He clenched his eyes shut for a heartbeat, then turned to gently place the donkey on a pillow. It was almost as though he was tucking the stuffed animal in bed. Then he stood and looked down at Jess, long and hard.
“My daughter didn’t run away.”
“I didn’t say she did.”
“Not with words.”
She stepped back from the bed, realizing she’d let herself get too close. “The investigation is wide-open right now, Mr. Armstrong.”
“It’s Liam.”
“I prefer to keep—”
He stepped closer. “Don’t lecture me about protocol, Jessica.”
She tilted her head to avoid staring at the chest hair curling in the open V of his black dress shirt. He did it on purpose, she knew. Stood within her personal space.
The man was a master at leveraging his advantages. But she knew how to play the game. She knew how to handle men like Armstrong, like her father, powerful, driven men with no time for anyone or anything but their agenda.
And again, she felt an odd kinship with a seventeen-year-old girl she’d never met.
“We both know you were sent here to appease me,” Armstrong said silkily. “Fine. I’ll overlook who your father was, what your motives are, so long as you find my daughter.”
Jess slid her hands into the pockets of her suit jacket. They’d become oddly damp. “What does that have to do with using your first name?” she asked coolly. “We’re working on a case together, not having tea.”
“I want you on my side, but it’s hard to believe you’re there if you keep calling me Mr. Armstrong. Only the IRS uses that.”
The urge to laugh didn’t sit well. “I see.”
The blue of his eyes hardened into cobalt. “If you were sent here to appease me, Detective Jessica Clark, do it. Call me Liam.”
Her heart strummed harder, sending heat to every nerve ending. Standing in teenage Emily’s room, that was exactly how Jess felt. Years of training and experience melted away, leaving her feeling like a freshman alone with the school bad boy, worried her parents would come charging in, hoping they wouldn’t.
And she hated it. She’d hated it sixteen years before, hated it even more now.
“Liam.” She didn’t know why, but she stuck out her hand.
He took it in his, curling his long fingers around hers. His grip was warm and strong, not crushing like so many others she’d encountered. “Find my daughter, Jessica. Don’t make me sorry I trusted you.”
The words sent an unwanted jolt through her. So did the feel of his palm pressed to hers, the heat of his fingers encasing her flesh and bone. “That’s my job.”
And she intended to do it, no matter what this man did to her in the process.
Because of Emily, she reasoned. The missing girl who reminded Jessica entirely too much of herself.
* * *
Liam watched the enigmatic detective head down the dimly lit walkway. After the way she’d outlined her strategy, he wanted to believe she was eager to get started finding Emily, but he suspected her brisk departure had to do with the father, not the daughter.
He couldn’t say he blamed her. He’d pushed hard, determined to discover if her mettle was as strong as she conveyed. He needed to know who he was dealing with.
An odd tightening in his gut warned him the lady detective possessed all the traits her gutsy demeanor promised. Intelligence and confidence, conviction. She didn’t back down when most people did. She stepped forward when most people ran.
Her ill-tempered partner strutted to his car, while she slid into hers, the streetlight giving Liam one last glimpse of those stunningly long legs. The engine roared to life, headlights cut through the darkness, and just like that, Wallace Clark’s daughter vanished into the bitter early morning.
“What do you think?” Liam asked the sad-eyed Labrador retriever sitting obediently by his side. He rested his hand on her head. “Will Wally’s daughter come through for us? Or will she be like all the others?”
Molly gazed at him.
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley