Waking Up to You: Overexposed (34 page)

He covered her hand with his. “Yes. Jackie called earlier. Leah’s fine.” He glanced over his shoulder into the quiet greenroom. He stepped out of the room and eased the door closed. “But I need to talk to both of you. Will you come with me, please?”

Hearing his urgency and seeing his very obvious concern, Izzie immediately went on alert. Something else had happened...maybe someone else was hurt.

“What is it?” Nick asked in a low voice, obviously realizing the same thing.

The man just shook his head, leading them back up the stairs to his small office, which was on the other side of the lobby. They took a private, back hallway—a good thing since Izzie still wore just her long silky robe. Whatever was bothering Harry, it had to be serious because he hadn’t even offered to wait while she put some clothes on.

Harry’s office was unpretentious and simple. Comfortable. Much like the self-deprecating man who occupied it.

But Harry Black did not look at all comfortable right now. As he gestured them toward the two armchairs across from his desk, his hand shook.

Izzie almost held her breath, watching him sit down behind the desk. Before he said a word, he dropped his head forward and put it in hands. “I can’t even look at you when I say this.”

Izzie had no idea what the man could be talking about, but beside her, Nick sucked in a sharp breath. “You...”

Their employer immediately looked up, shaking his head. “No. Not me.” Moisture appearing in his eyes, he continued. “It was Delilah.”

Izzie suddenly got it. Delilah had been the one after her. She’d poisoned the chocolates—and perhaps the roses.

Nick muttered a foul word, but Harry didn’t leap to the defense of his wife. She deserved their scorn. No, she hadn’t succeeded in hurting Izzie, her target, but she had certainly made Leah miserable.

“Tell us,” Nick said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

His eyes were narrowed, his expression forbidding. Izzie recognized that tension in his rock-hard body. It was a good thing Delilah Black was not here for a personal confession. A very good thing. Because if Izzie didn’t rip her apart, Nick just might have.

“I thought she
wanted
to retire,” Harry said. He had a dazed expression, the same one many men wore when trying to understand their wives. Izzie had certainly seen it on her father’s face. “She seemed happy helping me with management.”

“How long ago did she stop?” Izzie asked, feeling a sharp sense of pity for the man. She sensed Harry needed to build up to telling them the worst of it.

“A few years ago when she turned forty. Right after we got married.” Opening his desk drawer, Harry reached in and grabbed a silver flask and a shot glass. He poured himself a drink, raising a brow toward Nick and Izzie to see if they wanted one.

Neither took him up on it. Izzie because she was already feeling queasy at the story Harry was telling them. Nick...well, probably because he was already on a low simmer in the chair next to her. Throwing alcohol on a slow burn could make it erupt.

“And what, she thought if she could get rid of your headliner, you’d suddenly put her back onstage? That makes no sense,” Nick said, disgust dripping from his words.

“Not to you. Not to me,” Harry said with a sigh. “But to her.” Growing slightly pink in the cheeks, he added, “I, uh, think there might have been a little more to it, though. I guess I talk a lot about you, Rose...Izzie,” he clarified, calling her by her real name for the first time since he’d hired her. “And I think Dee got a bit jealous, thinking my interest was something other than professional.” Almost blushing to the roots of his balding head now, he quickly added, “That wasn’t at all true. I’m as proud of you as if you were my own daughter...but Dee didn’t get that.”

The man had never even looked at her the wrong way. Izzie didn’t doubt he was being truthful.

“Was she responsible for the roses?”

Harry nodded, taking another deep sip of his drink. “She put some kind of bug powder on them. And before you ask, yes, she did the chair, too. I got her to admit to both of those things, as well as putting some kind of syrup—Ipecac—in the chocolates.”

This time Izzie was the one to call the other woman a bitch under her breath. She simply couldn’t help it. Again, Harry didn’t make any effort to defend his wife.

“Why’d she come clean?” Izzie asked.

“I suspected as soon as I saw the box of candy. Dee loves that kind. And she came home with some of that syrup a couple of days ago, saying she wanted it on hand in case one of her nieces or nephews came over and swallowed something poisonous.”

