A Risky Affair (3 page)

A soft, enigmatic smile quirked the corners of Dane's mouth. “You're very familiar with the terms of the law. I'm impressed, Miss Washington. Rest assured that Mr. Thorne has no intention of withdrawing the job offer should you decide not to take the test.”

“But he still wants me to do it, even though it's illegal. Is that what you're telling me?”

Dane's expression remained deadpan. “It's entirely up to you, Miss Washington.”

Her eyes narrowed on his face. It was some kind of test. It had to be. She didn't believe for one second that a prominent, successful attorney like Crandall Thorne would expose himself to an unnecessary lawsuit by forcing a prospective employee to submit to a polygraph test. Time and again, he'd defeated his opponents in court by knowing the law better than their attorneys, even some judges. Asking Solange to take a lie-detector test—or
inviting
her, as Dane had so eloquently phrased it—was risky business.

What was Crandall Thorne up to?

A number of possibilities ran through her mind. He was trying to gauge how badly she wanted the job and what she was willing to do to secure it. Or maybe this was the first of many “tests” he would put her through to see how she performed under pressure. Or maybe he genuinely wanted her to undergo the polygraph test and was arrogant enough to believe he could get away with violating the law.

“Miss Washington?”

Solange met Dane's steady gaze with a subtle challenge in her own. “All right, Mr. Roarke. I'll play along. I'll take your lie-detector test. After all, I have nothing to hide.”

His eyes glinted with satisfaction. “Give me a few minutes to set up.”

T
en minutes later, Solange was having serious doubts about her decision to take the lie-detector test—and that was before the actual questions began.

When she'd agreed to be tested, she hadn't counted on how nerve-racking the setup process alone would be. It was pure torture to hold herself perfectly still in a chair while Dane connected a series of tubes and wires to her body, explaining the purpose of each device in that deep, hypnotic voice that poured over her like dark honey. She struggled valiantly to pay attention, every nerve ending in her body tingling from the touch of his hands—beneath her breasts, around her stomach, between her trembling fingers as he attached finger plates that would monitor her electrodermal activity.

By the time Dane sat behind the computer monitor to begin the exam, her blood-pressure was off the charts, if the pounding of her heart was any indication.

“Relax,” Dane murmured.

Solange shot him a freezing look. His answering chuckle whispered across her skin, soft as a lover's caress. She wanted to cross her legs, but remembered his instructions to keep both feet planted firmly on the floor.

“Are you qualified to administer these tests?” she demanded, more out of frustration than anything else.

The amused glint in his eyes told her he knew it, too. “I've received some training,” he said vaguely.

“Where?” When he didn't immediately answer, she said crisply, “I have a right to know if the person giving me a lie-detector test—
illegally,
I might add—has the proper credentials and qualifications. So where did you receive your training, Mr. Roarke?”

He hesitated for a moment. “From the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Solange stared. “You were an
FBI agent?
”

“Once upon a time.” A shadow crossed his face, disappearing so swiftly she might have imagined it. “Shall we begin?”

She hesitated. There was a story behind his cryptic response, but she didn't have the time—or right—to explore it. Slowly she nodded.

“I'm going to ask you eleven questions,” Dane explained. “Please indicate your responses with a yes or no. You don't have to elaborate on anything. Just yes or no. Do you understand?”

Solange nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Is Solange Washington your real name?”

“To my knowledge.”

“Yes or no,” he reminded her.

“Yes.”

“Are you twenty-nine years old?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever falsified information on an employment application?”

“No.”

“Have you ever used illegal substances?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

Solange hesitated, biting her bottom lip. “Well…”

Dane's gaze shifted from the computer monitor—where digital algorithms recorded her physiological responses—to her face. “Yes or no, Miss Washington.” His tone was neutral, but there was a glimmer of interest in his dark eyes.

“Yes, but it wasn't my fault. I was thirteen, and they were going to bulldoze our farmhouse. I had to do
something.
They're lucky I didn't blow up their—” At Dane's arched brow, she broke off and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I know you told me not to elaborate. What was the next question?”

“Are you married?”

“God, no.”

“Miss Washington—”

“Sorry. The answer is no. Just plain no.”

