Close Proximity. Donna Clayton
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His mouth and jaw line went taut, and Libby got the distinct feeling that he’d somehow gotten his pride knocked out of joint, that maybe her one, tiny response had somehow belittled him. Although his boots remained planted in the grass, he turned his head, obviously considering making an exit then and there. She could tell.
“Wait,” she called. She took several steps toward him, leaving the concrete, her high heels a hindrance in the thick grass. The bag of groceries grew heavy suddenly and she shifted them into her other arm. “You know my dad?”
His nod was almost imperceptible.
“You know something about the case? You can help my father?”
“I’d like to help him.”
The fact that he hadn’t answered the first question wasn’t lost on her, but she offered him a smile anyway. She felt as though she’d sailed into a sea of enemies since arriving in Prosperino. Anyone who was willing to help her dad would be considered a friend until she had some reason to think otherwise.
“Would you come in for a cup of coffee, Mr.…?”
“James. Rafe James.”
“Well, Mr. James—”
“Rafe.”
“Well, Rafe. You’ll have to call me Libby, then, won’t you?”
The smile he offered her was small, but it provoked an amazing response in her. Thoughts turned chaotic as images materialized in her brain. Sensual visions of that wide mouth of his raining kisses over her body.
It had been so easy to conceive of this man as wild, animalistic. But now it was just as easy to picture him in the role of tender lover. In any other puzzle, those two opposing pieces wouldn’t go together. But with Rafe James, they somehow fit.
Perfectly.
What a ridiculous notion. This man was a complete stranger to her.
Shoving the inappropriate thoughts from her mind, she said, “So, should we go in?”
He nodded slightly and then moved toward her.
The muscles of his thighs played under the fabric of his jeans, and Libby had to force her eyes to avert to the ground. Before she realized it, he was close. Very close. He smelled like citrusy cedar and leather, and she had to force herself not to close her eyes and get lost in the scent.
“Let me take this for you.”
When he reached to take the bag from her, his hand brushed her upper arm. The desire to protect herself by stepping away from him was great, as was the urge to move toward him, ever closer.
She did neither, and she thanked her lucky stars that she had sense enough to keep a level head on her shoulders. She had no idea what had gotten into her. The stress of worrying about her father’s tremendous troubles, she guessed. That and the despair of having gotten caught in the memories of her childhood.
After unlocking the door, she made her way through the house to the kitchen, very aware that Rafe James was close on her heels. She set her briefcase on the ceramic tile countertop of the island.
“Set the bag here,” she told him. Then she silently indicated that Rafe should take a seat on one of the high stools.
“So, how do you know my dad?” Libby busied herself putting away the quart of milk, the loaf of bread and the other groceries she’d purchased.
He didn’t answer right away, and his apparent hesitancy made her pause. With a bag of apples still in her hand, she lifted her gaze to his.
Finally, he said, “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. David Corbett and I are not and have never been friends.”
Libby’s brows drew together, but she remained silent, waiting.
“Sixteen years ago,” he continued, “your father hired me at Springer. I’m—”
The rest of his thought was cut short and he pressed his lips together. He took a moment to inhale, and Libby’s gaze unwittingly darted due south as his chest expanded. She blinked, and immediately directed her eyes to his.
“Let’s just say I’m grateful to him.”
He went quiet. Once she realized he didn’t mean to say more, she pulled open the refrigerator, placed the apples in the bin, then shut the door, pausing there with her hand on the stainless steel handle.
“You went to the trouble to search me out,” she said, “and offer my dad your help during this crisis, all because he gave you a job sixteen years ago?” She raised her brows. “Must have been one hell of a job.”
Moving across the room, she reached for the coffeepot and began filling it with water.
The sigh Rafe emitted sounded resigned. “He made me a security guard. Gave me a fair wage. A job with health benefits. Saw to it that I received thorough training. And I was able to use that training for more lucrative employment after I left Springer.”
As he talked, she placed a paper filter into the basket of the coffeemaker and spooned in the ground beans. Something about Rafe James’s motives just didn’t ring true. His manner was…reserved. Cautious. And had been since he’d first appeared out on the front yard. She poured the water into the reservoir and snapped on the machine.
Libby had been hurt by one secretive man in her past. She wasn’t about to fall prey to another—in any aspect of her life.
Whirling around to face him, she blurted, “So let me get this straight. You went to the trouble to search me out, and you want to help my dad, all because he gave you a job and properly trained you for that job.” She shrugged. “Seems to me my dad was only fulfilling his responsibilities.”
Her short, sharp laugh didn’t hold much humor, but conveyed instead a huge measure of skepticism. “My father has worked for Springer for nearly thirty years. I’m sure he’s hired lots of people. My front door is going to fall off its hinges if every single one of those grateful people come racing to help.”
A thunderous storm gathered in his mahogany eyes. She hadn’t meant to make him angry, but she felt it necessary to be blunt about his flimsy reasoning. Almost of their own volition, her arms crossed tightly over her body.
He stood, and the sheer size of him coupled with his surly expression was a daunting sight, to say the least. A person with any sense at all would feel afraid. However, she didn’t, and that wasn’t because her brain cells had suddenly gone dim, but because, although muscles bunched in his shoulders and ire sparked in his dark eyes, she knew in her heart she was perfectly safe with this man.
“Look, Ms. Corbett, you’re right when you said your father has hired lots of people over the years. And many of them are just like me.”
The emphasis he placed on those last three words made her frown.
Just like him? He was Native American. Most probably from the Mokee-kittuun tribe living on the Crooked Arrow Reservation just outside of town. But what did his ethnic group have to do with this? Although the question disturbed her, the confusion she felt kept her silent.
“For years,” he continued, “the people from the rez weren’t given a second glance when they applied for work at Springer. Your father did everything he could to change that. And as he moved up the corporate ladder, he continued in his efforts. Continued to treat us with fairness and respect.”
As she listened, her shoulders tensed until tiny needles of pain began shooting up her neck. In all the years that her father had worked at Springer, he’d never once intimated that there was any kind of racial discrimination at the company. Yet here this man was, telling her that her dad had spent his entire career battling what sounded like an anti-Native American sentiment at Springer, Inc.
“He’s even helping our children,” he said, intense emotion tightening his facial features. “The first thing he did when he became