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Ignoring her brother’s we’ll-talk-later look, she shuffled on numb feet to her car. Once inside the wagon, she cranked the engine and blasted the heat, which made her nose drip like a faucet. While Rich detained Mr. Dalton—no doubt to impart a warning to behave himself around her—she pressed her hands against the air vents until her knuckles thawed enough that she was able to bend her fingers and grasp the steering wheel.
Although she appreciated her brother’s concern, she trusted her instincts. Reading between the lines and deciphering truth from lies was a necessary skill in her line of work. A gut feeling insisted that beneath the cowboy persona, the man meant her no ill will or harm.
He may be decent, but he’s not a pushover.
Renée feared she’d need a miracle to persuade him to hold off on his plans for the building.
’Tis the season for miracles.
Maybe Duke Dalton would turn out to be Renée’s Christmas miracle.
DUKE WATCHED Renée Sweeney drive off in her 2005 silver Ford Focus station wagon—not the kind of vehicle he’d have expected a woman with a feisty personality to drive. He pictured the spitfire in a red Mustang.
When Santori had phoned about a disturbance at the work site, Duke had expected to find a group of protesters chained to the building door, not a pint-size woman going toe-to-toe with a wrecking ball.
“She’s one of our city’s most popular social workers,” the cop named Pete boasted.
The blonde was a social worker? She’d looked more like an avenging angel in her long white coat and matching scarf. The woman intrigued Duke and he was eager to learn her reasons for delaying the demolition of his building.
“Renée’s special.” The gleam in the other officer’s eyes told Duke to mind his manners. The cop had to be in his fifties and the social worker hadn’t appeared to be a day over thirty. Were they a couple? Duke hadn’t made friends since moving to Detroit a month ago. He would have enjoyed becoming better acquainted with Ms. Sweeney, but he refused to trespass on another man’s territory.
“You mess with Renée, you mess with us. Got it?” the old guy threatened.
“Understood.” Duke hustled across the lot, eager to escape the cold. The below-freezing temps that had blanketed the state the past week had him second-guessing his decision to move his business from Tulsa to Detroit. He’d take an occasional paralyzing ice storm any day over the below-zero temperatures of this Midwest meat locker.
Once inside his truck, he revved the engine and flipped on the heat. Even though the policeman had made it clear that Renée Sweeney was off-limits, anticipation stirred Duke’s gut. Having eaten alone since arriving in the Motor City, he was ready to engage in conversation with someone other than himself. And he expected the social worker had plenty to say. He’d caught the way she’d summed him up with a cold, hard stare and he anticipated changing her uncomplimentary opinion of him.
When Duke pulled into the parking lot of the Railway Diner he recalled his Realtor suggesting the burger joint months ago when he’d been in town signing the closing papers on the warehouse property. He parked three spaces away from the silver wagon. Leaving his hat in the truck, he hurried toward the entrance where Renée stood inside the door.
“How long for a table?” He leaned closer to hear her response in the crowded waiting area and detected a hint of perfume in her hair—a nice change from the smell of fishy river water and wet decay that saturated the air along the Riverfront.
“Five minutes or less.”
He slipped out of his coat, then offered to help Renée with hers, but she scooted aside and shed her own jacket. If she was averse to his touch, why had she shaken his hand in the parking lot? Better yet—why had her fingers clung to his so long?
The hostess rescued them from further awkward conversation, and they ascended the steps to the dining area. Halfway through the car, grilled onions and frying beef assaulted his nose. He’d have to send his clothes off to be laundered tonight if he hoped to prevent his hotel room from smelling like fried hamburger.
Duke waited for Renée to scoot into the booth, then he sat across from her. A waitress named Peggy arrived with menus and water glasses. “Half-price burgers on Fridays,” she announced. “Coffee?”
“Please.” Renée’s smile knocked the wind from Duke. The woman had dimples in both cheeks and beautiful, straight white teeth.
Peggy cleared her throat and his neck warmed at having been caught gawking. “Make that two coffees.” When the waitress disappeared, he said, “Smile.”
Renée raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I want to see your dimples again.”
She rolled her eyes, then complied—not a sweet smile, but a bite-you-in-the-ass smirk. Darned if those tiny pits in the middle of her cheeks weren’t the sexiest, most impudent dents he’d seen in a long time. His gaze traveled from her cheeks to her mouth, then to her electric-blue eyes. Renée Sweeney was a very pretty woman.
And he’d been warned away from her.
The mental prompt didn’t stop him from ogling as she perused the menu. Her bulky coat had disguised her figure, but her pink cable-knit sweater flaunted her femininity, clinging to the gentle swells of her breasts. Dainty fingers sported neatly trimmed nails painted in a frosted-pink color to match the sweater. Every inch of the woman shouted cuddle me. Too bad the cop had already claimed snuggling rights.
“You’re staring.”
“Sorry. I’m in awe—” of your beauty “—that such a small woman took on an entire construction crew.”
“I won, didn’t I?” she boasted.
