Til Death Do Us Part (30 page)

But Cleo was as different from Hope as sunlight is from darkness. In one short week, Roarke had learned to admire Cleo greatly. His speculation about her nobility had been correct. She was a woman with a mission, and that mission was to save the livelihood of her treasured employees and keep McNamara's a family-owned-and-operated business.

“We have people working here now whose grandfathers once worked here for Uncle George and my grandfather, before World War II.” Cleo led Roarke into the shipping and receiving department, where raw materials needed to produce McNamara fertilizer were brought in and the finished product sent out.

“Hey, Blake.” Cleo waved at an attractive man with black curly hair. “Come meet my husband.”

A tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties turned around and smiled. “Ms. McNa—I mean Mrs. Roarke.”

Carrying a clipboard in his hand, he limped toward
them. That's when Roarke noticed the heavy brace on the man's leg.

Cleo and Blake exchanged a hearty handshake, then Cleo turned to Roarke. “Simon, this is Blake Saunders, our shipping and receiving foreman. He's the man who keeps everything moving in and out of McNamara Industries. Blake, this is my husband, Simon Roarke. Simon is going to head up a small security force here at the plant to investigate the accidents we've had and to look into some recent computer tampering.”

“Rumors have been spreading like wildfire,” Blake told them. “An accident-free plant with a top-notch maintenance crew doesn't suddenly start having accidents. At least not two in ten days.”

“What are people saying?” Cleo asked.

“They're saying there's something fishy going on.” Blake nodded toward the crew of workmen, each man busy at his job. “We know Mr. Sutton and his folks want you to sell McNamara's. And…well…some of us have been wondering just how far a person would go to try to persuade you to sell. Not saying anything against Mr. Sutton and certainly not accusing him of anything.”

“It's all right, Blake. I understand. I have my own doubts. That's why Simon—Mr. Roarke—is going to begin an investigation and hire a small security force.”

“May I tell the men?” Blake laughed self-consciously, then corrected himself. “I mean the crew. I keep forgetting that we've got Margie. She's so much like one of the boys, most of the time I forget she's female.”

Roarke scanned the crew, trying to figure out which one was Margie. Then he saw her. Big, rawboned, with linebacker shoulders, Margie drove one of the forklift trucks that the crew used to stack the pallets of fertilizer sacks and to load those pallets onto trucks for ship
ping. When Margie lifted a stack of pallets and turned the forklift, Roarke noticed that she was young and not bad-looking. But there was a hardness in that face, a strength and determination that warned off intruders.

“I have an even better idea,” Cleo said. “Why don't we let Roarke introduce himself to the crew and explain things.”

Blake glanced at Roarke, the two men's gazes meeting squarely. In that one moment, Roarke sized up the other man and made an instant judgment call. Blake Saunders was an okay kind of guy.

“Listen up,” Blake said loudly, getting the attention of several crewmen. Then slowly, one by one, the workers paused to listen.

“Why don't we go over to your desk so you can show me your new pictures of Michael,” Cleo suggested. “I think Simon can handle this without any help from me.”

“How'd you know I have new pictures of Michael on my desk?” Laughing, Blake followed Cleo across to the partition in the corner that created his work nook.

Cleo listened while Roarke introduced himself and explained about the problems McNamara Industries had been having and the steps he intended to take to investigate those problems and to prevent any future incidents.

Cleo lifted a gold-framed photo of an adorable one-year-old boy with his father's curly black hair. “How's Michael doing since the doctors put the tubes in his ears?”

“Great. We sure did appreciate those balloons you sent to the hospital, and the toys,” Blake said.

Cleo and Blake chatted while Roarke spoke to the crew, then when Roarke finished speaking, he glanced around, looking for Cleo. When he saw her, he motioned to her. She nodded and smiled. Although the employees talked among themselves, they went back to work quickly.

“I forgot to congratulate you on your marriage, Mrs. Roarke,” Blake said. “I hope you and Mr. Roarke will be as happy as Kristy and I are.”

