Excerpt of Risking Trust by Adrienne Giordano

Chapter One

"Mr. Taylor, do you want to make a statement?"

Michael remained still, his hands resting on his thighs, his shoulders back. He'd been in this Chicago P.D. interrogation room for the better part of an hour and hadn't said a word.

"Mr. Taylor," Detective Hollandsworth repeated, "your wife was murdered last night and you have nothing to say?"

Oh, he had a lot to say, the first being he didn't kill his wife, but if he'd learned anything running one of the nation's most elite private security companies, it was to keep his trap shut. "Not until my lawyer gets here."

An alien sensation settled on him. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even sadness because a woman he had loved, a woman who had once been vibrant and fun and sexy, a woman who had grown into a greedy, unhappy wife was dead. Jesus. He may have wanted to end the nightmare of a marriage, but murder? No way.

In his worst bout of rage he wouldn't have done that to her. Sure they were finalizing a brutal—and costly—divorce, but money he had and if giving up some of it meant getting her out of his life, he'd do it. Simple arithmetic.

Right now, the only thing Michael knew was that these two detectives banged on his door at 8:00 a.m. to haul his ass in for questioning.

He flicked a glance to the two-way mirror behind Hollandsworth's head. The room's barren white walls and faded, sickening stench of fear-laced sweat made Michael's fingers twitch. He'd keep his hands hidden from view. No sense letting his nerves show.

The side door flew open and smacked against the wall with a thwap. Hollandsworth and his younger partner, Dowds, shifted to see Michael's lawyer storm in wearing a slick gray suit complete with pocket hanky.

Arnie Stark set his briefcase on the metal table. "Is he under arrest?"

"Not yet," Hollandsworth said.

"Do you have anything to hold him?" Arnie held up a hand and his diamond pinky ring flashed against the overhead light. "Wait. Let me rephrase. Do you have anything to hold him on that I won't shred in the next two hours?"

The room stayed quiet.

Arnie turned to Michael. "Have you said anything?"

"No."

The lawyer jerked his head without dislodging even one strand of his gelled gray hair. "Good. Let's go."

Thank you. Before Michael could move from his chair, Hollandsworth stood. "We're not done."

Arnie stopped in the doorway, spun around and said, "Charge him then."

Again the room went silent and Michael broke a sweat. The idea of being locked up scared the hell out of him. Hollandsworth's face took on the tight look of a balloon about to burst and Michael let out a breath.

Arnie pointed to the door. "We're leaving."

Once outside the police station, the late March wind coming off Lake Michigan slammed into Michael and he sucked in air as if he'd been without it for months. "I didn't do it."

"I don't care," Arnie said. "I'm your lawyer, not your priest. You want someone to hold your hand, I'm not your guy. You want someone to keep you out of prison, that's me."

Not that Michael needed a babysitter, but hell, he'd appreciate his lawyer believing in his innocence. Then again, this particular lawyer was the best in the city. Anyone living in Chicago knew that because he seemed to be on the news every other week touting another win.

"Keep me out of prison. What now?"

"We go back to my office and you tell me every disgusting detail of your relationship with your wife."

"Ex-wife," Michael corrected.

"Not yet she wasn't."

"It's on the four o'clock news," Mrs. Mackey said, pressing the button on the television remote.

Roxann tore her gaze from the declining numbers on the revenue reports and watched as the Chicago Banner Herald's longtime executive secretary, her hair teased and sprayed into submission, switched the channel from CNN to the local news station.

As much as Michael Taylor had wronged her, Roxann couldn't imagine him a murderer. Or maybe she didn't want to imagine him a murderer. "Has he been charged?"

"He's only been questioned. I heard from the newsroom that his lawyer got him out before he said anything."

"What about an alibi?"

"He says he was home alone. His doorman saw him go up."

Buildings have back doors.

"I can't believe it. I'd heard they were fighting over money and couldn't agree on a divorce settlement, but still, to kill her?"

Mrs. Mackey shrugged. "I always knew he was no good."

"Eh-hem."

The secretary whirled to the office door and her head snapped back. Michael Taylor, the man who at one time had filled Roxann with unrivaled happiness, stood in the doorway. Her body went rigid. Literally frozen.

Twelve years ago he ripped her in two, carved out a chunk of her soul and left her emotionally obliterated to the point where she'd made her life so orderly there'd be no room for devastation. Ever.

She had yet to mend that wound.

How much did he hear? She shot out of her chair, sending the blasted thing careening against the wall. He stepped into the office and a tingle surged up her neck.

Michael.

Here.

Now.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said. The sound of his voice, resonant and edgy, had stayed with her over the years. A warm blanket on the coldest January day.

