Close Proximity (3 page)

“So…you live at Crooked Arrow?” she asked. It wasn't an outrageous guess. He'd insinuated as much.

Rafe nodded, his long, ebony hair falling over his shoulder.

The urge to reach out and comb her fingers though the shiny mass of it made her tighten her grip on the cup she held in her hand.

“I have a horse ranch. Breed Appaloosas.”

One corner of his wide, full mouth curled upward, and Libby found her gaze drawn to the spot as if it were a powerful magnet.

“Every nickel I could spare while working at Springer was put aside for the ranch. It was always my dream. And now I'm living it.”

For an instant, the muscles of his face eased…and Libby's breath caught in her throat. He was truly a gorgeous man.

At that moment, he smiled, open and easy, for the very first time, and it seemed to her that all the oxygen had been sucked right out of the air.

“Now that you've discovered that I deal in horseflesh,” he said, “I guess you're wondering how I could possibly help your father.”

In all honesty, Libby quietly responded, “I hadn't, actually.” Then she added, “But I'm sure you'll tell me.”

“Because of my extensive training all those years ago at Springer,” he told her, “I was able to qualify for a P.I. license. I've worked for a couple different insurance firms
in the area. You'll be needing someone with my skills, I'm sure.”

Coming from anyone else, that statement might have sounded cocky, overly prideful. But Libby didn't feel that way about it at all. She admired the fact that he was confident.

She didn't answer, but simply lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of coffee. For some reason, she wasn't ready to come to any kind of arrangement with this man.

Softly, he said, “Your father is lucky that you're a lawyer. No one would fight harder for him than family.”

She actually flinched when she heard him mirror the very thoughts that had passed through her mind earlier when she'd been sitting out in front of the house in the car. Luckily, coffee didn't slosh over the rim of the cup.

“You practice in San Francisco?”

“Yes.” Her tone made it clear that she was surprised by his knowledge of her.

“You've been mentioned in the papers,” he explained. “And there's been plenty of talk about your arrival. Prosperino is a small town. Rich soil for the old grapevine.”

She only nodded. The sound of his voice had a lulling, mesmerizing quality.

“You look like him.”

Libby's gaze darted to where the pad of his thumb absently traced the gentle curve of the lip of his cup, and she was bombarded with a vision of that thumb roving over the outline of her mouth. Her throat went dry and her eyes darted from his.

“Your father, I mean,” he continued. “You inherited his hair coloring. Although, if I remember correctly, his is a much darker red. But your eyes…they're quite different from what I remember your father having. His are dark, aren't they?”

She nodded. “I've got my mother's eyes.”

“I see.”

It seemed to her that he wanted to stop there. She could see his silent, internal battle. A battle he ultimately lost.

“Your eyes are quite—” His rich tone lowered an octave as he added, “Startling.”

Libby swallowed, her spine straightening.

Startling.
It was a word Stephen had often used when describing her gaze. And it was a description she'd come to loathe.

This conversation was getting much too personal for her tastes. The porcelain cup clinked firmly against the tiled countertop when she set it down. “So…what makes you think my father is innocent?”

He was very good at masking his reactions, but Libby did see his dark brows raise a fraction in surprise before he reined in his response.

“I've already explained. Your father is a good man. His heart—his conscience—would not allow him to poison the land. Or the people living on it.”

“Good people do bad things every single day,” she pointed out.

“I may not know him personally, but David Corbett has a strong sense of right and wrong. He's shown that over and over again to my people.”

His gaze shifted, and she got the distinct impression that he wasn't telling all he knew.

“Let's just say,” he went on, “that my gut tells me he is innocent.”

Caution seemed to pulse from him. And he said no more.

Memories of Stephen flooded her mind, bringing with them a wave of pain and emotional agony that became nearly more than she could bear. Before the thoughts and
feelings could get a foothold, though, she shoved them away from her, far to the back of her brain.

She didn't need another secretive man in her life. Personal or professional.