Nick shifted a little, his arms still cross, his body still rigid. “So you confronted her?”

Harry nodded. “And she confessed. When she saw how sick Leah was, she felt awful.”

“Wonder if she’d have felt that way if it had been Izzie lying on the floor,” Nick snapped.

He sounded very protective. Which made Izzie feel all warm and gooshy inside, even though she told herself that was stupid.

“I dunno,” Harry admitted. “Maybe not.”

Gee, it was nice to be liked.

Nick finally sat up and leaned toward the desk. Fixing a firm eye on Harry he said, “Have you called the police?”

The man slowly shook his head. But before Nick could confront him on it, he added, “I went to Leah first and told her everything. She and Jackie decided to press charges, and they made the call to the police themselves.”

Nick relaxed. A little.

“I understand why that needed to happen.” Tears rose in Harry’s gray eyes and oozed a little onto his round cheeks. “But I couldn’t be the one to turn my wife in.”

Izzie reached over and put her hand on Nick’s leg, sensing he was about to make another comment about Delilah. She squeezed his thigh, warning him not to. Harry was suffering enough. He didn’t need to be told he was a fool for loving someone so hateful. “I understand,” she murmured.

“I hope you do. And I hope you’ll understand that I’m going to see her through this. She’ll be facing assault charges.”

“At the very least,” Nick mumbled.

“I know this might make you want to leave, Ro...Izzie. But I wish you wouldn’t.” The man smiled weakly. “You’re family.”

Huh. If poison was the way Delilah treated members of her
family,
Izzie would hate to see what she did to her enemies.

“I know that, too,” Izzie said, slowly pulling her hand away from Nick’s warm thigh, already missing the contact. Already missing
him.
“You love her. That’s what people who love each other do...they support one another, even when they make what other people might see as bad or foolish decisions.” Hearing a quiver in her voice as the subject touched much too close to home, Izzie offered Harry a tremulous smile.

Nick she didn’t even look at.

“Thank you for telling me, Harry. I’m going to go get ready for my next number.” Without another word to either of them, Izzie walked out and went back to work.

And Nick didn’t come anywhere near her for the rest of the night.

* * *

W
HEN
B
RIDGET
WENT
back to the dealership on Monday morning, she looked for Ted, wondering if he’d have the nerve to show up.

He didn’t. That was good.

Neither did Dean. That wasn’t good.

Hopefully Ted had been scared off, either by Dean, or by the ramifications of his own stupid actions.

Hopefully Dean had
not
been scared off and was just stuck in traffic.

Bridget had spent all Sunday night wondering what on earth she was going to say to him—how she was going to climb that wall he’d erected between them after he’d kissed her so passionately in the office. But for nothing. He wasn’t there.

She trudged through her day, going through the same song and dance with Marty about the books. She found problems. He waved them off as unimportant. A typical day in the life.

“I am so gonna quit this job,” she muttered that afternoon.

Soon. Maybe she’d even give her notice today. After all, she’d only stayed to see if something was going to happen between her and Dean Willis. Judging by yesterday, it seemed pretty clear nothing was.

She went so far as to open up a document on her computer to type her resignation letter. She’d give two weeks notice, even though she had no other job lined up. She had enough of a cushion to be unemployed for a while. And if she didn’t come up with another bookkeeping job quickly, she’d lay money that Izzie would hire her on at the bakery, just to pay the rent.

But before she’d typed so much as the date, Bridget heard a commotion—shouts, coming from the sales floor. Her first thought was that Ted had come back and was making a scene. But there were several voices, all yelling at once.

She grabbed her purse and threw it under her desk, then wondered if she should crawl under after it...this could be a robbery. But when the door to the office flew open and she saw a uniformed police officer, she didn’t.

“Is anyone in here with you?” the officer barked.

“N-no. Just me.”

“You need to come with me, ma’am.”

Dazed, Bridget followed the officer, seeing all the other employees being herded together by other policemen. All of them were gathered just inside the front door, and Marty was shouting loud enough to break the glass in the windows.

