On Her Side

But then it clicked and he realized who she was. And he could make a damn good guess why she’d come.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he asked softly as she stepped inside. “A Sullivan in my shop. Has hell frozen over? Or is it just the end of the world as I know it?”

Instead of scowling—the reaction he’d expect from a Sullivan—the blonde blushed, pink spreading from the small V of skin visible at her chest, up her throat to her face. But her eyes stayed on his and she even smiled as she approached him.

“Griffin York, right?” she asked, holding her hand out. “Hi. I’m—”

“I know who you are.” His coffee in one hand, he shoved the other into the pocket of his jeans. After a moment, she slowly lowered her arm. He raked his gaze over her. She was pretty—in an angelic sort of way. He’d never been much for angels. Or Sullivans. “You’re Layne and Tori’s sister.”

Her megawatt smile dimmed a fraction. “Actually I usually go by Nora. Seems easier for people to say.”

He lifted a shoulder. “You having car trouble?”

She blinked. “What? Oh, no. No,” she repeated, holding on to the strap of her purse as if it was a lifeline, “my car’s fine. I—”

“Then I guess there’s no reason for you to be here.” He nodded toward the parking lot where her silver Lexus blocked the entrance to his garage. “See you later, Nancy.”

“Really? That’s the best you can do?”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. You’re trying to prove to me that I’m so unimportant, you can’t even be bothered to remember my name.” That damn smile was back to full power, as if he amused her to no end. “Aren’t you clever to target my tender feelings that way? Is this the point where I’m supposed to take my broken heart and scurry away?”

Studying her over the rim of his cup, he sipped his coffee. “That sounds about right.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, and he wondered how she managed to convey such sincerity when she sounded as far from sorry as humanly possible. Must be that face of hers. Someone who looked like she kept a spare halo in her pocket could get away with quite a few sins before anyone realized she was like every other poor slob walking the earth.

Flawed, untrustworthy and only out for herself.

“I’m not ready to leave yet,” she continued. “I was hoping I could talk to you about your father.”

He figured that’s why she’d come, but hearing her say it still gave him a twinge of guilt, of nerves, both of which pissed him off. He wouldn’t be held accountable for his father’s mistakes or his crimes. Wouldn’t feel responsible for them.

“You don’t always get what you want,” he said smoothly, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the faded scar under his jaw. “That was one lesson the old man taught real well.”

Tossing his coffee cup into the trash, he walked over to the car on the lift, his stride unhurried, his movements easy as he opened the driver side door. But when he reached inside, he gripped the keys tightly, cranking them so hard the engine whined in protest.

The back of his neck heated. He gave the steering wheel a sharp rap with the side of his fist. Damn it. Damn her. This was his place. She had no right to waltz in here, looking all untouchable and superior, and bring up his bastard of a father.

Ducking back out of the car, Griffin walked to the shelves along the far wall without so much as a glance to see if she’d left or not. He took down a funnel and tossed it on the rolling cart next to the plastic jug he used to store old oil.

Blondie couldn’t change the rules because she had a bug up her ass about something. He never set foot in the Ludlow Street Café, the restaurant her father’s live-in girlfriend owned, where her sister Tori worked. Even back in school when he and Tori were in the same grade, Layne two years ahead of them, he’d kept to himself. He never, ever, stepped over the invisible line that had kept the Yorks and the Sullivans separated for the past eighteen years. Pretending the other family didn’t exist—let alone that they lived in the same town—had worked pretty damn well for both the Sullivans and him and his mom.

Had worked until Valerie Sullivan’s remains were found outside the old quarry, proving she hadn’t taken off with his father like everyone in town had believed. Bringing up the very real possibility that his father had killed his lover before he’d left Mystic Point.

And just like that, Griffin and his mother had been yanked back into the past. The police chief had wanted to know if they’d heard from Dale, if they had any idea where he was, how he could be reached. They hadn’t and they didn’t, but that didn’t stop the rumors from flying. Wouldn’t stop people from remembering that his mother had once been married to the man suspected of Valerie’s murder. Reminding them all that Griffin was his son.

