Under the Tycoon's Protection (5 page)

“That's my mail!” Allison stormed back over to him from the table where she'd just set down her gym bag. “And don't tell me that you open your clients' mail, too!”

He blocked her attempt to grab the envelope. “In fact, sometimes I do. When the job calls for it.”

He slid the contents from the envelope and his blood ran cold. Allison gasped beside him.

There were three photographs of Allison going about her business. The photos were somewhat grainy, computer-generated reproductions taken from a distance, but nevertheless the subject was unmistakable.

Angling himself away from her, he let his eyes
scan the contents of the plain white sheet of paper that had fallen out with the photos. The three lines of typed text chilled him:

Allison made a grab for the material in his hand, but he held up his arm. “What is it?” she demanded.

He debated for a second, but realized he'd have no peace until she found out, as much as he wanted to shield her. He wanted to kill the bastard who was threatening her. Tipping the contents of the envelope toward her, he said, “Take a look.”

He watched her face blanch and cursed under his breath. “Don't touch anything. I'm calling the police and having them test all the contents of the envelope for fingerprints.”

She nodded, uncharacteristically silent.

“Do you recognize when the photos were taken?”

“Two or three weeks ago, I think.” She looked up at him and her expression conveyed thinly veiled distress. “That first shot was taken in front of the dry cleaners. My car is over on the far left, which is where I think I parked it when I couldn't find a closer spot. It looks as if the photo was taken from the parking lot across the street.”

“Okay, and do you recognize the two others?”

“I think so. I'm wearing something different, but I think those were taken days apart.”

He nodded and carefully set down the offending images and sheet of paper. “Good. That'll give the police a good lead about where to start asking questions to see if anyone remembers anything, though I doubt anyone will.”

She raked a hand through her hair, the glossy locks cascading around her face. “This is ridiculous. I'm used to having my photo taken from time to time, but it's always been reporters flashing bulbs in my face at a press conference or at a charity ball.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Quite the popular little heiress prosecutor, aren't we?”

“Kiss my millionaire fanny, Rafferty.”

He laughed, but he privately admitted the joke was on him: he'd certainly given more than a passing thought to kissing her all over.

But, he was glad to see his comment had had its intended effect and there was some fire back in her eyes. That white-faced expression she'd been wearing was unlike her. And while he wanted her to appreciate the danger she could be in, he also didn't want this crazy nut to cow her and mark her for life.

She frowned. “His English skills aren't very good, are they?”

“Yeah, which does point to our man Taylor or,
more precisely, one of his gang members who isn't behind bars.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” She looked unconvinced. “Or it could just be someone trying to throw us off the scent and point the finger elsewhere.”

“What makes you think that?” He had his own theory in that regard, but he was interested in hearing hers.

She crossed her arms. “If one of Taylor's pals wanted me dead, I'd probably already be gone—or, at least, they wouldn't have bothered with a note.”

He nodded. She'd obviously learned a few things at the DA's Office. He just wasn't sure he liked her being acquainted with the seedier side of life. Sure, he'd often made fun of her diamond-studded-slipper upbringing, but he knew better than most just how bad the alternative could be.

“The person who is doing this obviously wants to scare me,” Allison mused, “but so far he's hung back from doing more than threaten. So, again, we have a profile that might fit better with Kendall, who's a white-collar criminal.”

“You know something, petunia?”

“What?” Her chin came up, as if expecting a sarcastic remark.

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little. “That's probably the highest compliment in your book.”

A
llison didn't know why she'd let Connor talk her into spending the weekend at his getaway cottage in the Berkshires, west of Boston. Somehow she'd let him convince her that she needed the change of scene.

She sat in the living room, her files around her, having spent the afternoon working on her brief in response to Kendall's attorney's pre-trial motion to exclude certain evidence from being presented to the jury.

She could hear Connor moving around in the kitchen. After they'd gone into town for groceries, he'd gone to work on his computer. There were four
of them in the den, she had discovered, plus some hitech computer accessories.

She was thankful that the past week had been less eventful than last Saturday. After they'd discovered the anonymous note in her mailbox, the rest of the day had been spent talking to the police that Connor had summoned to the townhouse. She'd spent more than an hour being grilled, the dull throbbing at her temples a testimony to the thoroughness of their questioning.

The police had since informed them that the photographs and note hadn't turned up any fingerprints other than Connor's, though the envelope that they had come in had had many different prints, including probably that of her mailman. None of the shop owners or anyone else near the locations where the photographs had been taken had remembered anything suspicious.

Yet, despite the uneventfulness of the week, she hadn't felt relaxed. Whereas before she'd only thought someone might be watching her, the photographs confirmed that to be the case.

It was a spooky and unsettlingly thought. She now found herself turning around at odd moments, expecting to catch someone watching her.

So, at the end of the week, when Connor had argued she could work just as well at his country house as she could at the townhouse, she hadn't disagreed
too strenuously. In fact, she admitted to herself, having him around made her feel safe. Perhaps it was the photos and note that had done it, but she no longer had the same desire to get rid of him.