He nodded, mouth twitching. Then, as if unable to resist, he looked at her again. “What do you have against marriage?”

Solange let out a startled laugh. “
Excuse me?
Is that one of the questions?”

Dane chuckled, shaking his head. “No. Just me being nosy.” His expression sobered as he turned back to the monitor. “Are you a registered voter?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been terminated by an employer?”

“No.”

“If you knew another employee was stealing from the company you worked for, would you report that employee?”

Solange shifted slightly in her chair. “Depends.”

“Yes or no.”

“It depends on what the person is stealing. If we're talking about a few pens and notepads, then I wouldn't report him. But if he's stealing large sums of money, then yes, I would turn him in.”

“So your answer is yes.”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Have you ever accepted a bribe?”

“Yes.” When Dane paused, she added demurely, “Not the kind of bribe you're referring to, I assure you. This was strictly of a personal, altruistic nature.”

His gaze returned to her face, tracing her eyes and lingering on her mouth in a way that made her pulse accelerate—which was picked up by the polygraph machine. They stared at each other for several charged moments.

“Are you seeing anyone, Miss Washington?” Dane asked huskily.

Her lips curved in a softly chiding smile. “That's the twelfth question,” she said. “I'm afraid our time's up, Mr. Roarke.”

Dane stood at the window in the reception area, hands thrust into his pockets as he watched Solange Washington climb into an ancient blue Plymouth that had seen better days a lifetime ago. He found himself willing her to look back at him, to give him some sign that he hadn't imagined the chemistry between them. But after revving up the old engine, she drove out of the parking lot without so much as a backward glance.

Dane chuckled quietly to himself. He didn't need any last, lingering looks between them to know he hadn't imagined her attraction to him. He'd seen it in her dark, exotically tilted eyes whenever she looked at him, heard it in her soft, breathless voice, felt it in the way her body trembled as he'd prepped her for the polygraph test. He'd administered the exam countless times before; today was the first time he'd ever been so aroused by a subject he could hardly remember which tubes and wires went where. He'd wanted nothing more than to run his hands along the lush, inviting curves of her body, kiss her plump, bow-shaped lips, wrap a fistful of her chestnut-brown hair around his hand and pull back her head, exposing the slender column of her throat to his hungry mouth.

Dane heaved a deep sigh, his body thrumming with desire. He'd even been deprived of the pleasure of removing the tubes and wires from her body following the test. She'd managed the task on her own while he was on the phone with a client.

Dane scowled. He knew he shouldn't have taken that damn call.

The front door opened, and a tall, dark-skinned man entered the building balancing a leather briefcase and a large, expensively gift-wrapped box. At the sight of Dane standing at the window, Noah Roarke made a face. “Thanks for helping with the door.”

Dane grinned, still a little dazed from thoughts of Solange Washington. “Is that for me?” he teased, nodding toward the heavy package in his cousin's arms. “Aw, man, you shouldn't have.”

“I didn't,” Noah muttered, glancing at the empty reception desk as he walked past. “Where's the temp?”

“On her way. Called to say she got stuck in traffic.” Dane followed Noah down the hallway to his office, then watched from the entrance as Noah placed the gift-wrapped box inside the small closet and shut the door.

“Let me guess,” Dane drawled, propping a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Riley's figured out all your hiding places at home.”

“Unfortunately,” Noah admitted, setting down his briefcase on a desk that was as littered with files and paperwork as Dane's own desk down the corridor. Noah shook his head with a grin. “I swear she's like a kid around Christmastime, shaking presents under the tree to see if she can guess what's inside, dropping sly little hints to trick me into telling her what I got for her. She really knows how to wear a man down.”

Dane chuckled dryly. “And you love every last second of it.”

Noah shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. Everyone knew how much he adored his wife, Riley, whom he'd married three years ago in a big, festive ceremony that was still talked about in coffee shops and bars frequented by local cops. Noah, a former homicide detective, had been secretly in love with his best friend's girlfriend for years. Even after Trevor Simmons died tragically in the line of duty, it had taken Noah another three long, torturous years to confess his feelings to Riley—which, luckily for him, she happened to return. Nearly every cop in the city had attended their summer wedding, which had included a police-escorted motorcade fit for royalty.

