Danger in a Red Dress (3 page)

“Ryan? Oh, he’s fine. Twenty-six years old and absolutely good for nothing. Every one of my children is good for nothing.” Jeff Dresser was slurring his words, drunk at two o’clock in the afternoon.

This just got better and better.

“But Ryan’s got all that money behind him. How can he be good for nothing?”

Dresser shot him a glance that told Carrick he wasn’t so drunk he didn’t recognize sarcasm when he heard it.

The bartender slid the drink across to Carrick, who lifted it in a swift and distracting salute. “Here’s to the oil companies. Long may they reign.”

“I suppose you’ve heard the story.” Dresser glanced behind him resentfully. “They’ve all heard the story, and they haven’t stopped chuckling yet.”

Carrick wisely kept quiet.

“Even that damn girl laughed. Laughed right in our faces!” Dresser shoved his glass back at the bartender, who refilled and returned it.

Carrick played dumb. “What damn girl, sir?”

“Miss Hannah Grey, RN. Dad’s nurse.” Dresser tipped the drink down his throat. “He gave that bitch fifty thousand for a blow job.”

“Must have been a good blow job.” Carrick spun his icy glass on the bar.

“Wide blue eyes, hair so blond it’s platinum, an innocent face, and a body that will not quit. Yeah, I imagine it was a hell of a blow job.” Dresser smiled a nasty smile. “Burkhart claimed she was an upright character. You should have seen the look on his face when she admitted she’d done it!”

“She admitted to a blow job? In front of the lawyer?”

“She didn’t say a blow job. She said she and Dad were . . .
friends
, in just that tone of voice. Sexy, but not bright.” Dresser smirked. “The family brought suit to stop the execution of the will.”

“How did that go?” Obviously not well, but Carrick liked making the patronizing bastard admit it.

“The will is clean. That damn Burkhart made sure of that. But I got revenge on Hannah Grey. I filed a suit with the state of New Hampshire. Her nursing certificate is suspended pending investigation, and her placement agency dropped her.”

An idea brewed in Carrick’s mind. “So Hannah Grey can’t work in the state of New Hampshire, and she’s living off the inheritance from your father. That won’t keep her for long.”

“Even better, she has no other resources, and it’s been five months since she’s held a job.” The open malice in Dresser’s face made Carrick almost sorry for Miss Hannah Grey. “I may be broke, I may be working for my living, but by God, she knows now she can’t play games with me and get away with it.”

There was nothing more to be learned from Jeff Dresser, so Carrick stood. “Give Ryan my regards, and tell him if I need insurance, I’ll definitely keep him in mind.”

Dresser rocked back on his stool as if Carrick had struck him—which he had, in a cunning show of gamesmanship.

Carrick took a few steps away, then turned back. “About this Hannah Grey. I imagine you see her occasionally.”

“Occasionally.” Hostility etched Dresser’s voice. “Why?”

“I’ll bet she’s too embarrassed to look you in the eyes.”

“Embarrassed? Are you kidding? That little witch smiles at me and lifts her chin.”

So Hannah Grey was Carrick’s kind of woman; she kept her eyes on the purse, and wasn’t squeamish about doing what had to be done to get it.

“Good,” Carrick said. “Good. That’s all I needed to know.”

THREE

Hannah sat in the small shop, Buzz Beans, her hands wrapped around her warm cup of French roast, stared at the screen of her laptop, and moaned softly.

Behind her, Sophia was cleaning the tables in the quiet neighborhood coffee shop. “Another rejection?” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

“If I don’t get a job pretty soon, I’m going to have to change my name, hitchhike to New York, and become a musical star.”

“You can’t sing or dance.” Sophia was the kid sister of Hannah’s best high school friend, and she knew all too well how Hannah sounded with a karaoke machine.

“Stop crushing my dreams.”

Sophia glanced toward the counter and lowered her voice. “How about a cheese pierogi? We made extras this morning and—”

“I’m fine. Thank you.” Hannah smiled at the young barista, trying to convey her appreciation while holding onto her pride.

“Yeah, but . . . Mr. Nowak has been bitching because you’re here every morning, buy one cup of coffee without any add-ins, and use his free Internet for two hours. Then you do it again in the afternoon. You know what a grump he is when he shouts.”

“So he’s been listening to Jeff Dresser.” Who, for all that he’d lost a lot of influence in this town, hadn’t yet been counted out as a mover and shaker.

