I get it. Still, I appreciate whatever you can do.”
He slapped a file onto the table, the fwap reverberating in her head, making her ears ring. What am I doing? She shouldn’t be here. She’d spent years running from the lure of this kind of work. Years. And for good reason. As talented as her mother had been, her work with law enforcement had been the end of the fairy tale. For Amanda. For her father. And most of all, for her mother.
David shifted, drawing her attention, and she brought her gaze to his. He cocked his head—he did that a lot—and stared at her face while she worked on arranging her features into neutral. No clues here. Still, he narrowed his eyes and she knew he’d sensed something. Those haunting dark blue eyes of his burned right through her.
The file McCall had slapped on the table was open in front of her and she pulled her gaze from David, needing to be free of whatever psychoanalysis he performed on her. In front of her was a two-dimensional facial reconstruction—a detailed sketch—of a woman with shoulder-length dark hair flipped up at the ends. Big eyes. So young. The woman appeared to be late teens, perhaps early twenties. If so, the hair was wrong. No teenager would wear her hair in that style.
Not my call.
Keeping her hands in her lap, Amanda leaned forward. The drawing had been done on bristol paper, its surface rough and able to tolerate abundant erasures.
She glanced at McCall. “Was this done from the skull itself?”
“Uh, no.” He reached over, shuffled through some pages in the file and pulled out photos of the skull. “These. Why?”
“Photos can distort the skull. If the lighting is wrong, the artist can misinterpret something.”
Which could have been her problem with the photo of the firefighter.
“No foolin’?”
Amanda sat back, still refusing to touch the pages. If she did, they’d somehow bond her. “It can happen. The hair is long. Was there hair found near the skull?”
“Yeah. A few strands. We have it in evidence.”
Okay. Well, she knew that was right at least. But truly, if they wanted an accurate image, the artist should have been given access to the skull.
“Did you have any hits at all on the drawing?”
“Not a one.”
David finally moved from his spot against the wall and looked over her shoulder at the photo. His presence behind her, looming and steady, sent her body mixed messages. Messages that made her think he could handle anything. That the sheer size of him wouldn’t relent. Ever.
Her gaze still on the composite, Amanda cleared her throat. “No missing-person reports?”
“Nothing that fits the timeline. Or her age.”
“I’m assuming an anthropologist has studied the bones and given an age estimation?”
“Yeah. His notes are in there. He thinks she was early twenties. White.”
Amanda dug through the stack of papers, located the anthropologist’s notes and began her review, alternately checking the photos of the skull until she’d read the entire report.
David moved back to his spot against the wall, this time crossing his legs at the ankles and sliding his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “What do you think?”
“About?”
He shrugged. “Anything. The photo, the file.”
“The drawing is good. At least from what I can tell. One thing that’s bothering me is that the artist didn’t have a chance to study the skull. If I’d been assigned this, I would have requested to see the actual skull.”
“What would that have done?”
“Sometimes photography distorts images. As I mentioned, the lighting could throw something off. Plus, I’d want to check tissue-depth data and get a frontal and lateral view of the actual skull. Looking at these photos, it’s hard to tell how big it is. All of that plays in to the drawing.”
And might be why they didn’t get any hits on this poor woman. The artist, although quite good, could have missed something simply because he—or she—was not given the actual skull to sketch from. This victim was buried in a field, tossed away like trash, and the drawing might not even be accurate.
Which meant a family somewhere was still wondering where their loved one could be. And that old yearning for her mother kicked in.
At least she knew where her mother was.
She glanced at the drawing again, and McCall jumped all over her. “What if I could get you the skull? I cleared you with the brass already. They’re on board with any help you can offer.”
Oh, no. She stacked the papers, setting the anthropologist’s report on top of the drawing and the photos of the skull so she didn’t have to see them. Didn’t have to feel the pull of a dead woman begging for justice.
She bit her bottom lip, really digging in because—what am I doing?—as hard as she tried to bury the image of that young woman, it was there, flashing in her mind.
“Amanda?”
