From This Day Forward. Christie Ridgway

to her, Mr. Chase, I can have her call you if she truly needs assistance,” the detective suggested.

      That image of a slight, big-eyed Annie sprang into his head once more. “I’ll be there shortly,” he said again. Then he tossed the phone back onto its receiver, dashed down the stairs and headed for his car.

      When a paddy wagon pulled up to the sprawling, one-story police complex, Griffin was already inside the building, propped against the lobby wall and staring through its smoked-glass windows. As an officer opened the back doors of the vehicle, Griffin pushed away from the wall and strolled toward the lobby entrance, his hands shoved in his pockets.

      His eyes narrowed as people slowly descended from the vehicle. Would he recognize her? She had to be twenty-something now, because he remembered his mother saying she’d gone to cooking school and was running a catering business from the housekeeper’s cottage on the estate.

      But he hadn’t caught a glimpse of her since returning a few days ago. Even though he was back home, the cooperative deals he’d brokered between Chase Electronics and several Pacific Rim countries during the past two years continued to consume his time and attention.

      A young woman with wavy, blondish-brown hair and big brown eyes jumped from the paddy wagon. He glimpsed a small, triangular-shaped face and his belly clenched. Even as she turned to help someone else out, he was certain.

      Annie. He recognized her—no, it was more than that. He knew her.

      Without thinking, Griffin found himself pushing through the glass doors and hurrying down the cement steps. An officer held out a hand. “You’ll have to stay away from the witnesses, sir.”

      Griffin didn’t take his gaze off Annie. Yes, it had to be Annie. She wore slim-fitting black pants topped with a hip-length blouse that buttoned down the side and was printed with brightly colored kitchen utensils. As she peered into the paddy wagon, she gave herself a hug as if she was cold.

      “I’m her attorney,” he said shortly, nodding in her direction.

      At the sound of his words, she stilled. “Griffin?” She turned, and her silky brows rose over her pretty brown eyes.

      He was surprised she had recognized his voice. Hers was throaty and soft, a woman’s voice. He didn’t associate it with the bashful little girl, clinging to her mother’s hand, who had arrived at the estate all those years ago.

      He saw her swallow and color rushed up her cheeks. “Wh-what are you doing here?” She swallowed again. “I don’t need an attorney.”

      He moved forward and touched her shoulder. Though it strangely reassured him that beneath the starchy fabric of her blouse she felt solid and warm, he’d never noticed how delicate a woman’s shoulder could be. Little Annie Smith’s shoulder. “You gave the police the house number. They called.”

      “Oh.” Her face flushed deeper. “I guess I said it automatically. My mother…”

      “Worked there for eighteen years. It would be natural in a time of stress to rattle it off.”

      Lord. Little Annie Smith had actually been a witness to an armed bank robbery. Griffin’s belly clenched again. He thought maybe she swayed a bit, so he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

      There. That probably made her feel better. Her blondish hair tickled his chin. “Let’s get you inside.”

      Griffin had known Annie Smith since she was four years old and he was eleven. She’d come to live on his parents’ estate when her mother became the family housekeeper. Though he’d never paid much attention to her, he remembered her following him around a time or two. She’d been much younger, and a girl, so he’d mostly ignored her.

      But now a breath of a light, sweet scent and the sensation of her warm body against his arm and his side made it quite clear that Annie Smith wasn’t a little girl anymore. Griffin frowned. He shouldn’t be noticing something like that about Annie. She wasn’t his type.

      After two years out of the country, two years of virtually non-stop traveling and dealmaking to position the family company for even greater success in the next decade, he was glad to be home in California. There was still more work to be done—as always, he looked forward to it—but he planned to carve out a little time to play or he was going to be a very dull boy, indeed.

      He’d already made a few get-reacquainted phone calls to the kind of women he did well with. Sophisticated women who knew what Griffin’s commitment to the company meant he could offer—occasional opportunities for conversation, companionship and sex when the attraction warranted it. Sophisticated women who knew what he didn’t offer—marriage.

      So he had no business seeing Annie Smith—whose big, trusting Bambi eyes and soft mouth told him exactly what kind of hearth-and-husband woman she was—as a…well, woman. He inhaled another breath of that subtle, sweet scent of hers and almost groaned. It was vanilla. She smelled of sugar and vanilla. No wonder she made his mouth water.

      But she’s the hearth-and-husband type, he reminded himself. Don’t forget that. For a man who worked intensely and had sex casually, it was better to think of her as that quiet, bashful kid.

      They were steered toward the desk of the police officer who had phoned him. A woman in a no-nonsense business suit lingered nearby and introduced herself as Agent Blain of the FBI. But she gestured toward the man seated behind the desk. “The officer will be asking the questions, Ms. Smith. You tell Detective Morton everything you remember and then we’ll get you out of here.”

      Annie seemed to remember her morning in clear detail. She’d catered the mayor’s monthly staff breakfast, then headed for the Savings and Loan.

      Griffin studied her face while she talked. If he’d been asked to describe her from memory, he would have said “average.” Average height, average build, average blondish-brown hair of average length. A sweet-looking kid. She used to wear her hair in two pigtails tied with pink yarn.

      He remembered the pink yarn and pigtails.

      She didn’t wear her hair like that anymore, though. Now the wavy, chin-length stuff was tucked behind her ears.

      And Annie had cheekbones. High cheekbones that angled to a small chin that matched her small pert nose. Her mouth was small, too, but full and soft-looking and it was the color of that pink yarn he suddenly remembered so very well.

      Griffin shifted restlessly against the vinyl seat of his chair. He shouldn’t be looking at Annie’s mouth. Most certainly not at a time like this.

      To punctuate the thought, he suddenly picked up on her first hesitation in answering the questions about the robbery. Griffin straightened and paid more attention as the detective repeated himself. “Was there anything about the man you recognized, Annie?”

      Her brow furrowed and her soft, pink mouth turned down. “I don’t…think so.” She frowned deeper. “Something…” Then she shook her head and her voice was more decisive. “No. I didn’t recognize him. At first it was just that mask, and then I only saw his shoes. That’s all I could see, really.”

      “Could you describe the shoes?” the detective asked.

      “Black men’s shoes that laced.” She looked around the room, stuffed with desks and chairs and other officers interviewing other witnesses. “Like those.” Her forefinger indicated a pair on a man one desk away, and then pointed again. “And those…and those.”

      She peered down at Griffin’s cordovan loafers, then shrugged and looked back at the detective. “Sorry.”

      “That’s all right, Annie. You did great.” With a smile, Detective Morton reached across the desk and patted her hand.

      Griffin frowned. Damn. The detective’s smile was gleaming brighter than the shine of the fluorescent light off his bald spot.

      Then Annie smiled back, and a dimple showed up, just at the left corner of her mouth. He’d never known Annie had a dimple. Or never noticed.