Libby had been hurt in the past by a man who refused to reveal all, and she was determined not to be duped by another. But then the scene on the courthouse steps came rushing vividly into her mind. So many people seemed against her father. So many people wanted his head on a platter. And Springer and the authorities seemed happy to supply the length of her dad's neck for the offering. The case seemed mountainous. And she felt terribly alone.

Maybe, she thought, an uneasy alliance with Rafe James was better than no alliance at all.

She tipped up her chin, her decision made. “Okay,” she said, reaching her hand out to him, “so we're in this together.”

Without hesitation, he slid his hand in hers.

“I
can't believe the judge denied bail.”

Rafe remained quiet as he watched Libby pace the length of the room. She was livid. And seeing her caught up in all that fury, he was struck by the sheer glory of her.

“A flight risk? How could they believe my father would run? Everyone in this town knows him. Well, most everyone, anyway.”

Turning around, she strode back toward him, her gaze dipping and roving wildly, seeing nothing, as thoughts so obviously careered through her head at lightning speed.

“He'd never run. Never. His only intention is to clear his good name.”

Her aquamarine eyes blazed with heated emotion, her long auburn curls bounced with the anger fairly pulsing from her waving arms and jutting shoulders. She was surely a sight to behold.

Finally, he felt compelled to quietly ask, “Did you know he'd planned the trip?”

He remembered how shocked she'd looked when the D.A. had requested that bail be denied due to the risk of David's fleeing the country.

“
He
didn't plan the trip,” she told him. “
I
did. Before Christmas. He loves to ski and the skiing in Canada is great this time of year.”

Her gaze latched on to Rafe's, and the shadows that clouded her eyes tore at the very heart of him. She was feeling guilty. That much was plain.

“I've been begging him for years to do something fun. I pushed extra hard this year. I even booked the flight and hotel myself. I wanted him to get away and have a good time. Even if I had to bully him into doing it.” She sighed. “I fully expected him to cancel the reservations. But he didn't.” Softly, she added, “And I remember how happy I was about that.”

The deep crease etching her brow marred her beautiful face.

“This was going to be the first trip he'd taken…”

A lump of emotion seemed to swell in her throat. She attempted to swallow around it, and the effort seemed painful.

“…since Mom died.” Her gaze glittered with moisture. “Rafe, they've confiscated his passport, the airline tickets, everything. They really do believe Dad's a flight risk. They really believe he's guilty of these charges.”

So, the reality of things was setting in, Rafe saw.

Yes, she was an attorney. In her San Francisco practice, she represented myriad clients who faced allegations just like these every single day. Rafe was sure she had understood the seriousness of her father's predicament all along; however, when it came to one's family, it was hard for a
person to really imagine anything bad happening. But it seemed that the direness of her father's situation was finally sinking into her head…into her heart.

The sympathy Rafe felt ached from down deep in his soul. He didn't want to care about this woman. Couldn't afford to. Caring made a man weak. And he'd vowed years ago, that weak was the one thing he wouldn't allow himself to be.

But seeing her haunted gaze, understanding the frustration she was experiencing, imagining the guilt she was feeling over what she saw as her part in providing evidence against her father in the form of those trip reservations, Rafe couldn't just sit by, see the misery in her gorgeous eyes and do nothing. But he didn't dare surrender to his desire to touch her. He didn't dare yield to the urge to take her in his arms and reassure her.

Instead, he said, “Did you ever think that maybe David is better off behind bars?”

She whirled on him. “How can you say that? That place is horrible. He's penned up in that little cell with nothing to occupy his mind. He's—”

“Got three hot meals a day,” he interjected, “a clean, warm bed to sleep in and a bevy of armed guards to protect him.”

That's more than you have at the moment, he wanted to remind her. But he didn't.

Bewilderment wrinkled her forehead.

From the moment he'd spied her on those courthouse steps, heard her declaring loud and long her intentions of clearing David's name, Rafe had experienced the strangest sense that Libby might be in danger. Not from the reporters and not from the picketers. But from someone. Some unseen, unknown force.

