Project Runaway Bride(3)

But that didn’t stop him from being oddly glad to see her again. His heart was pumping as though he’d just hopped off the treadmill after an hour-long workout, but he felt the way he used to as a kid when he got exactly the toy he wanted from the bottom of his cereal box, even though there were six different possibilities.

Clearing his throat, he gestured for Juliet to take a seat, then returned to his own. “Ms. Zaccaro. It’s nice to see you again, though I wasn’t aware we still had any outstanding business.”

Although he thought of her as Juliet in his head, he was always careful to address her as Ms. Zaccaro, keeping things as professional as possible between them, as well as giving himself the necessary reminder that she was—or had been, anyway—a client and that she was engaged to another man.

She smiled shakily and gave a small sniff. Which was when he noticed the trace of red rimming her eyes and the slight pallor of her skin beneath a light layer of makeup.

His own eyes narrowed. Was she in trouble? Was something going on again that she needed his help with?

Part of him wanted to groan—the last thing he needed was a legitimate reason to spend more time with her—while another part was almost hoping for the worst.

Licking her glossed lips, she said, “I just wanted to drop by and give you a check for the work you did on my case.”

He had the decency to flush at that. He hadn’t done any work for her. If anything, he’d fed her bad information and given her the runaround for almost a month. Only because he’d been trying to protect the confidentiality of the case he’d already been working on for her sister, but still. He didn’t deserve payment for that.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he told her roughly. In fact, he owed her the retainer she’d left with him back, and made a mental note to see that it was returned.

“Of course I do.” Her words were resolute, but her tone was still shaky. “I hired you to do a job and you did it. To the best of your ability, at any rate,” she added with a gentle half smile.

“I lied to you and wasted your time,” he said—more sharply than he’d intended out of disgust with himself.

“Only because you were already working for Lily, trying to help her save our company. If it hadn’t been for you ‘pretending’ to look for her, I probably would have taken off and tried to find her myself. And we both know I had no idea which direction she’d even gone, so I would have been running in circles, likely getting into more trouble than I imagined she was in. What you did was noble, and pretty much your only option, given the circumstances.”

He made an impolite, noncommittal noise, his mouth turning down at the sides. That wasn’t his opinion of the situation at all, and having her describe it in such a positive, almost heroic light only made him feel like that much more of a heel.

Ignoring him, Juliet went on. “And you’re still helping us, which I think shows you how much confidence we have in your ability. But those abilities don’t come cheap, and I knew that when I approached you.”

Unsnapping the small clutch purse on her lap, she pulled out a check and leaned forward to slide it across the desk toward him.

Because he suspected no amount of argument would sway her, and tearing it up in front of her would be a ruder gesture than even he was comfortable expressing in mixed company, he reached for the check with no intention of ever cashing the damn thing.

That was when he noticed the bruises. Just a few small, light discolorations dotting the inside of her forearm.

Anyone else would probably have dismissed them entirely. People bumped into things all the time, ended up with bruises of an unknown origin.

But he’d seen too much in his thirty-nine years, was unfortunately all too familiar with the signs of someone putting his hands on another person. Domestic abuse, a down-and-dirty street fight, or simply self-defense practice, there was a difference between I bumped into the armoire and somebody grabbed me by the arm with enough force to leave five perfectly formed fingertip-shaped marks on my skin.

His jaw clenched with fury at the thought of anyone—anyone—grabbing her in anger. He also hated the thought of anyone other than himself grabbing her in passion, but that was not how she’d gotten those bruises. Not there. Not in that pattern.

His first instinct was to reach out and grab her arm for a closer look. Which was about the worst idea ever. The last thing a person who was already sporting bruises from an aggressor needed was to have some other jerk manhandle her soon after.

So he settled for biting down on his rear molars so tightly they threatened to grind into dust and taking the check she was still holding out to him. Slowly, carefully, while contemplating his next best move.