The Cowboy and the Angel. Marin Thomas
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bucks.”
He ran a hand through his hair, leaving several previously immaculate layers mussed. “Thirty-five dollars and that included a five-dollar tip.”
She frowned. “Snakeskin boots?”
“A gift from my mother.” The last birthday present he’d received from her before she died in a car accident two years ago.
“Your name.”
“What’s wrong with Duke?”
“Sounds stuck-up. Like royalty.”
“I was named after my maternal grandfather, Duke Weatherford. He was a science professor at Cambridge University.” Duke didn’t appreciate being deemed unacceptable because of his name, but damned if he’d defend himself.
Then she slapped him with another stinging question. “Why bring your company to Detroit when it’s obvious you don’t fit in here?”
Maybe he stood out now, but with time he intended to become a true Detroiter. And Michigan was the farthest thing from ranches, oil and his stepfather’s influence—he doubted anyone this far north had heard of the multimillionaire. “The city made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You mean steep tax breaks.”
“Yes, tax breaks. But my company will contribute to the general revitalization fund to improve the Riverfront.” What he didn’t confess was that Detroit was the only city whose financial incentives enabled him to transfer his company without having to accept a handout from his stepfather. His turn to change the subject. “Your boyfriend informed me that you were a social worker.”
“Boyfriend?”
“The older cop seemed pretty possessive of you.”
“Rich? He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my brother.”
Siblings? They looked nothing alike. Renée had beautiful blond hair and the cop was a carrottop. Relief pulsed through Duke’s body, and he grinned like a fool. He had no qualms about ignoring an older brother’s warning. If Duke had his way, tonight’s dinner would be the beginning of his getting-to-know-Ms.-Renée-Sweeney-better campaign. But just in case…“Any other boyfriends or big brothers in the picture?”
“No, I’m unattached at the moment.”
Unattached was good. Very good.
“The Screw & Bolt factory has been a part of the Riverfront for a long, long time,” she argued, showing no interest in pursuing a personal conversation with him.
“I’m aware of the building’s significance. I read up on the area before I put in an offer.”
Her soft huff claimed she didn’t believe him. Time for a history lesson. “The factory was established in 1877 on Lafayette before moving to Atwater and Riopelle in 1892.” He paused, expecting an apology—nothing. “The company erected a new building in 1912. They manufactured cap screws, nuts and automobile parts, then went out of business before World War II. From then on the building was used as a warehouse for various companies until it became permanently vacant.”
“Okay, you did your homework,” she conceded. Peggy arrived with the burgers and a large to-go bag. Renée thanked her, then proceeded to devour her meal.
Why the rush? He’d hoped to discover if they shared a common interest besides an old warehouse. “How long have you been a social worker?”
“Six years.”
“Born and raised in Detroit?”
A single nod. “What does a social worker want with an abandoned building?” he prodded.
With great care, she set her burger on the plate and finished chewing. “What if I asked you to hold off destroying the warehouse for a month?”
Nice try. “You didn’t answer my question.”
A stare-down ensued. He gave in first. “No.” He didn’t dare delay construction. The lease on the current office building in Tulsa expired in September of next year, leaving nine months to complete his new headquarters. In truth, there wasn’t enough money in the coffers to pay additional rent in Oklahoma.
“A few weeks won’t make a difference,” Renée argued. “Besides, it’s freezing outside. No one pours cement in the middle of winter.”
Unwilling to be swayed, he remained silent. Her eyes flashed with irritation, their blue color brightening. Then she blurted, “Give me one week.”
Obviously she had no intention of coming clean with him. Duke didn’t want any part of whatever scheme this woman was involved in. For all he knew, she might be breaking the law. Dinner had been a disappointing waste of time. Too bad they hadn’t met under different circumstances. Renée was the first woman he’d encountered in Detroit who intrigued him and he balked at the idea of never seeing her again. Blaming indigestion for the churning feeling in his gut, he slid from the booth, leaving his half-eaten burger on the plate. “I can’t agree to a day, much less a week.”
Renée’s mouth sagged. “You’re going to leave before we’ve finished discussing the subject?”
He wouldn’t label their conversation a discussion—more like a one-sided argument. He removed a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it on the table, then grabbed his coat. “As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing more to say.” Hoping she’d change her mind, he paused with one arm shoved inside his coat sleeve. Her mutinous glare vowed she wasn’t budging from her position. He fished a pen and a business card from his pocket, then scrawled the name of his hotel and room number on the back.
“What’s this?” She held the card between her fingertips as if it was contaminated with germs.
“For whenever you’re ready to confess the truth. Unless I learn what you’re really after, Renée, the wrecking ball swings on Monday.”
Chapter Two
A click-click-clicking sound greeted Renée when she let herself in the door of her mother’s two-bedroom cottage on Church Street in Corktown—Detroit’s oldest neighborhood. “Hey, Mom, it’s me!”
“In here, honey.”
Renée stowed the half-gallon of ice cream she’d brought over in the freezer, then dropped her purse on the gold-flecked Formica countertop in the kitchen. After ditching her coat, she joined her mother in the living room. As expected, seventy-nine-year-old Bernice sat in the recliner watching COPS on TV, her knobby, arthritic fingers moving a pair of knitting needles at lightning speed. Row after row of gray yarn piled high in her lap. The almost-empty wicker basket next to the chair served as a reminder that Renée needed to take her mother yarn shopping.
Bernice Sweeney knitted afghans and sweaters, which she donated to city shelters and the neighborhood Most Holy Trinity Church’s winter clothing drive.
Expelling an exasperated breath Renée dropped onto the couch. She hadn’t been able to purge Duke Dalton from her mind since their dinner date—correction, dinner meeting—Friday. The quick meal with the cowboy had been the closest to a date she’d come in months.
Peering over the rim of her bifocals Bernice asked, “Anything wrong?”
“No.” Yes. Why did the new owner of the Screw & Bolt Factory have to be handsome? Mannerly? As stubborn as she was? Renée offered a smile, not wishing to worry her mother—a woman who’d spent her entire adult life glancing at clocks and waiting for the phone to ring with bad news.
Gun shots exploded from the TV and for a moment Renée watched the drama unfold. She’d stopped second-guessing her mother’s addiction to COPS long ago, figuring the series provided a therapeutic purpose. Bernice’s husband had been a Detroit cop killed in the line of duty thirty-one years ago. Renée was sad that Bernice had lost her husband at a young age and in such a violent manner, but if not for the tragedy