Laughter boomed from his chest. “Yes, you did.” Beauty and pride—a winning combination in his book. Too bad she didn’t act the least bit interested in him.
Waitress Peggy delivered their coffee, then flipped open her order pad.
“I’ll have seven plain cheeseburgers and seven servings of fries,” Renée said.
The pencil tip broke against the pad. “I’m sorry. How many burgers did you say?”
“Seven burgers. Seven fries. And six of those orders will be to-go.”
“Okaaay. Sir?”
“One burger. One fry.” He handed Peggy his menu. As soon as she left, he teased, “All that fresh air gave you an appetite.”
“Hardly.” Then she not-so-subtly changed the subject. “You aren’t a Michigan native.”
“I was born in St. Louis. My mother and I moved to Oklahoma when I was thirteen years old.” Under protest from Duke. He’d hoped his workaholic mother would make more time for him after his father had died, but he’d been sadly mistaken. Within a year of his father’s death, his mother had accepted Dominick Cartwright’s marriage proposal and suddenly Duke had had to share his mother with two stepsiblings.
“Thought I detected a twang.” Renée smiled.
He grimaced. He prided himself on having dropped his Okie accent when he’d attended college at UCLA.
“What are your plans for the warehouse property?” she asked, ending polite conversation.
“I’m relocating my company, Dalton Industries, from Tulsa to Detroit. I intend to flatten the warehouse and erect a new building, which will house company offices and condos.”
“What does Dalton Industries do?”
Was she genuinely interested in his company or working up to some…point she intended to make? If he wasn’t careful he’d forget Ms. Sweeney’s agenda interfered with his. Still, it had been a long time since he’d had the opportunity to share his dream with anyone other than business partners, Realtors, construction crews and architects. “Dalton Industries is a player in the information and technology arena.” When she stared at him expectantly, he continued, “My company will lead the way in the city’s efforts to revitalize the warehouse district along the Detroit River.”
She snorted.
Startled, he demanded, “What?”
“Nothing.” She shifted her attention from his face to the napkin holder at the end of the table.
“Tell me.”
Her dainty chin lifted and her facial muscles pulled into a pinched glare. “The wealthy businessmen I’ve had run-ins with in the past convinced me that their goals rank higher in importance than doing the right thing.”
What gave her the impression Duke was wealthy? “The fact that I own a business doesn’t mean I’m drowning in money.” To tell the truth one of the reasons he’d moved his company had been to escape the influence of his stepfather. Dominick’s offer to invest in Dalton Industries had been heartfelt, but Duke needed to prove he could stand on his own two feet without the aid of Cartwright oil money. Like hundreds of other businessmen, he’d taken out bank loans to finance his venture.
A pink-tipped finger flicked at his head. “Your haircut alone probably cost a hundred bucks.”
He ran a hand through his hair, leaving several previously immaculate layers mussed. “Thirty-five dollars and that included a five-dollar tip.”
She frowned. “Snakeskin boots?”
“A gift from my mother.” The last birthday present he’d received from her before she died in a car accident two years ago.
“Your name.”
“What’s wrong with Duke?”
“Sounds stuck-up. Like royalty.”
“I was named after my maternal grandfather, Duke Weatherford. He was a science professor at Cambridge University.” Duke didn’t appreciate being deemed unacceptable because of his name, but damned if he’d defend himself.
Then she slapped him with another stinging question. “Why bring your company to Detroit when it’s obvious you don’t fit in here?”
Maybe he stood out now, but with time he intended to become a true Detroiter. And Michigan was the farthest thing from ranches, oil and his stepfather’s influence—he doubted anyone this far north had heard of the multimillionaire. “The city made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You mean steep tax breaks.”
“Yes, tax breaks. But my company will contribute to the general revitalization fund to improve the Riverfront.” What he didn’t confess was that Detroit was the only city whose financial incentives enabled him to transfer his company without having to accept a handout from his stepfather. His turn to change the subject. “Your boyfriend informed me that you were a social worker.”
“Boyfriend?”
“The older cop seemed pretty possessive of you.”
“Rich? He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my brother.”
Siblings? They looked nothing alike. Renée had beautiful blond hair and the cop was a carrottop. Relief pulsed through Duke’s body, and he grinned like a fool. He had no qualms about ignoring an older brother’s warning. If Duke had his way, tonight’s dinner would be the beginning of his getting-to-know-Ms.-Renée-Sweeney-better campaign. But just in case…“Any other boyfriends or big brothers in the picture?”
“No, I’m unattached at the moment.”
Unattached was good. Very good.
“The Screw & Bolt factory has been a part of the Riverfront for a long, long time,” she argued, showing no interest in pursuing a personal conversation with him.
“I’m aware of the building’s significance. I read up on the area before I put in an offer.”
Her soft huff claimed she didn’t believe him. Time for a history lesson. “The factory was established in 1877 on Lafayette before moving to Atwater and Riopelle in 1892.” He paused, expecting an apology—nothing. “The company erected a new building in 1912. They manufactured cap screws, nuts and automobile parts, then went out of business before World War II. From then on the building was used as a warehouse for various companies until it became permanently vacant.”