David’s voice. He was still leaning against the wall, once again studying her, trying to read her. Such a lawyer. Damn him for bringing her here. And damn her for allowing him to do it. For making that stupid bet.
She shoved the folder toward Detective McCall. “If I can see the skull itself, I’ll do another drawing so you can compare it to what the other artist did. Having the actual skull might make a difference. That’s as far as I’ll go, Detective.”
McCall bobbed his head, smiling as if he’d won the lottery. “No problem. I’ll call the lab, tell ’em you’ll be over. Anything you can do is great. We—uh—can’t pay you, though. You know that, right?”
Now she looked back at David, grinning at him, returning the smugness he’d hit her with earlier. “Detective, it’s your lucky day because Mr. Hennings has agreed to pay my fee. So, as soon as you arrange for me to see that skull, I’ll get to work and hopefully, we’ll find out where this woman belongs.”
* * *
WANTING TO BE done with the entire situation, Amanda had agreed to go right over to the lab. Like Pamela Hennings, the detective was on a mission. Which meant David had had to drive her home to pick up her tools.
She’d offered to make the trip to the lab herself, but he’d claimed the least he could do was take her and then pick her up again when she’d completed her work.
Considering her nerves and angst over seeing the skull, Amanda didn’t argue. Getting behind a wheel while distracted would do her no good.
And here they were. The forensic anthropologist, Paul something—she’d missed his last name thanks to the ringing in her ears—from the county’s forensic lab set the skull with its vacant eyes staring straight up at her on the cork ring. She clasped her fingers together, squeezing hard enough that her knuckles protested, and snapped her mind back to her task rather than her nerves.
Dull beige walls and glaring overhead lights added to the sterile, stark atmosphere of the lab and sent a fierce chill snaking from her feet right up into her torso.
She forced her thoughts to the gloved hands positioning the skull inside the ring. Paul tilted it up another half inch so it would rest against the back of the ring, his hands gentle—reverent even—as he completed his task. This person, whose only remains were the skull in front of them, belonged somewhere.
Give her a name. Whether Amanda could complete that task would be determined, and she’d resist pressuring herself. For now, she’d be an artist, studying a subject, keeping her emotional distance, but doing her best to re-create a drawing that might help identify the victim.
Amanda squeezed the pencil in her hand, then relaxed her grip before she broke the thing. “Tell me about her.”
“She’s in remarkably good shape considering the elements. Based on the teeth and shape of the head, we’re estimating her age at early twenties. Maybe late teens. We made a cast of the skull in case of reconstruction, but there’s never been one done. Budgeting issues.”
“So the cast is already made?”
Ugh. Amanda closed her eyes, thought of her mother and let out a frustrated laugh. It would be so like her mom to throw this project in her path, urging her to press on because, yes, they had a cast already made and she could take possession of it. To at least try the reconstruction. Nice, Mom.
“Yes,” Paul said. “It’s been sitting here waiting for someone to work on her.”
Amanda brought her attention back to the skull on the table. Detective McCall had told her the anthropologist had determined the victim was a white female, and the flatness of the face and the long, thin nasal openings appeared to represent that.
“She’s a Caucasoid,” Amanda said.
“Yes.” He pointed to an area at the back of the skull. “In terms of injuries, there’s a small, depressed spot here. Looks like she was hit with something small, but it was a forceful impact. From the shape of the wound, it could have been a hammer. It fractured her skull.”
“Poor thing.”
“Whoever buried her didn’t dig far enough. That’s why the dog dug up the skull. We never found the rest of the bones. Animals may have gotten to them and dragged them to another spot. That field is too big to dig up the entire thing looking for her.” He held his hand out. “This is what we have.”
Amanda’s stomach twisted. “If they’d buried her deeper, she might never have been found.”
“Probably not.”
“I’ll do another sketch. See if it’s any different than the last one. I brought everything I need.” She pointed her pencil at the table. “Can I work here?”
