Close Proximity

“Oh?”

It was the only answer she could pull from the fog of her thoughts.

His mouth and jaw line went taut, and Libby got the distinct feeling that he’d somehow gotten his pride knocked out of joint, that maybe her one, tiny response had somehow belittled him. Although his boots remained planted in the grass, he turned his head, obviously considering making an exit then and there. She could tell.

“Wait,” she called. She took several steps toward him, leaving the concrete, her high heels a hindrance in the thick grass. The bag of groceries grew heavy suddenly and she shifted them into her other arm. “You know my dad?”

His nod was almost imperceptible.

“You know something about the case? You can help my father?”

“I’d like to help him.”

The fact that he hadn’t answered the first question wasn’t lost on her, but she offered him a smile anyway. She felt as though she’d sailed into a sea of enemies since arriving in Prosperino. Anyone who was willing to help her dad would be considered a friend until she had some reason to think otherwise.

“Would you come in for a cup of coffee, Mr.…?”

“James. Rafe James.”

“Well, Mr. James—”

“Rafe.”

“Well, Rafe. You’ll have to call me Libby, then, won’t you?”

The smile he offered her was small, but it provoked an amazing response in her. Thoughts turned chaotic as images materialized in her brain. Sensual visions of that wide mouth of his raining kisses over her body.

It had been so easy to conceive of this man as wild, animalistic. But now it was just as easy to picture him in the role of tender lover. In any other puzzle, those two opposing pieces wouldn’t go together. But with Rafe James, they somehow fit.

Perfectly.

What a ridiculous notion. This man was a complete stranger to her.

Shoving the inappropriate thoughts from her mind, she said, “So, should we go in?”

He nodded slightly and then moved toward her.

The muscles of his thighs played under the fabric of his jeans, and Libby had to force her eyes to avert to the ground. Before she realized it, he was close. Very close. He smelled like citrusy cedar and leather, and she had to force herself not to close her eyes and get lost in the scent.

“Let me take this for you.”

When he reached to take the bag from her, his hand brushed her upper arm. The desire to protect herself by stepping away from him was great, as was the urge to move toward him, ever closer.

She did neither, and she thanked her lucky stars that she had sense enough to keep a level head on her shoulders. She had no idea what had gotten into her. The stress of worrying about her father’s tremendous troubles, she guessed. That and the despair of having gotten caught in the memories of her childhood.

After unlocking the door, she made her way through the house to the kitchen, very aware that Rafe James was close on her heels. She set her briefcase on the ceramic tile countertop of the island.

“Set the bag here,” she told him. Then she silently indicated that Rafe should take a seat on one of the high stools.

“So, how do you know my dad?” Libby busied herself putting away the quart of milk, the loaf of bread and the other groceries she’d purchased.

He didn’t answer right away, and his apparent hesitancy made her pause. With a bag of apples still in her hand, she lifted her gaze to his.

Finally, he said, “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. David Corbett and I are not and have never been friends.”

Libby’s brows drew together, but she remained silent, waiting.

“Sixteen years ago,” he continued, “your father hired me at Springer. I’m—”

The rest of his thought was cut short and he pressed his lips together. He took a moment to inhale, and Libby’s gaze unwittingly darted due south as his chest expanded. She blinked, and immediately directed her eyes to his.

“Let’s just say I’m grateful to him.”

He went quiet. Once she realized he didn’t mean to say more, she pulled open the refrigerator, placed the apples in the bin, then shut the door, pausing there with her hand on the stainless steel handle.

“You went to the trouble to search me out,” she said, “and offer my dad your help during this crisis, all because he gave you a job sixteen years ago?” She raised her brows. “Must have been one hell of a job.”

Moving across the room, she reached for the coffeepot and began filling it with water.

The sigh Rafe emitted sounded resigned. “He made me a security guard. Gave me a fair wage. A job with health benefits. Saw to it that I received thorough training. And I was able to use that training for more lucrative employment after I left Springer.”