“Okay, you did your homework,” she conceded. Peggy arrived with the burgers and a large to-go bag. Renée thanked her, then proceeded to devour her meal.
Why the rush? He’d hoped to discover if they shared a common interest besides an old warehouse. “How long have you been a social worker?”
“Six years.”
“Born and raised in Detroit?”
A single nod. “What does a social worker want with an abandoned building?” he prodded.
With great care, she set her burger on the plate and finished chewing. “What if I asked you to hold off destroying the warehouse for a month?”
Nice try. “You didn’t answer my question.”
A stare-down ensued. He gave in first. “No.” He didn’t dare delay construction. The lease on the current office building in Tulsa expired in September of next year, leaving nine months to complete his new headquarters. In truth, there wasn’t enough money in the coffers to pay additional rent in Oklahoma.
“A few weeks won’t make a difference,” Renée argued. “Besides, it’s freezing outside. No one pours cement in the middle of winter.”
Unwilling to be swayed, he remained silent. Her eyes flashed with irritation, their blue color brightening. Then she blurted, “Give me one week.”
Obviously she had no intention of coming clean with him. Duke didn’t want any part of whatever scheme this woman was involved in. For all he knew, she might be breaking the law. Dinner had been a disappointing waste of time. Too bad they hadn’t met under different circumstances. Renée was the first woman he’d encountered in Detroit who intrigued him and he balked at the idea of never seeing her again. Blaming indigestion for the churning feeling in his gut, he slid from the booth, leaving his half-eaten burger on the plate. “I can’t agree to a day, much less a week.”
Renée’s mouth sagged. “You’re going to leave before we’ve finished discussing the subject?”
He wouldn’t label their conversation a discussion—more like a one-sided argument. He removed a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it on the table, then grabbed his coat. “As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing more to say.” Hoping she’d change her mind, he paused with one arm shoved inside his coat sleeve. Her mutinous glare vowed she wasn’t budging from her position. He fished a pen and a business card from his pocket, then scrawled the name of his hotel and room number on the back.
“What’s this?” She held the card between her fingertips as if it was contaminated with germs.
“For whenever you’re ready to confess the truth. Unless I learn what you’re really after, Renée, the wrecking ball swings on Monday.”
Chapter Two
A click-click-clicking sound greeted Renée when she let herself in the door of her mother’s two-bedroom cottage on Church Street in Corktown—Detroit’s oldest neighborhood. “Hey, Mom, it’s me!”
“In here, honey.”
Renée stowed the half-gallon of ice cream she’d brought over in the freezer, then dropped her purse on the gold-flecked Formica countertop in the kitchen. After ditching her coat, she joined her mother in the living room. As expected, seventy-nine-year-old Bernice sat in the recliner watching COPS on TV, her knobby, arthritic fingers moving a pair of knitting needles at lightning speed. Row after row of gray yarn piled high in her lap. The almost-empty wicker basket next to the chair served as a reminder that Renée needed to take her mother yarn shopping.
Bernice Sweeney knitted afghans and sweaters, which she donated to city shelters and the neighborhood Most Holy Trinity Church’s winter clothing drive.
Expelling an exasperated breath Renée dropped onto the couch. She hadn’t been able to purge Duke Dalton from her mind since their dinner date—correction, dinner meeting—Friday. The quick meal with the cowboy had been the closest to a date she’d come in months.
Peering over the rim of her bifocals Bernice asked, “Anything wrong?”
“No.” Yes. Why did the new owner of the Screw & Bolt Factory have to be handsome? Mannerly? As stubborn as she was? Renée offered a smile, not wishing to worry her mother—a woman who’d spent her entire adult life glancing at clocks and waiting for the phone to ring with bad news.
Gun shots exploded from the TV and for a moment Renée watched the drama unfold. She’d stopped second-guessing her mother’s addiction to COPS long ago, figuring the series provided a therapeutic purpose. Bernice’s husband had been a Detroit cop killed in the line of duty thirty-one years ago. Renée was sad that Bernice had lost her husband at a young age and in such a violent manner, but if not for the tragedy Bernice would never have adopted Renée. And she couldn’t imagine her life without Bernice and Rich in it.
As soon as the suspect on TV had been apprehended, Renée’s mother spoke. “Something’s bothering you.”
Not something…someone. “I’m fine,” Renée fudged. While running her usual Saturday errands she’d agonized over Duke Dalton’s warning. She feared the man hadn’t been bluffing when he’d threatened to destroy the warehouse Monday.
The clickity-clack stopped and a thick gray eyebrow arched. “You were just over here last night.”
Renée’s home sat next door to her mother’s. She’d purchased the two-bedroom, one bathroom cottage three years ago. With the help of her brother she’d scraped together enough cash for the down payment. “Can’t a daughter spend time with her mother?” It ticked off Renée that her encounter with Duke had unnerved her to the point where she acted like a wimpy kid in need of mommy’s hug.
