Close Proximity (2 page)

“But I can help you, Daddy,” she whispered in the solitude of the car, wretched emotion burning her throat, unshed tears prickling the backs of her eyelids.

Fear gripped her belly with icy fingers when she thought of all the hostility she'd faced at the courthouse today. From the media. From the townspeople. Everyone seemed so dead-set against her dad. Everyone.

Suddenly she remembered the rich, mahogany eyes of the man who had come to her aid this morning. Never in her life had she experienced an expression filled with such complex and concentrated intensity. The memory made her shiver.

When the man had touched her, when he'd taken her by the arm, the chaos in her mind calmed. She'd felt safe. Secure. He'd been like a harbor in the midst of a terrible storm.

But that was silly. Safe and secure with a complete stranger? Come on, Libby, her brain lectured. You're letting down your guard.

That protected feeling had simply come from the fact that he seemed to be on her side when no one else had been. The man must know her father, must have had some dealings with him. The thought brought her comfort.

Maybe everyone wasn't against her father.

She inhaled deeply and tipped up her chin. She sure wouldn't be able to clear her father's name by wallowing in doubt and self-pity.

The car key was cool against her palm as she pulled it from the ignition. Shoving open the door, she exited the car, bringing with her the bag of groceries she'd purchased this afternoon and her attaché case. With a small thrust of her hip, she closed the car door. The heels of her shoes clicked on the paved drive as she made her way to the porch.

Libby looked up and was truly astonished to see him standing on the front lawn. The man with those intense, dark eyes.

H
e was a big man. Tall. Lean. Powerful. And his features looked as if they'd been chiseled from some golden-hued stone from the desert, his cheekbones high and sharp, his jaw angular.

Without conscious thought, her steps slowed, then stopped altogether.

Something about his stance gave the impression that he was primed, ready. To attack or flee, she couldn't tell which.

Just then the afternoon breeze tangled itself in his long, raven hair, whipping it across his eyes and jaw, obscuring his face from view. An odd, out-of-the-blue urge welled up in Libby, and she had to fight the impulse to go to him, to brush back his hair, experience what she easily imagined would be the silken texture of it between her fingers. The startling thought made her eyes go wide, made her heart trip in her chest.

In the calm of the moment, she realized he was the most luscious man she'd ever laid eyes on.

That astonishing notion made her suck in a quick breath. What on earth had gotten into her?

She suppressed a smile when she realized that just because experience had forced her to swear off men entirely, she was still a woman. The feminine part of her demanded its right to appreciate a good-looking man when she saw one.

With an economy of movement, he turned his head, lifting his chin a fraction, and the wind whisked his hair back over his shoulders. And massive shoulders they were, too. Her eyes slid down the length of him. Over his broad chest covered by a white button-down shirt, narrow hips belted with a strip of suede decorated in a beaded, distinctly Native American design. His jeans, denim worn soft and supple with age, encased muscular thighs.

A desolate sigh whispered across her brain as she imagined him naked. The thought nearly made her choke.

She forced her gaze to the sculpted features of his face.

Who was he? And what was he doing here?

As much as she wanted to focus on the issues important to the here and now, she couldn't stop the unbidden perceptions from flashing in her mind like sharp bolts of lightning.

Untamed. Stealthy. Panther-like.

Each description that zipped through her thoughts caused a friction that heated her blood.

He didn't seem in any way unrefined or brutish. But…feral. Yes. That was it. A wildness exuded from him like heat radiating from the sun. Natural. Genuine.

Libby realized her heart was hammering and her mouth had gone as dry as the California desert. Enough of this, she silently ordered. When her feet still didn't move and
her tongue remained cleaved to the roof of her mouth, she silently ordered, Enough.

Suddenly she was moving again, and rather than making her way to the front door as she'd first intended, she veered toward the man.

“I didn't get the chance to thank you this morning,” she called to him. “For helping me escape those reporters at the courthouse.”

Until now his countenance had expressed a tentativeness as if he wasn't quite sure he should approach. But now his tense features relaxed, if only a bit.

“I'm Libby Corbett. David Corbett's daughter.” As soon as the introduction left her mouth, she silently decided he must realize those facts already. How else would he have known where to find her?

His steely silence made her nervous. “Can I help you with something?” she asked.

“I was thinking that maybe I could help you.”

She remembered the commanding tone he'd used when addressing the reporter this morning. But now his voice sounded rich. Resonant. And a delicious tremor coursed down the full length of her spine.

“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 contin
ued 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.