As he talked, she placed a paper filter into the basket of the coffeemaker and spooned in the ground beans. Something about Rafe James’s motives just didn’t ring true. His manner was…reserved. Cautious. And had been since he’d first appeared out on the front yard. She poured the water into the reservoir and snapped on the machine.

Libby had been hurt by one secretive man in her past. She wasn’t about to fall prey to another—in any aspect of her life.

Whirling around to face him, she blurted, “So let me get this straight. You went to the trouble to search me out, and you want to help my dad, all because he gave you a job and properly trained you for that job.” She shrugged. “Seems to me my dad was only fulfilling his responsibilities.”

Her short, sharp laugh didn’t hold much humor, but conveyed instead a huge measure of skepticism. “My father has worked for Springer for nearly thirty years. I’m sure he’s hired lots of people. My front door is going to fall off its hinges if every single one of those grateful people come racing to help.”

A thunderous storm gathered in his mahogany eyes. She hadn’t meant to make him angry, but she felt it necessary to be blunt about his flimsy reasoning. Almost of their own volition, her arms crossed tightly over her body.

He stood, and the sheer size of him coupled with his surly expression was a daunting sight, to say the least. A person with any sense at all would feel afraid. However, she didn’t, and that wasn’t because her brain cells had suddenly gone dim, but because, although muscles bunched in his shoulders and ire sparked in his dark eyes, she knew in her heart she was perfectly safe with this man.

“Look, Ms. Corbett, you’re right when you said your father has hired lots of people over the years. And many of them are just like me.”

The emphasis he placed on those last three words made her frown.

Just like him? He was Native American. Most probably from the Mokee-kittuun tribe living on the Crooked Arrow Reservation just outside of town. But what did his ethnic group have to do with this? Although the question disturbed her, the confusion she felt kept her silent.

“For years,” he continued, “the people from the rez weren’t given a second glance when they applied for work at Springer. Your father did everything he could to change that. And as he moved up the corporate ladder, he continued in his efforts. Continued to treat us with fairness and respect.”

As she listened, her shoulders tensed until tiny needles of pain began shooting up her neck. In all the years that her father had worked at Springer, he’d never once intimated that there was any kind of racial discrimination at the company. Yet here this man was, telling her that her dad had spent his entire career battling what sounded like an anti-Native American sentiment at Springer, Inc.

“He’s even helping our children,” he said, intense emotion tightening his facial features. “The first thing he did when he became Springer’s vice-president was to set up a scholarship fund for reservation children. And when he visited the Elders just before last Christmas, seeking to lease some of our land so that Springer could expand, did he become angry when his request was turned down? No. Instead, he was moved by the living conditions of the people. His heart was touched, and he offered to have Springer cover the cost of a new well—a well that was being dug up until the moment he lost his job.”

She wished an abyss would open up in the floor and swallow her whole.

Anger now ticked the muscle of his jaw. “Where I come from, a man who gives respect earns respect. It’s something that’s not given easily and not taken lightly. Your father is a good man. He doesn’t deserve the treatment he’s receiving. He’s completely innocent. And I think he could use a friend, Ms. Corbett.”

It was hard to meet his gaze, but she forced herself to do it. She moistened her lips. What could she say to him? Coming from the reservation, having been born into an ethnic minority, he’d probably seen more than his fair share of bigotry and narrow-mindedness. An apology, she silently surmised, would seem almost offensive at this moment.

Feeling the need to make some sort of response, she offered him a small and sincere smile and let her arms relax at her sides. “I thought you’d agreed to call me Libby,” she said, keeping her tone friendly.

The turbulence in his gaze settled somewhat, but his emotions continued to brew, that much was easily discernible.

She tried again. “Please sit down, Rafe. Let me get you that cup of coffee.”

He was measuring her, the situation, the moment. She couldn’t tell what all was going through his mind. But it was obvious that her attempt at a pleasant tone, a laid-back demeanor, was beginning to soothe his ruffled emotions.

Libby had never met a man quite like Rafe James. He seemed so vigilant, watchful, as though he wasn’t quite sure from where trouble might come at him. It wasn’t that he seemed paranoid, really. Just…ready for anything, she supposed.

