Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) (6 page)

“Riley, are you talking of Harrison Taylor? Did you know him?”

She nodded. “Harrison was like the son Daddy never had… Harrison is Meme’s grandson…our housekeeper in Charleston. I grew up with him.”

A sudden hush filled the night’s air, sobering Kincaid. The revelation hadn’t come as a shock. He felt there had been some sort of connection.

No, the news had not been surprising. What had been shocking had been his meeting with Mark Buccieri earlier in the evening.

Kincaid could have been knocked over with a feather when Mark began to lecture him about the consequences of dating an Ashcroft.

“Your career is on the fast track. Don’t derail it for some woman. You can’t trust an Ashcroft.”

Mark’s intention of diverting Kincaid’s attention away from this case had failed miserably. Moreover, his interest in Miss Riley Ashcroft had been flamed. The woman had his head spinning.

On their first meeting, she had an air of aloofness, one that kept strangers at a distance. Certainly an Ashcroft, even if a
poor
relation by all accounts.

From the brief research he had done, he had discovered she was suing her uncle for the very property he now stood in, which told of her stubbornness: it was a daunting task to go up against the mighty Ashcrofts.

Riley Ashcroft was not a quiet, submissive woman—definitely a challenge for any man. He had never been one to pass up a challenge.

Kincaid maneuvered the two of them back down on the couch, but said nothing more. When he wrapped his arms around her, she laid her head on his broad shoulder. He felt the dampness of her quiet tears, but made no attempt to stop her crying.

With Riley’s emotions spent, soon he heard her breathing in a steady rhythm. She was asleep.

He sat there in the stillness of the night, holding her until the morning light.

* * * *

After a fretful night of dreams, Riley woke, startled. The dreams happened most nights, but this morning she had awakened with her head against someone’s firm chest and cradled in strong arms. Taken back, she had forgotten…

Slowly, the night came back to her. Glancing around, she saw the empty Jameson on the table, along with two bottles of water and Motrin.

“Hope you don’t mind. I looked through your medicine cabinet for aspirin. It was all you had. Figured we both needed it after last night. I woke you and gave you a couple.”

She didn’t remember, but he must have. Her head wasn’t pounding. He shifted and she fell back on the couch.

Leaning on his arm above her, he smiled. “Good morning, Miss Ashcroft.”

Heat climbed her neck and cheeks. He was teasing her.

Up so close, she scrutinized him. His face was even more handsome, tanned from summer sun, giving it a healthy glow. His strong nose and firm jaw accentuated those deep-blue eyes that mesmerized her.

His shirt was unbuttoned, giving a full view of his powerful torso. Her skin tingled with awareness.

He touched her cheek and ran his finger over her lips. “Did you sleep well?”

His voice was deep…sensual. Immediately, she knew the danger she was in. He affected her in a way no one had in such a long time.

Her mind told her to get up—leave. She had to get away from his touch. The last thing she needed was a complication, but her body resisted, craving more from him.

His lips touched hers. A simple kiss and she melted into him, surrendering to his desire. She felt his hands caress her arms and slide under her T-shirt. He buried his face in the nape of her neck. Cupping her breast with one hand, he pulled the material over his intent with the other. A moment later, his mouth covered her sensitized breast, driving her insane with need…need for him…

Bang! Bang! Bang!
The front door shook with the fury of a visitor.
Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Riley! Riley Ashcroft! I know you are in there! Open this door!”

Abruptly, Riley pushed Kincaid back and rolled off the couch. Stumbling to her feet, she pulled her shirt down.

“Damn!” Kincaid muttered under his breath. “Boyfriend?”

“Worse,” Riley answered. “My uncle.”

Riley fingered through her hair and straightened her clothes. Her efforts did little to cover the fact she had slept in them or with who—not with the half-naked man standing behind her.

For a moment, she considered asking Kincaid to hide, but quickly assessed it would be a useless gesture. He had the look of a wolf protecting its pack, ready to pounce. 
Typical alpha male
.

She didn’t need or want his interference. Her uncle’s outburst didn’t bother her; she was well accustomed to his displays. His temper tantrums were Walter’s preferred method of communication with her.

Now, her head pounded.

Geez, Walter had the worst timing.
 She reached for the door handle. From behind, Kincaid placed his shirt about her shoulders.

“Here, put this on.”

She had a protest on her lips, but looking down to what she had on, complied before she opened the door.

Walter Ashcroft didn’t wait to be invited in. He pushed by Riley, his face ablaze. Huffing and puffing, evidently he had run up to her door. Rarely had she seen her uncle dressed casually on a weekday, but he was this day.

“Where is it? It has to be here.” Walter frowned at her, clearly perplexed.

“You are going to have to be more specific.” Riley sighed heavily. “It’s too early in the morning for this.” She walked toward the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?”

Riley pointed the question at Kincaid, but her uncle would have none of it. He grasped hold of her arm.

“You think I don’t know?”