And going to Connor's place
was
a distraction. When they'd arrived that morning, she'd discovered that Connor's “getaway cottage” was a two-story, wood-frame structure nestled in the woods, well back from the road. It boasted four bedrooms, two baths, a spacious kitchen, a living room, dining room, den, deck and, for good measure, a hot tub.

She tried hard not to think about the hot tub—and tried harder still not to think about the fact that her bedroom was next to his.

She looked through the sliding-glass doors leading to the outdoor wooden deck and watched Connor fire up the barbecue grill. Beside him, plates held some steaks and potatoes, ready for grilling.

Deciding it was time to put away her files for the evening, she rose and gathered up her papers, putting them in a neat stack on an end table.

When she got outside, Connor was nursing a beer and watching the rays of the disappearing sun twinkle through the branches of the trees.

He opened another beer and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, watching as he expertly used a long fork to turn the steaks. “You know, I could almost get used to having you cook for me, Rafferty.”

At his astonished look, she laughed. “But I suppose grilling is up there with manly pursuits like knowing how to open a beer bottle and programming a remote control.”

Seemingly despite himself, he chuckled. Closing the barbecue, he said, “You got that right, petunia. So for the rest of the evening, remember that I'm the one in charge and you're the deputy.”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you mean for the rest of the evening? That's what you try to convince me of every day.”

“Right, but with little success.” He nodded through the glass doors at the kitchen. “The rest of the stuff for dinner is in there.”

Tossing him a look, she nevertheless took the hint and went to the kitchen. She returned with plates, utensils, and napkins for the outdoor table. She also carried out the salad he'd left on the kitchen counter.

As she set the table, she cast him a surreptitious look. His faded jeans did little to hide a tight rear end. He wore his button-down plaid shirt open at the collar, where it revealed a small bit of the white undershirt he wore beneath. Overall, the effect was casual but sexy.

Until they'd actually sat down to eat, Allison didn't realize how intimate it was to be having dinner alone with Connor, surrounded by the woods, eating food that he'd prepared. Despite that—or maybe
as a distraction from it—the conversation flowed easily between them. They talked about the latest news, what the Boston Red Sox could do to make it to the World Series, and what qualified as classic rock-and-roll music.

As a result, by the time they were done eating, she was feeling pleasantly relaxed. So much so that she was able to say casually, “There's one thing I never understood about you, Rafferty.”

“Only one?” He quirked a brow and sat back, looking amused. “What a letdown. I don't even qualify as complex, misunderstood, or—better yet—tortured?”

She rolled her eyes. “James Dean was tortured, you're just—” she paused to think for a few seconds “—inscrutable.”

“Inscrutable?” He rubbed his chin. “Okay, I guess that's better than nothing. So, I suppose you're going to enlighten me about what makes me ‘inscrutable'?”

Ignoring his mocking tone, she plunged ahead. “As I was saying, there's one major thing I haven't understood about you.” She took a fortifying sip of her beer. “It's this whole South Boston business.”

His expression, she noted, became ever so slightly shuttered.

Nevertheless, because she wasn't one to turn back once she'd started, she went on, “You leave South Boston, get a fancy degree from Harvard—with high honors in computer science, no less—and then, in
stead of starting the corporate climb at some cushy investment banking job, you wind up going back to South Boston to set up shop.”

He shrugged.

“Not only that,” she persisted, “but you choose an unglamorous area like security systems. Most people don't go to Harvard just to come full circle.”

He sat back in his chair and studied her. “True, but things worked out well anyway.” He nodded around him to the large house and the surrounding trees. “Maybe, princess, it was all part of the master plan.”

She nodded. “Knowing you, I don't doubt it. What I want to know is, what was the master plan?”

He looked amused. “You just keep probing until you get some answers, don't you? Which is probably what makes you a great prosecutor.”

“Don't try to sidetrack me with compliments.” She steeled herself against his flattery and leaned forward in her seat. “Why go back to South Boston after Harvard? One would assume you had every reason not to, particularly since your father was killed in the line of duty there.”

She knew from Quentin that Connor's father had been a cop who had died when Connor was still a kid. She also knew Connor's mother, a nurse, had died of breast cancer soon after his high-school graduation, leaving him parentless from the age of eighteen. It
had all made her feel very sorry for Connor when she'd met him.

“Am I being cross-examined?” Connor's tone was casual, but she sensed an underlying tenseness in him.

Knowing that she was on to something, she ignored his question and said, instead, “Tell me about your father.” She added, gentling her voice, “Please. I'd really like to know.”

He saluted her with his empty beer bottle. “Okay, princess, I see I'm not going to throw you off.”

She wondered if that were true. She got the feeling he was only going to give her an answer because he wanted to—and she also sensed she was on terrain that Connor didn't ordinarily let people onto.

He was silent for a time, looking off into the distance before his gaze came back to her. “I was nine when Dad died. Tough age to lose your father—but no age is a good one. He was the assistant coach of my softball team and taught me the usual stuff: how to ride a bike, how to swim.”

