Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Read online

  She slapped his hand away. “Get out of those. They’re for dessert.” She shot a glance at his sturdy, muscular body. “Besides, you don’t look like you’re wasting away.”

  He shrugged, but unexpected heat flared in his gaze. “A man’s got to keep his strength up. You never know when you’re going to need it.”

  Zoë turned her attention back to the food, but her stomach tightened, quashing her appetite.

  What’s up with this guy?

  Coming from any other man, his words would have been a come-on. Nick made them sound like a threat. She was usually good with people, but he was impossible to read. And he seemed awfully nosy for a chauffeur. Weren’t good servants supposed to be invisible except when their services were required?

  After she completed her security assessment of the estate, she would see what a Google search turned up on him. If the results didn’t satisfy her, she’d call in Risa, Phoenix, Ltd.’s queen of research. One way or another, she would solve the puzzle of Dominic Rosetti.

  Chapter Three

  As Lyman had predicted, Marian went upstairs after lunch to rest. Nick returned to tinkering with the elevator, and Lyman showed Zoë the control panels for the security system before heading down to his workshop in the basement.

  With everyone else safely occupied, she began her inspection on the main floor. Strathmoor’s security system was adequate, if not state of the art. All the windows and doors were equipped with magnetic sensors that would set off an alarm if opened when the system was armed. Motion sensors were also placed in strategic locations. The system could be armed or disarmed from panels by the front and back doors and in the Prescott’s bedroom.

  The second and third story windows, however, were unprotected. The system designer must have decided the risk of entry was slight because the windows were so high, but since there had already been a break-in, that weakness would need to be addressed as soon as possible.

  After finishing her review of the interior, Zoë grabbed her short, quilted jacket and headed outside. The morning rain had stopped, leaving a carpet of sodden red and brown leaves on what passed for a lawn. Every breath sent a small cloud of mist into the lingering fog. Poking around the outside of the house, the first thing she noted was the lack of exterior lighting. Two large carriage lamps flanked the front door, but that was about it. The long driveway from the gate to the house had only one lamppost. An intruder could easily approach the house undetected. At the very least, motion-sensing floodlights should be added to the corners of the building, along with some general landscape lighting.

  She began her inspection of the perimeter of the property at the front gates. The ironwork was old but appeared sound, much more solid than the wall attached to it. She tramped through tangles of dead weeds, stopping occasionally to examine crumbling sections of the wall and pick small burrs off her pants. There were no cameras anywhere. The place was about as secure as her parents’ farmyard in Middle-of-Nowhere, Iowa. She would have to speak to Lyman about installing a few cameras and hiring masons to repair the stonework as soon as possible.

  A forest of massive hemlocks obscured the northern border of the grounds. They had probably been attractive when Frankie “No Nose” had employed a staff of gardeners to prune and maintain them. Now, their long, sweeping limbs had grown together into a nearly impenetrable dark green mass.

  Zoë picked her way through the mist-shrouded giants, scrambling over fallen limbs, until she found the wall again. Hidden in the damp, perpetual shade of the hemlocks, this section was in even worse repair than the front. Here and there, capstones had given up and tumbled to the ground, leaving the top of the wall as jagged and uneven as an ogre’s teeth.

  She spotted a hefty limb that had fallen against the top of the wall. It would have to be removed to prevent easy access from the neighboring property, but if she could climb it, she might be able to get a view down the entire length of the wall. She grabbed one of the small side branches and pulled herself up onto the log. It didn’t wobble under her weight, so she reached for another branch and took a tentative step. So far, so good.

  But when she shifted her weight, her foot slipped, almost sending her to the ground. Her arms flailed before she caught another branch and managed to right herself. If she’d had any idea she might need to climb a tree, she would have changed out of her smooth-soled flats before she left the house. For the first time in years she missed her old combat boots. Her first act as a civilian had been to ditch the ugly, heavy things, but half way up the damp, slippery tree limb she would have welcomed their gripping power.

  She took a deep breath, adjusted her footing until it seemed solid, and tried another step. No slipping. Good. Grasping the small branches with each hand, she inched her way up the limb until she could almost see over the top of the wall. If she could stretch a little, one more step should do it.

  She reached for the next branch to pull herself up and—

  “What the hell are you doing up there?”

  Zoë inhaled sharply and snapped her head around to identify the intruder. As she turned, her left foot slipped, and her fingers lost their grip. The branches slid through her hands, scraping her flesh and leaving behind bits of bark and dead, dry needles. She kicked her feet wildly and grabbed at the branches, trying to avoid the inevitable, but gravity won out. With a shriek, she dropped from the limb and crashed down on the source of her predicament.

  Nick Rosetti.

  As her weight took them both to the ground, the air oofed from his lungs. His arms tightened around her for an instant before he released her with a curse.

  She scrambled to her feet and scowled at him. “What are you doing here? You made me fall.”

  Nick grunted, pushed to his feet, and scowled back. “You wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t climbed up there in the first place. What were you trying to do?”

  She couldn’t tell him the truth and wouldn’t even if she could. She straightened her jacket and brushed a few stray needles away, gritting her teeth when her injured palms touched the fabric. “I was exploring the grounds.”