“Thank you.” Cleo wished everyone would stop congratulating her on a marriage that was as phony as a three-dollar bill. She felt like a fraud. Dammit, she was a fraud. She'd been married over a week and still hadn't consummated her marriage. What difference did it really make how well acquainted she and Roarke were before they made love? The end result would be the same—divorce.

The telephone on Blake's desk rang. When he reached out to answer it, Cleo mouthed “Goodbye” and started walking toward Roarke, who had just stepped out onto one of the loading platforms.

Under different circumstances, she would be proud to be married to Simon Roarke. He'd certainly acquired the respect of all the McNamara employees. She'd seen it in their eyes when they'd met him, noted it on their faces when they listened to him speak. He was a commanding presence. Strong. Self-assured. Emitting an aura of power.

Roarke watched Cleo as she walked toward him. She took quick, short steps, her black heels tapping on the concrete floor. Behind Cleo, Margie turned the loaded forklift around and headed it in the direction of the loading platform on which Roarke stood. A truck waited at the end.

The forklift lurched forward. Margie yelled. Cleo swirled around just in time to see the forklift barreling down on her. Margie jumped out of the vehicle. Her robust body hit the hard concrete floor. She cried out in pain.

Cleo froze to the spot for one brief instant, then realized she was in danger. Before she could move, Roarke shoved her out of the forklift's path, pushing her so hard
that they both toppled to the floor. As they hit the concrete, he lifted her so that his body took the brunt of the fall.

She clung to him, her heart in her throat. Gasping for air, she gazed into his eyes and saw genuine fear. He'd been afraid for her.

“I—I'm all right,” she told him. “Are you hurt?”

He lifted her to her feet, steadying her with his strong arm around her waist. “I'm okay, but we're both probably bruised and we'll be awfully sore by morning.”

The forklift rolled out onto the loading platform. Without a driver to guide its path, the vehicle veered to one side and dove headlong off the side of the platform, crashing onto the pavement below. Several pallets filled with sacks of fertilizer hit the concrete and broke apart.

“What happened?” Cleo caught a glimpse of the crew as several rushed toward her, while some hurried to help their injured coworker and others went to inspect the wrecked forklift. “Is Margie all right?”

“I'm not sure what happened,” Roarke said. “Margie seemed to lose control of the forklift and you just happened to be right in the way.”

“I didn't lose control,” Margie said as Blake and another man helped her to her feet. “The damn brakes wouldn't work. I tried using the emergency brake, but I couldn't get it to work, either.”

Jerking her head around, Cleo stared at Roarke. “Another unexplained accident?”

“Blake, have one of your men take Margie to the emergency room,” Cleo ordered.

“I'll be okay,” Margie said.

“Let's make sure of that,” Cleo told her. “Regardless of what the E.R. doctor tells you, take tomorrow off.”

“And Blake,” Roarke called out to the foreman, “get
maintenance down here, pronto. I want that forklift gone over with a fine-tooth comb. I want a full report on my desk first thing in the morning.”

Blake issued orders to a crewman to drive Margie to the hospital, then rushed over to his desk and called maintenance.

“The rest of you guys get back to work,” Blake said once he'd hung up the phone. “Morton, get that mess cleaned up. Use another forklift and get any of the undamaged pallets loaded.”

Leaning against Roarke, Cleo glanced down at his big hand lying across her waist. Blood pooled across his knuckles.

“You've hurt your hand.” Turning in his arms, she lifted his hand and inspected it.

“It's nothing. I skinned it when we fell.”

“We should go to first aid and let the nurse clean it,” Cleo said, holding his hand tenderly.

“You can clean it for me when we get home.” He jerked his hand away from her, placed it in the center of her back and nudged her forward. “We were planning on leaving straight from here, weren't we?”

“Yes, but—”

Blake walked up beside them. “Do you think the forklift was sabotaged?”

“I think it's likely,” Roarke said.

“You believe someone intended for me to be run down?” Cleo asked.

“No.” Roarke slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her up against him. “There's no way anyone would have known exactly when you'd be in shipping and receiving, and if this person tampered with the brakes, there would be no way of timing precisely how long it would take them to malfunction.”

“So this was set up as another plant ‘accident,'” Cleo said. “And another McNamara employee has been injured.”