“So what'd you get her for Christmas?” Dane asked, hitching his chin toward the closet.

“No way. I'm not telling you,” Noah said with an emphatic shake of his head as he sat.

Dane laughed. “Why not? I can keep a secret.”

Noah shot him a wry look. “This is your first Christmas with us since Riley and I got married, so I'll explain to you how things work. For the past three years, Riley has done her best to convince someone in the family to give up the goods on her Christmas presents. She's hit up everyone—Mom, Daniela, Caleb, Mama Florinda, Janie, Kenny, even the
twins.
She's relentless, man, and downright sneaky. So this year I'm playing it safe. I figure if no one else knows what I bought for her, then no one can be tricked or even
tempted
into spilling the beans.”

“Smart man.”

“I have to be, to keep one step ahead of that lovely wife of mine. You'll see someday,” Noah told Dane with a sly grin.

Dane snorted rudely. “When hell freezes over.” Even as the words left his mouth, he heard Solange Washington's response to his question about her marital status.
God, no,
she'd said without hesitation. Which pretty much summed up
his
feelings on the matter.

So why had he found her vehement denial so unsettling?

Noah shook his head at him. “You can run, but you can't hide forever.”

“We'll see about that,” Dane countered, straightening from the doorway. “Between you buying presents for Riley almost an entire month before Christmas, and Kenny working from home this week to nurse Janie through the flu, I definitely don't think I'm cut out for marriage. It requires too many selfless acts of kindness.”

Noah smiled slowly, as if at some secret amusement. “Never say never, my friend. Never say never.”

D
ane was still at the office late that evening when the front buzzer rang, announcing a visitor. Setting aside the case file he'd been reviewing, Dane rose from his chair and took a moment to stretch the cramped muscles in his back before heading out of the room to answer the door.

The reception area was empty and mostly dark, save for a softly burning lamp perched on the reception desk. The temp had gone home at six, Noah shortly afterward, citing a “hot date” with his wife. Dane chuckled to himself, shaking his head at the memory of his cousin abruptly ending a conversation with him, striding to his office to grab his briefcase and hightailing it out of there with a grin and a wave. Once upon a time, Noah had been a notorious workaholic, habitually pulling all-nighters to catch up on paperwork or carry out surveillance assignments. But that was
before
he'd married Riley Kane and discovered a reason to rush home every night. It wasn't that he was any less committed to the detective agency and their clients; he'd simply realigned his priorities and come up with a better way to balance them, and he made no apologies for either.

As Dane approached the front door, the buzzer sounded again. He knew who the late-night visitor was even before he unlocked the door and saw Crandall Thorne standing there. Wearing a silver-gray Stetson and an expensively tailored cashmere suit, Thorne was the epitome of the urbane, wealthy gentleman who'd graced countless magazine covers, including a recent issue of
Black Enterprise
that anointed him one of the most influential businessmen in America.

Without a word, Dane stepped aside and opened the door wider to let in the old man, who entered the building the same way he did everywhere else—as if he owned the joint.

Stopping in the center of the dimly-lit reception area, he swept an appraising glance around, taking in the rustic pine furniture, leafy potted plants and papaya-colored walls as if seeing the room for the first time, instead of just two days ago. At length his dark gaze came to rest on Dane.

“Burning the midnight oil, Roarke?” he intoned dryly.

“Something like that.” Dane locked the door behind him. “You didn't have to come all the way out here in the middle of the night. I could have stopped by the ranch first thing in the morning.”

“No need. I was in town visiting Caleb and Daniela, anyway.”

“How're they doing?” Dane asked, moving around the room as he turned on more lights. He'd decided against inviting Crandall Thorne back to his office. If they stayed in the reception area, maybe Thorne would keep the visit short—although Dane knew the old man wouldn't leave until he'd gotten the information he came there for.

“They're doing well,” Crandall answered, settling on the turquoise sofa Daniela had insisted upon purchasing when she'd redecorated the reception area four years ago. The sofa, like the rest of the furnishings, complemented the Southwestern theme she'd worked so hard to create.

