Hard to Trust (30 page)

"Hello, Katrina. How are you?"

She tilted her head and smiled in a condescending manner not normally seen outside of country clubs. Her hair was pulled up in a smooth French knot, and her makeup was toned down from the gloss-and-glam style I remembered. Her wardrobe, too, had been upgraded. Gone were the tight, short dresses and 4-inch heels. The new, more refined Katrina was wearing a silk sheath in a lovely shade of coral and a pair of diamond earrings that practically screamed for attention. Even her blond hair had been subtly improved, lightened a couple of shades to a pale corn silk. More the color of my hair than her former brassy golden shade. I noted with some satisfaction that the darker blond at the roots was starting to show, something I didn't have to worry about.

"I'm fine, Miranda, thank you. How are
you
?"

As if she cared.
Not chasing after your boyfriend, so don't worry
, I wanted to say. "I'm doing well, thank you."

The bakery was too busy to give a truthful answer.

"Well, it's really good to see you," she said, her voice taking on a higher pitch that made her sound even less sincere.

"You, too. Take care," I said, bagging the apple turnover and handing her the bag.

She was already holding a cup of coffee in her right hand, so she reached up with her left, and as she did, I saw it.

An engagement ring.

My
engagement ring.

The engagement ring I had been wearing before the legal nightmare began. When Dylan called off our engagement, I had done the right thing and returned the ring. I didn't want it anyway. I didn't want any reminder of the man who said he'd love me through good times and bad, but who then fled when put to the test. Plus, it had belonged to his grandmother, and I would have felt funny keeping his family's heirloom. Even though his family was a bunch of tight-assed, boring snobs who could have bought the country where the diamond had been mined.

I must have let out a gasp because Aunt Marie turned from the espresso machine and gave me a quizzical look. I shook my head and turned back to Katrina, whose smirk made me doubt it was coincidence that led her to the bakery.

"Deb will ring you up," I said, ignoring the giant, sparkling elephant in the room. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of addressing her engagement. I forced a smile, or at least an expression that I hoped didn't look like the snarl I felt on the inside.

I started to turn back to the kitchen, but not before seeing a tall, silhouetted figure enter the bakery. The broad shoulders, the close-cut hair, his ears pink from the sun shining behind him. At one time, I thought those teacup ears were cute. Now I gritted my teeth and continued back to the kitchen, before I did something that I would regret later.

I fought the impulse to slam the metal tray on the wood top work surface because I didn't want to alarm Sheldon, my kitchen coworker. Instead, I pressed my lips together and put the tray in the dishwashing stack with the others.

"Shel, I need you to handle the counter for a few minutes," Marie said, coming into the kitchen.

Sheldon looked at us and then slipped out of the kitchen without comment. He was a man of few words anyway and seemed to know better than to argue with Marie at that moment.

"That woman," Marie said. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"

I smiled. "I'm fine."

She shook her head. "You're not. I should have spit in her half-caf cappuccino."

"Probably so, but that would be bad for business," I said.

She sighed. "Well, I thought she'd have the good sense to stay out of here. Did you see him?"

I nodded. The vision of Dylan Holland, even in silhouette, had caused my stomach to do a flip. Not because I loved him still. I didn't. I pretty much hated him, and I certainly didn't want to see him. Or his girlfriend—or rather, his new fiancée. It was a reminder of what I dearly hoped was the low point of my life. I wanted to start over now, rebuild my life. And seeing him made the last year feel too recent, like I was still scrabbling around at the low point and hadn't moved up at all.

"I'll be fine, Aunt Marie," I said, taking her soft hands in mine.

Her lips were pursed and her head tilted, but unlike Katrina's pose, Marie's concern was sincere. She loved me like no one else—not my parents who left me on her doorstep twenty-seven years earlier, not my untrustworthy former fiancé.

"But here you are, hiding back in the kitchen," she said. "There's nothing to be ashamed of working here. This place raised you up."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. She was right. There was nothing shameful about working in the bakery. Marie had done it her entire adult life and provided me with a wonderful childhood. We hadn't been rich, but I hadn't wanted for anything. Or at least my wants had been modest enough that Aunt Marie could indulge me. I hadn't meant to insult her and struggled to explain how I felt.

