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“You’re not giving up?” his stepmother asked plaintively.
“I’ve run out of leads, and I need to get back to work.”
“You believe what that woman told you?”
He thought a moment. “Yes. I’m sure she was telling the truth.”
“Men can be so stupid when it comes to a pretty face.”
He started to say Rosalie’s face wasn’t pretty, but it was. Very pretty. Maybe beautiful. When she forgot to be wary and angry.
“If you couldn’t get anywhere with the sympathy angle, have you tried the famous Danby charm to get her to tell you where my grandchild is?”
“Lillian, there is no grandchild.”
“Without a death certificate, you can’t be sure of that.”
“But I can’t get a death certificate if I don’t know the child’s name, or when or where it may have died.” Or was born.
He sat up straighter in his chair.
Damn. Why hadn’t he realized that there could be more than one reason Márya wasn’t pregnant when she came to L.A.? The blasted lady lawyer might have tricked him after all.
“Morgan, talk to her one more time.”
He would definitely talk to Ms. Walker one more time. The sexy, scheming little …
Sexy? How could he still think of the lying lady lawyer as sexy?
“All right, Lillian.”
Luckily, the art dealer’s enthusiasm for the paintings by Ms. Walker’s mother gave Morgan a perfect pretense for seeing her again. He said goodbye to his stepmother and punched in Ms. Walker’s number. A few minutes later he disconnected with a smile. An appointment for Monday afternoon was perfect.
The first thing Rosalie noticed when Morgan walked into her office on Monday afternoon was that he didn’t have the two paintings with him.
Well, that was the second thing she noticed, after taking in how good he looked in designer black jeans, white shirt, and brown suede jacket. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling at him. She gestured him to a chair and sat down, expecting a report on his visit to the art gallery.
Instead she got a sucker punch to the gut.
“How many weeks’ pregnant did you say Márya Mendelev was when you first met her?”
“Three months’.”
He watched her face carefully as she answered, but it was the truth. That was what she’d said. She knew she was a bad liar, so she’d made a mental note of her exact words.
Still, her heart beat a jerky rhythm from the surprise attack she’d barely managed to deflect. What had happened to make him suspicious again?
“And she filed for protection in L.A. three months later?”
Rosalie remained frozen, afraid any move, the slightest change in facial expression, might give her away. “Approximately. I’d have to check the exact date.”
“Which means that the child could have been born in the meantime. A six-month pregnancy isn’t all that unusual.”
“It’s rare enough.” She thanked her legal training for the ability to focus on the facts, not the rush of adrenalin speeding through her system. “Rarer than a miscarriage due to a violent attack on the mother. You’re clutching at straws, Mr. Danby.”
“But if Charlie beat this woman …” Rosalie flinched. “If his attack on Ms. Mendelev resulted in the death of an unborn child, why wasn’t a police report filed?”
On firmer ground, she took a deep breath. “The assault occurred in Yosemite, on federal land. The death would be reported in the city of Merced. Ms. Mendelev and her attacker lived in rural Merced County. Even if she hadn’t been grief-stricken and justifiably frightened to death of Charlie, to whom would she report it? Feds? Police? Sheriff?”
“Wouldn’t the hospital report it to the police in Merced?” he asked with a nasty smile.
“They might have if she hadn’t lied and told them she fell.”
“The hospital believed her injuries were due to a fall?”
“Of course not. But as long as she stuck to that story, they had no option.”
He leaned forward, the nasty smile now a nasty glare. “What about you, Ms. Walker? You obviously didn’t believe her story. Why didn’t you report it to the proper authorities?”
“Márya was too afraid of Charlie.”
“Wouldn’t she have been safer with Charlie in jail?”
“Until he got out. How much do you know about family violence, Mr. Danby?”
“Too much.” His curt answer seemed to surprise even him. “But that’s beside the point. As an officer of the court, you had a duty to see the crime was reported.”
“Not if the victim and only witness refused to cooperate.”
“It was your duty to persuade her to cooperate. You practice family law. You must have dealt with domestic assault before. Why was this case any different from those?”
Rosalie had tried not to say too much about Márya’s legal situation, partly to protect her privacy, partly to deprive Morgan Danby of a potential weapon. But now she had no choice.
“I’m surprised your P.I. didn’t discover that Ms. Mendelev’s immigration status was, shall we say, uncertain. She had a student visa, but your brother persuaded her to leave school. Once she was dependent on him, he told her they’d send her to prison for being an illegal. She was terrified of police and prisons. That’s why she stayed with him for as long as she did, and why she didn’t file for a protection order until he found her again here in L.A.”
Morgan’s stomach twisted with disgust. Damn, but Charlie was scum.
He’d been so sure Ms. Walker had lied to him, still wasn’t one thousand percent certain she hadn’t, but she was a better lawyer than he’d given her credit for. She’d have convinced any jury in the world beyond a reasonable doubt that Márya Mendelev had miscarried after one of Charlie’s beatings. If he wasn’t convinced, it was because his doubts weren’t reasonable. Or because he dreaded telling Lillian.
Ms. Walker’s rigid posture showed how much his accusatory tone must have angered her. He wanted to apologize, but wasn’t sure how.
