Project: Runaway Bride. Heidi Betts

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.

      “Thank you,” he murmured, setting the check aside before bringing his hands back to clasp them in front of him. If he kept them together and didn’t let go, there was less of a chance he’d end up reaching for her after all.

      “Let me ask you something, Ms. Zaccaro,” he said, amazed at how calm and composed he sounded when he felt anything but.

      “Of course. And call me Juliet, please.”

      He didn’t, but went ahead with what he wanted to know most. “Who put his hands on you?”

      He was good at reading faces, body language, all those nearly imperceptible ticks and fidgets that people didn’t realize they were making, but that were remarkably telling. Juliet’s reaction flashed like a neon sign.

      She froze, her eyes widening a fraction as she held her breath. An action he identified by the lack of rise and fall to her chest.

      After a minute, the silence so thick he’d have needed a machete to cut through it, she licked her lips and offered a nervous laugh.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      His gaze didn’t waver. “Sure you do. Those are fingerprints.” He pointed to her arms, which were now pulled tight to her body. “Somebody grabbed you with enough force to leave bruises. Pretty big ones, which makes me think it was most likely a man. Your fiancé, perhaps?”

      Just saying the word made his stomach knot. The urge to throttle the bastard wasn’t far behind.

      “So unless you’re taking Krav Maga classes at the gym or got into a nasty spat with one of your sisters over the last bolt of vermillion charmeuse in your stockroom, I’d be willing to bet somebody’s pushing you around.”

      Juliet’s eyes filled with tears, and the need to punish whoever had done this to her turned into full-blown bloodlust. His fists clenched, knuckles going white. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed to remain perfectly still. To not stand up, round the desk and pull her into his arms. To not march down to the artillery room and suit up with as much weaponry as he could carry.

      He swallowed hard. Took a deep breath and held it to the count of ten, then twenty, before letting it out again.

      “Tell me what’s going on, Juliet,” he said, keeping his voice low, level, and reassuring. “Please.”

      It was the please that did it, he could tell. Despite the moisture gathering at her lashes, she’d been holding on, holding back, determined not to admit anything aloud, especially not to a near stranger.

      But on a ragged inhalation of breath, the dam broke. Twin trails of tears rolled down her cheeks and her bottom lip trembled as she started to brokenly confide in him.

      “It was Paul,” she admitted. “I don’t know why he’s acting like this. He’s always been so kind and considerate. But the closer it gets to the wedding, the more...”

      Volatile?

      “...impatient he seems to be. The tiniest thing can set him off. And whenever we discuss the future—our careers or where we’ll live—he gets so angry.”

      Still maintaining a Herculean grasp on his control, Reid asked, “Why?”

      She sniffed, straightened a little in her chair, a hint of color returning to her cheeks.

      “He wants me to move back to Connecticut once we’re married,” she answered. “But he knows my life is here now, in New York. To be close to my sisters and the business without having to commute. From the very beginning, he was fine with that—or I thought he was, anyway. He didn’t even ask me to marry him until after I’d moved down here to work, and Zaccaro Fashions was up and running. He said he was proud of me, wanted my handbag designs to be successful. And that he could work anywhere. He’s a lawyer,” she said as an aside. “I assumed that meant he would take a job at a New York law firm and move to the city, too.”

      She took a deep breath, the moisture starting to dry on her face, but leaving faint streaks through the foundation of her makeup.

      “Then he was offered a partnership at the firm he’s with now, and everything changed. He still wants me to be his wife, but he wants me to be a proper attorney’s wife. A trophy wife, I think—moving back to Connecticut to be with him, at his beck and call, giving up my work with Zaccaro Fashions to host dinner parties and attend charity events that will help further his career...”

      Typical. Reid had never even met this guy, but he knew a selfish bastard when he heard about one.

      “So why don’t you break things off?” he suggested, hoping he didn’t sound as hopeful as he felt.

      Her shoulders slumped slightly and her gaze dropped to her lap. “I keep thinking...it’s just a phase. That he’s stressed because of his promotion. Or that maybe he’s more nervous about the wedding than he lets on.”

      Lifting