Page 23 of The Pretender

He needed to stay focused, especially because he had a new problem. A motive for Gabby to kill. If none of the money went to her it was hard to see a reason for her to kill her sister. But money was a huge motive for a lot of people. It would not be a hard sell to a judge, jury or the public. “So much for the theory that she’d been disinherited.”

“Apparently she was until right before her parents’ plane crash three years ago, which is why some people suspect her in that, too.”

Damn. The evidence did pile up against her without much effort. Even he had to admit that.

But that was about things thatmighthave happened. The woman he’d spent time with, listened to as she described her sister as sweet, Harris still couldn’t see as a cold-blooded murderer.

He shook his head. “She didn’t do it. I’m not buying it.”

“Huh.” Damon made a strange clicking sound with his tongue. “That was quick.”

Harris knew he shouldn’t ask... was desperate not to ask... “What?”

“How you stopped thinking with your brain and started thinking with your dick. You’ve known her, what...” Damon closed an eye as if he were pretending to think of the right answer and didn’t know it right off the top of his head. “Twenty-four hours?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Put away the fake outrage.” Damon leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ve seen photos of her.”

Her face. Yeah, that was one thing Harris didn’t want to think about. That and her ass... those legs. “I’m not the type to get conned by a pretty face.”

“Because you’re usually the one leading the con?”

“Actually, yes.”

Damon nodded. “Then it’s good I’m here.”

“If you say so.”

“For the record, I’m going to start walking again because it seems to be taking two years for us to reach this house. Stop me one more time and I punch you.” Then Damon took off at his usual brisk pace. “While you’re busy studying her—or at least sleeping in the same house with her—”

“How did you know that?” A knocking started in the back of Harris’s head.

“—I’ll watch out for you.”

For a second Harris wondered if Wren or Stephen—or both—planted listening devices on the island. If so, they might soon get an earful because Harris didn’t plan to sleep on the floor for too many more nights.

Yeah, it was stupid and he should stay away from Gabby. Hell, he should back off just to keep from giving Damon a chance to sayI told you so, but Harris didn’t see that happening. When he saw her, all he could think about was what those long legs might feel like wrapped around his waist.

Only her quiet mourning stopped him. That and the guilty prickling in the back of his mind that demanded he leave her alone. He’d done enough damage and was here to repair that, if possible. Trying anything else, lying to her any more than necessary, would drop right into asshole territory.

She might be strong and independent and fully in control of what she wanted in the bedroom—hell, he hoped all of that was true—but she was also broken with grief. She talked about being numb and empty but that was not the woman he saw. If anything, her pain overflowed and washed all over him.

“She didn’t do it.” Harris repeated the refrain because right then he needed to say it.

Damon made a humming noise. “Let’s see if you can keep that charming level of wide-eyed optimism as the evidence rolls in against her.”

Chapter 7

She’d managed to avoid him all day. Gabby knew there likely was a better, smarter way to play this situation. She didn’t have the energy to figure one out.

The map was missing. The same one that led the kidnappers to her parents’ home eleven years ago. The drawing of the inside of the house, plus all the notes. She’d buried the packet here, on the property her family used only for vacations and parties. Not their main residence. Not somewhere she’d see the hiding place every day and replay every minute of those lost days.

Back then she’d dug out the open space in the wall. She knew about it. Tabitha knew. Now Tabitha was dead.

There was a connection there, but Gabby couldn’t see it. Not other than the obvious one, which was her, but she didn’t kill her sister. Someone else dug up the condemning information. It hadn’t appeared and her uncle wasn’t waving it around. She had no idea what that meant.

Panic raced through her. It fueled every step she took around the wildflower garden her mother had started the year before she died. Sweet peas had started their spring bloom. She could make out bright pink buds and see vines weave through the latticework of the pergola at the back of the garden.

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