Everyone was talking—demanding answers. Everyone but Bridget. She didn’t have to. Because the second she saw Dean Willis—dressed in a perfectly fitted dark blue suit—talking to other dark-suited men right outside the front door, she knew what was going on.

He was no car salesman.

“Sir, you’ll have an opportunity to call your attorney soon,” one of the officers said, trying to calm Marty down.

It worked for a brief second, until Dean walked through the door. When Marty saw him with the rest of the investigators, he started ranting and struggling against the officer trying to handcuff him. Another one jumped in to help and between them they got the livid man into custody.

Dean looked her way once. His nice blue eyes were frigid. His smile absent. His tousled blond hair was slicked down and parted on the side—conservative, professional. And his clothes were immaculate, right down to his shiny black wing-tip shoes.

He could have been a picture from an FBI agent’s handbook come to life.

The rest of the day went by in a whirl. She was questioned endlessly—never by Dean, who stayed away from her—but by his fellow agents. Apparently there had been a reason Marty hadn’t wanted Bridget to do a good job with the books. They were never
supposed
to balance out. Because, if the agents were to be believed, Honest Marty’s Used Cars had been bringing in and cleaning up a whole lot of dirty money for some pretty bad guys.

And she’d fallen right in the middle of it.

By the end of the day, Bridget was utterly exhausted. Ready to collapse, her throat sore from answering so many questions. She hadn’t asked for a lawyer—had cooperated fully, believing that’s what an innocent person
should
do. And she’d spent the past four hours in the conference room, going over months’ worth of seized bank statements and ledgers with some FBI accountant, watching step by step as they built a case against her boss.

At first, she felt a little sorry for Marty. But not too sorry. Especially when she caught snips of conversation about where the dirty money had come from. In her opinion, anybody who cleaned cash that had been earned off the sale of filthy drugs to kids deserved what he got. She was just sorry the creep had dragged her into the sordidness.

She’d seen Dean only briefly, when she’d been brought to tears by the relentless questions of the accountant. Dean had appeared out of nowhere, appearing behind the other officer’s back, barking, “She’s not a suspect, she’s a witness. Treat her like one.” Then, with one long, even look at Bridget, he’d left again to go back to work with the other investigators.

Finally, when it was nearly dark out, Bridget was told she could go home. She’d be called in to help again—and, likely, to testify—but for now, she was free.

Free. Great. She was free to go home, look back on this horrible day—on these past few horrible weeks—and think about what a damned
fool
she’d been.

Dean had
used
her. He’d feigned an interest in her so he could build his money-laundering case against Marty. He’d played her like an instrument, obviously seeing the quiet, sweet-faced bookkeeper as an easy mark.

She hated the son of a bitch with a passion she’d never had toward anyone in her life.

That rage carried her down the block as she strode away from the dealership, heading toward her nearby apartment. Usually when she made the walk home, she kept her purse clutched tightly to her side, and constantly scanned for any possible danger. This wasn’t a bad part of town—but as a young woman walking alone, she didn’t take chances. Tonight, however, she practically
dared
anyone to mess with her. She felt capable of doing real violence.

“Bridget, wait, please!” a voice called.

Though she kept walking, she peered over her shoulder to see who’d called her. She almost tripped over her own feet when she realized it was Dean. “Stay away from me,” she snapped, picking up her pace.

He picked up his, too, chasing her down until he reached her. “Would you stop? I’ve been calling you for two blocks.”

“Not real quick on the uptake, are you?” she said. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“You have to let me explain.”

“I don’t
have
to do anything,” she said, though she did finally stop and face him. “And you don’t have to explain, I got it, okay? You were working undercover. I was the easy mark. Of course you’d come after me by any means at your disposal.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Like hell.”

“Just...calm down and let me explain. I did not mean to hurt you, and I definitely never meant to get personally involved with you.”

“You mean that wasn’t in the manual?”

“No, it wasn’t. But I was worried, I felt sure early on that you were caught in something you didn’t know about.” He put a hand on her arm. “I was worried about you.”