Under the Tycoon's Protection (9 page)

She itched to hash things out with Connor. She wanted to apologize, yes. At the same time, though, she was still piqued about the high-handed way he'd acted after the attack in the parking lot. Surely he owed her an apology as well?

She stole a look at him. He was chatting with the guest on his right, the wife of a Congressman. Connor's slightly rough-around-the-edges quality was set off tonight by his tuxedo. The juxtaposition was incredibly sexy and, she noted sourly, apparently appreciated by the Congressman's wife as well.

The stab of jealousy brought her up short. She was spared having to analyze the emotion, however, because Connor took that moment to turn to her.

“Dance with me?” he asked. His lips were curved upward but his tone was mocking. “I think we can survive it, don't you?” He nodded around their table
at the empty seats and the couple getting up at the other end. “Besides, it will look odd if we didn't take at least one turn around the room.”

She nodded and let him help her rise from her seat. The dance floor might finally afford her the opportunity and privacy to get her apology over with.

When they were out on the dance floor, he drew her to him for the start of a slow song. If she'd been dispassionate, she would have said his touch felt light but firm. But, since she was far from feeling detached, his touch—from their bodies brushing to his hand at her back guiding her—was causing waves of pulsating sensation to radiate outward from the points of contact.

For a while, they danced without speaking, gliding across the dance floor to a slow and sweet song until the temptation to rest her head on his shoulder became palpable.

She gave herself a mental shake. She had things to say to him and she'd better get on with it.

Before she could say anything, however, he stirred the hair at her temple with his breath and murmured, “Silence becomes you.”

She looked up with a start and saw the mocking laughter in his eyes. She'd been practically swooning in his arms—while thinking that she had to apologize to him—and he was mocking her! She decided the apology she owed him could wait a little longer.
“Humility would become you but I don't see you exhibiting any.”

“That's my girl.” He had the nerve to laugh outright. “I was wondering where that temper of yours had gone. You seemed as deflated as a dead balloon during dinner.”

Well, Allison thought, so much for her attempt at seeming at ease during dinner. “Quite the one for compliments tonight, aren't you?”

“Is that what you want? Compliments?” he asked. Though his tone was still mocking, it contained a hint of seriousness.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

He cocked his head, pretending to think, before clearing his throat and looking down at her. “Your eyes have the color and sparkle of aquamarines, your hair the darkness and luster of a night sky—”

“Stop.” Even knowing he was teasing, his words sent a ripple of liquid pleasure through her.

“Why?”

“Because we're in a room full of people.” And she couldn't take anymore.

“Ah.” His eyes gleamed. “Haven't you ever heard that dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire?”

He was telling her? She was practically going up in flames, incensed yet aroused by their banter.

“So how am I doing? Am I as good as Slade?”

“Who?”

“Preppy boy.”

She must have continued to wear a blank look, because he added impatiently, “Mr. Make-Love-Not-War.”

“That's Makepeace,” she said, correcting him.

“Same thing.”

“And his name is Sloan, not Slade.”

“Yeah, whatever. Were Makepeace's compliments as good?” He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “I bet he didn't turn you on, petunia.”

He was impossible. Forget the apology. She figured he owed
her
one by this point, but she was willing to consider the two of them even if it meant she could get rid of him
now.

His lips turned up a notch. “The look on your face is saying you want to kick me in the shins.”

“And some other places.”

“You're too fiery for a milksop like Makepeace.”

The song they were dancing to faded into another slow tune. “I'll be the judge of that.”

Connor cast her a disbelieving look. “Seems to me you've already made up your mind. Otherwise, you wouldn't still have a thing for guys from the wrong side of the tracks.”

One guy in particular, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Especially since he seemed to be taking pleasure in baiting her.
“You know,” she said, her voice dripping disdain, “I must have been crazy even to have thought I owed you an apology.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing him look taken aback for an instant. That expression was quickly replaced by one of sardonic amusement however. “I can think of many reasons why you'd owe me an apology, petunia. So why don't you narrow it down for me and tell me what in particular spurred this fit of remorse?”

She gritted her teeth. The only remorse she was feeling at the moment was at not having clobbered him. But, instead, she said, “I got a call from Quentin on the morning after the incident in the parking lot. He seemed to know all about what had happened without my telling him.”