“Yeah.” Sophia was squirming. “But I thought if you made a purchase—”

Hannah smiled at Sophia and said loudly, “When you’ve got a minute, Sophia, could I get a cheese pierogi and coffee?” Because she couldn’t afford the cheese pierogi, but she definitely couldn’t afford Internet hookup.

Mr. Nowak looked up from his paper, his sharp dark eyes fixed with hostile intent on Hannah. “Sophia, you keep cleaning. I’ll do it.”

Man, Hannah had announced she’d been one old man’s
friend
, and Mr. Nowak thought she could corrupt his helper. She waited patiently while he warmed the pierogi and fixed her coffee.

The brief illusion of security Mr. Dresser’s inheritance had offered had ended abruptly with her flash of temper. She had thought she might lose the inheritance. Instead, she’d lost the possibility of holding a job.

Five months ago, fifty thousand dollars had seemed like a fortune. Now, even with frugal living, the legal bills to fight for her nursing certificate and the lack of income had reduced her fifty thousand dollars to twenty-two thousand. And with Jeff Dresser using his influence to slow the investigation of misconduct, she was going to have to do something besides the work she knew and loved. Retail, probably, which she’d done in high school, and thoroughly hated.

“Here,” Mr. Nowak said. “I won’t charge you for the coffee.”

Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. . . .

Then he smiled at her in that knowing way.

“I insist on paying.” She pushed the cup back toward him, because she’d seen that smile before, more times in the last five months than she wanted to remember, and on more men’s faces than she could bear to think about. And she was not giving this disgusting little troll of a man sex for a cup of coffee. Or for his free Internet. Or for fifty thousand dollars, either.

His smile disappeared. “You come here every day—”

The door chimed as someone came in.

Mr. Nowak’s voice swelled. “Buying your cup of coffee, using my Internet, when everyone in this town knows you are a slut.”

Hannah stiffened in humiliation and anger.

He continued. “Everyone in this
state
knows you got money from poor old Mr. Dresser by—”

A strange man spoke beside her. “Is there a problem here?”

Mr. Nowak pointed a finger at Hannah. “She tried to steal from me. She tried to steal a . . . a . . .”

“I’d be very careful, Mr. Nowak,” Hannah said steadily. “Very careful.”

His gaze shifted to Sophia, then back to Hannah, then to the stranger. Hannah could almost see him thinking of the gossip if he brought charges, and he shriveled like a three-day-old party balloon. “Go on. Take the food. Take the coffee. Get out and don’t come back. You . . . you . . .”

“Wait.” The stranger held up his hand. “If she was stealing from you, you should have her arrested. Shoplifting is a serious crime. But you can’t just bandy that charge around. That’s defamation of character. She could sue.”

The last person to stand up for her had been old Mr. Dresser himself. Now, in astonishment, Hannah turned to look at the stranger.

He was a fine-looking piece of man flesh: over six foot, whipcord thin, broad shoulders, dark hair, distinctive green eyes, her age or a little older. And he dressed like a wealthy businessman, in a conservative black suit with a dull gold tie.

“She could sue, but she wouldn’t win,” Mr. Nowak blustered.

“She’s a beautiful young woman,” the stranger said. “Juries always sympathize with a beautiful young woman.”

“You’re a
lawyer
,” Mr. Nowak said in revulsion.

The stranger shrugged.

Mr. Nowak started to say something ill advised, then with hard-won control changed his mind. “Sophia, come and take his order.” He disappeared into the back room.

Sophia whipped around the counter and washed her hands, smiling brightly all the time. “What can I get you, sir?”

“I’ll have a medium Earl Grey tea, hot, with a splash of milk.” He looked down at Hannah. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I learned to drink it that way when I was a kid. If you sit with me, I promise not to crook my pinkie.” And he smiled.

Hannah stood there, awestruck by his straight white teeth, his long black lashes, the dimple in his cheek.

“Wow,” Sophia said out loud.

Grabbing her cup, Hannah said, “I drink coffee. Black.” She winced.
Scintillating, Hannah.

“That is so much more sensible.” He took the tea Sophia placed on the counter. “Let me pay for Miss . . . ?” He looked an inquiry at Hannah.

“Grey. Hannah Grey.”

“Let me pay for Miss Grey’s order, also. I don’t want the manager to come back when I’m gone and make trouble.”

“He’s the owner,” Sophia said.