“That’s fine. Holler if you need me.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Paul wandered off to a lab table with a giant microscope on the far side of the room. From the looks of all the equipment stacked on shelves and the shiny tables, he had plenty to do.
She dug her iPod from her purse, shoved the earbuds in place and scrolled her music library. For this, she knew exactly what she needed. A nice classical mix. She poked at the desired playlist, aptly named DESPERATE, and got down to business.
From her briefcase, she pulled a small stack of tracing paper, pencils and her copy of the tissue-depth table for Caucasoids. In the file Paul had left her, she located the life-size frontal and lateral photographs of the skull, set them side by side on her drawing boards and taped the corners. Over the frontal photograph, she placed tracing paper and began outlining the face while Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2 softly streamed through her earbuds.
Song after song played as she carefully outlined, corrected and outlined again, taking her time, double-checking each element until it was time to call Paul over to help with tissue-depth markers. Then she’d begin filling in the face, adding the contours of the jaw and cheeks and then the eyebrows and hairline. The tiny details she could add later, but for now she focused on a blueprint to work with. Little by little, each element brought some new aspect to the face, giving it lifelike qualities.
The hair. Detective McCall had told her they’d found a few long, dark hairs with the body. How long, she wasn’t sure, but she’d try shoulder length. After outlining the overall shape of the hair and filling in the length based on the hair found at the scene, she added subshapes—loose waves in the front—and then blended dark and light tones for contrast.
Chopin shifted to Beethoven again. Could that be? More than two hours’ worth of a playlist? And she still had to fill in the details on the frontal eye–nose area. She stopped shading and glanced around. Paul had moved to a desk in the corner of the lab, clearly unconcerned about the approaching end of the workday.
Amanda sat back and stretched her shoulders as a beautiful young woman with sharp cheekbones and a small button nose stared back at her.
A woman with a hole in the back of her skull.
Stomach knotted, Amanda closed her eyes, forcing herself to detach. To not get sucked into the mind-ravaging warfare this case would create. Her mother had done this work on a regular basis, felt this pull of longing and heartbreak. Amanda supposed a person eventually got used to it. After all, the cause was noble, if not emotionally eviscerating.
She opened her eyes to someone whose family had yet to know her fate. Amanda thought back to those first brutal days without her mom, to the shock and anger and bone-shattering ache that came with sudden and tragic loss.
To this day, she didn’t fully understand—probably never would—how her mom had thought suicide was the only option. Obviously, the emotional place her mother had reached was too dark, too painful to find her way free. Her work as a forensic artist probably hadn’t helped, but Amanda would never truly know why her mom had done what she did.
At least Amanda had a place to visit. A place to sit and talk and grieve.
A proper grave site.
She ran her fingertips over the edge of the paper she’d sketched on. This woman’s family had no answers. Maybe they assumed she was dead. Maybe not. Maybe down deep they held on to hope that she’d walk back into their lives.
And that tore into Amanda like a rusty chain saw. At least she knew her mother was gone.
“I’ll bring you home,” she said.
Chapter Four (#ulink_bb922353-b738-5d73-8a7b-96a93647bfad)
While David stood beside her at the lab table, Amanda stored her drawing boards, wondering what kind of coward buried a woman and walked away, leaving her body to be ravaged by animals and the elements.
She didn’t know. Didn’t care to. All she knew was sitting in that lab, staring at the skull, sketching based on estimations of tissue depth, she’d experienced a buzz, the high of having the ability to change the course of an investigation—something her mother used to talk about. Amanda had never experienced it. Never quite understood the lure of forensic work. As a kid, she’d thought it all seemed...morbid...and she hadn’t grasped what her mother found so intriguing.
Until today.
She thought about her workbench back in the studio where a forensic workshop registration—the one she kept putting off—was weighted down by a giant conch shell she’d found on a trip to Florida when she was nine. A shell her mother had uncovered while wading in the surf.
I know, Mom. I know. Every day she’d been without her mother, she’d never doubted her presence.
