Defending the Heiress Page 9

  The man could turn his charm on and off like a light switch. But when he was in the “on” mode, she often responded as if his interest in her was for real. She didn’t want to react. With all her problems, this was not the time for a masculine diversion. She needed all of her thoughts to be focused on her business and finding justice for her sister and Harry. And yet, during her conversations with first Shandra and then Tanya, how many times had she wondered what Ryker was thinking? How many times had she glanced his way to check his reaction?

  The cab pulled up to the curb, and Ryker paid the driver. Daria had intended to head up to her office, but the crush of shoppers in the boutique caught her eye. What was up? Business was rarely this good. Had the sales of Pink Snowflakes and Thunderclouds spiked customer interest?

  “I’d like to check on the store for a few minutes before going upstairs,” she told Ryker.

  He glanced past the signature revolving gold and black doors with etched Passion Perfect flowers in the glass to the crowd inside. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m hoping the sale has pulled in more customers.”

  Ryker slipped his hand into hers. “Okay.”

  “Daria!”

  Recognizing the voice that had just called her name, she almost groaned aloud. Instead, she turned on the sidewalk, keeping her hand in Ryker’s, then plastered a pleasant expression on her face.

  Mike Brannigan, wearing a spiffy black suit, black shirt and black tie and carrying a bulging briefcase, hurried toward her, his long legs eating up the distance within seconds. “I was hoping to catch you before the press conference.”

  With Mike’s appearance, Ryker released Daria’s hand and placed a possessive arm around her waist, drawing her against his side in a clear show of proprietary possession. She didn’t appreciate the gesture. Standing close enough to breathe in his scent and feeling the hard muscles of his chest against her side distracted her. But while she needed her wits about her to deal with a sharp businessman like Mike, she also understood the necessity of consistently keeping up pretenses.

  She introduced the two men, who eyed one another like prizefighters sizing up their opponents. Despite the civilized handshake, the aura surrounding the three of them simmered with hostility.

  Daria looked at Mike, whose blond-haired, blue-eyed surfer looks drew women like a magnet. Then checked her watch. “I don’t have long.”

  Mike ignored Ryker, went into his smooth-pitched sales mode and turned on his charisma. “The rumors were true. I heard about your South American fire—”

  “How?” Ryker challenged.

  “We buy rhodonite from Brazil.”

  “Rhodonite?” Daria asked.

  “A reddish-pink stone that our jewelers polish into beads.”

  “And exactly what do your pink beads have to do with a fire?” Ryker prodded.

  “I e-mail our suppliers daily. And my Brazilian contact happened to mention the warehouse fire. I heard all the Passion Perfects went up in flames.”

  “Not all of them. We have others in different warehouses.” She didn’t mention how short her supply had become. Daria shot a glance into the shop. Milling customers inside didn’t appear to be taken care of. She’d have to tell Elizabeth to hire more help. Customers didn’t like waiting.

  “So what’s up?” she asked Mike, impatient to be on her way.

  “I was hoping after your emergency—”

  “A setback,” she corrected him.

  “That after your setback, you might change your mind and agree to announce the sale of Harrington Bouquet to me during the press conference.”

  He knew about the fire. He knew about the press conference. And in turn she felt as though her life was disintegrating. And like a vulture, he was there to feed off her carcass. Stop it. The man had his ears to the ground, that’s all, but she wanted him to stay away from her business.

  Despite her annoyance, Daria kept her voice level. “I don’t think so, Mike, but thanks anyway.”

  Mike looked right, then left, then grabbed her arm, losing his salesman mode and sounding desperate. “You need to sell to me soon.”

  Ryker’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the rush?”

  “This is between me and Daria.”

  Ryker spoke in a velvet tone laced with steel. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing between you and Daria—unless she tells me otherwise.”

  Mike ignored Ryker and clung to her arm. “You could lose everything if you don’t sell now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Daria asked. Mike might be persistent, but he wasn’t prone to dramatics. In spite of herself she had to tamp down a spike of alarm.

  “A takeover.”

  “We’re not a public corporation.”

  “But your bank can call in the loan.”

  “My payments are up-to-date.”

  “They’ll use the morals clause to get rid of you.”

  Ryker shifted his stance and casually broke Mike’s hold on her arm. “What’s a morals clause?”

  “If Daria is deemed unfit to run the company, her bankers can call in the loan.”

  “That’s if I’m senile or insane,” she said.

  Ryker frowned. “This doesn’t sound like a real threat. Can’t your lawyers tie up the bank in court for years?”

  “Probably not. Banks write the loans in their favor. If they recall the loan and I don’t pay, they can fore-close.”

  She could lose everything she and Fallon had worked so hard to attain. And now without her sister, she felt more responsible than ever for carrying on her legacy.

  Daria flinched at the police siren blaring a few blocks away. Ever since her sister’s death, she hadn’t been able to think of the police as protective. While they weren’t the enemy, she remained on edge around uniformed officers and detectives alike.

  Mike’s face tightened with intensity. “The bankers will argue that someone who murdered her sister is insane, unqualified to run the company, too great a risk for the bank to take.”