His manner could stem from his very existence. Hadn’t he just explained that he’d experienced more than his fair share of prejudice?

Or it could have roots in his very makeup. In his genetic material. Native Americans had a rich history filled with an ancestry of hunters and brave fighters. Could the DNA of the wary and wild warrior be carried down through the generations?

Realizing that she’d allowed herself to get carried away with fanciful notions, which was quite out of the norm for her, Libby straightened her spine and sighed.

“Rafe, sit. Let’s talk.”

His whole body seemed to relax finally, and he did as she bade.

The smell of coffee was heady as she brought the cups to the island. She set one down in front of him, then retrieved the sugar bowl, creamer and two spoons. It didn’t surprise her to see that Rafe took his coffee black. She slid out a stool and perched herself on it right next to him.

“So…you live at Crooked Arrow?” she asked. It wasn’t an outrageous guess. He’d insinuated as much.

Rafe nodded, his long, ebony hair falling over his shoulder.

The urge to reach out and comb her fingers though the shiny mass of it made her tighten her grip on the cup she held in her hand.

“I have a horse ranch. Breed Appaloosas.”

One corner of his wide, full mouth curled upward, and Libby found her gaze drawn to the spot as if it were a powerful magnet.

“Every nickel I could spare while working at Springer was put aside for the ranch. It was always my dream. And now I’m living it.”

For an instant, the muscles of his face eased…and Libby’s breath caught in her throat. He was truly a gorgeous man.

At that moment, he smiled, open and easy, for the very first time, and it seemed to her that all the oxygen had been sucked right out of the air.

“Now that you’ve discovered that I deal in horseflesh,” he said, “I guess you’re wondering how I could possibly help your father.”

In all honesty, Libby quietly responded, “I hadn’t, actually.” Then she added, “But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Because of my extensive training all those years ago at Springer,” he told her, “I was able to qualify for a P.I. license. I’ve worked for a couple different insurance firms in the area. You’ll be needing someone with my skills, I’m sure.”

Coming from anyone else, that statement might have sounded cocky, overly prideful. But Libby didn’t feel that way about it at all. She admired the fact that he was confident.

She didn’t answer, but simply lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of coffee. For some reason, she wasn’t ready to come to any kind of arrangement with this man.

Softly, he said, “Your father is lucky that you’re a lawyer. No one would fight harder for him than family.”

She actually flinched when she heard him mirror the very thoughts that had passed through her mind earlier when she’d been sitting out in front of the house in the car. Luckily, coffee didn’t slosh over the rim of the cup.

“You practice in San Francisco?”

“Yes.” Her tone made it clear that she was surprised by his knowledge of her.

“You’ve been mentioned in the papers,” he explained. “And there’s been plenty of talk about your arrival. Prosperino is a small town. Rich soil for the old grapevine.”

She only nodded. The sound of his voice had a lulling, mesmerizing quality.

“You look like him.”

Libby’s gaze darted to where the pad of his thumb absently traced the gentle curve of the lip of his cup, and she was bombarded with a vision of that thumb roving over the outline of her mouth. Her throat went dry and her eyes darted from his.

“Your father, I mean,” he continued. “You inherited his hair coloring. Although, if I remember correctly, his is a much darker red. But your eyes…they’re quite different from what I remember your father having. His are dark, aren’t they?”

She nodded. “I’ve got my mother’s eyes.”

“I see.”

It seemed to her that he wanted to stop there. She could see his silent, internal battle. A battle he ultimately lost.

“Your eyes are quite—” His rich tone lowered an octave as he added, “Startling.”

Libby swallowed, her spine straightening.

Startling. It was a word Stephen had often used when describing her gaze. And it was a description she’d come to loathe.

This conversation was getting much too personal for her tastes. The porcelain cup clinked firmly against the tiled countertop when she set it down. “So…what makes you think my father is innocent?”

He was very good at masking his reactions, but Libby did see his dark brows raise a fraction in surprise before he reined in his response.

“I’ve already explained. Your father is a good man. His heart—his conscience—would not allow him to poison the land. Or the people living on it.”