“So naturally you thought I was the one who called to fill him in,” he supplied.

“It was a logical assumption to have jumped to under the circumstances,” she said defensively.

He arched a brow. “Logical because I'm an untrustworthy snitch where you're concerned, is that it?” His lips tightened. “Ever since I lied to you and went to your folks with the story of you at the biker bar when you were seventeen. It goes as far back as that, doesn't it?”

“It wasn't a far-fetched conclusion to jump to,” she asserted again. “Anyway, are you also going to
deny suggesting to Quentin that I quit the DA's Office because the job may have become too dangerous for me?”

“I didn't suggest it to him. He brought it up.” He gave her a considering look, then added, “But I won't say I disagree.”

Her temper flared. Fortunately, the song they were dancing to faded away and the band decided to take a break.

She pulled out of Connor's hold. “Great, then the sooner we find out who's been making the threats, the sooner my job will stop being so dangerous and the sooner
you
can get the heck out of my house. Frankly, it won't be a moment too soon for my taste. On either count.”

She turned on her heel, not giving him a chance to respond, though she noted that his face had tightened with anger.

Of all the nerve.
She'd been a lovesick fool to think something unique and lasting had been developing between them. Instead of giving her his respect, it was clear that to him, she'd always be a spoiled little rich girl who needed protection.
His
protection.

I
t was Saturday, the day of the annual Memorial Day Weekend barbecue at Allison's parents' house.

Usually Connor looked forward to this Whittaker family tradition. Usually, but not this year.

Last year, according to what had since become Whittaker family lore, the barbecue had marked the kickoff of Quentin and Elizabeth's whirlwind relationship. Allison had made her famous suggestion that her brother act as her best friend's sperm donor. Now, one year later, Connor's old college buddy was happily married to Liz and the father of newborn Nicholas.

Connor took a swig of his beer and chanced a
glance across the lawn at the cause of his dour mood. Allison was cuddling baby Nicholas in her arms, making cooing noises. The baby must have done something unexpectedly funny because she looked up, laughing, and their eyes met.

She looked away quickly, but not before a yearning so strong it hurt slammed into him. It wasn't a pure physical need for her, he realized. It was deeper, more powerful. A vision of her cradling their own baby flashed across his mind.

Then he pulled himself up short. She was tying him up in knots and it had to stop. Until they found out who was threatening her, he reminded himself, sorting out his relationship with Allison was on hold.

With any luck, though, the holding pattern wouldn't have to continue much longer. He felt for his cell phone again. No call yet, but there was time. Guests were still arriving at the Whittaker's house.

In the meantime, he thought self-deprecatingly, he could brood at leisure. The Cortland Ball had brought home for him that he and Allison were from different worlds. And, as furious as he still was about her tossing that in his face in the middle of an argument, he'd since acknowledged to himself that there was some validity to her point.

“Hey, Rafferty.”

He turned and caught a volleyball just before it hit him in the stomach.

Noah Whittaker sauntered up, a grin on his face.

“Still greeting your guests with a sucker punch to the stomach?” Connor asked dryly.

“No, just you,” Noah replied, then gave him another easy grin. “It's one of the rituals reserved for brothers, honorary or otherwise.”

Since his college days, Connor acknowledged, he'd had an easy camaraderie with Noah, who had the reputation of being the most fun-loving of the Whittaker brothers.

“Stop doing your brooding James Dean impersonation and get your rear end moving,” Noah continued. “There's a volleyball game starting up and we're beating Quentin and Matt's team again this year so I can claim bragging rights to a winning streak.”

Connor tossed the volleyball back at him and asked wryly, “You mean so you can make it two years in a row?”

“Hey, you gotta start somewhere.”

“Fine, I'm game.” As he and Noah made their way to the back of the house, he figured volleyball was preferable to standing around ruminating over Allison.

Noah slanted him a look. “Allison's on our team. Is that cool with you?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” Just because he alternated between wanting to shake some sense into her and a desperate need to make passionate love to her didn't mean he couldn't play nice if the situation called for it.

“Don't know.” Noah shrugged. “Maybe because you two singe everyone around you with the sparks you throw off when you're near each other. Heck, someone who didn't know you might think you two were crazy about each other.”

Connor almost stopped in his tracks.

Noah's comment was startling, Connor realized, because it was true. He
was
crazy about Allison. Crazy in love with her. Not just want, not just desire. Love.

