His Sheltering Arms. KRISTI GOLD
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that instant she wanted to hate him, but as always, she couldn’t. Despite his attempts to run her life, he was still her father. She’d inherited her conviction from him, along with a good dose of stubbornness. At the moment, she needed his influence, and she would do anything, even grovel, to get it. For the shelter, she would swallow her pride.
Erin gently touched his hand. “Will you help me?”
He slid his hand from beneath hers and patted her arm. His well-rehearsed smile meant trouble. “I could investigate a few possibilities. On one condition.”
She’d been mistaken to believe that his help would come without conditions. Her sigh rose over the background hum of dinnertime conversation. “What condition?”
He took a long drink of wine and dabbed at his mouth with a mauve linen napkin. “How long will it take you to get this new shelter up and running?”
“We want to open in a month.”
“And how long to ensure its continuity?”
“If we can make a successful go of it for a year, that should convince the board it’s a worthwhile project.”
“I see.” He raised a hand to wave at some patron Erin didn’t recognize but continued to speak without missing a beat. “And if you don’t succeed, what then?”
She didn’t want to consider that possibility, although it was sheer stupidity not to. “We’ll continue business as usual with the existing shelter. We’ll just have to relocate our at-risk residents to other shelters and safe houses.”
He sat in silence for a moment longer—she assumed to consider his choice of weapons. She braced for his best shot.
“I’ll agree to help find your funding,” he said, “if you agree to consider coming to work for me if you fail.”
Gritting her teeth, she suppressed the urge to blurt out her refusal. She would be damned and desperate before she’d work for his firm under the guise of administrator, when in reality she’d be nothing more than a glorified hostess. Since her mother’s death twelve years before, he’d told her often enough he needed her in that capacity. And since her breakup with Warren, the perfect son-in-law prospect, her father never failed to remind her—not always so subtly—how great a disappointment she had been. Nothing had changed. Except Erin.
Now, more than ever, she was determined to succeed and prove him wrong. “If I do agree, would you promise to use all your resources to find the funds?”
“Are you asking would I set you up to fail?”
“It is a concern, don’t you think?”
He had never let Erin forget her former failures. Mistakes made by a rebellious sixteen-year-old girl who’d lost her mother. A teenager in desperate need of her father’s attention. Erin had gotten his attention and earned his distrust.
Robert’s face turned as stoic as the fake Roman bust in the corner. “I’ll give you my word, if that’s good enough.”
For a moment she felt ashamed. But the moment was short-lived. She needed his help, whatever his terms. She had no choice but to trust him.
Erin gathered all her inner strength and said the words she never thought she would say. “I agree to your proposal.”
Shock passed over his expression, but it didn’t take long for him to remold his face into a picture-perfect model of dignity. “Then you’ll come to work for me?”
“If the project doesn’t succeed.”
His shoulders relaxed and a victorious smile crept in. “What made you agree to my condition?”
Erin stood to make her escape. She wasn’t going to waste her time explaining how much the center meant to her. Or exactly how far she’d go to ensure its success. “Well, Father, it’s simple.” She took her purse from the back of her chair and slipped the braided strap over her shoulder. Then she produced a determined look designed to complement her parting words.
“I’m not going to fail.”
Erin left the boardroom the next afternoon in a state of euphoria. As the board members filtered out, she was met with congratulations and optimism. For the first time since she’d proposed the new shelter, she believed it was going to work.
After the last of the requisite goodbyes, she noticed a figure standing near the vacant reception desk. Cathy had gone home for the day, but the door hadn’t been locked in order to allow the board members to exit. The stranger wore a plain dark suit and his sandy hair close cropped. The shiny plastic-covered Langdon PD credentials pinned to his lapel contrasted his dull-gray eyes. She had met several men from the local department, all very nice and accommodating, but she didn’t recognize this man.
Erin approached the desk slowly, a sense of foreboding settling over her with each click-clack of her heels hitting the industrial-tiled floor. The shelter was situated a block away from the center. Normally, when there was trouble, she’d receive a call from the on-duty house manager. Maybe he wasn’t here on official business, but the determined look on his ruddy face indicated this wasn’t a social call.
Erin donned her professional smile. “May I help you?”
He was close to her height, but his deportment seemed almost predatory. “Are you Miss Brailey?”
“Yes, I’m Ms. Brailey.”
“Detective Andrews, Langdon PD,” he announced, without the offer of a handshake. “I need to speak to you immediately.”
Erin glanced at the desk clock. Zach Miller was due anytime now, but the tone in the detective’s voice told her that his business couldn’t wait. Or at least he thought it couldn’t. “I have an appointment, but I can give you a few minutes. Come on into my office.”
She led the way and, once inside, positioned herself behind the desk. She gestured to the chair Zach had occupied the day before. “Have a seat.”
“I’ll stand.”
Erin remained standing, as well, to maintain an equal advantage. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
His steely gaze darted around the room before finally coming to rest on Erin. “It’s about this new shelter you’re planning. The grapevine says it’s a house for cops’ wives.”
Erin had suspected word would get out sooner or later. She’d hoped for later. “If that situation arises. Is there a problem?”
“The problem is some of us don’t like it. Makes the department look bad, you know what I mean? Bad PR for police.”
Erin gripped the back of her chair. “Actually, Detective, the proposed shelter is not targeted solely at the partners of those in law enforcement. There is a need for a safe house for women abused by anyone that would know the existing shelter’s whereabouts, in Langdon and in the surrounding suburbs, including the larger cities. Our intent is not to belittle police departments. In fact, we rely heavily on their services at our existing shelter.”
His laugh was abrupt, humorless. “No kidding. Our guys risk their necks getting involved in domestic fights. Can’t even tell you how many times when I was still working the streets I had a jealous husband threaten me. We go in there and break up their lovers’ quarrel only to have the woman bail him out the next day. People need to learn to settle their problems on their own. It’s an ever-lovin’ pain in the butt.”
No matter how much time the center had devoted to education, a select few still didn’t understand the dynamics of abuse. This man was a prime example.
Erin’s patience left the building. “No kidding,” she said, throwing his words back at him. “For the women it’s a big pain in the butt. And sometimes, the arms, the nose and so forth.”
He balled his fists at his side, his round face flushing an unnatural shade of red. “Why don’t