The Baby Chase. Jennifer Greene
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fine. I just had the wind knocked out of me.”
“Yeah?” Gabe removed his hand, but he stayed hunched over her. “You’ve got a goose egg on your forehead, bloody scrapes all over the place, and you’re so damned wet you’re probably gonna catch pneumonia. The water’s turned on upstairs, so we can at least clean up the cuts, but there’s no telling if we’ll find anything for you to dry off and warm up in. How bad’s that forehead hurting? You dizzy? Seeing anything double?”
If the blasted man had any manners, he’d give her the chance to answer, but no. Obviously, Gabe wasn’t going to take her word on anything, because he reached over and cupped her jaw so he could examine that goose-egg bump again. Fingertips feathered her hair back so that he could get a better look. Once he was finished playing doctor, his eyes met hers.
Rebecca wasn’t sure what happened then. He couldn’t have held her gaze for more than a few seconds, but the scowl disappeared from his brow. There was something in his expression. Something she’d never have expected. Something more than exasperation, something beyond Gabe Devereax’s hopeless compulsion to take charge of anything in his path. She was so wet and bedraggled that road kill would have to look more appealing. Yet there was something in those deep, dark eyes that punched the accelerator in her pulse.
If Gabe had even noticed she was a woman, he hadn’t let on before. Suddenly she was having trouble breathing. Gabe was a vital, virile, potent masculine package—easy enough to enjoy sparring with, when there’d been absolutely no threat or thought of his noticing her in any personal way. She wasn’t…easy around Gabe. Not as a woman. On the other hand, likely the fall had addled her brain. There couldn’t have been a sillier time to feel a power surge of hormones, and common sense told her she was imagining that look in his eyes.
Still, her pulse engine was revving harder than a jalopy with no muffler when Gabe’s expression abruptly changed. The scowl that popped back between his brows was even darker and more critical than the one before. He rocked back on his heels and then sprang to his feet. “Maybe you don’t need a doctor. But let’s see how you do when you try to stand up.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m perfectly fine.” She ignored his hand and promptly scrambled to a standing position. A bad mistake. The lump on her forehead instantly throbbed; her breasts and wrist smarted like fire, and now she knew for sure her fanny was broken. If threatened at knifepoint, though, she wouldn’t have admitted feeling wobbly to Gabe. “How did you get in the house, anyway?”
“The way most people do. Legally.” His tone was dry. “Eventually the estate’s going on the market, but it’s been closed up until all the probate tangles are over with. I called Monica Malone’s lawyer. Gave him my credentials, told him I believed there had to be more evidence in the house connected to the lady’s murder, and asked if he’d mind if I looked around personally. He gave me the key.”
“That’s it? That’s all you had to do to get a key?” It seemed so unfair.
“Now, Rebecca, everyone can’t be gifted with a writer’s imagination and fondness for high drama. Some of us even tend to do things the simple, normal, boring way—you know, by using basic common sense and logic?”
“Amazing. I could swear we had this exact same conversation before.”
“Yeah, we did. It didn’t get through to you then, either.” He shifted past her to close the gaping basement window. “We’ll get you cleaned up, and then you’re going home.”
“Only in your dreams, cutie. I didn’t just risk life and limb to disappear on your orders.” She was pretty sure no one had ever dared to call Gabe Devereax “cutie” before. The epithet seemed to startle, then amuse, him. For all that he was a hopelessly overbearing macho type—and probably untrainable, from a woman’s standpoint—he’d always had a redeeming sense of humor.
“Speaking of orders—as I’m sure you know—I’m here on your family’s. As outlandish and outrageous as it sounds, they actually trust me to follow through with this investigation all by myself. Can you imagine? Just because it’s my job and I’ve got over ten years of experience and professional qualifications behind me?”
Rebecca reached down for her backpack of tools. God, he was sassy. She might have been tempted to laugh—if the subject wasn’t so serious. “I trust you, too, Sherlock,” she said honestly. “You’re wonderful at what you do. But it isn’t your brother who’s been charged with murder. It’s mine. And I love him. And until his name is cleared, I can’t just sit home and knit booties. Did you find anything in the house so far?”
“I haven’t had the chance to look around. I’d just turned the key when I heard all hell breaking loose down here. Now, of course, I don’t know why I didn’t immediately guess it was you.” His face was in shadow when he scrubbed a tired hand over it. “Rebecca, listen to me.”
“I’m listening.” But she admitted it warily.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been here. I assume you know I’ve been on the job from the day your brother was charged. I was here during the cops’ investigation, and after, when the yellow tape went down, I combed this place from stem to stern. This is my third run-through. So far, every shred of evidence points to Jake being guilty.”
“I know.” The knowledge was like a needle in her chest.
“Love and objectivity don’t mix. I know you want to help your brother. But I’m not putting you down when I say you’d be better off at home, knitting those booties. You could get hurt, messing around with this.”
Her gaze scanning the shadows, Rebecca vaguely noted a behemoth of a furnace, pipes, dampness seeping into the foundation walls—and the bottom edge of some wooden stairs, leading up. She heard Gabe, but what she heard in his voice only magnified her resolve. He would do his job. She’d never doubted that. But he didn’t believe in Jake’s innocence, any more than the police did.
She paused a second before aiming for the stairs, and pushed a fistful of tangled curls off her face. “You’re right about my not being objective. I have no interest whatsoever in being objective. If you’ll remember, Gabe, I’m the one who first tracked down your PI agency for the family, when my mother was in that plane crash.”
“I remember.”
She nodded. “No one believed that Kate was alive. No one believed she could be. And I wanted you hired, because you’re the best, and I always respected that you could do certain things that I can’t. But when you took on that job, you didn’t believe me about my mother being alive. You were no different than everyone else. Who was right that time, Devereax?”
“You were. But that was completely different—”
She shook her head, swiftly and violently, making the lump on her forehead ache like a bear—but she didn’t care. “It’s exactly the same thing. You trust your head, the same way I trust my heart. It’s because I love my brother that I know positively he never murdered anyone…and I don’t care how rotten Monica Malone was, or what she did to him.”
Gabe sighed. One of those exasperating masculine sighs that expressed centuries of archaic attitudes about women—and particularly her. “There are a few minor flaws in that logic, but we’ll forget those and move along. If you believe your brother’s innocent—and that all the physical evidence against him is just an inconvenient fantasy—that would mean that the real murderer is running around loose. A damn good reason to stay out of this. You could be in danger if you start poking your nose in fires you’re not qualified or prepared to put out.”
“For cripes’ sake, Gabe. That’s why I’m here. To find those fires.”
“God, it’s like talking to a marshmallow. Nothing gets through.” For the second time, he washed his face with an exhausted hand. “Somehow I have the feeling I’m not going to be able to talk you into going home.”
“Now, now.” She patted his shoulder consolingly—as she hiked past him toward the