Fatal Exposure - By Gail Barrett Page 0,26

She wore a white silk blouse, a classic pencil skirt. She had her hair pulled up in a sleek chignon. “May I help you?” she asked in a pleasant voice.

“We hope so,” Parker said. He shot the receptionist a lazy smile that completely transformed his face, making him look younger, friendlier and far, far sexier. Brynn blinked at him in surprise. When he put on the charm, he was a lethally attractive man.

“We’d like information about your camp,” he added.

A blush crept up the receptionist’s cheeks. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll see if Mrs. Gibson is available.” She flashed Parker another smile, then padded across the rug to an adjacent office and tapped on the door. When a woman called out, she slipped inside.

Still stunned by the change in Parker, Brynn wandered across the room, needing to put some distance between them to clear her mind. So what if he’d poured on the charm? So what if that wicked smile made her heart pound and sparked an avalanche of lust in her blood? She was here to investigate a young girl’s death, not ogle Parker McCall—no matter how gorgeous he was.

Determined to conquer her wayward reactions, she circuited the room, studying photographs of teenagers engaged in typical camp pursuits—hiking through the woods, riding a zip line over a canyon, climbing rocks and paddling canoes. There were other shots of them at work—cooking, erecting tents, building a campfire and clearing trails. The last few photos showed overjoyed parents reuniting with their kids, relief in their teary eyes.

Brynn’s heart twisted, a sudden yearning curling inside her, a longing she’d buried for years. As a child, she would have bartered her soul for parents like that—parents who actually cared.

Appalled at the direction of her thoughts, she crossed her arms. What was wrong with her today? Coming even this close to her stepfather had stripped away her defenses, making her vulnerable in ways she couldn’t afford. She had to stay alert and concentrate on investigating Erin Walker’s death. This could be her only chance to get the proof she needed to stop her stepfather’s abuse.

To her relief, the receptionist returned just then with a short, dark-haired woman in tow. “Good afternoon. I’m Ruth Gibson.” The director reached out to shake their hands, her level gaze and no-nonsense manner indicating a woman used to taking charge. She ushered them into her office and motioned toward the armchairs beside the desk. “Please have a seat.”

Brynn pulled out the chair beside Parker and sat, then surreptitiously glanced around, taking in the map covering the back wall, the whiteboard displaying cabin assignments—information she was dying to see. She swept her gaze over the awards dotting the walls to the corner file cabinet behind the desk. A framed photo stood on top.

It was a photo of her.

She gaped at it in horror, so shocked she could hardly breathe. But it was her, all right. She was eight years old, fishing with her stepfather at Deep Creek Lake.

Now what was she going to do?

“You look familiar,” the director said, taking her seat behind the desk. “Have we met before?”

Oh, God. This was all she needed, for the director to recognize her. And what if Parker noticed the photo? How would she explain it to him?

Praying that neither would look toward the file cabinet, she tried to sound offhand. “I don’t think so. I’m sure I would have remembered.”

Mrs. Gibson nodded, but speculation lingered in her eyes. She folded her manicured hands on her desk. “So how can I help you?”

While Parker answered, Brynn struggled to gather her composure and play her part. She should have anticipated this. Her stepfather had founded this camp because of her—or so he claimed. Of course he would display her photo. It helped him maintain the charade.

She couldn’t let Parker see it. He would recognize her stepfather at once. Hugh Hoffman was a colonel in the Baltimore Police Department, head of the Criminal Investigation Division, for heaven’s sake. He was famous in the community, thanks to this camp and his connection to Senator Riggs. And while her appearance had obviously changed, Parker might still notice the resemblance. He was far too astute.

But maybe he would miss it. From where he sat, there was a spider plant blocking his view. If she could just keep the director from making the connection until they were gone...

“How old is she?” the director asked when Parker had finished telling her about their “niece.”

“Fifteen.” Parker paused convincingly. “We aren’t sure