It was the right name for what he'd been feeling all along, he finally realized. And, if it was the last thing he did, he'd get her to admit she felt the same way about him. Then they could talk about their differences.

He couldn't change who he was and where he'd come from, but he loved her deeply and irrevocably. And if that still wasn't enough for her, well—his heart clenched—she could just try to find a guy who'd care for her more than he did.

Noah waved a hand in front of his eyes. “Hey, Rafferty, you still on Earth with the rest of us mortals?”

Connor knew Noah was expecting a flip response, so he said, “If it hasn't been apparent, your sister has been barely acknowledging my existence lately.”

“You do know how to push her buttons, I'll give you that.”

“Likewise, she's not so bad at pushing buttons herself.”

Noah threw him an amused look. “Why don't you help take her off our hands?” he joked. “You know my parents think you're great. And, you'd be doing us a favor if you two got hitched.”

Connor looked at Noah quizzically. He could swear there was a note of underlying seriousness to Noah's kidding but Noah's face revealed nothing other than his typical expression of amusement at the world. “If you value your health, you won't let Allison hear about that scheme.”

As much as the Whittakers thought of him as family, Connor doubted any of them really regarded him as an ideal mate for the family's precious darling. No amount of polish would ever get rid of some of his rough edges.

Noah cast him a look of mock offense. “Me? Plotting to marry off Allison?”

Connor tossed him a skeptical look as they reached the volleyball net set up on a corner of the lawn in the Whittaker's backyard.

Noah sighed heavily as if being forced to confess. “Okay, yeah. Guilty.” He shrugged, looking far from repentant. “Ever since Allison got ol' Quent hitched to Liz last year, I've suspected that she's set her sights on me and Matt. And, you know what they say, the best defense is a good offense.”

“In other words,” Connor supplied, playing along, “get her hitched to me before she gets you hitched?”

“Exactly.” Noah added with a pretense of ruefulness, “Can't blame a guy for trying.”

Connor looked over to see Allison joining the crowd near the net. “Yeah,” he agreed, “but I'm not sure I'm good enough for our little princess.”

Noah scoffed, dropping his teasing demeanor. “You're kidding, right? The folks adore you. They've never said it, but I think they'd be pleased if you and Allison ever wound up together. And, I've got to tell you, it would be a relief for me, Matt and Quentin.” He gave a mock shudder. “Have you seen some of the guys Allison has brought home?”

Unfortunately, he had…and he agreed with Noah. He nodded over at Allison and said, “The princess might have some objections though.”

Noah followed his gaze. “Yeah, I know Allison can get into her nose-in-the-air routine with you. But, I always thought that was just a defensive mechanism. You know, a way to show you that you don't get to her when you obviously do.”

She showed him all right. Every opportunity she got. Aloud, he said, testing, “Just supposing I was willing to help you implement this little plot of yours—purely in the interest of helping you escape a possible marriage trap, of course—”

“Of course,” Noah agreed readily.

“What's to say that you, Matt, and Quent don't beat me to a pulp for unintentionally breaking the princess's heart.”

Noah cocked his head, pretending to consider that for a moment. “Okay, yeah, I grant you that's a risk. Under the circumstances, though,” he said, his tone nonchalant, “I'd say it's more likely that the danger would be that the princess would break your heart.”

Connor tossed him a quizzical look, but Noah's face revealed nothing. The youngest Whittaker brother, Connor thought, was way more depth than the fun-loving playboy the gossip columns portrayed him as.

Noah slapped him on the back. “Come on. We've got a game to play,” he said, walking with him toward where the other players were standing, “and I can't wait to cream these guys.”

As it turned out, their team eked out a victory for the second year in a row. Afterward, Connor sat down with a cold beer and some hot dogs. It was dusk and the party was starting to wind down.

He was just finishing his second hot dog when his cell phone rang. Sliding the phone out of his pocket, he noted that the name on the display was that of one of his top deputies.

He quickly excused himself and walked toward a nearby tree. No use getting the Whittakers' expectations up if the news wasn't what he hoped. He'd had a hunch, though, and had followed through on it.

The call was brief but nevertheless had him wanting to punch the air with satisfaction.

When he got back to the picnic table, he sat down next to Allison and, keeping his tone as mild as possible because he knew his words alone would be shocking enough, murmured, “They've caught Kendall.”