“I spoke with my sister yesterday,” the youngest Sullivan said, standing in the middle of his garage as if nothing short of a dynamite blast would move her. Which he was starting to seriously consider. “The assistant police chief?”

He shut off the car and slammed the door shut. “Not interested.”

“Layne said you claim not to know where your father is,” she continued as if Griffin’s words had floated in one ear and out the other without meeting so much as one working brain cell as resistance. “Is that true?”

“I thought you were the smart Sullivan sister,” he said, pressing the button to raise the car on the lift.

She crossed her arms, for the first time looking uncomfortable—and wasn’t that interesting? “I don’t see what my IQ has to do with—”

“But in case you’re not as bright as they say, let me make myself very clear.” He tapped his fist against his thigh as he closed the distance between them, stopping in front of her. Though she wore two-inch heels—and he topped off at five-ten—she still had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. “I’ve already been questioned by the cops. And no matter how many times you or your sister—the assistant police chief—ask me, the answers aren’t going to change.”

“But you—”

“So unless you’re having car problems—and are prepared to pay me to fix those problems—there’s really no reason for you to be here. And nothing for us to talk about.”

Inhaling deeply, she sent a beseeching glance at the ceiling, as if asking the heavens from whence she came to grant her patience. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”

“Do you?” he murmured, figuring only an idiot would miss the calculation in her blue eyes. And the intelligence behind them.

He’d been called many things in his life, but never an idiot.

“How about we start over?” she asked, holding out her hand again. “Hi, Griffin, I’m Nora. It’s nice to meet you.”

For a moment, he almost believed she was as innocent and harmless as she looked with her perfect face, guileless charm and dry sense of humor.

She was good, he’d give her that. Damn good.

He enveloped her warm hand in his, noting the relief, the triumph that crossed her expression. But when he held on past what was considered the polite amount of time for a simple handshake, that relief turned to unease. The triumph to confusion. He felt no small amount of satisfaction from that unease. And he had no problem using it against her.

“How about this?” he asked quietly, tugging her toward him until she was so close he could smell her light, clean scent. Could hear the soft catch of her breath. Her throat worked, her eyes widened as they met his. “You walk yourself out of my garage, get into your car and drive off my property. Or—”

“Or what?” she asked, yanking free of his hold, her face flush. “You’ll toss me over your shoulder, throw me into my trunk, hook my car to your tow truck and drag me out of here?”

He could easily imagine himself doing the first and wished he could figure out a way to make the second idea work without going to jail for it. “Not that I have anything against those suggestions, but no. I won’t do anything.”

She smirked, reminding him of how Layne had looked a few weeks back when she’d tried to arrest him for the dubious crime of being Dale York’s son. “That’s what I thought.”

No, she thought she had him firmly by the balls. And all she had to do to keep him in line was squeeze.

“I won’t do anything,” he repeated. “I’ll let the Mystic Point Police Department do it for me.”

She blinked. Then she laughed. Bright, tinkling laughter that filled the cavernous space of the garage and seemed to echo back at him.

He was in hell.

“Keep that sense of humor,” he said. “It’ll come in handy when they take your mug shot.”

“Come on,” she said as if inviting him to share in the joke. “You’re not going to call the police.”

“I’m not?”

“Why would you? It’s not like you and the Mystic Point PD have a strong relationship based on mutual trust and admiration.”

Because he was Dale York’s son. Because he’d been a wild and rebellious kid and was an adult who didn’t take shit or back down from anyone.

“I’m a tax paying, law-abiding citizen,” he pointed out, not getting so much as a parking ticket since he turned eighteen and realized he’d be following his old man’s footsteps straight to prison if he didn’t keep his nose clean. Watching her, he took out his cell phone. “Make sure to duck when they put you in the back of the squad car. Wouldn’t want to hit your head and mess up that fancy hairdo.”

“While I’m sure that’s excellent advice—and comes from your own personal experience—I don’t need it. It’s not illegal to have a conversation with someone. Unless, of course, you know something about the law I don’t?” she asked in a sweet, condescending tone that grated on his last nerve.