Beside her, David stepped closer and she glanced up, their gazes locking because when he pinned those haunting dark blue eyes on her, she couldn’t resist the pull of them reaching right in and paralyzing her.
Something she didn’t want to feel. With anyone.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
Breaking eye contact, she studied the intricate stitching on the shoulder of his jacket and the way the seam fell at exactly the right spot, the cut so perfect for his big body that she realized it might be nice, sometime soon, to have sex.
And wow. What a mess her mind was today. She couldn’t deny there was a certain heat between them. From the time she’d opened her front door, she’d felt it. That simmer.
“This project,” she said, keeping her voice low so she wouldn’t be overheard by Paul, who patiently waited for them to get packed up. “It’s complicated.”
Receiving her message that she didn’t want Paul eavesdropping, David dipped his head lower. “The sketching?”
No. You. “It’s more than that.”
Because with him she felt things, tingly things that made her system hum, gave her a little high. If only she liked that high. Highs and lows, in her experience, shattered lives. But it had been so long since she was beyond her personal safe zone. Since she allowed herself to immediately feel a certain way about a man. About this man. Feelings like that messed with her emotions, brought her to places that terrified her. For ten years she’d worked to not turn into a person tortured by her own emotions.
But David kept surprising her. In a good way. In a way that made something warm and gooey chase away the cold, empty heartbreak she’d felt in the lab. That alone was worth...she didn’t know. She’d simply never met anyone who affected her this way. And so quickly.
Needing to get her mind right, she shook her head and stored her iPod in her bag while the quiet in the lab made her arms itch. Too quiet.
“When I was nine,” she said, “my mom found a conch shell on the beach in Florida. I have it on my workbench where I can see it every day. It’s a paperweight for important things. Right now one of those things is a registration form for a forensic workshop I’ve been thinking about taking. Pretty high-level stuff. I keep putting off registering.”
“Why?”
She gave up on packing her things and faced him. “My mother was a forensic artist.”
His eyebrows lifted. “She doesn’t do it anymore?”
“She died. Ten years ago. Killed herself.”
Wow, Amanda. Totally on a roll here. That miserable fact had only been spoken a handful of times and each time to people who’d proved their loyalty. People she could trust. Apparently, David was now one of those people.
“I can’t imagine that. I’m sorry.” He stood, unmoving, his face completely neutral, no judgment or horror, just a mild curiosity over whether she’d continue.
“Thank you. But I’m only telling you so you understand. She did a drawing once that helped convict a man of murder. He went to prison for a few years and was later exonerated. She never forgave herself.”
His head snapped back and Amanda held up her hand. “She didn’t kill herself over it, but it didn’t help. My mother always battled depression. She may have been bipolar. I’m not sure. All I know is that there were tremendous highs followed by days she couldn’t get out of bed. Work was her savior. She loved making a difference. After that man was exonerated she never did another sketch. Never. I think the loss of her work sent her into a spiral she couldn’t come out of.”
“And now we’re asking you to do a reconstruction.”
“Yes.”
David cracked his neck, finally showing some indication of his thoughts. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have pressured you.”
“I’ll do the sculpture,” she said.
For a moment he stood in his spot, his face deadpan, not even a flinch as dead air clogged the space between them. “I’m... Wow. What made you change your mind?”
So many things. My mother. An unidentified dead woman. She pointed at the image she’d created still sitting on the lab table. “Look at her. She was a beautiful girl. At least from my interpretation.”
He reached for the sketch, then stopped, his hand in midair. “May I?”
“Sure.”
“Your work is amazing.”
He set the image back on the table and angled back to her. “Are you okay?”
“I am. I thought doing the work my mother loved would be this big dramatic scene where I’d be doomed by my own emotional sludge. Turns out, it wasn’t so bad. If anything, I got a taste of what my mom went through each time. It’s odd, but it was like I had a piece of her right there with me, and that made me come alive a little bit.” Oh, what a thing to say to a man she barely knew. “I’m just babbling.”
“You’re not. I get it.” He winced. “Ew. Sorry. No, I don’t get it. Not really. What I should have said was I can see where, in a weird way, you’d connect with the work.”
