Boardroom To Bedroom. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
surprised she hadn’t called him sir. It always killed him when they did that.
“Twenty-eight,” he repeated. “So she’s an adult. No runaway situation. Maybe she took a trip. Went somewhere for a while and just didn’t say anything to you.”
“She’d tell me first, probably even borrow money from me.” She licked her lips, then pulled her bottom one in between her teeth. “She took my car, too.”
He kept his expression neutral. “You could file a stolen vehicle report.”
“I don’t want to do that.” Her voice was stronger now, more in control. He could see the shell of her usual demeanor coming back into place. “I’ve reported her missing. That’s all I’m going to do. I don’t want her hauled in or anything.”
He shrugged. “Might be the easiest way to find her.”
“No.”
No further explanation, no other words to back it up. Just “no.”
“Does she live with you? I don’t think I’ve seen her around.”
“She has her own apartment at The Pines. On lower Montrose.” She sent him a quick glance, then looked back down at her hands. Lower Montrose was a long way from where they sat—not in miles but in financial terms. It wasn’t the best part of Houston. “She works…over by the Galleria.”
John waited a moment, then spoke again. “Do you think she’s in trouble?”
Her eyes jerked to his, the gaze narrowing. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re awfully worried.”
“Wouldn’t you be if your sister had disappeared?”
For one short moment his muscles in his chest tightened painfully, making it hard to breathe. He didn’t have a sister. Not now. When Beverly had been alive, though, he hadn’t really appreciated her. What he wouldn’t give to have that time back so he could redo it, make it right, so he could love her as Elizabeth obviously loved her sister. He pushed the thought away.
“If I had one, and she was twenty-eight, I’d figure she’s old enough to know what she’s doing.”
Her expression softened. “I should, too, I guess, but April’s not…a responsible twenty-eight.”
“Who is in their twenties? Thirty-something maybe…forty-something probably, but twenty?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
She bristled. “I’m twenty-eight and I’m certainly responsible.”
He sent her a measuring stare and silently agreed. There were shadows in those beautiful dark eyes and a tenseness in her face he hadn’t noticed before. Hell, she’d probably been responsible when she was eight, much less twenty-eight. Why? What demons did she have no one else knew about?
“I can see that,” he said finally. “It’s obvious or you wouldn’t be worried about…” He waited for her to supply the name.
“April,” she said reluctantly. “April Benoit. And I’m Elizabeth.”
“I’m John Mallory.”
With the exchange of names, her attitude shifted and became even more remote. A thick silence grew between them, then she broke it by speaking stiffly. “I’m sorry, Detective Mallory, to dump all this on you. The strain’s getting to me, I guess. Believe me, I usually don’t tell strangers intimate details of my life like this.”
“It’s John,” he said, “and don’t worry about it. I’d be happy to look into it for you.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, no. Please. That’s not why I was telling you.”
“I know that,” he said. “But I don’t mind. It’d be easy for me. I can check some things Missing Persons might not get around to so fast.” If ever.
“I appreciate it, but…” Rising from the bench, she ran a hand over her jacket, a reassuring move as if checking her defensive shell. “I really can’t ask you to do that.”
John stood, too. He was a tall man, an inch over six feet. When he looked in her eyes, they weren’t that far beneath his own. “You’re not asking. I’m offering.”
Her expression closed, but not before he saw a glimpse of how she really felt. She wanted his assistance, wanted it desperately, but for some reason, couldn’t allow herself to accept it.
“No.” Her voice was firm now. “I can’t let you do that.”
His curiosity got the better of him, and he pushed, more than he usually did. “I’m offering you some help. Why don’t you want it?”
She blinked at his bluntness, a sweep of dark lashes falling over her eyes before she looked at him again. “April will turn up sooner or later,” she said in a stilted voice. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer, but I don’t want to pull you into our personal problems. I can handle it by myself. I always have.”
Something in the way she spoke took his curiosity to another level, it raised his antennae. His cop antennae. “You have some personal problems?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He didn’t answer, but let the silence build. Most people felt uncomfortable with the quiet. He found out all kinds of interesting things when they started to talk to fill the void. Elizabeth Benoit simply stared at him.
“Then she’s not in any kind of trouble?”
She hesitated only a second, no more. “Not that I’m aware of.”
They stared at each other a moment longer, then she extended her hand. “Thank you for listening to me, Mr. Mallory. I won’t bother you again.”
He took her fingers in his, the touch impersonal, the message clear. “I hope things work out,” he said, his voice equally neutral.
They shook hands, then Elizabeth turned and walked away. John watched her until she disappeared around the corner.
SHE COULDN’T get him out of her mind.
The following morning, as Elizabeth sat at her desk and stared out the window, all she could think about was John Mallory’s offer. God, it’d been hard to turn him down! She’d wanted so badly to accept his help, but it’d been so long since she’d trusted anyone she’d said no without even thinking. He’d looked at her with such sympathy, though, such patience. Something in his gaze had made her want to trust him. Maybe because he’d listened to her story without even blinking. Of course, he was a cop and that did make a difference, she supposed. She shook her head in disbelief. How long had it been since she’d let anyone see her cry? Since she’d cried, period?
Had she lost her mind?
She focused on the traffic outside her window. It was as snarled and tangled as her nerves, but she knew one thing for certain. No one ever got a free ride. No one. People—men, especially—didn’t offer their help without expecting something in return. She’d been on her own, taking care of April and her mother, since she was twelve years old, and if she hadn’t learned that particular lesson, she’d learned nothing at all.
Why did he want to help her, anyway? Was he simply that nice? Was anyone?
Just the previous week she’d seen John and a little girl—his daughter, she presumed—crossing the street out front. He’d had the child’s hand in his, and they were obviously going to the park. Elizabeth had watched them from her living-room window, a lump forming in her throat as she’d remembered holding her own father’s hand. Until his death, she’d thought he’d hung the moon and the stars, as well. Everything he did was perfect. He’d supported them all, Elizabeth, April and their mother, in high style, and he’d seemed to be the most loving, wonderful man on earth. The best father a child could possibly want. A faultless husband, too. Until things