He raised his eyebrows. “You always have that ego, or did it come with the law degree?”

“It’s not ego. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” She wanted to prove how smart she was—so much smarter than him because she went to some fancy college while he was lucky to finish high school. So much better than him by virtue of her last name. “And I don’t care what the cops do with you. Arrest you for trespassing, cite you for loitering or give you a ticket for being a pain-in-the-ass. Doesn’t matter to me as long as they get you out of my hair and out of my garage.”

Biting her lower lip, she regarded him warily as if trying to figure out if he was serious. “Okay,” she said with a decisive nod, “if that’s the way you want it—”

“It is,” he assured her, mimicking her somber tone.

“Fine.” Her sigh was very much that of a poor, put-upon female forced to deal with a brainless, tactless male. “We’ll do things your way. But for the record,” she said, wagging her finger at him like some librarian to a naughty schoolboy—never one of his favorite fantasies, “let me just say I’m not happy about this. Not one bit.”

“Life’s tough that way. Best get used to it.”

“Thank you for those words of wisdom,” she said so solemnly he didn’t doubt she was messing with him. “I will endeavor to keep them in mind.”

Endeavor. Jesus. Who talked like that?

She strode away, her back rigid, her arms swinging like one of those women he saw power-walking in Hanley Park each morning.

Except, she didn’t march her irritating self out the door. She brushed past him, crossed to the long shelf behind the lift and stared at the tools there as if trying to figure out which one went best with her outfit.

A prickle of trepidation formed between his shoulder blades. What was she up to?

Finally she grabbed a small crowbar and held it up as she walked toward him. “I’m borrowing this.”

His muscles tensed, and the prickle morphed into an itch of warning. Not of physical violence—though he didn’t doubt this piece of fluff was capable of it. Everyone was. But that whatever she planned on doing with that crowbar was going to piss him off but good.

“You plan on beating me over the head for not talking to you?” he asked mildly, his hands at his sides, his weight on the balls of his feet in case he had to defend himself.

“Of course not,” she said, passing him by without taking so much as a swing. “That would be a little overkill, don’t you think?”

She walked into the sunshine and he figured his skull was safe—for now. Unable to resist, he followed her, stopping to lean against the door frame as she marched up to her car, raised the bar over her shoulder like a batter ready for a grand slam—and swung hard. Her headlight exploded in a spray of glass. Pieces clung to her dress, sparkling against the dark material. More rained down onto the pavement.

And people thought he was dangerous.

“Lady,” he said, straightening, “you’ve got a sparkplug loose up in that head of yours.”

She strolled over to the other headlight and took it out as well. Cocking one hip, she studied her handiwork for a moment then started whaling away at the grill, the clang of metal on metal setting his teeth on edge.

She didn’t have the strength to do much damage to the grill, though she gave it her best shot—no pun intended. But what she lacked in muscle, she made up for in enthusiasm. She grunted with exertion, her hips swaying in time with her swings, the hem of her dress lifting to show a few more inches of her thighs.

He might have enjoyed the sight if he didn’t want to wring her pretty neck.

Griffin glanced behind him. He could go back inside, close the door and pretend this whole bat-shit crazy episode had never happened. He was tempted, sorely tempted to do just that. But he had customers scheduled to arrive soon and traffic was picking up along Willard Avenue. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed what the psycho blonde was doing.

And wonder what he’d done to drive her to it.

He stormed over and grabbed the bar on one of her upswings, plucking it from her hand. “Knock it off,” he growled, frustration eating at him, making him think about taking a few swings at the vehicle himself. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m done anyway,” she said, breathing hard. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright—with temper? Or insanity? “Now, let’s go inside so we can discuss how you can help me track down your father.”

CHAPTER TWO

GOOD LORD, but Griffin York was beautiful.