At the same time, Hannah said, “I can pay for it.”

“He’s the owner? All the more reason.” He smiled at Sophia, whose jaw dropped at the gorgeous sight. Then he turned to Hannah. “Miss Grey, my mother is from one of the founding families in Maine. She lives in a hundred-fifty-year-old mansion on the coast, and as far as I can tell, she’s never left the twentieth century. She would kick my rear if she ever heard I let a lady buy her own coffee. So please spare my mother—she has arthritis and simply getting around is an effort.”

With indecent eagerness, Sophia said, “Really? Arthritis? What a coincidence. Hannah is a home-care nurse who specializes in arthritis cases. She’s the best!” She made eyes at Hannah, and used little shooing motions with her hands.

She was right. Hannah knew she was right. An arthritis patient? In Maine? Hannah couldn’t afford to let this opportunity slip through her fingers. She looked right into the stranger ’s eyes and said, “If you should ever need help with your mother, I
am
the best, and I’m between cases.”

“My mother won’t hear of a nurse, but she’s definitely getting to the point where I’m going to have to insist. . . .” He quirked an eyebrow, appealing to Hannah’s understanding.

She felt squeamish. She didn’t lie well, not even lies of omission. Her nursing certificate had been suspended. She should tell him that. She should, but if she didn’t get a job soon . . .

He sighed heavily. “One of us should be ashamed of ourselves.”

She jumped. He already knew? “What? Who?”

“Me, of course. I’m leading you on.” He shook his head as if disgusted by his own deception. “Mother has other problems, more serious than merely arthritis. She’s diabetic, has a heart condition, and she can’t or won’t control it or her weight. She’s agoraphobic—she hasn’t stepped foot out of our house since my father walked out fifteen years ago. She’s under investigation by the government, which has put a huge amount of pressure on her, and I’m afraid she’s starting to crack. ”

“Investigation?” Hannah said tentatively.

“My father is Nathan Manly.” He spoke stoically.

“Oh.” Everyone in New England knew the name and the disgrace attached to it. Fifteen years ago, Nathan Manly had destroyed his multibillion-dollar company, stolen the capital, and fled to parts unknown, humiliating his wife and leaving his family without funds. His illegitimate sons (rumors claimed there were a dozen and the number climbed every time the story was told) were abandoned, too. Best of all, Nathan Manly and his money had never been found, lending the Manly scandal the status of legend.

“I knew I recognized you. From TV!” Sophia almost leaped across the counter. “You’re
Carrick
Manly!”

He smiled at her excitement. “Don’t hold it against me,” he said wryly.

“I would never do that.” Sophia backed up and leaned against the wall, her knees wobbling.

In the years since Nathan Manly had fled to parts unknown, his son—this son, his legitimate son, his handsome, gifted, and formerly wealthy son—had assumed the status of the protagonist in a Greek tragedy.

“I’m still interested in the job.” Hannah felt less guilty about keeping her own piddling little investigation quiet.

“Really?” He smiled at her, his tan perfect, his straight teeth dazzling and white.

Decision made, she said, “Perhaps we can make it work. Why don’t we sit down and you can give me the details of your mother ’s situation?”

FOUR

“There it is.” Carrick pulled into a viewpoint on the rugged Maine coast highway and stopped the car. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, and pointed across the rocky inlet. “Balfour House.”

Hannah stared at the classic nineteenth-century mansion perched on the cliff. It was massive, two stories of white stone and fanciful turrets, broad balconies, and wide windows defiantly facing off with the Atlantic. “Balfour House?” she repeated. “Shouldn’t it be Manly House?”

“My mother was Melinda Balfour. She is the last of the Balfours. Since New Englanders do not lightly change their ways, it always will be Balfour House.” Savagely, he opened the door, got out, and leaned one arm against the roof of the Porsche Carrera.

Hannah got out, too, and looked at the mansion, and looked at him.

The breeze frisked with the perfect fall of his brown hair, while the sun kissed the blond highlights, giving him a golden aura. But his expression, as he stared at the house, was pensive, still, almost . . . sour. She would have thought he would at least show the enthusiasm he’d shown about the car—and the car wasn’t even his. He told her he was repairing the family fortunes. He told her he couldn’t afford a car like this. He told her one of his friends had insisted he borrow it for the drive up here, and he’d waxed enthusiastic about its handling and speed. Maybe if the house could do zero to sixty in less than thirty seconds . . .