“No, Mr. Barrett. I do not,” she stated heatedly. “He had two grown children from his first marriage. The bulk of his estate went to them. I asked that he leave me with only enough money to get my business established.”
“How generous of you.” He was now going through the contents of her smaller suitcase. The articles were distinctly feminine and she resented this invasion of privacy. She would have no secrets from this loathsome man.
He held up a package of tablets and raised an eyebrow in query. “Birth control pills?”
She was seething over his audacity. “No. An antibiotic. I had a sore throat last week.”
“This isn’t how a prescription is usually packaged.”
“I got it at the doctor’s office from his sample drug supply. He saved me a trip to the pharmacy.”
He seemed satisfied with her answer. While he was sniffing at a bar of perfumed soap he said, “You must truly think I’m stupid, Miss O’Shea. You go by your maiden name, right?” She nodded. “Why? Are you ashamed of marrying some old man with cancer and inheriting his money when he conveniently croaked?”
She felt the blood draining from her head only to return to it in a rushing flood. Catapulting off the sofa, she flew across the floor toward him and raised her hand intending to deliver a well-deserved, resounding slap to his self-satisfied face. Her hand was caught in midair and her arm was twisted behind her back painfully.
He drew her against him, holding her defenseless and immobile. “I wouldn’t ever try that again if I were you,” he threatened convincingly. “Now, why don’t you use your married name? If there is such a thing.”
“My married name was Greene. I was married to Joseph Greene. His name is well-known in the garment industry even now. I don’t use his name because sanctimonious, chauvinistic bastards like you might think that it was his name and money and not hours of hard work that made my business a success.”
His arms tightened around her and she gasped in pain from the way he bent her arm behind her. She met his cold blue stare with one of her own.
Crowding her anger was a sudden confusion. The ache in her arm was nothing compared with the painful awareness of his body conforming to hers. The chest that crushed her breasts felt like a brick wall. Hard thighs moved against hers until they found a position that was an agreeable fit.
The cold blue light in his eyes that moments ago had flared angrily, began to burn with something that was much more fearsome. Each feature of her face came under hot blue flame and she felt like her eyes, temples, cheeks, and lips were being licked with tongues of fire.
Acknowledging, but unable to tolerate, the squeezing pleasure in her chest, Erin lowered her eyes. Immediately she felt that leashed tension in the body next to hers abating, and he released her.
She turned her back, composed her features, and, because there was nothing else to do, resumed her seat on the leather sofa.
“Who’s the boyfriend?” he asked, indicating the enormous ring on her left hand. Did his voice sound different? Less assured? A trifle shaky?
“My fiancé’s name is Bart Stanton. He’s a Houston businessman.”
He guffawed again with sardonic laughter. “Bart Stanton! Bart, for God’s sake,” he said, chuckling. “Does he drive an El Dorado with a pair of long-horns mounted on the hood?”
“I don’t have to take any more of your insults, Mr. Barrett!”
“You’ll take anything I damn well please,” he exploded, all mirth gone. “I don’t believe for one minute that you’re who or what you say you are. I think that you were some kind of contact for Lyman. You showed up today expecting him and got me instead. You spun this tall tale and hoped that I’d be stupid enough to fall for it. Guess again, lady.”
“Will you please stop calling me lady. You know my name.”
“At least the one you gave me, Miss O’Shea. Or is it Ms.? Never mind,” he said when he saw her about to protest. “Now that I think of it, O’Shea is an Irish name. And you said you were adopted from a Catholic orphanage. Was the seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars by any chance going to be used to purchase weapons to be shipped to northern Ireland? Or maybe you were here to sell drugs. Or buy drugs. I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out.”
“You are mad,” she whispered hoarsely. “All you have to do is check my credentials. Call my business. Call Bart.”
“You don’t sound like a Texan.”
“I lived in New York for five years. I lost my accent.”
“If what you say is true, who knew that you were on this fantastic search for your long lost brother?”
“The people I work with. Bart. My mother, Mrs. Merle O’Shea. She lives in Shreveport, Louisiana.”
He was taking notes on a pad he had taken out of his shirt pocket. He paused in his scribbling. “You said she lived in Houston.”
“She moved to Louisiana to live with her sister when my father, Gerald O’Shea, died.”
“What’s the sister’s name?” he asked brusquely. Erin supplied it. “Phone number.” She gave him her aunt’s telephone number and address.