"That's not why I'm not comfortable out front," I said.

But it was. I was embarrassed to be working here. I had been working in a prestigious investment bank, in a responsible position, in line for a promotion, engaged to a handsome and accomplished man. And I had lost it all. No matter that I knew I hadn't done anything illegal. Others would think that I had, and that made me want to hide my head under the covers. Or hide in the kitchen.

Marie clasped my hands tight in hers.

"You should be holding your head up high. You're a survivor!"

"I just don't want to see anyone," I said. "The ones who talk to me would just ask about the trial, and the ones who won't talk to me…"

Marie's lips tightened, and I felt a knot grow in my throat. I swallowed hard and exhaled. I still had the lunch rush to get through. I couldn't lose it now.

There was a slight knock on the swinging door, and it opened slowly. I gripped Aunt Marie's hands tighter when I saw Dylan's face peer around the edge of the rubber stripping.

"I keep knives back here," Aunt Marie said by way of a greeting, her eyes narrowing.

"Hello, Marie," Dylan said.

"Sharp knives."

"I'd like to speak with Miranda," he said. An uncomfortable expression crossed his boyishly handsome face. "Please."

I squeezed her hands until Marie looked at me then gave her a nod. She frowned but nodded.

"I'll be right on the other side of that door," she said, picking up a cleaver on her way.

Dylan scooted out of her way and stood near the center island in the kitchen. I moved to stand on the other side of it from him, not entirely trusting myself to be within knife's reach of him. In his tailored light grey suit, Dylan looked out of place in the middle of the bakery kitchen after a sustained morning rush.

"How are you doing?" Dylan asked, his voice low and concerned.

He also tilted his head as he looked at me. It was hard to tell if he was concerned about me, or if he was concerned that I'd make a scene in public with his new bride-to-be. That wouldn't do for the newest vice president of the newly reconstituted Patterson Investment Company. The company had dropped any mention of founding partner Ralph Tinker after his arrest and seemed to be thriving, despite the unfortunate scandal.

I shrugged and hefted a block of dough onto the floured surface in front of me. "I'm fine, thank you," I said, grabbing a wooden rolling pin.

He gave me a half-smile. "You look beautiful."

I closed my eyes. That used to turn me inside out. He'd tell me how beautiful I looked, and it made me feel loved and worthy of this man, this beautiful man who was privileged and was wealthy enough to have whatever, and whomever, he wanted. I'd have done anything for him, walked through fire. He was my prince charming.

I opened my eyes and saw him now as he really was, as he probably always had been. He was weak and spoiled. And he had replaced me with the receptionist within weeks of our breakup. And he owed me—big time.

"Thank you," I said, turning back to the dough.

"I was happy to hear about the verdict," Dylan said. "Are you doing all right?"

"I've been better." I laughed and died a little inside at how bitter I sounded. "I told you I didn't do it."

He gave me a long stare and I was caught in his cool blue-grey eyes. "I never thought you did."

"You just didn't want to stick around to be sure of that," I said.

He gave me a reproachful look.

"You know that's not the full story," he said softly. He sighed and ran a hand through his carefully combed hair. "I'm sorry that Katrina came in. I didn't know you'd be here. I wanted to tell you myself, but well, I wasn't sure how to."

"Oh, right. Where are my manners? Congratulations," I said. "I hope you two will be very happy together."

In hell
.

He nodded and studied me as if he were going to take a test later. His scrutiny made me hyper-conscious of my jeans, T-shirt and flour-dusted apron. My face was no doubt shiny from the heat in the kitchen. I had been working for five hours without much of a break and hadn't bothered with make-up. I wasn't entirely sure I'd brushed my hair before I had pulled it up into a messy knot.

"I've missed you," Dylan said, moving around the center island. His hand reached up, and he touched my cheek. "You really are beautiful, Miranda. You look amazing."