When he'd sought her out at her father's house to offer
his investigative services, something gut-deep made him hold his tongue regarding his opinion that she needed a bodyguard. Working for her as a P.I., he'd figured, would give him plenty of opportunity to keep a watchful eye on her. And after having spent some time getting to know her, even if it had been just a couple of days, he knew for certain that she wouldn't appreciate hearing that he thought she was in any kind of jeopardy. She was most definitely the kind of woman who felt certain she could look after herself. Maybe, though, he could plant a small seed of warning in her head by using her father as an example.

“Someone dumped that dimethyl-butyl ether,” he quietly explained. “And since we both know David wouldn't go near DMBE, then the guilty party is out there somewhere. Waiting to see how things pan out. Hoping your dad takes the fall.”

Her brow smoothed somewhat. But then her brilliant, jewel-toned eyes glittered with new understanding.

“If there is evidence that points to David,” Rafe continued, “then it just might be unwise for him to be walking the streets, if you know what I mean.”

She nodded, silent and suddenly pensive.

He didn't want to frighten her. Fear often paralyzed rather than readied a person. His only intention was to make her aware of reality.

“Speaking of evidence…” He'd made his point, he felt, so now was the time to change the subject. “What's the D.A. got on David that would lead to this arrest? Can they actually prove anything?”

“Well, I can't say for certain until I get my hands on copies of the evidence. I've filed for discovery. Soon we'll have access to everything: physical evidence, depositions, police reports…” She shook her head. “It must be a mountain of stuff.”

He shot her an expression that had her expounding on her last statement.

“The day I arrived in Prosperino,” she said, “the police searched the house.”

“You allowed that?”

She shrugged. “They had a warrant. But I wouldn't have stopped them. Dad said he had nothing to hide. That he gave his permission for the authorities to search anything and everything he owned.” Libby sighed. “They carried out a whole file cabinet and boxes of other files as well. Everything that had anything to do with his finances—bank records, credit card statements. And his PC.” Again she shook her head and shrugged. “A mountain of stuff. And there's no telling what was seized from his office at Springer.”

“It can't all be evidence against him.”

“No.” Reaching up, she absently combed her fingers through her thick tresses. “I don't expect anything from home to point to Dad's guilt. But I am worried about his office at work. Anyone could have had access to it since his arrest, couldn't they? And the prosecutor will use the other things—the information about Dad's finances—to try to explain motive, I'm sure.”

Silence settled over them, and while Libby busied herself with thoughts of her father's case, Rafe took a moment to look around him.

The Corbett home was huge compared to houses on the rez. The floors were constructed of rich, golden-hued oak, waxed and gleaming, and covering them were Oriental carpets that were most obviously costly. The room was elaborately trimmed in decorative moldings at the baseboard and around the ceiling. Such detail spoke of money. The furniture was heavy, luxurious stuff. Many pieces looked, to his untrained eye, to be antique.

He imagined Libby growing up here. Running and squealing and laughing through these rooms with caring parents to tend her, nurture her, love her. He pictured Libby enjoying holidays eating at the long, walnut table he'd seen in the dining room. Blowing out candles on a fancy birthday cake. Decorating a Christmas tree here in the living room. Celebrating Independence Day with sparklers and cookouts in the spacious and shady backyard.

A youngster would have enjoyed an idyllic childhood in this lovely house. A pampered and pleasant existence surrounded with lots of family and friends.

Visions of his own youth came flooding into his mind, and seemingly out of nowhere hot emotion prickled the backs of his eyelids.

What the hell? he wondered. Shoving against the arms of the chair in which he sat, he stood and paced to the nearest window. Not because he wanted to see the view, but because he needed a moment to collect himself, to force these damned thoughts from his mind. He hadn't allowed memories of his past to affect him like this in years.

It was Libby. She was making him care. She was making him soft.

He couldn't afford that. He couldn't.

“We're arguing trial location tomorrow.”

Rafe nodded, but didn't turn around. He was glad for something to focus his attention on. “Trial location?” he asked.

“Opposing counsel wants to go to Los Angeles,” she said. “He's looking to make this high-profile. But I want to stay here. I know there are lots of people ranting against the contamination. Against Dad. But I'm hoping things will calm down and they'll remember who's on trial here.”