“Caleb's still happy at the university, and Daniela's still complaining that she doesn't look like a woman in her third trimester of pregnancy,” Crandall said with a low chuckle. There was no mistaking the way his voice softened whenever he spoke of his only son and daughter-in-law. His love for and devotion to Caleb had enabled him to embrace Daniela as if she were his own flesh and blood. No one was more excited than Crandall when the couple announced earlier in the summer that they were expecting their first child. It was the consensus that the old man was going to spoil his first grandchild rotten, although—as Crandall himself liked to point out—Caleb had had to work his butt off for everything he ever received from his father.

“Daniela was complaining that she hasn't seen you in a while,” Crandall continued, a hint of reproach in his eyes as he regarded Dane from beneath the brim of his Stetson. “She said you've missed the last three Sunday dinners with the family.”

“I know,” Dane said guiltily. “It couldn't be helped. Work was calling. But I already got an earful from Aunt Pam
and
Daniela, so I'll make every effort to be there this Sunday.”

Crandall gave an approving nod. “Don't let this—” he gestured smoothly to encompass the silent building “—keep you from realizing the important things in life.
Family
is important. Everything else is secondary.”

Dane had to swallow back a laugh. It was one thing to receive advice about his personal life from Noah, with whom he'd grown up and who genuinely cared about him. But to receive such counsel from Crandall Thorne was an entirely different matter. The man had spent over half his life pouring blood, sweat and tears into building a legal empire—at the expense of his marriage and his relationship with his son. As far as Dane was concerned, Thorne was the last one to lecture anyone about putting family first. His very presence at the agency at ten o'clock that evening was proof that business matters still ranked high on his list of priorities.

“Now then,” Crandall began, dispensing with the small talk in order to get to the purpose of his visit. “How did everything go with Miss Washington this morning?”

Dane sat down on one of the straight-backed chairs that lined the walls of the reception area and stretched out his long legs. “What exactly do you want to know?”

Crandall slowly removed his hat and set it on the small table beside him, next to a stack of glossy magazines and a glass bowl filled with pine potpourri that perfumed the air with a fresh, earthy scent.

Turning back to Dane, he inquired, “How did she react to being asked to take the polygraph test?”

Dane chuckled dryly. “She wasn't too happy about it, I can tell you that. She kindly referred me to the Employee Polygraph Protection Act of 1988.”

“Like a good little lawyer.” A sardonic smile curved Crandall's mouth. “How did she perform on the test?”

“What makes you so sure she agreed to take it?”

Crandall gave him a don't-insult-my-intelligence look. “I've been around a long time, son. Long enough to cultivate certain instincts about people. Miss Washington is a very smart woman, as I'm sure you realized within minutes of speaking with her. As you pointed out, she knew her legal rights concerning the polygraph exam, which means she knew I couldn't decide not to hire her based on the test results. I believe she guessed—correctly—that it was more about testing her reaction to the request than actually determining whether she would pass the test. And, of course, I'm sure she wanted to prove to me she had nothing to hide.”

“She may have mentioned something to that effect,” Dane said wryly.

“So, are you going to show me the test results?”

“Not a chance.”

“I didn't think so.” Crandall sent him an amused, knowing smile. “Mighty protective of her, aren't you? That didn't take very long.”

Dane shrugged, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. “If anyone needs protection, it's you,” he said idly. “We both know Miss Washington could cause trouble for you if she decided to challenge the legality of your request in court.”

Crandall shook his head with a faintly mocking smile. “She's not interested in causing me trouble,” he said so softly he might have been talking to himself.

Not for the first time since starting the background check on Solange Washington, Dane wondered about the
real
reason behind Thorne's preoccupation with her. He'd arrived at the office two days ago and specifically requested Dane, bypassing Noah and Kenneth Roarke, who'd established the private-detective agency.

Once Dane and Crandall were behind closed doors, Thorne had proceeded to tell him about the woman he planned to hire as his personal assistant. He'd asked Dane to conduct a thorough background check on her, comparable to the screenings he performed for senior executives at the law firm. Now, two days later, Dane wasn't buying the old man's explanation that Solange warranted the same level of intense scrutiny because she'd have access to his personal information and material belongings, which included expensive jewelry, priceless heirlooms and a rare art collection. Dane had been with Roarke Investigations for a year, and in that time he'd never known Crandall Thorne to ask a prospective employee to submit to a polygraph test. This was also the first time Crandall had ever shown up at the office in the middle of the night to check on the status of an employee background investigation.