Then she remembered she hated him, despised him with a fury that would level a city block. Her back stiffened, pulling her into immediate battle mode. What could he be doing here?

An explosion of something Roxann hadn't felt in a long time consumed her. She'd spent years preparing a speech that would reduce Michael to a sniveling lump of flesh. Now she had her chance. Twelve years of compartmentalizing. Twelve years of missing him. Twelve years of righteous anger. Breathe. One, two, three. Stay calm. Roxann imagined starting at her toes and rebuilding herself bit by tiny bit.

Michael continued to stare, his angular face resembling sculpted rock. She had loved that face. Not quite handsome, but rugged and intriguing. He wore his dark hair combed back and the style accentuated the few wrinkles around his eyes.

Mrs. Mackey glared at him. "How did you get up here? Did you even stop at the security desk for a visitor's pass?"

This man left Roxann with enough emotional ruin to fill Soldier Field and her secretary was worried about a visitor's pass? Squeeze every muscle. More control. Tighter. Rebuild.

She held up a hand. "He's here now. Let's not worry about the pass."

"I would have gotten a pass if the guard hadn't ignored me for ten minutes. What should really fry you is I made it up eight floors unimpeded."

"Should I have him escorted out?" Mrs. Mackey asked.

A little late for that. Roxann turned toward her desk. "No, but thank you. I'll handle this."

"But—"

Roxann eyed her. "I've got it. Thank you."

Mrs. Mackey offered Michael one last sneer before leaving. Any other time, Roxann would have laughed, but right now? Not so much. She ran a hand over the coil of hair tucked behind her head. Something told her this wouldn't be good.

"So," she said. "This is unexpected."

"That, it is."

The understatement of the century. If someone had told her Michael would be in her office today she'd have stayed in bed. Sure she wanted the opportunity to skewer him for the destruction he'd inflicted upon her, but seeing him now, a successful businessman whose simple presence commanded the room, took her breath away. Yes, Michael had become better looking with age and according to the media, more dangerous.

She had wanted a life with him and over the years, as she watched from afar, the what-ifs tortured her. He had given himself to someone else, when all she'd ever wanted was for him to give himself to her.

For all the time spent obsessing over it, Roxann still couldn't determine why he had chosen Alicia over her.

In place of marriage, Roxann lived alone, worked like a demon and occasionally squeezed in dating men who never managed to capture her interest.

And Michael, the one man who had captured said interest was now suspected of killing his wife.

After the Rottweiler of a secretary left—twelve years hadn't thawed her out—Michael remained standing.

The light blue silk blouse Roxann wore magnified the sparkle in her eyes, which shouldn't have been a surprise. She always did have a sense of style. Her blond hair was shorter now, but still long enough to tie back. He preferred it loose, not that his opinion mattered anymore.

"I heard about your father," he said. "I'm sorry."

Roxann had adored her old man and losing the belligerent bastard to a massive heart attack had to be rough.

It also left her in charge of the second largest daily newspaper in the state.

"I'm managing." She tapped her fingers on the desk, glanced at her chair and finally sat. "You're here, you might as well sit."

He gave the office a once over and what an office it was. No sharp corners—only a smooth cherry desk, a couple of matching guest chairs and a shiny table with a few cushioned chairs. The feminine version of a power office. Gone were the days of her being buried under stacks of newspapers in a cubicle the size of a matchbox.

On the walls hung a variety of framed newspaper front pages from all over the country. Two from The Philadelphia Times caught Michael's eye and his belly shrunk to the size of a pea. She'd gone to Philadelphia following their breakup. After he'd made the biggest mistake of his life.

Roxann studied him with those big eyes that weren't quite blue or green and had always seen right through him. After all these years, being face to face with her clawed at him, reminded him of the pitiful excuse of a man—namely him—who'd failed her. A lot had changed since then and countless times he'd thought about marching in here and telling her he'd screwed up. But he'd never done that and always went home to the wrong woman. The woman who, as of early this morning, was dead.

A knifing pain shot through his shoulders and he cracked his neck against the invasion. Toast already. What a goddamned day. He could sleep for a month.

"What can I do for you?" Roxann asked in that what-are- you-doing-here-and-when-are-you-leaving tone she did so well.

He ignored her comment and set his briefcase on the floor before sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He didn't expect her to be happy to see him. Truth was, he owed her a twelve-year-old explanation, and he'd love to give it to her. Not gonna happen though. Telling her why he'd left all those years ago would only hurt her, and there had been enough of that between them already.

He glanced at the television where a local news reporter stood in front of Area Thirteen headquarters speaking into the camera about Alicia's murder.

"The victim was found in her North Side home," the reporter said.

The victim. And then a photo from three years ago of Michael and Alicia at some charity function flashed onto the screen, and he dug his fingers into his forehead. What a shit storm.

Roxann remained silent, but used the remote to turn off the television before leveling a paralyzing gaze on him. She should work for the government. He doubted any man could withstand the pressure of those eyes.

"I'm sorry about your wife."

"Ex-wife," he said.

She turned her hand palm up. "Does it matter?"

"Legally, she was my wife, but the relationship was over. Had been for two years. I didn't consider her my spouse and I did not kill her."

If that information made any impact at all, Roxann didn't show it. She simply stared at him.

"What do you want, Michael?"

"I have a deal for you."

"What kind of deal?"

Now or never, Taylor. "The P.D. is only interested in hearing a confession. If I don't want to be charged with murder, I'm going to have to find out who killed Alicia. But I want you to help me."

She sat forward, folded her hands on the desk. "That's what you want?"

"Yes."

"I could give you a list of things I want, but if memory serves, that doesn't necessarily matter."

Michael whistled, long and slow. Damn, he'd missed her. "I see your aim is still deadly."

"Don't start."

"Why not? You used to enjoy verbal combat."

It had, in fact, been their version of foreplay and almost always wound up with them finding a quiet spot, wherever they were, to bang the living hell out of each other. Back then, whether it be sex or arguing, Roxann always engaged. Always. Without a doubt, there'd been times when he'd manufactured verbal swordplay to get himself laid. As selfish as it was, he always made it worth her while.

She sighed. "Our history doesn't give you the right to expect things from me."

Expect things? He didn't expect squat from anyone, particularly her. The instant throbbing behind his eyes warned of his firing temper and he stood to release some energy. You're blowing it, Taylor. "Wait—"

"My days of waiting for you are over, Michael."

Verbal swordplay engaged. "This is business, Roxann, not personal."

She stood. "I don't want any part of either."

"Yes, you do, because you'll get an exclusive. I'll give the Banner total access to my life, good or bad."

That stopped her cold. A high profile murder and an exclusive. A publisher's dream come true.

Roxann pursed her lips, probably thinking about it. "Why come to me with this deal? Why not the Chronicle?"

"I'm pissed at them."

For some reason, that made her laugh. "Why? Because they lambasted your company last year when your operative got caught in that civilian shooting in Afghanistan?"

"Yes. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was eventually cleared. The Chronicle never followed up on that detail and left the public thinking my guys were a bunch of heartless, murdering barbarians. The Banner at least got the story right."

"Yes we did. Thank you for saying that. I still don't want your deal though."

She headed toward the partially open door, pulled on it and peeked out to the reception area where the Rottweiler waited to attack.

Michael's head pounded a steady beat as his frustration mounted. This meeting hadn't gone as he'd planned. He'd expected her to jump at the exclusive. Should have known better. She didn't jump at anything. He picked up his briefcase, wandered to the door and stopped close enough to Roxann to get a whiff of her almost non-existent perfume. Was it that same fruity, kind of floral scent? He had to be imagining it. He closed his eyes and breathed it in again. Yep, the same. Good old predictable Roxann.

He opened his eyes, their gazes met and the magnetic charge pulled him closer. That deep wanting he'd never recovered from still existed.

But Rox wasn't having any of it and slid sideways to reclaim her personal space. Didn't matter. She felt the power between them. How could she not? Her eyes narrowed and he half expected her to whack him.

"Just think about it, Rox. Please." The please couldn't hurt. "You'll realize it's a good deal."

She shook her head no, but said, "I'll think about it."

Forward motion. Excellent.

"There's something else you should know."

"Can't wait," she cracked.

"As of last Friday, Taylor Security has acquired DSI, the Banner's security company. You'll get a letter. Nothing in the agreement will change."

Her eyes opened a bit wider, but she remained quiet.

"The Banner is an important client. I wanted you to hear about the change from me."

After another long minute of staring at him like he'd stolen her life savings, she said, "Well, I appreciate that. It's a bit of a shock, but hopefully the good service we've been getting from DSI will continue."

Yeah, this conversation was awkward, but a good businessman didn't walk away from a solid deal because his ex-girlfriend would be a client.

"I'll set up a meeting with your facilities manager. We'll bring our key people over, do a walkthrough of the building and make sure your security is adequate."

Roxann grinned for the first time. "Given that you got up here, I think we both know the security isn't adequate."

She had that right. Any psycho could have stumbled into the newsroom and blown it away. "You'll need some minor upgrades."

"I'm sure we will."

Mrs. Mackey appeared just outside the doorway. "Now should I call security?"

"Unfortunately," Roxann said. "He is security."