“Should I call the sheriff, Mr. Roarke?” Blake asked.

“Let's hold off on that until I see the maintenance foreman's report. If the brakes on the forklift were tampered with, then I'll notify the local authorities.”

“Yes, sir.” Blake looked at Cleo. “Are you sure you're all right? Is there anything I can do for you?”

Cleo held her trembling hands out in front of her. “Whew. I guess I'm still a little shaky, but I'll be fine. I need to get out of these dirty clothes—” she glanced down at her soiled linen suit, scuffed heels and shredded panty hose “—and maybe take a hot bath before my muscles start screaming.”

“I'll handle things here,” Blake said. “And, Mr. Roarke, I'll make sure that report is on your desk first thing in the morning.”

“Fine.” Roarke grasped Blake's hand and shook it firmly. Once Blake walked away, Roarke said in a low voice, for Cleo's ears only, “I'll have Kane fly in tomorrow, and we'll get an internal investigation under way as soon as possible.”

Roarke didn't like the smell of this accident—it stank to high heaven. It made perfect sense to sabotage equipment in the plant and to create computer problems if all the assailant wanted was to pressure Cleo into selling McNamara Industries. But then if the person's motive was to kill Cleo, things didn't quite add up. The only incident that might have been an attempt on her life had been the rifle shots, which hadn't come close to hitting her. There was definitely more going on here than met the eye. He just hadn't quite figured out what. Not yet. But he would.
Then heaven help the person or persons causing trouble for Cleo.

“If you need another Dundee man, that's fine with me,” Cleo said. “But with you already here, why do we really need someone else to investigate and to hire and train a security force?”

Roarke dropped his hand to her hip and squeezed gently. “Are you sore from the fall?” he asked.

“Not much. But I do feel a bit battered,” she admitted. “I'm okay, Roarke. Now, answer my question.”

“Because, Mrs. Roarke, I can't be in more than one place at a time.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I can't be with you twenty-four hours a day, protecting you, and handle all the details of a complete investigation, while hiring and training a security team.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose you're right.”

With his hand on her back, Roarke guided her down the side steps, off the loading platform and into the private executive parking lot. When they reached her Jaguar, Cleo's steps faltered. Roarke steadied her instantly, one arm going around her waist as one hand clamped down on her shoulder.

“I thought you said you weren't injured.” Roarke growled the words as he gazed down at the blood seeping through her scuffed jacket sleeve, staining the lavender linen.

The pavement beneath her feet swirled around and around. Moaning quietly, Cleo grabbed Roarke's arm and leaned against him. “I'm just a little dizzy.”

Roarke swept her up in his arms, unlocked the Jag and deposited Cleo on the passenger side, then rounded the car and slid into the driver's seat.

“I'm taking you to the hospital!” He revved the motor, shifted into Reverse and zoomed the Jag backward, out of the parking place.

“No, please. I'm all right. Really. I'm not dizzy anymore. I think maybe it was just a tiny bout of delayed shock or something.”

“If you don't want to go to the emergency room, then as soon as we get home, I'm going to check you over thoroughly myself. And if I think you need to see a doctor, you won't argue with me.”

“Thanks.” She reached over and clasped his forearm. “I agree to your terms.”

Roarke shifted gears. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. He flew the Jag out of the parking lot and onto the highway. “Roarke?”

“What, Boss Lady?” He hazarded a glance at her. Her face was too pale. Even if she wouldn't admit it to herself, Cleo was badly shaken.

“When we get home, if we run into Aunt Beatrice before we can clean up, would you please help me downplay the accident?”

“I'll do what I can to reassure her, but your aunt is no fool. She's bound to suspect the truth.”

“Exactly what is the truth?” Releasing Roarke's arm, Cleo lay back in the seat and rested her head on the soft leather.

“The truth is that someone's damned and determined to get you to sell McNamara Industries,” Roarke told her as he maneuvered her Jag along the highway, heading west toward home. “I think the shooting right after your uncle's funeral was only an attempt to frighten you, and I believe these problems at the plant are designed to wreak havoc and convince you that the safest course of action is to sell.”