“Good people do bad things every single day,” she pointed out.

“I may not know him personally, but David Corbett has a strong sense of right and wrong. He’s shown that over and over again to my people.”

His gaze shifted, and she got the distinct impression that he wasn’t telling all he knew.

“Let’s just say,” he went on, “that my gut tells me he is innocent.”

Caution seemed to pulse from him. And he said no more.

Memories of Stephen flooded her mind, bringing with them a wave of pain and emotional agony that became nearly more than she could bear. Before the thoughts and feelings could get a foothold, though, she shoved them away from her, far to the back of her brain.

She didn’t need another secretive man in her life. Personal or professional.

Libby had been hurt in the past by a man who refused to reveal all, and she was determined not to be duped by another. But then the scene on the courthouse steps came rushing vividly into her mind. So many people seemed against her father. So many people wanted his head on a platter. And Springer and the authorities seemed happy to supply the length of her dad’s neck for the offering. The case seemed mountainous. And she felt terribly alone.

Maybe, she thought, an uneasy alliance with Rafe James was better than no alliance at all.

She tipped up her chin, her decision made. “Okay,” she said, reaching her hand out to him, “so we’re in this together.”

Without hesitation, he slid his hand in hers.

Three

“I can’t believe the judge denied bail.”

Rafe remained quiet as he watched Libby pace the length of the room. She was livid. And seeing her caught up in all that fury, he was struck by the sheer glory of her.

“A flight risk? How could they believe my father would run? Everyone in this town knows him. Well, most everyone, anyway.”

Turning around, she strode back toward him, her gaze dipping and roving wildly, seeing nothing, as thoughts so obviously careered through her head at lightning speed.

“He’d never run. Never. His only intention is to clear his good name.”

Her aquamarine eyes blazed with heated emotion, her long auburn curls bounced with the anger fairly pulsing from her waving arms and jutting shoulders. She was surely a sight to behold.

Finally, he felt compelled to quietly ask, “Did you know he’d planned the trip?”

He remembered how shocked she’d looked when the D.A. had requested that bail be denied due to the risk of David’s fleeing the country.

“He didn’t plan the trip,” she told him. “I did. Before Christmas. He loves to ski and the skiing in Canada is great this time of year.”

Her gaze latched on to Rafe’s, and the shadows that clouded her eyes tore at the very heart of him. She was feeling guilty. That much was plain.

“I’ve been begging him for years to do something fun. I pushed extra hard this year. I even booked the flight and hotel myself. I wanted him to get away and have a good time. Even if I had to bully him into doing it.” She sighed. “I fully expected him to cancel the reservations. But he didn’t.” Softly, she added, “And I remember how happy I was about that.”

The deep crease etching her brow marred her beautiful face.

“This was going to be the first trip he’d taken…”

A lump of emotion seemed to swell in her throat. She attempted to swallow around it, and the effort seemed painful.

“…since Mom died.” Her gaze glittered with moisture. “Rafe, they’ve confiscated his passport, the airline tickets, everything. They really do believe Dad’s a flight risk. They really believe he’s guilty of these charges.”

So, the reality of things was setting in, Rafe saw.

Yes, she was an attorney. In her San Francisco practice, she represented myriad clients who faced allegations just like these every single day. Rafe was sure she had understood the seriousness of her father’s predicament all along; however, when it came to one’s family, it was hard for a person to really imagine anything bad happening. But it seemed that the direness of her father’s situation was finally sinking into her head…into her heart.

The sympathy Rafe felt ached from down deep in his soul. He didn’t want to care about this woman. Couldn’t afford to. Caring made a man weak. And he’d vowed years ago, that weak was the one thing he wouldn’t allow himself to be.

But seeing her haunted gaze, understanding the frustration she was experiencing, imagining the guilt she was feeling over what she saw as her part in providing evidence against her father in the form of those trip reservations, Rafe couldn’t just sit by, see the misery in her gorgeous eyes and do nothing. But he didn’t dare surrender to his desire to touch her. He didn’t dare yield to the urge to take her in his arms and reassure her.