  Daria wasn’t concerned and steeled herself not to flinch again as the sirens grew louder. “So I’ll get another loan.”

  “Once one bank drops you, the others will back off a deal. You know that.”

  “And why are you so concerned?” Ryker took Daria’s hand. “Seems to me, that would be the perfect time for you to swoop in and get a bargain price.”

  Mike scowled at Ryker. “I’d rather pay more for a company with an unsullied reputation. If Daria drags the name through the dirt, Harrington Bouquet is of no use to me. And I’d like Daria to get a good price. We are friends.”

  The police car pulled up to the curb with a screech. Reporters converged on the sidewalk. At the same time, a customer burst out the doors of the shop and ran up to the uniformed officers.

  A customer pointed back at Harrington Bouquet. “The store manager’s dead. She was fine, then ate a piece of candy, gagged and dropped to the floor. She was poisoned. Just like those other people.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ryker took one look at Daria’s white face and grabbed her. She’d held up well during the morning’s crisis, but to face Elizabeth’s death so soon after her sister’s and brother-in-law’s had undoubtedly brought back the entire horrible tragedy. He feared she might faint and expected her to lean on him. Instead, with frantic strength, she broke free of his grip and raced across the wide but crowded sidewalk toward the store, making surprisingly fast time in her heels, leaving Ryker and Mike behind.

  Ryker took off after her. When she almost knocked over a uniformed cop in her haste, Ryker caught up with her. Daria’s eyes looked wild enough to beat the officer with her fists, but her control hadn’t abandoned her. She straightened her back, ignored the flashing bulbs of the press.

  She faced the cop. “I’m the president of this company. Let me through.”

  The reporters she’d called in for the press conference were getting more than they bargained for. So convenient. As if
the murder had been staged to take advantage of Daria’s situation, which once again led him to believe an insider had set her up.

  But now was no time for solving the mystery. Daria might be strong and holding herself together for the moment, but he suspected that she was hanging on to her control by the narrowest of margins.

  Reporters thrust microphones in her face. “Did the poison come from Passion Perfect flowers again?”

  “Did you brew Elizabeth’s coffee and hand it to her?”

  “Are your father’s connections in city hall keeping you out of jail, Ms. Harrington?”

  “How do you feel about your manager’s death?”

  Ryker stifled a curse. How did they expect her to feel? Bastards.

  Ryker helped Daria shove past the reporters, knowing she needed to go to her friend’s side, yet wanting to protect her from the sight of the body. Death by poisoning wasn’t clean or pretty. Often the muscles contracted into a grotesque death mask that captured the victim’s last agonizing and terrified moments. He wished he could spare Daria more pain, but knew he couldn’t.

  Daria hadn’t believed in running away from the previous murders, and she wouldn’t go easy on herself by avoiding the ugly scene now. If he held her back, she’d resent his interference, but he wanted her to know she wasn’t alone.

  He took her cold hand in his, whispered in her ear, “You’ll get through this.”

  She didn’t respond except to squeeze his hand more tightly. At least she recognized his presence, knew he was there for her.

  Due to his height, he could already see the body’s feet sticking out from the edge of the front counter. Homicide detectives had arrived, roped off the crime scene but kept the customers nearby and were conducting interviews. He tucked Daria under his arm, hoping she wouldn’t ever see the body.

  A homicide detective met them inside the door. Young, sharp-eyed and low-key, he led them away from the body back toward the front of the store. Briefly Ryker wondered why he hadn’t taken them into the private passage that led to Daria’s office. Maybe he was inexperienced. The detective’s red hair, green eyes and fresh-scrubbed face gave him a boyish appearance, yet he carried himself with the demeanor of a man who knew his business.

  Daria’s voice shook but she kept her chin high. “Detective O’Brien. What happened?”

  Obviously she knew the man. Likely the same detective had questioned her about her sister”s and Harry’s deaths.

  “Elizabeth Hinze was your store manager?”

  “And friend.”

  “By my best estimate she died twenty minutes ago,” he told her.

  Although she trembled, Daria looked him straight in the eye. “Was she poisoned like the reporters said?”

  “We won’t know until the tox screen comes back in a few weeks.”

  “Your best guess, Detective?” Ryker asked.

  O’Brien turned his sharp-eyed attention on Ryker and gave him the thorough once-over that cops did so well. “And you are?”

  “Harrington Bouquet’s—” Ryker put his arm around Daria “—newest employee.” With his free hand, he slowly pulled out a card from an inside pocket of his jacket. “You can verify my background by calling this number.”

  The business card had a CIA logo. While technically, Ryker had never worked directly for the Agency, the Shey Group’s close ties to the organization was the fastest way for him to gain the officer’s trust. And he badly wanted that trust, as well as an inside source. Only then could he help influence the police to look for another suspect besides Daria.

  One step at a time.

  O’Brien glanced at the logo, then again looked hard at Ryker. “You can be sure I’ll do a thorough check.”

  “I’m willing to cooperate. Would it help Miss Harrington’s case for you to know that she hasn’t been out of my sight for the past twenty hours?”