He could deny it all he wanted, but Dane knew there was more at stake than Crandall hiring the most trustworthy personal assistant. The old man was hiding something, and Dane intended to find out what it was.

Crandall was watching him expectantly. “Do you have some information for me?”

Dane studied him in silence for several moments. Thorne's expression was mildly inquisitive, his posture relaxed, but there was an alertness about him, a taut energy that thrummed in the air around him like an invisible force field. He was practically waiting with bated breath to hear what Dane had discovered about Solange Washington.

“At the age of three,” Dane began, “she was adopted by George and Eleanor Washington, a middle-aged African-American couple from Haskell, Texas. They had already lost a child—a teenage son—and were unable to conceive any more children. They came to San Antonio hoping to adopt a child, preferably another boy. They found Miss Washington through a local adoption agency that has since closed down. She spent the first three years of her life in the foster care system. By the time she was adopted by the Washingtons, she'd lived with no less than ten different foster families. Thankfully, according to my source, she showed no visible signs of abuse or neglect. She simply hadn't found a permanent home yet.”

He delivered the news matter-of-factly, but the truth was he'd been moved with compassion and anger when he learned about Solange Washington's past. He'd tried hard not to imagine the cherubic, frightened toddler she must have been, bounced around from one foster home to the next, wondering why no one wanted to keep her. It was a lousy way for any child to start a life, and it made him that much more grateful for the loving, nurturing home he'd been raised in.

“What about her parents?” Crandall demanded gruffly. “Where were they?
Who
were they?”

Dane grimaced slightly. “That's where it gets a little tricky. Her birth records are sealed.”

“Oh, you could get around that,” Crandall said with an impatient wave of his hand.

“I could,” Dane slowly agreed, “but it would take more digging than usual. Her records are sealed tighter than any I've ever encountered.”

Crandall frowned. “What are you suggesting, Roarke?”

“I'm saying that someone went to a great deal of trouble to conceal the details of Solange Washington's birth. Someone wanted to make sure the identities of her birth parents remained a secret from everyone—the adoption agency, George and Eleanor Washington, even Solange herself. Someone who had not only the means, but the motivation to make a child's birth simply disappear like a puff of smoke from public record.” Dane paused, his eyes narrowed on Thorne's stony face in silent appraisal. “Why do you suppose anyone would go to such extreme lengths?”

Crandall lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug that struck Dane as a bit too cavalier. “People seal birth records for any number of reasons,” he replied blandly. “The main reason, of course, is that they don't want to be contacted by the adoptive parents or the child. That's probably what we're dealing with in this particular case.”

“Probably.” Dane offered a tight, grim smile. “At the very least, we can assume that one, or both, of Miss Washington's parents were wealthy and powerful enough to call in such a big favor. It was either a birth parent—or an interfering, overprotective grandparent.”

Crandall nodded slowly, then reached for his Stetson and settled it atop his head before rising from the sofa. “Thanks for your time, Roarke. I appreciate the information you've provided.”

Dane stared at him. “That's it? You don't want me to dig deeper to learn the identity of her birth parents?”

Crandall frowned. “There's no need to further invade her privacy. As long as Miss Washington isn't a criminal or working as a double agent for the government, I have no reason to continue probing into her background. You've satisfied my need to ascertain that she's a safe hire.”

Dane inclined his head. “Then I guess our business here is finished.”

Crandall chuckled on his way to the door. “Don't sound so relieved, Roarke. You're not getting rid of me that easily. I enjoy working with you. You're sharp, efficient and tenacious to the bone. Rest assured I'll be sending more jobs your way in the future.”

“Not too many,” Dane drawled humorously, “or my partners will get jealous.”

Crandall laughed, framed in the open doorway. “Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition between partners. It's good for business.” Tipping his head to Dane, he turned and sauntered into the dark night, looking, Dane thought, like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Dane wondered, once again, what the old man was hiding.