Excerpt: Project 1 - chapter 1 -- Untitled

When it came to fashion, a new born knew more about it than she did, Sharon accepted with a frown. Designer jeans suited her just fine, but a party at ‘the mansion’ to meet Brady’s family required more than her ubiquitous jeans.

With a huff of disgust Sharon swiped her purse off the surface of the half-moon table beside the front door, inhaled deeply and opened the door. Tall dark and handsome didn’t begin to describe the stranger standing on her doorstep, his fist raised, ready to knock.

“Oh! You startled me.” Sharon stepped back and grabbed the door like a shield. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed a beat-up BMW sitting at the curb side just beyond her short driveway. “Can I help you?” A vision of black silk sheets, glistening naked male flesh and the sound of hot sweaty breath filled her mind. Sharon! She just managed to stop her jaw from hitting the floor. Get your mind out of the gutter. He’s a stranger, and probably looking for directions.

“I’m looking for Sharon Delaney.” He held out a small plastic ID card. Rourke O’Farrell. Private Investigator.

Shaken, she stared at the card, pulled her brain into gear, and swiped the card out of his hand before slamming the door in his face. She ignored the phone resting in its holder on the half-moon table, too close to the door and headed for the kitchen and grabbed the one on the wall. There she could make her enquiries without him overhearing her side of the conversation. Seconds later, with confirmation of his identity, she opened the door again, and invited him inside.

He towered over her five feet eight inches, and his broad shoulders cast shadows in the sunshine spilling through her open front door. Dark and light, she thought. His closely cropped midnight black hair contrasted with her ash blond waist length hair. Although, with it pinned up in the severe bun at the base of her skull that Brady liked so much, he wouldn’t know that. Geeze, who gave her thoughts permission to wander in this direction? In a few hours Brady would give her his engagement ring. “They want to meet you first.” He’d told her. For some reason the comment struck a discordant note in her well-being at the time, she remembered now. Did Brady mean if his parents didn’t like her, the engagement wouldn’t happen?

Faded jeans hugged low on the stranger’s lean hips and followed long muscled legs like a second skin. His shirt reminded her of lumberjacks, and wide open spaces, fresh air and wooded mountains. Get a grip girl, before you lose your marbles. You haven’t got any marbles; the voice in her head reminded her. But oh…! Do NOT go there!

When he turned from his survey of her sitting room his smoky grey eyes widened then narrowed. What was that all about, Sharon asked herself. Perhaps she should have asked before giving him entry to her home.

“Please, sit down.” Her hand arced through the air in the direction of the single wing-back chair on the far side of the hearth. Sharon ignored the squishy soft leather double settee and opted for the upright chair she normally used at her desk. “Why does a private investigator want to speak to me?”

“I believe you are acquainted with Brady Smithson?”

She nodded and waited.

“What do you know about the recent murder of George Burgandy?”

For a moment the question made no sense, until she remembered the previous night’s news report. What had the reporter said? Something about an up-and-coming politician, tipped as eminent prime minister material, being found with his throat cut in the King’s Cross area of London. Bewildered, she looked up at her visitor. “Nothing.” Her head shook form side to side. “Beyond the news report last night, I don’t remember hearing anything about him.” She tried to recall the details of the news item, and failed. “Why?”

“Can you verify the whereabouts of Brady Smithson last night?” Rourke O’Farrell opened a small notebook held on his lap and turned several pages, and looked up in time to see her shake her head.

“Where were you last night?” Smoky grey eyes turned gun metal hard.

“Here.” Indignation leant volume to her voice. “Why?”

Ignoring her question Rourke stared at her before firing his next question. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

“So you can verify that?” He’d shifted in his chair, and managed to look even more intimidating without Sharon working out how he achieved it.

“No! Yes!”

Rourke’s lip curled in distaste. “Which is it, Miss…?” He glanced down at his notebook, then up again, “Delaney.”

“Yes, I was alone, but yes, I can verify that. My mother called me and we chatted for over an hour.” Satisfaction ousted indignation. “I’m sure you can check that out.” Now sarcasm ruled. Who the hell did this dark-haired Adonis think he was? “Now if that’s all, I have an engagement to attend to.”

“Engagement? I don’t think so.”

His scorn ripped her final remnants of confidence to shreds. She may harbour disquiet about her pending visit to Brady’s parents, and she may dread the thought of not meeting their expectation, but surely Brady wouldn’t dump her because she didn’t gain their approval? Or would he? Did class distinction hold sway in their circles? Probably, she admitted to herself. Banking families whose history traced back over centuries would hesitate to welcome a self employed adoptee with no known background into their family. How had she managed to overlook this fact, she wondered now, and looked up to see the man opposite studying her carefully. Suddenly Brady’s motives for a whirlwind courtship shifted from gold to grey.