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  At the cop’s words, Daria sagged against Ryker, just a little. She was too smart not to know she’d just become the suspect in her friend’s murder, too.

  O’Brien consulted his notes. “Another clerk told me that Elizabeth had been hoarding her chocolate since her birthday four weeks ago. The poison could have been placed inside the chocolate truffles at any time.”

  “So it was poison?” Ryker asked.

  “Looks like it.”

  Daria straightened. “The poison that killed my sister was from Passion Perfect flower petals ground in with the beans. How could the petals be put on chocolate without Elizabeth noticing?”

  The detective consulted his notes again, but Ryker suspected he already knew those facts and was simply using the extra bit of time to decide exactly how much to reveal. “I’m told the poison is tasteless and odorless.”

  “It is,” Daria agreed. “But Elizabeth knew what to look for. She should have seen the—”

  “Not if someone mixed the poison into a solution and shot it inside the chocolate’s center with a hypodermic needle,” Ryker told her.

  “That’s possible?” Daria’s eyes widened. “But why? Why would anyone want to kill Elizabeth?”

  “When was the last time you saw her alive?” Detective O’Brien asked.

  “This morning when we left for lunch, I saw her in the store through the window,” Daria told him.

  “And the last time you were face-to-face?”

  “Yesterday in my office.”

  An ambulance with sirens screaming pulled up to the curb.

  “Any trouble between you?”

  Daria shook her head.

  “Was she having problems with anyone? Family? An old lover?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  Daria hesitated.

  The detective’s pen paused over his notepad. “Answer the question, please, Ms. Harrington.”

  “I saw her kissing a man but I’m not sure if it was a onetime thing.”

  “I thought you were friends.” O’Brien looked up from his notes. “Wouldn’t your friend have shared?”

  “Normally, we did.”

  “But?” O’Brien pressed.

  Ryker saw no reason to shield Daria’s brother from the police. “Last night, we came by the store and Elizabeth was there with Peter Harrington. They were kissing.”

  “I don’t think Elizabeth and Peter wanted me to know about their relationship,” Daria added.

  “Why?” O’Brien asked.

  “Maybe they thought I wouldn’t approve. Many women go after Peter for his wealth and position. And Elizabeth had so little in the way of material possessions that maybe she’d assume I’d group her in with the others. But she would never date a man just because he had money.”

  “You sure of that?” the detective asked.

  “Elizabeth worked her way up from nothing. She was the first person in her family to graduate from college. Someday, she wanted to open her own floral shop.”

  “Maybe she saw your brother as a shortcut and you as an obstacle.”

  “But she’s the one who’s dead,” Daria protested.

  “Yeah, maybe you didn’t like Elizabeth dating little brother,” O’Brien suggested.

  Daria gasped, then tightened her lips and remained silent.

  “There’s one hole in your theory, Detective.” Ryker kept a firm hold of Daria. “Daria only learned about Peter and Elizabeth’s relationship yesterday. Since that time, Daria has spent every moment with either me, her secretary or her stepmother.”

  “Maybe she knew they were an item before yesterday and only pretended surprise,” O’Brien countered.

  Ryker had no answer for the cop. And a commotion in the private entrance caught his eye. The emergency medical people had entered there. The door opened and they carried Peter Harrington out on a stretcher.

  His face was twisted in pain. Grayish. And he was moaning, his hand clutched to his gut.

  Daria screamed, ran forward and shoved people out of the way to get to her bro
ther’s side. “Oh my God. What happened?”

  “Poison,” he whispered.

  Then someone covered his mouth and nose with an oxygen mask and others carried him away.

  Ryker’s thoughts raced. The detective had known all along about Peter. That’s why he’d avoided taking them to the hallway earlier. No doubt O’Brien had been hoping that Daria would say something to in criminate herself.

  Daria followed the stretcher out onto the sidewalk. She ignored the press and flashbulbs. Quietly she spoke to one of the emergency workers. “My brother, is he going to live?”

  “Ma’am, they can give you that information at the hospital.”

  THE AMBULANCE TOOK Peter straight to the emergency room. After Daria and Ryker arrived at the hospital, she learned, much to her frustration, that she wasn’t allowed to accompany the patient into the emergency room.

  She didn’t make a fuss about going to Peter’s side, knowing her father would do so when he arrived. Wanting to wait for news before telling him what had happened to his favorite child, but unable to deny her father a chance to be with his son in a time of need, Daria phoned her parents.

  “What do you mean he’s been poisoned?” Rudy roared through the receiver. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He clicked off the phone in Daria’s ear. She winced, but had expected no less. After a quick call to Isabelle, placing her in charge of Harrington Bouquet’s day-to-day operations, Daria sank into a chair in the corner of the waiting room, shocked, angry and scared.

  A TV buzzed in the background. Sick people waited for medical attention, worried persons for news of their loved ones. They sat leafing through ragged magazines or got up and went outside to smoke.

  Daria ignored their pain. She was too full of her own grief and anger to feel for others. How could this be happening to her family again?