  She might as well have told him she was picking daisies. He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. “From a fallen tree? In this weather? Give me a break.” His big hand closed around her upper arm. “What were you really doing up there?”

  She jerked out of his grasp. “I told you, I was exploring—not that it’s any of your business. I wanted some fresh air, and Mr. Prescott suggested I might enjoy a tour of the estate.”

  Nick gave a huff of disbelief. “Yeah, right. Because it’s so beautiful, especially in the rain.”

  She lifted her chin and shot a challenging glare straight into his dark eyes. “It isn’t raining.”

  “It’s not exactly tree-climbing weather, either.” He peered up toward the top of the wall. “What were you trying to see?”

  Zoë frowned. He was as tenacious with his suspicions as a bulldog with a bone. She ran a quick glance over his body, sizing him up. Tough, but not too tough for someone accustomed to pulling drunken soldiers out of bar fights. Nick might have several inches and sixty pounds on her, but she was fast. She could take him down if she had to, but that would be even harder to explain than sightseeing in the fog. Better to extricate herself quickly and get back to the house.

  “I don’t see how my activities should be of any concern to you.” She tugged her jacket smooth and headed toward the house.

  “Wait up.” He hustled forward and matched his stride to hers. “I’ll walk you back.”

  She kept her gaze straight ahead. “I’m not likely to get lost from here.”

  “Maybe not, but—”

  “Aah!” Pain shot through Zoë’s ankle. Her leg gave way, and she crumpled to the soggy ground.

  Damned root. If only she’d been paying more attention to her footing and less to the disturbing man beside her.

  Nick reached down and pulled her up to stand on one foot.

  As soon as she gained h
er balance, she released his hand and sucked in a quick breath through her teeth. Her palms still stung, and now she’d turned her ankle. This was shaping up to be a difficult day all around, and a big part of the problem was standing in front of her.

  His face wore a look of mild disgust. “Are you always such a klutz?”

  “I am not a klutz,” she gritted out.

  “Then it must be those shoes. Only a fool would hike through the woods, much less climb trees, in little pink ballerina shoes.”

  She bristled at the insult to one of her favorite pairs of flats. In retrospect, they might not have been the wisest choice, but her footwear was none of his business. Zoë had grown up wearing worn out, hand-me-down boots from one of her brothers and had gone straight into the Army out of high school. Now that she was a civilian and could choose her own wardrobe, pretty shoes had become a near-obsession. They reminded her she was a woman, and she loved them. Period. End of story.

  “They’re not ballerina shoes. And they’re not pink—they’re raspberry. Regardless, my shoes are not the problem. My only problem right now is you.” But one tentative step brought another stab of pain.

  With a huff of disgust, Nick slid his right arm around her waist and half-lifted her off her feet. “Put your left arm over my shoulder and lean on me.”

  She opened her mouth to protest but realized the pain in her ankle had disappeared as soon as he’d shifted the weight off her foot. As a test, she tentatively lowered it to the ground. Yow! She had no choice but to accept his help. Without it, she would never make it back to the house unless she crawled.

  She mustered as much dignity as possible. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She refused to turn her head, but she could swear she heard a smile in his voice.

  They slowly made their way out of the woods and across the lawn with Zoë half-limping and half-hopping.

  “You know, this would be a lot faster and less awkward if I carried you.”

  The image of herself in Nick’s arms brought a traitorous pang of something she chose not to examine too closely, immediately followed by a sudden fear. Lyman couldn’t see her like this. If he thought she was injured and unable to do her job, he’d send her packing before nightfall, and her first attempt to prove herself to Madelyn would end before it began.

  As soon as they topped the front steps, she slipped her left hand from Nick’s grasp and released his shoulder. His right hand still supported her ribs, but some of her weight transferred back to the injured ankle. She tested it gingerly. It still hurt, but the pain was bearable. “I can make it from here on my own.”

  He opened the door then faced her with a skeptical frown. “At least let me help you to your room. It’s two flights up.”

  She hobbled toward the stairs, refusing to give in to the sharp jabs that came with each step. “That’s what banisters are for. I’ll be fine.”

  She probably looked like a one-legged stork trying to climb the stairs, but by the third step, all she cared about was reaching the relative comfort of the bed in her tiny attic room.

  By the time she reached the third floor, she was breathing like she’d run a 5K. She collapsed on the bed and slipped off her shoe. Her ankle was swollen and starting to bruise, but she could wiggle her toes and nothing seemed to be broken. If she could find something to wrap it, she’d be fine in a couple of days. The problem was how to do so without either of the Prescotts finding out.

  Three loud raps sounded on the door, and panic squeezed her chest. Was it Lyman or Marian? What if one of them had seen her? She grabbed her shoe and tried to stuff her foot back in.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  The door opened, and Nick stuck his head in. “It’s me.”

  Zoë let her shoe drop to the floor with a soft thump. “What do you want?”

  He strode into the room without waiting for an invitation. “I brought you these.” He held up a zippered plastic bag of ice, a hand towel, and a rolled Ace bandage.

