Читать книгу On Her Side - Beth Andrews - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

GOOD LORD, but Griffin York was beautiful.

His hair, a rich shade of chocolate-brown, fell past the collar of his T-shirt in tousled waves and yet did nothing to soften the sharp line of his jaw, the harsh slash of his cheekbones. His brows were thick and drawn together as he studied her warily, his green eyes flecked with gold. He had a slight dimple in his chin, broad shoulders, a flat stomach and muscular arms.

Beautiful and, she realized, pissed off.

What a crying shame. Someone that pretty shouldn’t scowl so much.

“You,” he bit out, “are a crazy person.”

Nora’s hands stung from the reverberations of hitting the car with the crowbar, her heart raced from her exertion. “Not crazy. Just determined.”

Although, she thought with a glance at her poor car, she might plead temporary insanity. But it had felt surprisingly good—in a therapeutic way—to hit something after all the trauma and drama of the past few weeks. After the frustration of realizing the local police couldn’t, or wouldn’t be able to bring Dale York to justice.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Griffin said in his gravelly voice.

She hooked her pinkie under a strand of hair stuck to her temple, narrowed her eyes at him. Okay, she was trying to be fair here. She didn’t know enough about Griffin to judge him, to dislike him as her sisters did. To mistrust or fear him because he had a less than stellar reputation.

Yes, she was trying to be fair and he wasn’t making it easy.

“You said that unless I had a problem with my car, there was nothing for us to talk about.” She gestured to her car. “Well, I have a car problem now.”

His gaze went from her to her car and back again. “What’s to stop me from kicking you out of here anyway?”

“Oh, let’s see. How about integrity? A latent sense of decency? Or maybe everyone is right about you. Maybe you are just like your father.”

His jaw worked, his mouth a thin line, and for a moment, she regretted the low blow. But a good attorney knew not only which questions to ask, but which argument to make to get the win.

And there was no win she wanted more than to see Dale York spend the rest of his life behind bars for her mother’s murder. But first, she had to find him.

“You want to talk,” Griffin said tightly. “You’ll have to do it while I work.” Then he turned and walked back into the garage.

The man put a new spin on the word stubborn.

Luckily so did she. And so far, she was ahead of the game since he’d stopped threatening to call the cops on her. Not that the police would really arrest her. But they would send someone out to check what was going on, which meant Layne would find out Nora was there.

And she wanted to keep that little tidbit of information to herself for…oh…forever. Or longer.

Inhaling deeply, she shook the glass fragments from her dress. Looked at her car once more. She winced. She’d only had it a few months. It’d been a gift—an extravagant, thoughtful gift—from her aunt and uncle upon her graduation from law school. Maybe her family was right. Maybe she was a bit impulsive from time to time.

But at least she got the job done. And that was all that mattered.

Not seeing Griffin in the garage, she headed toward the direction he’d come from when she’d first arrived. She found him in a cramped office searching through the piles of paper on a metal desk. She scratched her elbow. Great. She was probably breaking out in hives from this mess. How did he get any work done?

“Nice office,” she lied, crossing to check out a yellowed calendar on the wall. Pursing her lips, she studied the photo of a brunette with huge, curly hair, melon-size breasts and a teeny, tiny black bikini, sprawled across the hood of a white Lamborghini. “May 1987, huh? I take it a memorable event happened that month you like to be reminded of?”

He straightened, resentment and anger rolling off of him like waves crashing onto shore. “Knock it off.”

“Knock what off?” she asked with a smile as she tucked her hands behind her back. God only knew what sort of flesh-eating disease lingered on these surfaces.

He waved a hand in the air. “Your whole Little Miss Sunshine routine.”

“Routine?”

“Yeah, your act where you pretend there’s some sort of holy light shining down on your head while you shoot rainbows from your ass. Knock it off because I’m not buying it.”

Bristling, she ground her teeth together behind her grin. “It’s not an act. It’s called being pleasant. Friendly.”

He swept up a black bandana from the desk. “We’re not friends.”

“No kidding,” she muttered. Which was fine with her. She had more than enough friends already. She certainly didn’t need to add one bitter, antagonistic, angry, rude man to the list. And if he couldn’t be bothered with social niceties, then he could kiss her rainbow-shooting ass.

Jerk.

“Where’s your father?” she asked, no longer caring if she sounded haughty or demanding.

Setting his foot on the seat of the chair behind the desk, he laid the bandana on his jean-covered thigh and quickly folded it into a strip. “As I’ve already told Chief Taylor, and your sister, I have no idea.”

“You must have heard from him at some point during the past eighteen years.”

“Not even once.”

