Assumed Identity - By Julie Miller Page 0,29
offered.
“Why? This is my shop, not yours. Whatever happens here is my responsibility.”
“But a team of bodyguards—”
“—would drive away business.”
“This isn’t the time to assert your independence, Robin. The Rose Red Rapist isn’t a man you want to take chances with.”
Needing to change the subject before the fear and helplessness she’d felt last night grabbed hold of her again, Robin turned to introduce everyone. “Brian Elliott, this is Paul and Chloe Vanderham. They’re longtime customers here.”
“We’ve done business together before.” Brian reached across the counter to shake hands with Paul. Making himself at home in her workspace, Brian helped himself to a paper towel from under the counter and wiped the black newsprint from his hands before extending a hand to Paul’s wife. “Chloe, how are you?”
“Wonderful, as always. Wonderful to see you, too.” The platinum blonde picked up the newspaper, then looked at Robin. “This is you? I felt so sorry for the woman in this article. And that man who came out of nowhere to rescue you? Gabe Knight made it sound like a fairy tale.”
Um, no.
Perhaps the three glares directed her way finally got through Chloe’s heartless rambling. She arched her brows in a pitying frown. “Are you all right? Should you be at work today?”
Brian answered before she could. “No, she shouldn’t.”
Okay. Another reason why she and Brian hadn’t worked. She could speak for herself. “I’m not going to let that man turn me into a recluse. I have to earn a living to support Emma. Besides, staying busy helps keep my mind occupied.”
She didn’t need the particular distraction these three provided, though, as the conversation veered off into a discussion of the Kansas City Journal’s editor-in-chief, Mara Boyd-Elliott.
Paul glanced at the paper over his wife’s shoulder. “Mara is doing a fine job of running the Journal in her father’s place. I miss old Jared Boyd, though. He was a man who didn’t mince words. I always enjoyed reading his editorials.” Brian bristled at the mention of his ex-wife. “Do you two still keep in touch?”
“My father-in-law is dead.”
“Ex-father-in-law,” Paul corrected, continuing the conversation as cluelessly as Chloe had, as if a deceased family member and divorced wife were better topics than Robin’s assault. “I meant Mara, of course. Do you keep in touch with her?”
“Only regarding legal issues that come up, or to discuss an article for the paper.”
“That’s right. She’s commissioned some glowing reviews and spectacular pictures of your downtown renovation project in the paper’s Kansas City Living section.” Paul went on, as oblivious to the discomfort he was causing as he’d been to his wife’s desire to share the ceremony planning experience with him. “I’ll bet Mara still does as much to benefit your business as she did when she was your wife.”
Robin could feel the tension radiating off Brian beside her. “Paul—”
“You wanted to see me, Ms. Carter?” Leon Hundley pushed through the swinging doors, thankfully interrupting the awkward conversation.
“Yes, Leon, thank you.” Robin’s greeting was more effusive than the friendly professionalism she normally treated her employees with. Although, she was taken aback for a moment when she saw the turtleneck the younger man was wearing beneath his green uniform shirt. Now that last night’s thunderstorm had blown past, the June afternoon had turned sunny and humid. “Aren’t you hot in that?
He shrugged his wiry shoulders. “You know how cold it gets in the fridge room, ma’am.”
“I suppose.” She herself kept an old sweater in her office for when she had to work in the fridge room for any length of time. Well, if he could tolerate the humidity, his discomfort wasn’t her concern. “I need to see the stock manifest from the flowers you picked up this morning.”
Leon pawed at his collar, as if the turtleneck felt as itchy and out of season as it looked. “I don’t have that list. I turned it over to Mark after I unloaded everything. We’ve been doing it like that for a while now since you’ve been gone. I just turn the paperwork over to him.”
Mark Riggins was her assistant manager, and had run the shop in her absence. Although an alarm bell went off in her head at the change in store procedure coinciding with the accounting discrepancies, she trusted Mark. From what she knew of his flamboyant personality, she wouldn’t think bookkeeping would be his favorite thing. Maybe he’d just made some honest mistakes—deliveries that hadn’t been entered, an order he forgot to record payment on. When the stream of customers died