All she could do was nod. Talking about this, letting him dissect her and examine her motivations, wouldn’t help her stay detached.
From the work or him.
“If they’ll give me the cast of the skull, I’ll try it. The reconstruction will be 3-D and have much more detail than my sketch.”
Appropriate or not, and definitely not caring that Paul sat just across the room, she stepped closer, slid her hand under David’s jacket around his waist and went up on tiptoes to hug him. “Thank you for being a pushy Hennings. After spending the afternoon in the lab, I believe my mother is letting me know it’s time I use my talent for more than what I’ve been doing.”
He backed away from the hug and hit her with one of his amazing smiles, not lightning quick but a slow-moving and devastating one that creeped across his face and kicked off a tingle low in her belly.
“Well, we Hennings people like to do our civic duty. How about as a thank you for saving me from my mother’s wrath, I buy you dinner one night this week? I can’t do it tonight because I’m expected at my mother’s.”
“You don’t have to feed me.”
“Yeah, I do. You’re doing this for us despite what you’ve been through. Besides, what I really want is a date with you, so a dinner kills two birds with one stone. As they say.”
So slick, this one. Total charmer. And such trouble. But trouble, right now, might be nice. “I think I’d like that.”
* * *
“JUST PULL UP in front and drop me off,” Amanda said as David turned the corner leading to her building.
He double-parked and turned off the engine. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“David—”
But he’d already hopped out to get the door for her, which, the girlie-girl buried deep inside admitted, gave her a little thrill.
The door flew open and he waved her out, adding a little bow that made her laugh. How she loved a man who could make her laugh.
“Do you need help getting upstairs?”
“No.” She retrieved her briefcase and tote from the backseat. “I’m all set. Thank you, though.”
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
Early-evening darkness had fallen and the streetlamps gave her building a creepy glow. Having been gone all day, she’d neglected to leave any interior lights on. As she approached, she spotted something white stuck to the front door of the building. Vendors were constantly leaving bagged flyers hanging on the door handle, but no one had ever fixed anything to the door. The nerve.
Using the flashlight on her phone, she read the notice—what the heck?—marked City of Chicago, Building Department. Below the letterhead in thick, bold letters the sign left no doubt of the city’s request. OFF-LIMITS. DO NOT ENTER.
She tilted her head, pondering this not-so-minor development. It had to be a joke. She glanced back at David a few steps behind her, thinking maybe he’d have... Nah. He hardly knew her well enough to pull this kind of prank. One she wouldn’t think funny.
At all.
“What’s up?” David asked. “Did you forget something?”
“I...” Stumped, she held her hand to the door. “I don’t know. There’s a sign from the city telling me not to enter.”
Has to be a joke. Right? Because if it wasn’t, she had big problems. But why would her building be sealed? Something odd squeezed her stomach, shooting tension right into her chest. Without access to the building, she’d be locked out of her studio and home. Out of her life.
Frowning, David looked up at the door. “Why?”
As if she knew. She shone the flashlight on the paragraph below the big block letters and scanned it while the pressure in her head skyrocketed and a sharp throb settled behind her eyes. “It says the building must remain vacant until further notice. Are they kidding me? My entire life is in this building.”
“They must have the wrong location. Plus, they haven’t barricaded or padlocked the door.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the building isn’t going to collapse. If it was they’d block the entrances. The city can’t afford to barricade every door and window on every building. If the problem is due to contaminants and the building won’t collapse, they do signage. Which they’ve done, so don’t panic. Call your landlord and find out what’s happening.”
Yes. The landlord. The city had to have contacted him. Quickly, she scrolled through her contacts and found the number. “I’ve been trying to convince him to apply for landmark status on this building. And they want to condemn it?”
The phone rang a third time and Amanda grunted. “He never answers when I call.” She left a voice mail explaining the situation, then disconnected. “I’m calling the building department.”
“You can try, but it’s after five. They’re probably gone for the day.”