“Don’t touch me.” She delivered the words tonelessly and jerked her arm back. Defiance sparked in her eyes as she gestured Kincaid back. “I haven’t a clue what you are talking about and don’t care.”

“You don’t? You forget I know you too well,” Walter whispered in quiet fury. He turned to Kincaid, who edged toward him. Walter eyed him from head to toe with contempt. “What? Are you her bodyguard now?” he mocked with a forced laugh. “I can assure you she doesn’t need you. She’s a barracuda…she’ll eat you alive.”

“Enough!” Kincaid demanded. “Unless you have something specific to talk to Riley about in a
civil
tone, I suggest you leave.”

Riley wished Kincaid had remained silent. She could handle Walter. He attacked because it was what he did, giving little thought to anyone but himself. Completely narcissistic.

Fists clenched in frustration, Walter swallowed hard. “The package. You received a package from Helen. Where is it?”

For the first time, he had her attention. She asked, “How did you know?”

Slowly, she closed her mouth, thought better of it, and sealed her lips. Walter stared at her, eyes dark and emotionless, like a shark’s. He was baiting her. She reprimanded herself. She knew better than to take the bait.

Kincaid appeared surprised. His brilliant blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I think the question is more why it is so important to you?”

Riley glanced over at Kincaid. She had almost forgotten he was a reporter this morning, but not now. The fact resonated within the room, along with the knowledge he had done his research on the family.

Totally unaware of the spectacle he was making of himself, Walter ignored Kincaid and continued to press Riley. “You received a parcel from Helen last week.”

A faint smile emerged on her face. “As a matter of fact, I did. What is it to you?”

“I want to see it. Now! The FBI found evidence that her fool son was trying to blackmail the family. Were you in on it?” His voice snarled. “Is that what you have resorted to?”

“You really should cut down on your caffeine, Walter,” she advised.

She walked briskly into her bedroom and came back with a large manila envelope. She dumped the contents out on the couch. Pictures littered the cushions. Pictures of when she was younger…with her father. The home of her youth. Beach days.

Walter snatched up the envelope and looked into it. He turned it upside down and lit into Riley, “Nothing else?”

Pointing to the return address,
Helen Barlow, 1744 Old Oak Street, Roslindale, MA,
she asked, “Is this what you wanted to know?”

Instead of answering, Walter shuttled through the pictures. Not finding what he was looking for, he threw them up in disgust.

In contrast to his edgy manner, she kept her voice deliberately calm. “You know, I find it awfully suspicious that it is you interrogating me and not the FBI, if what you say is true. It makes me think it is more the private investigators you hired who had questions.” She shook her head. “You’re too old for such games. All you had to do was ask.”

Walter’s eyes bored into hers. “I believe it would be better served to ask what your game is, Riley. Why did Helen send you these pictures? Have you been in contact? Did she send you anything else?”

“What’s with all these questions? We
talked
yesterday.”

“But you didn’t mention that Helen sent you an envelope. What did you expect me to think, especially with the police trying to figure out who murdered the poor woman?”

Sighing heavily, she made no attempt to hide her irritation; her patience was spent. “For God’s sakes! Mrs. Barlow called me a couple of weeks ago. Said she was going through some of her old boxes and found some pictures she thought I would like to have. They are of Daddy and me…there is even one of Momma.”

Realizing they were getting nowhere, she concluded, “If it makes you feel better, I will show the police what Mrs. Barlow sent me. But honestly, do you really believe she was killed over my old pictures?”

“No,” Walter acknowledged. “But I’m warning you, Riley. Don’t cross me.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Take it any way you want.” He scowled at her. “You got your way. You have the house for a little while longer. You are going to the gala, but if you try anything…anything at all to me or…”

Suddenly, it hit her. She murmured under her breath, “Olivia is home.”

“And she is quite disappointed with the way the events have unfolded.” Walter added, “Stay away from her at the gala…more importantly, Dennis.”

She met his eyes once more. He had delivered the message he had intended. He crossed the room. Before he exited, he turned at the door. “If you don’t heed my warning, you will regret it. That I promise you.”

Riley stared at the closed door. She rubbed her tired eyes. Frustration clawed at her.
Why did she ever think any dealings with her uncle would have gone any different?

Why…oh why…did she care?

Abruptly, she pivoted around. When she glanced over at Kincaid, he gave her a sympathetic look. It pissed her off.

She couldn’t take any more. Without another word, she left the room and retreated into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

* * * *

As Riley stomped off into her bedroom, Kincaid couldn’t take his eyes off her finely rounded curves. The thought of holding her this morning—caressing…kissing—bombarded his libido.
Damn Walter Ashcroft
.

Reason dictated that this was no time to be contemplating sex. He had a story in his hands. He would be well served to listen to the warning bells going off concerning Riley Ashcroft. But if this morning had been any indication, this strong attraction he felt for her wasn’t going to be easily ignored.