  Embarrassment formed a lump in her throat. He’d known exactly what she needed and spared her the risk of being seen and possibly losing her job. Her mother would pop a gasket if she didn’t make at least a minimal effort to be polite.

  “Um…thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

  He flashed her a sharp look then shrugged. “I didn’t like the idea of the cook being stuck up here for days. In case you haven’t noticed, I like to eat, and everyone else around here is hopeless in the kitchen.”

  “You could always cook for yourself.”

  “I’m hopeless, too.” A dimple appeared beside his thoroughly masculine mouth.

  There he goes again with the mixed signals. When he’d discovered her up the tree, she’d been sure he was going to call Lyman or the cops. And now he was showing her his dimple.

  Zoë sat up straighter and stiffened her spine. “As you so graciously pointed out earlier, all I’ve fed you so far is take-out pizza.”

  “Yeah, but I have high hopes.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll have to wait and see. At any rate, thank you for the first aid supplies.” She held out a hand. “I can take it from here.”

  “Not just yet.”

  For a big man, his movements were deceptively quick. She’d barely opened her mouth to object when he was beside her on the bed with her left leg across his lap.

  “Let me see that ankle.”

  She tugged against his hold then winced when the pain returned.

  He adjusted his grip to ease the pressure but didn’t release her. “Stop wiggling. I’ve treated plenty of sprained ankles before.”

  “So have I.”

  “I’ve played hockey since I could stand.”

  “I have a brown belt in taekwondo.”

  His dimple reappeared. “I guess we’re both pretty tough then, aren’t we?”

  How could she hold out against dimples? She had to try. “You’d better believe it.”

  “So, tough guy, are you going to let me wrap your ankle?”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”

  He wrapped the ice bag in the towel then used the Ace bandage to fasten it to her injured ankle with the speed and skill of an experienced trainer. When he had finished, he lifted her leg off his lap with surprising gentleness, set it on the bed, and stood. “Hand me that pillow, will you?”

  She twisted, grabbed the second pillow from the head of the bed, and tossed it to him. He raised her foot and settled it on the pillow. “Better?”

  She had to admit the pain was nearly gone. “Yes.”

  He straightened and pulled a small bottle of ibuprofen from his pocket. “I’ll get you a glass of water. Take a couple of these and keep your foot elevated the rest of the day. You’ll feel much better by dinner time, and no one will be the wiser.”

  What?

  She blinked. “You aren’t going to mention my accident to the Prescotts?”

  “Why should I? You were just exploring. Perfectly innocent, right?”

  Apparently, playtime was over.

  She gave him a tight smile. “Perfectly.”

  After bringing her a cup of water from the bathroom and watching her swallow the painkillers, he left.

  After his footsteps thumped down the stairs, Zoë fished her electronic tablet out of her bag. If Nick Rosetti was an ordinary chauffeur, she was Kate Middleton’s cuter sister. She typed his full name into the search engine and watched as the results popped up. Listing after listing of Dominic Rosettis, but were any of them the right one?

  She quickly discounted social media links to an aging Italian opera singer and a rotund restaurant owner in Seattle. He probably wasn’t a chiropractor from Athens, Georgia, either. She gave up after twenty minutes and countless unlikely references. The only entry that caught her attention was an article in the Detroit Free Press from a year ago about a police detective who had been involved in a shootout in which a bystander had been killed. Unfortunately, the article hadn’t included a
photo, so she had no way of knowing if he was the same man who seemed hell-bent on complicating every aspect of this job.

  She glanced at the time on her tablet. Four-thirty. Risa would still be manning the reception desk at the Phoenix, Ltd. office on Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago, providing her unique blend of administrative backup, research, and tech support to the staff in the field. Zoë wished she’d had the foresight to snap a photo of Nick at some point when he wasn’t looking, but she had every confidence Risa would be able to ferret out the truth even without a picture. She picked up her phone and placed the call.

  ****

  Nick lay propped on the bed in his room over the garage with his laptop resting on his thighs. He needed to get back to the house to work on the elevator, but with Lyman safely tucked away in his workshop, he could spare a few minutes to see what he could find out about the mysterious Ms. Hargrove.

  He’d been concerned the moment she appeared at Strathmoor, but this afternoon, when she’d inspected every door and window, his instincts had switched into high gear. He didn’t know if she was casing the place for a robbery, looking for information to sell to Victor Watanabe, or involved in some other illicit scheme. Whatever her intent, she clearly wasn’t here to cook. She’d responded to his attempted peace offering with caution, and since he no longer had the legal authority to haul her in for interrogation, he’d have to rely on more indirect methods.

  He gave a passing glance to the cute Google Doodle of a puppy jumping in a pile of leaves and typed in her name. Only a few possibilities popped up, and after looking at their pictures, he quickly dismissed them. Even allowing for a change of hairstyle or color, none resembled the owner of the long, shapely leg he’d wrapped his hands around a few minutes ago. Who was she? If she actually worked for a personal chef service, as Lyman claimed, the company ought to have a website listing its personnel. Besides, what young woman in this day and age had no Internet footprint—no Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram account?

  Of course, he didn’t have those things either, but his invisibility was a matter of choice. Was hers?