What could she say to that? They’d never heard from their mother and had never thought anything other than she hadn’t cared enough to contact them. Of course, now they knew she’d been dead all those years, but before the truth had come out, no one had questioned Valerie’s lack of communication with her family. Did Nora have any right to doubt Griffin now?

“Let’s back up a bit here,” she said, digging a small notebook out of her purse. She tucked it under her arm and searched for a pen. “We’ll start at the—”

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can be. I don’t know where he is.”

Damn it, why was it she could never find a pen when she needed one? Giving up she gingerly picked up a pen from his desk, held it between the tips of her fingers. “I believe you.”

He shook his hair back and put the bandana on, tied it behind his head. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

Not much if the sardonic lift of his mouth was anything to go by. So much for her thinking he’d be more receptive to helping her if he thought she was on his side.

“Whether or not you are aware of your father’s current whereabouts is irrelevant,” she said, “because I’ve hired a private investigator to track him down.” But instead of sounding certain and resolute, she came across as smug and, she hated to admit it, slightly obsessive.

“Industrious little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured. She didn’t take it as a compliment. “What does your family think of that?”

“They’re all for it.”

He set his hands on his hips, the faded material of his green T-shirt pulling tight across his muscular chest. “You’ll give lawyers a bad reputation lying that way, angel.”

Angel. Well, it was better than Nancy. Even if he did say angel the same way normal people said tapeworm. Still, the only reason he refused to call her by her given name was to prove he couldn’t be bothered to remember it.

That it bugged her was her own damn fault.

And what was up with him reading her so easily? How could he possibly know her family had no idea she’d hired a P.I. from Boston? Not that she planned on keeping that information from them indefinitely. She had every intention of telling them. After Dale was found and arrested for her mother’s murder.

“The more background information the P.I. has,” she said, ignoring her unease, her guilt at keeping a secret from her family, “the easier it will be for him to do his job.” Swinging her purse onto her shoulder, she took the notebook in one hand, held the pen poised over the paper. “Does your father have any living relatives? Anyone he may have sought out after leaving Mystic Point?”

The dark fabric of the bandana made his eyes seem lighter. Colder. “I get what you’re after, and I guess I can even understand where you’re coming from—”

“Hooray,” she said, her tone all sorts of wry.

“But I can’t help you.”

“You mean you won’t.”

He scratched under his jaw. “Either way, the end result’s the same.”

“If you’re uncomfortable discussing this with me, you can talk to the P.I. directly.” Her words were rushed. Desperate. “Just give him five, ten minutes of your time, answer a few quick—”

“No.”

She shook her head. “But you can help us. It’s the right thing to do.”

And that meant everything to her. Doing what was right. What was best for others.

It was one of the many things that proved she was the exact opposite of her mother.

“I’m not interested in doing what’s right,” he said so simply, she had no choice but to believe him. To resent him for it.

“If you won’t help, maybe your mother would be willing to give me some answers.”

He edged closer to her, his expression hard, his eyes glittering. Wishing she still had the crowbar—just in case—she stepped back, held the notebook over her furiously pounding heart. “You stay away from my mother.”

She didn’t mistake his quiet words for a request or even an order. They were a warning, a challenge as subtle and soft as the summer breeze.

Pulling her shoulders back, she forgot her nerves, her momentary fear of him. She never backed down from a challenge. “But you and your mom may be able to help find Dale. Isn’t that what you want?”

“It’s not really a question of what I want,” he said, watching her carefully. “This—you being here, hiring some Sherlock Holmes wannabe to waste his time and your money searching for the old man—it’s all about what you want.”

“He needs to pay for what he did to my mother,” she said through her teeth.

Surely even someone as cocky, as solitary as Griffin could see why he should help her. How important it was.

“Even if you do find him, there’s no guarantee he’ll be convicted of anything. Trust me, the best thing that could happen for everyone is for Dale to remain missing. Leave the past alone.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Now, I have work to do. Which means we’re done.”

She gaped at his back as he walked away. “Have you suffered a recent brain injury?” she called, but he kept going.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t, not with her thoughts spinning, panic strangling her. He meant it. He wasn’t going to help her. And she wasn’t going to be able to persuade him otherwise. He was too cynical to charm. Too sharp for her to outwit.

She bit the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. She never failed. Never. Had never gotten anything less than an A in any subject, had reached every goal she’d ever set for herself, from getting the lead in her sixth grade’s production of Our Town, to making the varsity softball squad as a high school freshman, to graduating law school at the top of her class.

But Griffin refused to be swayed in his position by her passion for truth, justice and the American way, her sense of morality or sparkling personality.

It was as if she’d stepped into some weird dimension where she didn’t get her own way.

She couldn’t say she liked it here much.

She drummed her fingers against a bare corner of Griffin’s desk. She had two choices: she could stay and keep bashing her head against the wall that was Griffin York’s stubbornness.