She'd be safely cloistered in the courthouse during the day, he thought.

“And what would you like for me to do while you're occupied with that?”

“I was hoping you'd do a little investigating. Talk to some people.” Glancing at her watch, she said, “I'm due to visit Dad. If you don't mind, you could come along with me. He wants to thank you for helping out. And while we're there, we can get a list of names from him. Springer execs, employees, friends who might know something. While I'm busy at the courthouse, you can try to touch base with as many of them as possible. Take some notes. Find out what people told the police. See if anyone knows or suspects anything that might help us nail the real culprit.”

Rafe knew himself to be one of those people. He had a definite theory about the whys behind the chemical dumping, and he also had what could only be described as a scrap of evidence to back it up. However, hearsay was what the authorities would call it.

Hearsay coming from anyone was, at best, flimsy proof. Coming from an Indian, it would be considered idle talk. Meaningless scuttlebutt. That was why he hadn't gone to the police about what he'd overheard all those weeks ago. And he didn't tell Libby now because he didn't think he could continue working with her if he were to reveal all he knew—all he suspected—and she reacted with doubt and skepticism.

He'd hold his tongue until he knew she trusted him. He'd play his cards close to the chest for now. Focus on digging up more information so he could lay out the pieces of the puzzle for her with simple clarity, with nothing but hard evidence. If real proof of David's innocence was out there, Rafe would find it. And it had to be out there.

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” he told her, reaching for his jacket from where it hung on the back of the chair. “Let's go see your father.”

 

David Corbett was sitting alone in the cold, stark interrogation room when Rafe and Libby entered. The metal table was dented, battered, extremely utilitarian. The walls were painted a greenish gray. Drab. Lifeless. Depressing as hell, Rafe decided.

Although his face was clean-shaven, dark smudges underscored David's eyes. His brow was puckered, his jaw tight. He looked like a man with a great deal of anxiety eating at his thoughts.

Libby smiled brightly, hurrying to his side and bending to kiss his cheek.

“Hi, Dad.” She set her leather case on the tabletop. “How are you?”

“Fine, hon. I'm just fine.” David shifted his attention to Rafe. “Rafe, it's good to see you. Pardon me if I don't get up.”

Rafe thought it strange when the man offered him his left hand, but quickly realized that David's right wrist was handcuffed to the arm of the chair he was sitting in. Taking the man's hand in both of his, Rafe pumped it vigorously.

“It's good to see you, sir.”

David shook his head. “Stop with the sir stuff, if you don't mind. We're meeting here as friends. At least, I hope we are.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Realizing what he'd said, Rafe offered up an apologetic smile and David chuckled.

“Don't you ever doubt it,” Rafe added.

“I appreciate your wanting to help my daughter with this mess I'm in.”

Darting a quick look at Libby, Rafe saw appreciation glistening in her gaze, and his heart jumped, tendrils of heat curling low in his gut. Her gratitude shouldn't be causing him such satisfaction, but it did.

Warning flags waved in his brain. He wished his reactions to this woman had some sort of switch he could flip off or a cord he could sever.

“Trial location arguments begin tomorrow,” Libby informed her father, getting right down to the business at hand. “It could take a couple of days, maybe more, for the judge to make his decision. While I'm busy at the courthouse, I thought Rafe could do a little interviewing.” She opened her case and extracted a yellow legal pad and pen. “Dad, can you think of anyone…anyone at all who might shed some light on things?”

She slid the pad in front of her father, handing the pen to him.

Then her brows drew together, moisture instantly shimmering in her eyes, when she evidently realized the handcuffs were going to be a detriment to him. It was so obviously hard for her, Rafe reflected, seeing her father like this. She cleared the emotion from her throat as she reached for the paper.

“How about if I take down the names?”

David placed a quelling hand on the pad. “I'll make do, hon. I'll make do.” He picked up the pen in his left hand.

Libby nodded, muttering, “Idiot guards.” She rose from her chair, her cheeks flushed with sudden anger, and went to the locked door. She banged on it. Hard. “Can someone come in here? Now!”