The touch sparked something, but it was a memory, not an emotion. His gaze moved over me from my feet to my face and reflected the approval I no longer sought. The ten pounds I constantly battled and stressed over when I was with Dylan had melted away after I was arrested, along with another ten that I didn't need to lose. The unjustly-accused diet was good for unnatural and unhealthy weight loss.

"You should go. Your fiancée is waiting."

His hand dropped. "Sorry," he said, giving me a smile. "You're right. Is there anything—can I—do you need anything?"

Dylan's stammered offer threw me off balance. He was always so poised and polite. He truly seemed at a loss about what to do with me.

"Yes," I said, before I could change my mind and talk myself out of it. "I need a job. I can't even get a call back."

"Where have you applied?"

I listed several banks and investment houses, and Dylan nodded. "I'll see what I can find. I'll make some calls."

He walked to the kitchen door and paused. "Take care," he said. "I'll call you soon and let you know if I hear of any openings."

"Thanks, Dylan."

He disappeared behind the door, and the breath left my body. I hadn't realized how tense it was being around him until he was out of sight.

Marie burst through the door and stood, her hands on her hips.

"What did that little bastard want?"

I didn't know how to answer that. It was difficult to believe that he had an attack of conscience for how he treated me, since he rebounded so quickly. It was the first time I'd seen him in more than a year. In that time, I had only spoken to him once, and that was to arrange to pick up my things from his house. He'd already packed them and made arrangements to have them delivered to me, so even that was a quick phone call.

Why had he bothered to apologize for Katrina? Was it an inherent need to avoid ugly unpleasantness, drilled into him by his mother? Not that I cared, if he could help me get back to a real job and start earning the money I needed to repay Aunt Marie for my legal bills.

"He's going to help me find a job."

CHAPTER THREE

The courtyard at Robert Fogg's office was quiet except for the crunch of leaves under my boots. The red leaves from the Japanese maple trees littered the grey stone walkway and fell into the low dark green hedge that lined the square entry to the building. I had seen this courtyard through all the seasons—summer, fall, winter, spring—then summer again. During the year leading up to my trial, I trudged in nearly every day to work in the conference room and study the documents the government had seized from Patterson Tinker.

When the FBI raided the office the previous spring and arrested me, my boss, Tim Norquist, and his boss, Ralph Tinker, Aunt Marie insisted that I retain the best criminal defense attorney in the city. But that guy was too expensive, and Ralph hired him right away. So I drained all my accounts, sold my car, gave up my expensive condo, and moved into the apartment over Aunt Marie's garage. And was still short of funds to retain a lawyer.

Fortunately, Rob was a long-time friend of Aunt Marie's, and he practiced criminal defense. He hadn't done a white-collar criminal case before, though. His career had been built on defending bank robbers, drug traffickers, and gunrunners. He knew how to try a case in federal court. And I knew my way around the investment firm's files, so I could help him understand the voluminous records the government had seized. Even with my promise to act as my own paralegal, I still had to borrow money from Aunt Marie to pay Rob. He had expenses—rent, insurance, and payroll for his small staff—Sarah Girard, his paralegal; Theresa McFarren, his secretary; and Burton Worthington, the investigator.

I'd just been fired and was under indictment in a federal fraud case. Employers weren't beating my door down to offer me jobs. So I had time on my hands.

I let myself into the office and found it unnaturally quiet. Theresa's desk was empty and tidy, which was a good sign that she was gone for the day.

"Miranda? That you? I'm in the back."

Rob was working in the large conference room, an open book on his lap and his boots propped up on the long table. He gave me a friendly wave and motioned for me to join him. As I walked in, I heard the soft thumping of a dog's tail from under the table. I reached down to pet Basil, Rob's oversized Golden Retriever. He raised his head and gave my hand a sloppy wet greeting, sighed and returned to his nap.

The office was quiet and Rob was alone. His staff kept their own hours, though, so Sarah and Burton could have been out in the field or working at home.

"Have a seat," Rob said, waving me toward a seat at the conference table. "How have you been?"

I sat and shrugged. "I've been fine."