Instead, he said, “Did you ever think that maybe David is better off behind bars?”

She whirled on him. “How can you say that? That place is horrible. He’s penned up in that little cell with nothing to occupy his mind. He’s—”

“Got three hot meals a day,” he interjected, “a clean, warm bed to sleep in and a bevy of armed guards to protect him.”

That’s more than you have at the moment, he wanted to remind her. But he didn’t.

Bewilderment wrinkled her forehead.

From the moment he’d spied her on those courthouse steps, heard her declaring loud and long her intentions of clearing David’s name, Rafe had experienced the strangest sense that Libby might be in danger. Not from the reporters and not from the picketers. But from someone. Some unseen, unknown force.

When he’d sought her out at her father’s house to offer his investigative services, something gut-deep made him hold his tongue regarding his opinion that she needed a bodyguard. Working for her as a P.I., he’d figured, would give him plenty of opportunity to keep a watchful eye on her. And after having spent some time getting to know her, even if it had been just a couple of days, he knew for certain that she wouldn’t appreciate hearing that he thought she was in any kind of jeopardy. She was most definitely the kind of woman who felt certain she could look after herself. Maybe, though, he could plant a small seed of warning in her head by using her father as an example.

“Someone dumped that dimethyl-butyl ether,” he quietly explained. “And since we both know David wouldn’t go near DMBE, then the guilty party is out there somewhere. Waiting to see how things pan out. Hoping your dad takes the fall.”

Her brow smoothed somewhat. But then her brilliant, jewel-toned eyes glittered with new understanding.

“If there is evidence that points to David,” Rafe continued, “then it just might be unwise for him to be walking the streets, if you know what I mean.”

She nodded, silent and suddenly pensive.

He didn’t want to frighten her. Fear often paralyzed rather than readied a person. His only intention was to make her aware of reality.

“Speaking of evidence…” He’d made his point, he felt, so now was the time to change the subject. “What’s the D.A. got on David that would lead to this arrest? Can they actually prove anything?”

“Well, I can’t say for certain until I get my hands on copies of the evidence. I’ve filed for discovery. Soon we’ll have access to everything: physical evidence, depositions, police reports…” She shook her head. “It must be a mountain of stuff.”

He shot her an expression that had her expounding on her last statement.

“The day I arrived in Prosperino,” she said, “the police searched the house.”

“You allowed that?”

She shrugged. “They had a warrant. But I wouldn’t have stopped them. Dad said he had nothing to hide. That he gave his permission for the authorities to search anything and everything he owned.” Libby sighed. “They carried out a whole file cabinet and boxes of other files as well. Everything that had anything to do with his finances—bank records, credit card statements. And his PC.” Again she shook her head and shrugged. “A mountain of stuff. And there’s no telling what was seized from his office at Springer.”

“It can’t all be evidence against him.”

“No.” Reaching up, she absently combed her fingers through her thick tresses. “I don’t expect anything from home to point to Dad’s guilt. But I am worried about his office at work. Anyone could have had access to it since his arrest, couldn’t they? And the prosecutor will use the other things—the information about Dad’s finances—to try to explain motive, I’m sure.”

Silence settled over them, and while Libby busied herself with thoughts of her father’s case, Rafe took a moment to look around him.

The Corbett home was huge compared to houses on the rez. The floors were constructed of rich, golden-hued oak, waxed and gleaming, and covering them were Oriental carpets that were most obviously costly. The room was elaborately trimmed in decorative moldings at the baseboard and around the ceiling. Such detail spoke of money. The furniture was heavy, luxurious stuff. Many pieces looked, to his untrained eye, to be antique.

He imagined Libby growing up here. Running and squealing and laughing through these rooms with caring parents to tend her, nurture her, love her. He pictured Libby enjoying holidays eating at the long, walnut table he’d seen in the dining room. Blowing out candles on a fancy birthday cake. Decorating a Christmas tree here in the living room. Celebrating Independence Day with sparklers and cookouts in the spacious and shady backyard.