Jasmine Cresswell - Suspect

“But how in the world can I prove that I didn’t kill Jason?”

“I don’t know that yet. If I’m going to help you, I need to find out everything that happened last night in painstaking detail. That’s why I need you and Sophie to stay with me at my apartment so that you and I can take as long as we need to discuss the case. I can only work out a strategy once I know everything you know about what happened last night.”

“I understand.” Chloe straightened her spine, almost visibly girding herself for battle. Liam saw the return of some of the fire and strength of mind which he knew must be an integral part of her character. Any woman capable of achieving gold medal status in an Olympic event as challenging as downhill skiing must have courage to spare.

“I appreciate the offer of safe haven in your home, Liam. That’s far more generous of you than I could expect.”

“You’re welcome.” That was more true than he would have liked.

“There’s one thing we have to get clear, though.” Chloe’s mouth firmed into a straight, determined line. “You do understand there’s no way I can allow you to tell Sophie you’re her biological father—”

“Not tonight. Of course not.”

“Not tonight, and perhaps not ever.”

There was no way in hell he’d allow a child of his to grow up not knowing the truth about her parentage. He’d seen what happened to families built on a foundation of well-meaning lies and it wasn’t pretty. But that was a battle for another night, and he completely agreed with Chloe that a few hours after Jason’s death was no time to be burdening a three and a half year old with the knowledge that the man she loved hadn’t been her biological father.

“I agree that we need to protect Sophie,” he said. “Tonight we’re going to do that by developing a strategy for keeping you out of jail. Telling Sophie that I’m her father—”

“Jason was her father.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Telling Sophie that I’m her biological father is a discussion for another night. We need to take this one logical step at a time. Right now, that means we need to get Sophie back to my apartment without alerting the cops. Go ahead, Chloe. Call your sister. Let her know I’ll be leaving to pick up Sophie within the next ten minutes.”

Chicago, the Same Morning

Paul Fairfax climbed onto the stationary bike in his custom-designed exercise room and grunted in annoyance when he saw that his wife had altered the settings. This was his favorite piece of equipment and Julia knew it. He wished she’d stick to the treadmill, for Christ’s sake, since she was the one who’d insisted on spending thousands on the fanciest damn treadmill manufactured in the entire United States. Probably the fanciest treadmill in the entire goddamn world, Paul reflected morosely, since Julia’s ability to spend money reached a level that came close to high art.

God forbid that she should change her spending and shopping habits now, he thought sarcastically. He’d warned her repeatedly since Ron Raven died that things were tough and the business was going through a little rough patch. He might as well have been telling the wind blowing over Lake Michigan to stop ruffling the surface of the water.

Not that he expected his financial problems to last for long, Paul reassured himself. He was twice as shrewd as Ron had ever been, and the fact that he’d been unable to raise any new investment capital since Ron’s disappearance didn’t mean that the Chicago business community thought that Ron had been blessed with better instincts for turning a profit. How could anyone think that? Paul would never accept that good ole boy Ron, dragged up by a ranching family in the wilds of Wyoming, had been smarter than him—the eldest son and heir to a fine Southern family with roots growing three hundred years deep in the rich Georgia soil.

Changing the bike settings back to his liking, Paul flicked the switch and started pedaling. The challenging routine he’d designed for himself was so ingrained by now that he would have to put in at least fifteen minutes of intensive effort before he felt the rewarding tug of muscles that meant his workout was paying off. It was a never-ending struggle to keep his fifty-three-year-old body looking and behaving ten years younger than his calendar age, but it was a struggle Paul was determined to win.

God forbid that he should ever get a paunch of the sort Ron Raven had developed over the past couple of years. Paul despised people who didn’t have sufficient discipline and willpower to keep their bodies in shape. Ron had no real willpower where his physique was concerned. He’d constantly bemoaned his weight problems, but he’d loved gourmet food and vintage wines far too much to stick to a diet.

Paul had always been mystified by the way Avery had fallen instantly in love with a man as crude as Ron Raven. He was even more mystified by the fact that his sister had apparently remained in love, right up until the day a Chicago cop came and informed her that Ron Raven was not only missing from his Miami hotel room, but that he had another wife and family living in the godforsaken hick town of Thatch, Wyoming. As a crowning insult, the woman in Thatch was actually Ron’s legal wife. Avery, a flower of Southern womanhood, had been nothing more than Ron Raven’s long-term mistress.

Ron had been downright rough around the edges when he first came into Avery’s life but for some mysterious reason, she’d been captivated by Ron’s self-confidence and aura of bravado. When Avery announced her engagement, Paul pointed out to her that Ron was as brash as he was bullheaded. Avery had laughed and replied that her fiancé’s brashness was one of the things she liked best about him. She’d claimed it was refreshing after too many years of being surrounded by men whose energy had been sapped by generations of keeping up appearances under the merciless Georgia sun.

Paul had to admit that Ron had been handsome enough back in those days. It was infuriating, though, that Ron’s magnetism hadn’t faded with the passing years as his waistline expanded and his hair grayed. What the hell had been the root of his appeal? True, the guy had been blessed with bedroom eyes. True, his bluff manner somehow conveyed a hint of the intellectual power and business smarts hidden behind the jovial facade. But Ron had looked every one of his fifty-seven years. What’s more, he’d developed the beginning of arthritis in his knees and he’d lost his springy stride. His hands had been stubby and gnarled with calluses. He’d looked, in fact, as if he actually worked on his damned cattle ranch.

The memory of Ron’s frequent trips to the Wyoming ranch and the rival wife he’d kept there was enough to make Paul’s heart pump fast with rage. He still couldn’t believe how Raven had fooled them all. To think that Ron had spent twenty-seven years with his legal wife tucked away at the Flying W Ranch, while Avery stayed in Chicago, living in a fool’s paradise with no legal claim to the wealth and prestige that her skills as a hostess had helped Ron secure. And all the time he, Paul Fairfax, had been adding class to Raven Enterprises—not to mention lending legitimacy to the scam of Ron’s second bigamous marriage—by acting as business partner to the cheating son of a bitch.

Even if Paul could have forgiven Ron for deceiving Avery, he could never forgive his former business partner for the fact that he’d exposed the entire Fairfax family to public humiliation. Ron’s bigamy shamed everyone it touched, leaving Paul to go through life knowing that people he met were sniggering behind their hands because his sister had never actually been married to the man she lived with for over a quarter of a century. Paul’s blood pressure had skyrocketed in the wake of that humiliating discovery and he’d never been able to bring it down since. Another injury to lay directly at Ron’s door, Paul thought angrily. Taking blood pressure pills was something only a loser should have to do and he was absolutely not a loser.