Chicago’s cold, hard winters and died. It had taken her twice as long to get ready for work because she couldn’t stop shivering. Then she’d gone out to find that her car wouldn’t start, forcing her to walk six blocks in the frigid February temperature to catch the L.
The polished brass doors of the elevator finally swished open and Elena hurriedly stepped inside. She pressed the button to the seventeenth floor, and as it began to move, she closed her eyes against a wave of nausea. Express elevators should be outlawed, she decided as the rapid ascent played havoc with her already iffy stomach.
When it eased to a stop a few seconds later and the doors opened, she stepped out into the plushly carpeted corridor on shaky legs. After she met with Brett Connelly to arrange interviews with the rest of the Connelly family, she would spend the weekend trying to feel human again. But when she left, she would take the stairs.
Brett Connelly tapped the highly polished surface of his mahogany desk with his fountain pen. Glancing at his watch for the third time in as many minutes, he resumed staring out the window at the early-evening shadows covering Lake Michigan. He hated to be kept waiting. If the detective investigating the attempted murder of his older brother, Daniel, didn’t show up damned quick, Brett was calling it a day. Babe didn’t like him to be late getting home from work. In fact, he’d be lucky if she didn’t destroy some of his things to get back at him. She’d done that several times already.
The intercom on the corner of his desk suddenly buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. “Yes, Fiona?”
“Your four o’clock appointment has finally arrived, Mr. Connelly.”
“Thank you. Send her in.” As an afterthought, he added, “If you’d like, you can leave now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Connelly. I’ll see you on Monday. Have a nice weekend.”
“You, too, Fiona.”
Seconds later his office door opened, and a young woman with shoulder-length, tawny-brown hair walked into the room. Brett couldn’t keep from staring. This was the hotshot detective from the Special Investigative Unit of the Chicago Police Department?
Whoa, baby! He’d been expecting some middle-aged battle-ax who looked like a man and had a hard-as-nails attitude. Instead they’d sent a petite woman who had to be somewhere in her midtwenties and could put beauty queens to shame with her looks. He made a mental note to call and thank his father for assigning him the task of liaison between his family and the police.
Brett rose to his feet as his gaze zeroed in on her left hand to see if she wore a wedding band. She didn’t.
Sending a silent thank-you to the powers that be, he rounded the desk, treated her to his most charming smile—the smile that had kept his social calendar filled since his sophomore year in high school—and extended his hand. “I’m Brett Connelly, Vice President of Public Relations. And you are?”
She quickly shook his hand but didn’t return his smile. “I’m SIU Detective Elena Delgado. Sorry I’m late, Mr. Connelly.”
She wasn’t offering an explanation for her tardiness, and Brett wasn’t asking for one. He was too preoccupied with the tingling sensation running from his palm, up his arm and warming his chest.
“Since we’ll be working so closely together, please call me Brett, Ms. Delgado,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the silky skin on the back of her hand.
She dropped his hand, and the look she gave him indicated that she hadn’t been the least bit affected by his never-fail smile or his touch. At least not the way he’d been affected by hers.
“Shall we get down to business, Mr. Connelly?” she asked politely.
Her no-nonsense demeanor certainly went with her job. But it wasn’t often that he encountered a female he couldn’t charm. He took it as a personal challenge.
As she continued to gaze at him expectantly, he noticed something about her that had escaped him when she’d first entered the room. Elena Delgado looked tired. Very tired. Dark circles smudged the pale skin beneath her chocolate-brown eyes, and her voice sounded extremely weary. Maybe that had something to do with her no-nonsense attitude and refusal to use his first name.
Whatever the reason, something about her stoic demeanor urged him to take up the gauntlet and improve her mood. He checked his watch. It was dinnertime and he was already late getting home. Daniel and his wife, Erin, were safely hidden from any further attempts on Daniel’s life in the tiny island country of Altaria, so there was no immediate threat to his brother on that front. And Babe would treat him to the cold shoulder now, anyway. In fact, she’d probably already started destroying the living room. Being an hour or two later wouldn’t make much difference.
Besides, Elena looked as if she could use something to lift her spirits. What better way than spending an evening out on the town?
“I was just getting ready to leave for the day,” he said, walking over to remove his suit jacket from the brass coat tree in the corner. Shrugging into it, he reached for his leather overcoat. “Why don’t we discuss the details of the interviews over dinner?”
She shook her head, and if the expression on her lovely face was any indication, it wasn’t going to be easy changing her mind. “I’d rather not, Mr. Connelly.”
He wasn’t about to let that deter him. “I skipped breakfast and worked through lunch,” he said truthfully. “It’s dinnertime and I’m hungry.” He smiled. “And I’m betting you are, too.”
Her stomach chose that moment to rumble, making any protest she might have had ineffective. Her cheeks colored a pretty pink. He hadn’t seen a woman blush like that in years.
Brett chuckled. “Then it’s settled.” He pulled on his overcoat and placed his hand lightly at the small of her back to usher her to the door. “We’ll talk over dinner.”
She didn’t look happy, but Brett took it as a positive sign when she allowed him to steer her to the elevators. The swift ride down to the basement parking garage was a silent one and he began to wonder if he was losing his touch. By the time the doors opened, she looked positively miserable about being in his company.
“I’ll bring you back to pick up your car,” he said as they stepped out into the parking area.
“My car wouldn’t start this morning,” she said, sounding even more tired than before. “I took the L.”
“Well, you’re not taking it home,” he said emphatically. Police detective or not, he didn’t like the idea of a woman riding the elevated train alone at night. It just wasn’t safe. Before she could protest, he quickly led her to his black Jaguar and opened the passenger door. “Do you like Italian food?”
She practically collapsed into the bucket seat before she answered. “Yes, I normally love Italian food, but I don’t think it would be—”
“Good. Then Italian it is,” he said, closing the door. When she glanced up at him, he thought her complexion looked a little green. But he dismissed the notion. The fluorescent lights, combined with the shadows of the underground garage, cast an unnatural glow on everything. Walking around to the driver’s side, he opened the door and slid behind the wheel. “I know a great little place not far from here.”
She looked as if she intended to protest again, but when he started the car and backed from his parking spot, she clamped her mouth into a tight line, closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat.
Brett felt a twinge of guilt that he’d insisted they have dinner, when it was plain to see she was dead on her feet. But reason won out. She had to eat. This way she wouldn’t have to worry about cooking something for herself when she went home. Satisfied that he’d be doing her a favor by taking her to dinner, he steered the car out of the garage and into the flow of traffic on Michigan Avenue.
Ten minutes later he helped her out of her coat and held the chair while she settled herself at his usual table for two in a corner of the restaurant. Removing