Hell, he wanted to do a lot more than apologize. He wanted to bring back the smile she’d greeted him with. He wanted to watch those bare toes wiggle in her sandals.
He was in deep trouble here.
“Are we finished, Mr. Danby?” Rosalie’s anger added an extra degree of chill to the words.
“There’s still the matter of your mother’s paintings.”
She’d forgotten about them. “You don’t have them with you.”
He smiled, but she ignored the illusion of interest in his eyes. He wouldn’t fool her again.
“They’ve been sold,” he told her.
“What?”
“A woman came into the gallery while I was showing them to my friend, fell in love with them, and insisted on buying them both.”
Rosalie ignored the little burst of pleasure at the idea of a total stranger loving her mother’s work and leaned back to give him an icy stare.
“Neither you nor your friend were authorized to sell them.”
“We explained that to the lady. My friend agreed to hold them for her until you can sign the appropriate contracts.”
“What if I don’t want to sell them?”
Chapter Three (#u8760f581-e77f-597b-b8f2-e2cba0bdcc94)
“Then you’re a more spiteful person than I thought,” Danby replied. “Why deny this woman the pictures she wants, and yourself the pleasure of sharing your mother’s work, because you don’t like me?”
He had a point.
“How much did they sell for?” When he told her, she gave a low whistle. Selling even a few paintings at those prices would make a nice addition to Joey’s college fund. “I assume you have the contracts with you?”
A few minutes later Rosalie had made Morgan’s friend the representative for the sale of her mother’s paintings and committed herself to delivering two dozen more to the gallery by the end of the week. Once the paperwork was done, she stood and held out her hand.
“Thank you for helping me find new homes for my mother’s work. I hope you have a safe trip back to …”
“Boston.” He stood too, and took her hand in his.
“Goodbye, Mr. Danby.”
He smiled and released her hand slowly. A sensuous tingle crept up her arm.
“It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Walker.”
She started to say it hadn’t, to echo what he’d said when they first met, but she couldn’t. How sad was that?
She watched him walk out the door, and out of her life, with a mixture of profound relief and regret. She looked down. The picture of Joey on her computer monitor beamed up at her, reminding her of what really mattered. There were other men, although few with the magnetism of Morgan Danby, but there was only one Joey.
Rosalie took the promised paintings to the gallery the next Saturday, but daily life soon pushed them out of her mind. When an engraved envelope arrived in her office mail three weeks later, she didn’t know what it was at first. The return address reminded her. It was an invitation to the opening of her mother’s show.
Her heart danced at idea of seeing others celebrate, and love, her mother’s work. Then she groaned at the thought of having to get dressed up after a long day at work, drive all the way to Beverly Hills, and try to find a place to park.
After a moment, she realized she couldn’t go in any case. The opening was next Thursday. Jill, the teenage neighbor who sometimes took care of Joey, wasn’t allowed to babysit on school nights. Her parents might have made an exception, but the opening didn’t start until eight and, with the drive, it would be past eleven before Rosalie got home.
She put the envelope on her desk and turned back to the rest of her mail.
“What’s this?” Vanessa picked up the envelope after she set the sandwich she’d bought for Rosalie on the desk a couple of hours later.
“An invitation to the opening of that show of my mother’s paintings I told you about.”
“Beverly Hills!” Vanessa sat down and took the invitation out to read it. “Sounds fancy. What are you going to wear?”
“Can’t go.” Rosalie shrugged at her friend’s shocked expression. “No one to watch Joey.”
“Rosie, you’ve got to go. You can’t miss your mom’s big moment. There must be someone who can watch Joey.”
Rosalie shook her head.
“What about that older lady across the street?”
“Mrs. Peterson’s in Omaha visiting the grandchildren.” Rosalie took a drink of coffee.
Vanessa reread the invitation. “This thing starts at eight. Won’t Joey be asleep by then?”
Rosalie almost choked on her coffee. “Asleep or awake, I am not leaving him alone!”
“Hey, calm down. I may not be Ms. Maternal here, but I’d never suggest anything like that. Give me some credit. What I was thinking was maybe I could watch him for you.”
“You?”
“He’d be asleep.”
Rosalie laughed. “Until he wakes up. Then what?”
“If he’s hungry I feed him. If he’s wet I change him.”
“What if he’s worse than wet?”
Vanessa grimaced. “I change him anyway?”
“Not exactly a professional babysitter attitude. Besides, you have to argue in front of the Federal Court of Appeals next Friday, don’t you? You’ll need your sleep the night before, and I may not get back until late.”
“True.” Vanessa slumped back in the chair, then sat up again with a grin. “Did you know Aaron was the oldest of six?”
“What does the size of your husband’s family have to do with anything, other than the decision the two of you have made to remain childless?”
“I’ll bet he changed a lot of diapers once upon a time. Maybe it’s like riding a bicycle, something you never forget how to do. He and I could both come over. If you’re out too late, I can nap on the couch while Aaron takes over with the kid.”
“I suspect Aaron will have to change any diapers that need it, even if you’re awake.”
“Whatever. The point is, now you can go to the opening.”
The happiness that flooded Rosalie’s heart told her how badly she wanted to be there for her mother’s big night.
“If it’s okay with Aaron, I guess it’s okay with me.”