His hair, a rich shade of chocolate-brown, fell past the collar of his T-shirt in tousled waves and yet did nothing to soften the sharp line of his jaw, the harsh slash of his cheekbones. His brows were thick and drawn together as he studied her warily, his green eyes flecked with gold. He had a slight dimple in his chin, broad shoulders, a flat stomach and muscular arms.

Beautiful and, she realized, pissed off.

What a crying shame. Someone that pretty shouldn’t scowl so much.

“You,” he bit out, “are a crazy person.”

Nora’s hands stung from the reverberations of hitting the car with the crowbar, her heart raced from her exertion. “Not crazy. Just determined.”

Although, she thought with a glance at her poor car, she might plead temporary insanity. But it had felt surprisingly good—in a therapeutic way—to hit something after all the trauma and drama of the past few weeks. After the frustration of realizing the local police couldn’t, or wouldn’t be able to bring Dale York to justice.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Griffin said in his gravelly voice.

She hooked her pinkie under a strand of hair stuck to her temple, narrowed her eyes at him. Okay, she was trying to be fair here. She didn’t know enough about Griffin to judge him, to dislike him as her sisters did. To mistrust or fear him because he had a less than stellar reputation.

Yes, she was trying to be fair and he wasn’t making it easy.

“You said that unless I had a problem with my car, there was nothing for us to talk about.” She gestured to her car. “Well, I have a car problem now.”

His gaze went from her to her car and back again. “What’s to stop me from kicking you out of here anyway?”

“Oh, let’s see. How about integrity? A latent sense of decency? Or maybe everyone is right about you. Maybe you are just like your father.”

His jaw worked, his mouth a thin line, and for a moment, she regretted the low blow. But a good attorney knew not only which questions to ask, but which argument to make to get the win.

And there was no win she wanted more than to see Dale York spend the rest of his life behind bars for her mother’s murder. But first, she had to find him.

“You want to talk,” Griffin said tightly. “You’ll have to do it while I work.” Then he turned and walked back into the garage.

The man put a new spin on the word stubborn.

Luckily so did she. And so far, she was ahead of the game since he’d stopped threatening to call the cops on her. Not that the police would really arrest her. But they would send someone out to check what was going on, which meant Layne would find out Nora was there.

And she wanted to keep that little tidbit of information to herself for…oh…forever. Or longer.

Inhaling deeply, she shook the glass fragments from her dress. Looked at her car once more. She winced. She’d only had it a few months. It’d been a gift—an extravagant, thoughtful gift—from her aunt and uncle upon her graduation from law school. Maybe her family was right. Maybe she was a bit impulsive from time to time.

But at least she got the job done. And that was all that mattered.

Not seeing Griffin in the garage, she headed toward the direction he’d come from when she’d first arrived. She found him in a cramped office searching through the piles of paper on a metal desk. She scratched her elbow. Great. She was probably breaking out in hives from this mess. How did he get any work done?

“Nice office,” she lied, crossing to check out a yellowed calendar on the wall. Pursing her lips, she studied the photo of a brunette with huge, curly hair, melon-size breasts and a teeny, tiny black bikini, sprawled across the hood of a white Lamborghini. “May 1987, huh? I take it a memorable event happened that month you like to be reminded of?”

He straightened, resentment and anger rolling off of him like waves crashing onto shore. “Knock it off.”

“Knock what off?” she asked with a smile as she tucked her hands behind her back. God only knew what sort of flesh-eating disease lingered on these surfaces.

He waved a hand in the air. “Your whole Little Miss Sunshine routine.”

“Routine?”

“Yeah, your act where you pretend there’s some sort of holy light shining down on your head while you shoot rainbows from your ass. Knock it off because I’m not buying it.”

Bristling, she ground her teeth together behind her grin. “It’s not an act. It’s called being pleasant. Friendly.”

He swept up a black bandana from the desk. “We’re not friends.”

“No kidding,” she muttered. Which was fine with her. She had more than enough friends already. She certainly didn’t need to add one bitter, antagonistic, angry, rude man to the list. And if he couldn’t be bothered with social niceties, then he could kiss her rainbow-shooting ass.