Striving for indolence she laced her voice with disdain. “You sound very sure of yourself. How is that?”

“Because, Miss Delaney,” he paused to give premium impact to his words, “lover boy is, at this moment, helping police with their enquiries, as the saying goes.”

Unable to remain in her seat, Sharon shot to her feet and marched towards Rourke. Eyeball to eyeball she demanded, “What do you mean, ’he’s helping the police with their enquiries’?”

“Exactly what I said.” He didn’t flinch from her invasion of his personal space, but held her gaze. “Right now, the police are questioning your boyfriend.”

“You’re not police.” The fact slipped through the fog clouding her thoughts. “So what’s your interest in this?”

Ignoring her question he continued, “Your erstwhile fiancée, is, as we speak, trying to convince the police he spent the night with you. So you can be sure they will be on your doorstep in the not too distant future.”

Unnamed fear skittered down her spine. Why would Brady lie to the police? Why would he try to implicate her?

“Don’t forget to bring my briefcase with you when you come down to ‘the mansion’”. Brady’s last words to her returned with devastating impact and she felt the blood drain from her face.

“What briefcase?” She’d asked him.

“The one I left in your bedroom,” he’d snapped back.

Shock held her rigid. Memories shifted, his loving hands caressing her skin became weapons to disarm her. His soft words of endearment during their lovemaking became shards of deceit that turned it all into lustful tools of persuasion. And she’d fallen for it all, hook, line, and sinker! She wanted to sit down, but she couldn’t trust her legs to carry her far enough across the room to risk it.

“What?” Rourke’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm. “What is it?” He rose and gently pushed her into his vacated seat. The warmth of the cushions from his body heat wrapped itself around her, lending her a comfort she didn’t understand. Her world threatened to fall apart and she could only focus on her reaction to a stranger’s body warmth captured in one of her chairs.

When he hunkered down in front of her his breath fanned against her cheek, his hand still wrapped round hers. Strong hands, she noticed. Fine black hairs peaked out from beneath his fraying shirt cuff. Did it cover his chest? She blinked when his voice broke through her wandering thoughts.

“What?” he repeated.

“I’m expected at his family’s home later today.” Confusion spun her mind in different directions. Acknowledgement of her naivety ensured embarrassment reigned supreme.

“I know that.”

“You do?” She withdrew her hand and leaned back into the chair. “How? Why?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. First tell me what upset you just now.” Rourke pushed back on his heels and in one swift, fluid movement stood up. Sharon wished he’d stayed down. His height, towering above her, intimidated her and sent her thoughts scattering for cover. What if she’d made a mistake? What if her imagination played tricks with her? After all, Brady told her he loved her. No he didn’t! The persistent inner voice contradicted her. He’s told you he loves your hair, your clothes, your eyes, your mouth, and a million other things, but he’s never said he loves Y-O-U. It’s the same thing! No it is not the same thing at all.

A pleat of concentration marred her smooth forehead.

“Tell me what you’re thinking?” Rourke’s voice intruded on her inner dialogue.

“What?” Eyes wide, she refocused on the private investigator. “I’ve just realised, he’s never told me he loves me.” The whispered words barely crossed the distance between them. “He’s never told me!” Anger leant volume to her startling discovery. “He’s damn well never told me he loves me, and like a fool, I lapped all his sweet nothings.”

Her hand came up and clamped itself over her mouth. A bit late, she thought. She’d let the cat out of the bag, or the starting gate had risen on the horse now half way down the track. Whatever metaphor she chose, she’d vocalised her sudden and rising disquiet about the man she so nearly agreed to marry. Whether the police had reason to question Brady or not, the sudden and shattering discovery she’d nearly hitched herself to someone who’d never declared his love for her, changed her world forever. And it had nothing to do with her body’s response to her interrogator. It did not!

“It’s not easy for men to put words to their emotions.” Rourke responded.

“Oh! He had the words!” she spat. “But like a fool I didn’t listen to them closely enough.” She couldn’t hide her self disgust. Had she craved love so much, she’d fooled herself into believing his family would accept her? Almost, she admitted. Almost! She rose from the chair, indicated for Rourke to follow her, and slung the words over her shoulder. “He asked me to bring this with me when I joined him at his parents’ house today.”

“What?”

The warmth of Rourke’s breath on her neck sent a shiver down her spine. Anticipation? Dread? Sharon pushed the thought to one side and pointed to the briefcase standing beneath her bedroom windowsill. “He said he left that here the other day. Yesterday, he rang me at work and asked me to bring it with me today.”