Or she could cut her losses and get the hell out of there before any damage was done. She thought of her car, her stomach turning with nausea and regret. Make that before any serious, irreparable damage was done. She’d back off, regroup and strengthen her case before trying again.

And when she came back—and she would—Griffin wouldn’t know what hit him.

Out in the garage, Griffin stood under the car on the lift, his back to her. He reached up and did something under the car, the muscles in his upper back contracting under his taut shirt. Warmth suffused her, settled in her lower stomach. She ignored it.

“I have to get to work,” she said as oil ran into the funnel and dripped into the plastic jug. “Why don’t we continue this conversation at a more convenient time? How about dinner tonight? My treat,” she added quickly in case he thought she was angling for him to pay.

He wiped his hands on a stained rag and stuck it into his back pocket as he slowly faced her. “You asking me out?” His rough voice was low and amused. “Because if you are…” He scanned her from head to toe, one corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic, insulting smile. “I’m not interested. Not even for a free meal.”

“Ouch,” she murmured, unable to stop her cheeks from heating even though going out with him was the last thing on her mind. Yes, he was all walking sex appeal and mysterious and gorgeous, like a fallen angel come to tempt her to the dark side. But she was quite content living in the light, thanks very much.

Unlike her mother.

Besides, her family would lose their minds if they knew she’d breathed the same air as Griffin York. She couldn’t imagine their reactions if she dated the man.

She sighed dramatically. “Hopefully I’ll survive the heartbreak of your callous words, but if you’re sure there’s nothing I can say or do to change your mind about talking with the P.I….”

“There’s not.”

That was what she was afraid of. Damn him. “Then I guess there’s nothing left for us to discuss—”

“I told you that fifteen minutes ago.”

“Except when you think you’ll have my car repaired.”

His brows drew together. “You expect me to fix your car?”

“Yes, how silly of me,” she said, pulling her cell phone from her purse, “to expect a mechanic to perform car repairs. What a ludicrous idea.” She opened her phone and brought up the calendar function. “So when should I come back to pick it up?”

He looked at her as if she’d asked when a good time was for her to return and burn his business to the ground. “You are some piece of work.”

Again, not a compliment. “Yes, well, be that as it may, I need my car fixed and I’d like to hire you to do it.” She couldn’t take it to her usual garage. Not when it was so obvious someone had damaged it on purpose. And wouldn’t that be fun to explain? “Unless you have a problem taking money from me because I’m a Sullivan?”

“I never have a problem taking someone’s money for doing my job. I have a problem with people coming to my place and harassing me about things that are none of their damned business.”

“Your father is my business and has been since he and my mother decided to get together. But if it’ll make you feel better, I promise not to harass—and I take exception to that term—you about anything. You fix my car, I’ll come back when it’s finished, pick it up and pay my bill. As long as the work is done satisfactorily, of course.”

“I do quality work.” Though the words were said calmly enough, she couldn’t help but feel as if she’d offended him.

“I’m sure you do,” she rushed out, realizing she’d sounded a bit snotty. And superior. “Which is why I’d like you to work on my car. So…do we have a deal?”

* * *

DID THEY HAVE a deal? Griffin wasn’t sure. He didn’t trust her. She was too unflappable. Too freaking cheerful.

She was a Sullivan.

At least she’d been up front about wanting to drag him into her crusade to find his old man. A noble cause, sure. But Griffin wasn’t some knight in shining armor. He didn’t do noble. He put in ten hours a day at the garage, six days a week, stayed out of the trouble that had seemed to follow him wherever he went as a kid and kept his nose out of other people’s business.

And expected others to do the same for him.

Besides, it wasn’t his problem if the cops couldn’t find Dale. That they didn’t have any evidence to charge him with Valerie Sullivan’s murder.

Not that Griffin thought for one moment that Dale was innocent. He’d seen firsthand the kind of violence his father was capable of. His old man was a criminal, a con man who could adapt to any situation, become anyone. But underneath his exterior, he was nothing but an animal. He brushed off civility as easily as most people batted away a fly, disregarded rules in favor of following his own self-serving instincts.

Only the strong survive, boy.

Dale’s sneering, hate-fueled voice filled Griffin’s head. His stomach clenched as if Dale could reach through time and punctuate his statement with one of his stinging slaps.

Griffin rubbed his fingertips across the stubble on his chin. A reminder to himself he wasn’t some skinny, scared kid anymore. But though many years had passed since Dale had left town, Griffin was sure his father hadn’t changed. He’d always be dangerous. Violent. And God help anyone who stood between him and what he wanted. He hoped blondie knew what she was doing by going after Dale.