She stopped in midmotion while reaching for a can of soda and swung to face him. “He's been arrested?”

He nodded. “And my guess is he'll be held without bail under the circumstances.”

He watched as a variety of emotions flitted across her face. “Why?” she asked finally, seeming to settle on that one word as vague enough to encompass anything he might tell her.

Matt Whittaker glanced over at them from the other side of the table. “What's wrong?”

“Yeah,” Noah chimed in, “you look pale, sis.”

Connor looked down the table and noticed that they'd gotten Allison's parents' and Quent and Liz's attention, too.

It was just as well. He could get the story over with in one telling. “Hugh Kendall has been arrested in connection with the threats against Allison.”

Liz gasped while Noah uttered an expletive that Connor privately agreed with. Then everybody tried to talk at once.

“How did the police catch him?” Allison's father
asked finally, making himself heard after the initial tumult had died down.

“The police executed a warrant and searched Kendall's house and car,” Connor said. “They found a gun there that matches the type of .32-caliber weapon they think was used in the parking-lot shooting, based on the type of slugs they recovered that night.”

“They executed a warrant? Based on what evidence?” Allison asked. She had been looking relieved since he'd told her the news, but now her tone was tinged with suspicion. “Were they able to trace the color of the car that the gunman used back to Kendall?”

“Does Kendall even have a state gun license?” Noah added.

Connor shook his head. “The answers to your questions are no and no. But, the police concluded that the slugs had probably come from a make of gun that hadn't been manufactured in a long time, so I decided to have my people do some more digging.”

“Good going,” Matt said, nodding approvingly.

“I had a couple of my investigators visit gun shops around Boston,” Connor explained. “One shop owner recalled someone fitting Kendall's description asking about possibly
selling
some guns a while back. They were practically collector's items, and the guy who came in wanted to know how much they'd be worth.”

Connor looked around the room. He had everyone's undivided attention, it seemed.

“None of the stuff I'd dug up on Kendall revealed that he was a gun enthusiast or even into hunting,” he went on. “So, I figured, if Kendall did own some unlicensed guns and he was in fact the guy who had gone into the gun shop trying to sell some classic firearms, then he'd probably inherited some handguns. Once I had one of my investigators look into probate court records in New Hampshire, I knew we definitely had our man.”

“How so?” asked Liz.

“Kendall's father's will is on file,” he responded. “It reveals that he gave his gun collection to his son and that collection included the type of .32-caliber the police think was used in the shooting.”

Connor looked at Allison and didn't add the fact that, since Kendall had kept the gun after the shooting, instead of disposing of the incriminating weapon, there was a good chance he was thinking of using it again, and to fatal effect.

The thought again sent chills down Connor's spine. As soon as all the clues had been gathered, he'd turned over his evidence to the police so a warrant could be executed. The urge first to beat the crap out of Kendall himself had been hard to resist however.

“What about the guy you saw lurking outside the townhouse that first night?” Allison asked. “Do you think it was Kendall who sped away that time?”

Connor nodded. “Probably. And, as we suspected,
Kendall was throwing us off the scent by making it seem as if the threats were coming from a run-of-the-mill hood.”

“The note in the mail with the bad English you mean?” Allison asked.

Connor nodded. “Among other things.”

“We all owe you a debt of gratitude, Connor,” Allison's father said. “You know you're like family to us, but let us know if there's ever a way we can repay you.”

Connor noted that, next to him, Allison stiffened slightly. “You mean on top of his hefty fees?” she asked.

Quentin shook his head. “Actually, I offered to pay him—” Quentin either ignored or didn't see the quelling look that Connor shot him “—but he refused. He insisted on volunteering his services.”

Allison swiveled toward him and Connor met her look head-on. He could see what she was thinking. He'd purposely misled her. And this time he had no excuse.

“I'm relieved this episode is over,” Ava Whittaker said. “It's been a painful and trying period for all of us.”

“True, but if Ally continues to work at the DA's Office,” Matt put in, “I guess we should all be prepared if she runs into another nut willing to take matters into his own hands.”

“Speaking of which, how long
do
you intend to keep going at the DA's Office, Ally?” Noah asked.

Connor felt Allison tense next to him and saw Quent and Allison's parents exchange looks.