Walter Ashcroft ruffled his feathers, but the man hadn’t accomplished his objective if he thought his little display this morning thwarted Kincaid’s efforts for this scoop. No, far from it.

Kincaid smelled blood. Instead of diverting his attention, Ashcroft had only served to magnify his interest.

The more Kincaid thought of the story, the more his instincts flared.

Walter Ashcroft’s hot temper was well documented over the years. The man was used to getting his way. This time, though, Riley had called him out immediately, making it quite obvious there was little love between the two.

It was also apparent Ashcroft had come to make a point—
warning
 Kincaid against Riley. He heard it. Just didn’t care.

Kincaid glanced over his shoulder. He heard water running. 
Riley must be taking a shower. Probably assumed
I left.

He hadn’t.

Walking over to the couch, he picked up one of the pictures. Smiling back at him was what seemed a happy family. A young, pretty woman, blonde with a head full of curls and a warm smile, held a chubby, giggly baby girl. A man held the two close to him and looked down at them, beaming with happiness.

Kincaid recognized Jack Ashcroft. In another picture, Jack had his arms around his brothers, Walter and Donald, smiling broadly, seemingly greatly enjoying each other’s company. From the picture, it looked as though the three had been close, but appearances certainly were deceiving when it came to this wealthy Boston elite family.

Then a picture caught his eye. Jack Ashcroft knelt on one knee beside a young African-American boy dressed in a Pop Warner football uniform. A handsome lad. Pride radiated from Jack Ashcroft’s eyes at the boy.

Was this Harrison Taylor? How the hell had this normal-looking kid become a vicious cop killer?

As he stared at the boy, questions bothered him. The information he had obtained indicated the Taylor case had been cut-and-dry. What had Helen Barlow known that had gotten her killed? Was her murder connected to that knowledge or just a coincidence?

Was it a coincidence that Jack Ashcroft had known Harrison Taylor…from Riley’s own words…looked at him like a son? Or was he about to get himself mixed up in a family squabble over nothing more than greed and power?

Every instinct he possessed told him there were just too many coincidences, which added up to a story. He needed only to take one layer off at a time. One thing was for certain—he had a great deal of hard work in front of him and he needed Riley’s help.

Right now, though, he was hungry.

* * * *

The aroma of coffee filled the air, along with the sound of bacon sizzling. Riley rounded the corner of her hall and saw the culprit.

“I thought you were gone.”

“Without a shirt?” he asked in a light, casual voice, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be cooking breakfast in her kitchen. “Sit.” He pointed to her breakfast nook. “My cooking skills are limited at best, but I think it’s edible. Hope you like scrambled eggs.”

Riley contained her protest and complied with his demand, mainly because she just realized she was starving. He gave her an easygoing smile and sat a glass of orange juice in front of her.

“You smell of gardenias.”

He didn’t give her a chance to reply, but turned on his heels and went back to the stove. She took a small sip of her juice, but couldn’t take her eyes off her shirtless chef. In the bright morning light, she was awestruck by his broad shoulders and ripped stomach.

She had convinced herself in the shower that this morning on the couch had been an anomaly, but she had been foolish to think it would have been so easy to forget. The memory of his kisses lingered; she shivered on the remembrance.

Portioning the eggs out on the plates, he added a couple of pieces of bacon with a slice of toast. He looked up as he rounded the kitchen counter with their breakfast. “I think it’s time we had a heart-to-heart.”

She sighed. “Really, I don’t know what we have to say.”

He laughed, a light, easy laugh. “I will confess talking isn’t what I would like to be doing, but for right now, it’s probably best we lay out some ground rules.”

She watched him sit beside her. So sure…so arrogant with his damn potent sensuality. She fought the urge to run. He invoked feelings she thought she would never feel again. It frightened her.

“Yesterday when I met you, I was trying to tell you that I’m looking into the Harrison Taylor case,” he explained. His voice altered. The flirtation was gone, turned serious and firm with purpose. “Being a journalist, I don’t lean one way or another. I let my story take me. It took me to Mrs. Barlow’s door.”

His words took her aback. Kincaid had found a connection to the Ashcrofts. Something told her he wasn’t letting go, whether or not she helped him.

“What do you want from me?”

“I need to know as much about Harrison Taylor as I can. You admitted you knew him.” He placed the picture of her father and a young Harrison down in front of her. “Tell me his story from your point of view.”

“I don’t like to talk of that time in my life,” she replied with brutal honesty. “It’s hard for me.”

“I know.” He gave her a small smile and took her hand in his. “I heard the pain in your voice last night…saw it in your eyes.”

Suddenly, emotions overwhelmed her.
Lord, what was wrong with her! She was never like this.
Wiping back a stray tear, she shrugged, uncomfortable again.

“Trust me, Riley. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She looked into his eyes and saw his determination and focus. She withdrew her hand. “I don’t need you,” she said under her breath. “I don’t need anyone. Understand that. You would do well to heed Walter’s warning. I am an Ashcroft. You got me at a low point last night, Mr. Kincaid.”