But it wasn’t Griffin’s job to warn her or protect her from his old man. He’d tried once to save a woman from Dale. Tried and failed. Better to leave people to their own devices and foolish decisions.

“Come back Friday,” he told her. He may not want to save her from herself but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take her money for doing his job. “Your car should be done by then.”

“That long?” she asked, looking put out, as if he’d delay the job to mess with her.

“I have to order parts,” he said shortly. “They take a few days to get here but if you don’t like the timeline, you’re free to go somewhere else.”

“Wow, business must be booming, what with that charming way you have with the customers.”

“Friday,” he repeated because his business did just fine despite him not wasting time chatting with customers, pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

He had enough work to keep him busy—more than enough. Yeah, he made a fraction of what that lawyer uncle of hers probably raked in during the year but Griffin was his own boss, paid all of his bills on time and even had a little cash left over at the end of each month.

For someone who’d spent most of his childhood slipping out of towns in the middle of the night, his old man running from the cops, creditors or other crooks, his current situation was close to perfect.

“Call first to make sure it’s done,” he said, going back to the oil change. He didn’t want her showing up and giving him grief if the parts didn’t get there in time.

Nodding, her fingers flew over the buttons on her phone. Probably one of those fancy models that did everything but wipe your ass for you. She tossed it back into that huge purse of hers then glanced around. “Which car should I use?”

“For what?”

“For transportation,” she said as if he was the one who needed to be fitted for a straitjacket instead of her. “I’ll need a vehicle to drive while my car is being worked on.”

“Guess you should’ve thought of that before you went all PMS on your headlights.” He put the cap back on the oil pan. “You want something to drive? Try a car rental agency.”

“But I have to be to work in—” she checked the slim, fancy watch on her wrist “—fifteen minutes. Could you at least give me a ride downtown?”

“No.”

“No?” she squeaked as if she’d never heard the word before.

“I’m not a taxi driver. And, thanks to you, I’m already behind on the day’s work.”

“What do you expect me to do?” She slammed her hands on her curvy hips, tugging the top of her dress lower, exposing more of the creamy skin on her chest. He jerked his gaze back to her face. “Walk?”

“I don’t care if you fly. I’m not driving you.”

“B-but…it’s at least two miles from here.”

He considered that. “More like two and a half.”

“I’m in heels,” she snapped.

He shouldn’t feel so much pleasure at finally ruffling her feathers, but what the hell? He was about as far from a saint as you could get. He sure wasn’t above enjoying her discomfort. Not after she’d done nothing but irritate him since walking into his place.

“And you’re down to thirteen minutes,” he pointed out. “You might want to get going.”

She glowered at him. He couldn’t help it. He grinned.

“What,” she asked imperiously, “is so funny?”

“You and that glare.” Two high spots of color appeared on her cheeks but instead of making her look indignant, she just looked cute. Cuter. If that was possible. “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re about as intimidating as a magical fairy.”

“A…fairy?” she repeated, about choking on the word, her arms straight, her hands fisted.

Hoping it would piss her off but good, he winked at her. “Magical fairy. A sparkly one. Floaty. You must get eaten alive in court, huh? Maybe Layne could give you a few lessons on how to be a hard-nosed bitch.”

She lifted her chin. “I will not allow myself to be dragged into some ludicrous argument over fairies—”

“Magical fairies.”

Her mouth flattened. “Or my sister. I will see you Friday.” She whirled on her heel and sashayed away.

He waited until she reached the door before calling out, “Hey, angel?”

She stopped but didn’t turn.

“The next time you feel the need to pound on your car,” he continued, “you might want to think about slashing a tire instead. It would’ve been easier and you would’ve saved yourself a lot of grief and about a thousand bucks.”

Her back went so straight he was surprised her spine didn’t audibly snap. Her head held high, she walked out into the sunshine.

He could’ve sworn he heard her mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “Crap.”

There was no way she’d make it to work in time. Even if she ran—and he couldn’t imagine her so much as jogging in that dress and those heels—she’d still be late.

He shrugged. Not his problem. She wasn’t his problem.

But he still had the strangest urge to call her back, this time to tell her he was messing with her, that he’d drive her into town. Because he wanted to. Contemplating how big of an idiot that would make him, he deliberately went to the back of the garage for a case of oil.

So she had to walk. Big deal. It was only a few miles, the sun was shining and it was still cool enough for a brisk, morning trek to be refreshing instead of sweat inducing. And she had a cell phone. She could always call one of her sisters or a friend to pick her up.

From the moment he’d realized who she was, he’d wanted to get rid of her. And now he had his wish so there was no reason to waste time wondering if he should’ve handled the situation, handled her, differently.

She was out of his hair, out of his personal business, at least until Friday. He’d just be grateful for small favors.