She’d try anyway. Couldn’t hurt. Not wanting to deal with searching for the number on her phone, she dialed information and was connected to the city’s building department, where—yes—she received a recorded message telling her the office was indeed closed.
Terrific. She tapped the screen and scrunched her eyes closed. Stay calm. Just a mix-up.
Opening her eyes, she once again read the sign as her thoughts raced. Work. Clothes. Checkbook. Her damned allergy medicine. Everything was inside.
Forget calm.
Forget not panicking.
All at once, her body buzzed and throbbed and itched and all this emotional garbage was so not good for her, the woman who kept her life in a constant state of neither ups nor downs. Well, this was one heck of a down. “I don’t know what to do. My clothes are all in there!” She flapped her arms. “My work is in there.”
“Hang tight.” David retreated a few steps and stared up at the darkened building, obviously formulating some kind of plan. “There’s a back door, right?”
“Yes.”
“We’re going in the back.”
“The sign says...”
“Yeah, but you just said you don’t have any clothes. We’ll sneak in the back door, hope we don’t get caught and you pack up whatever you need for a few days until this gets hashed out.”
Without the studio, she couldn’t work. Without work, she couldn’t earn. Her draining checkbook—the one inside the no-access building—filled her mind. “I lease a storage unit, but there’s not enough room for me to work in there. I have a sculpture to finish!”
David slid the tote and her briefcase off her shoulders, walked back to his SUV and stowed them. “I’ve got this. My condo is still being renovated. You can use one of the bedrooms that’s not being worked on. I’ll put you in the guest room.”
Amanda’s head dipped forward. “You’re letting me turn your condo into a studio?”
“Why not? The place is empty. You might as well use it until I can move in.” He waved his hand at the building. “This’ll get straightened out in a few days and you can move back here. No problem.” He inched closer and grabbed both her hands. “We’ve got this. We’ll load as much as we can and take it over to the condo.”
The idea might not be a bad one. It might, in fact, be a short-term solution. “We can use my car also.”
“Good. Then we’ll get you set up in a hotel for the night. Is that a plan?”
“David Hennings, I could love you.”
He threw his hands up, grinning at her. “Let’s not get crazy now or you might be stuck with me.”
At the moment, as she thought about every minute she’d spent with this man since he’d walked into her studio earlier that day, being stuck with him might not be a bad thing. She grabbed hold of his jacket, the leather Belstaff she loved so much, and dragged him closer. Going up on tiptoes, she kissed him. And it wasn’t one those tentative let’s-test-this kisses where they sort of eased into it. This one left nothing on the table. Tongues were involved.
And she’d started it. Total insanity.
But he certainly wasn’t rejecting her. He made it worth her while by wrapping his arm around her and pulling her right up against him. A few seconds later a bulge at his crotch area announced itself in a truly obvious way, and her heart slammed. What he wanted couldn’t have been clearer. No doubt. At all.
“Dude,” a guy passing by said. “Lucky dog.”
David pulled back and his amazing lips tilted into a wicked grin. “Dude,” he said, “don’t I know it?”
* * *
DAVID SET THE last box of supplies they’d taken from Amanda’s in his extra bedroom and did a quick survey of the place. The walls were still unpainted and the drywall dust left a weird coating on the floors. For what she needed, it would do. If the dust didn’t give her an asthma attack. “We’ll run out tonight and get you a couple of tables to set up. It won’t be perfect, but this is triage.”
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Adrienne Giordano
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Bad to the bone…in all the right waysA brilliant civil lawyer, David Hennings has always been the outsider—at odds with his wealthy family, shunning relationships, defying convention as a sexy leather-jacketed biker. Which is why sculptor Amanda LeBlanc agrees to his request to reconstruct a skull from a cold case murder. The instant heat between them is scorching.But once Amanda takes the job and gets too close to the rebellious attorney, her carefully balanced life is upended by a series of methodical attacks. Someone doesn′t want her to finish the job. Now David will risk everything not to lose the woman he unknowingly put in jeopardy.