Jerk.

“Where’s your father?” she asked, no longer caring if she sounded haughty or demanding.

Setting his foot on the seat of the chair behind the desk, he laid the bandana on his jean-covered thigh and quickly folded it into a strip. “As I’ve already told Chief Taylor, and your sister, I have no idea.”

“You must have heard from him at some point during the past eighteen years.”

“Not even once.”

What could she say to that? They’d never heard from their mother and had never thought anything other than she hadn’t cared enough to contact them. Of course, now they knew she’d been dead all those years, but before the truth had come out, no one had questioned Valerie’s lack of communication with her family. Did Nora have any right to doubt Griffin now?

“Let’s back up a bit here,” she said, digging a small notebook out of her purse. She tucked it under her arm and searched for a pen. “We’ll start at the—”

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can be. I don’t know where he is.”

Damn it, why was it she could never find a pen when she needed one? Giving up she gingerly picked up a pen from his desk, held it between the tips of her fingers. “I believe you.”

He shook his hair back and put the bandana on, tied it behind his head. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

Not much if the sardonic lift of his mouth was anything to go by. So much for her thinking he’d be more receptive to helping her if he thought she was on his side.

“Whether or not you are aware of your father’s current whereabouts is irrelevant,” she said, “because I’ve hired a private investigator to track him down.” But instead of sounding certain and resolute, she came across as smug and, she hated to admit it, slightly obsessive.

“Industrious little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured. She didn’t take it as a compliment. “What does your family think of that?”

“They’re all for it.”

He set his hands on his hips, the faded material of his green T-shirt pulling tight across his muscular chest. “You’ll give lawyers a bad reputation lying that way, angel.”

Angel. Well, it was better than Nancy. Even if he did say angel the same way normal people said tapeworm. Still, the only reason he refused to call her by her given name was to prove he couldn’t be bothered to remember it.

That it bugged her was her own damn fault.

And what was up with him reading her so easily? How could he possibly know her family had no idea she’d hired a P.I. from Boston? Not that she planned on keeping that information from them indefinitely. She had every intention of telling them. After Dale was found and arrested for her mother’s murder.

“The more background information the P.I. has,” she said, ignoring her unease, her guilt at keeping a secret from her family, “the easier it will be for him to do his job.” Swinging her purse onto her shoulder, she took the notebook in one hand, held the pen poised over the paper. “Does your father have any living relatives? Anyone he may have sought out after leaving Mystic Point?”

The dark fabric of the bandana made his eyes seem lighter. Colder. “I get what you’re after, and I guess I can even understand where you’re coming from—”

“Hooray,” she said, her tone all sorts of wry.

“But I can’t help you.”

“You mean you won’t.”

He scratched under his jaw. “Either way, the end result’s the same.”

“If you’re uncomfortable discussing this with me, you can talk to the P.I. directly.” Her words were rushed. Desperate. “Just give him five, ten minutes of your time, answer a few quick—”

“No.”

She shook her head. “But you can help us. It’s the right thing to do.”

And that meant everything to her. Doing what was right. What was best for others.

It was one of the many things that proved she was the exact opposite of her mother.

“I’m not interested in doing what’s right,” he said so simply, she had no choice but to believe him. To resent him for it.

“If you won’t help, maybe your mother would be willing to give me some answers.”

He edged closer to her, his expression hard, his eyes glittering. Wishing she still had the crowbar—just in case—she stepped back, held the notebook over her furiously pounding heart. “You stay away from my mother.”

She didn’t mistake his quiet words for a request or even an order. They were a warning, a challenge as subtle and soft as the summer breeze.

Pulling her shoulders back, she forgot her nerves, her momentary fear of him. She never backed down from a challenge. “But you and your mom may be able to help find Dale. Isn’t that what you want?”

“It’s not really a question of what I want,” he said, watching her carefully. “This—you being here, hiring some Sherlock Holmes wannabe to waste his time and your money searching for the old man—it’s all about what you want.”

“He needs to pay for what he did to my mother,” she said through her teeth.