He blew a breath, then continued, “My father had this thing about giving back to the community. Perhaps because he'd grown up as a working-class kid in South Boston himself and had gone on to become a cop.”

“Hmm,” was all she said. She'd finally gotten him going and she wasn't going to give him the opportunity to get sidetracked by her commentary.

“Anyway, even though we could have afforded to live out in the suburbs, he wanted to stay in South Boston. He even angled his way to a job there.”

“In other words, he was into ‘community policing' even before the term was coined,” she put in.

He nodded. “Exactly. He believed not only in police patrols, but police involvement in the community.”

“Getting to know people,” she supplied. “Coaching softball as a way to keep kids off the streets.”

He nodded again. “Right.”

She waited for him to go on.

He took a swig of his beer, then squinted into the distance as if he was trying to make out something among the trees. “One day the doorbell rang and I thought it was him, back from the evening shift. Instead it was the sergeant from his district, looking so serious I immediately got a queasy feeling in my stomach.” He shifted his gaze back to hers. “You can guess what came next.”

“How did it happen?” she asked softly. They'd known each other for years but this was the first time she'd felt comfortable enough to ask him about the circumstances of his father's death. She ached for the boy who had opened the door to a nightmare so many years ago.

“He was responding to a break-and-enter. He caught one guy, cuffed him. What he didn't know was the guy had a partner who was packing a .38 special.”

Allison flinched at the image he evoked.

Connor grinned crookedly. “You wanted to know, princess.”

“What I want to know is why you bury that story.”

“Ever combative and feisty, aren't you?”

She frowned. “Maybe, but there's certainly nothing to be ashamed of in that story. I have no idea why you keep quiet about it. In fact—”

“In fact,” he finished for her, “people might have felt sorry for me and gone out of their way to help, is that what you were going to say?”

“Well, yes—”

“And that's exactly what I didn't want,” he said, his look almost combative. “That's exactly how the people who did know—at my father's precinct and in the neighborhood—did act.” His brows drew together. “I didn't need their sympathy. It wasn't going to bring my father back. And I sure as hell didn't want anyone thinking I was trading on a tragedy.”

His words were startling. And, yet, they were in keeping with what she knew him to be: proud, tough, private.

“Curiosity satisfied, petunia?” he asked, rising with his empty plate. His tone wasn't mocking, just matter-of-fact.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said simply, picking up her own plate and utensils and following him inside, where she deposited her load in the sink. “I
can't even imagine how hard it was for you and your mother.”

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, legs casually crossed at his feet. “Yeah, it was devastating for Mom. She went back into nursing to earn some money, but South Boston was all she knew, so that's where we stayed.”

“You must have been lonely.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I was a terror. My father had been killed and I was mad as hell at the world. I fought, I skipped school and I took unnecessary risks. What finally turned me around was a combination of my mother and some well-meaning high-school teachers meting out tough love, and my own realization that I had a brain and I might as well use it in a way that got me somewhere.”

She went to perch on a bar stool. “Which brings me back to my original question. Why go back to South Boston after all that? You could have gone anywhere after Harvard, and you had every reason to.”

“Like I said, you're tenacious.” He gave her a once-over with his eyes, then smiled at her scowl. “When I started my business, I was looking to keep overhead low. The neighborhood is changing, but the rent on a rinky-dink apartment in South Boston at the time was the right price. It was as simple as that.”

She nodded. Suddenly, turning down a cushy big law firm job for the DA's Office while living in a
townhouse in exclusive Beacon Hill didn't seem like much of a sacrifice. “Every time I come across a profile of you in the newspapers or in magazines, they always mention that you headed back to South Boston to start your business.”

He quirked a brow. “You read all the bios of me, princess?”

She felt herself grow red. “Just when the only alternative is reading the instructions on medicine bottles.”

He grinned. “You don't give an inch do you?”

“You don't either,” she retorted. “Anyway,” she said, going back to the subject at hand, “Rafferty Security still has an office in South Boston, doesn't it?”

“Yeah, you could say that….”

His hesitancy puzzled her. She knew her information wasn't wrong and the question had almost been rhetorical. “Well, what else would you say?”

He coughed, then folded his arms.

“Yeees?” she prompted. If she didn't know better, she'd say he looked uncomfortable.

“It's not really an office. It's more like a community-relations clearinghouse.”

She frowned for a second, then laughed. “You mean you operate a charity there?”

He shifted. “That's about right.”

The urge to tease was irresistible. “Don't tell me
the oh-so-tough Connor Rafferty has a soft spot. Or should I just call you Connor P.—for philanthropist—Rafferty?”

“We don't call them philanthropists in South Boston, petunia.”

She cocked her head. “Oh, really? What do you call them, then? Benefactors? Charitable donors? People so rich they give their money away?” She was so enjoying this. “Face it, Connor, you're just like those well-heeled do-gooders you dislike. You know,” she said, throwing his words back at him, “like those debutantes who organize charity auctions.”