Perfect Timing - Джулия Кеннер Mills & Boon Silhouette

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as your father’s legacy and move on.”

      “He’s diversified,” Tucker said, forcing his voice to stay calm and reasonable even though he wanted to scream at her to drop the damn subject. He had no interest in stepping in to fill his father’s shoes. But what choice did he have? He’d been born to this life and, as his father had said, it was his obligation to protect it and the family. Just as it had been his obligation to fight for his country in the war. He’d pursued his own dream for the past four years, writing radio plays. Now it was time to look to duty.

      “Diversified?” Talia asked.

      “Most of my father’s days now are spent overseeing his portfolio.”

      At that, Talia actually snorted her gin, which had the side effect of forcing her to remove her hand from Jonathan’s tush so that she could dab at the front of her dress. Jonathan, always a gentleman, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it over Talia’s breasts.

      “You?” Talia said, pressing her hand over Jonathan’s to stop his dabbing, and forcing him to cup her left breast. “Darling, I really can’t imagine you spending the day in a dreary room reading a ticker tape.”

      “I hardly expect you to imagine me at all, Talia,” Tucker said, pointedly dropping his gaze to her chest. “I should think you’d have many other things to fantasize about.”

      “Indeed,” she said, apparently knowing when to end a conversation. Or, perhaps, simply ready to find a dark corner. “Too bad, though. You have such talent. R.J. will be disappointed.”

      Tucker looked at Jonathan. “Yes. I imagine he will.”

      “Tucker!” They all looked up as Blythe rushed toward them, causing curious guests to turn in her direction as she sped past.

      “Darling, what is it?” Tucker asked as his sister clutched his arm, her chest heaving.

      “There’s a woman on the floor in the drawing room,” she said. “I think she may be dead!”

      CHAPTER THREE

      “THE STRANGLER?” Tucker asked as he ran down the stairs, breathless, behind his sister.

      “I don’t know. She’s just…lying there.”

      “I can’t imagine the Strangler would hit now,” Jonathan said. “Too many people. He’s never been that bold before.”

      “Just hurry,” Blythe said.

      They rounded the corner, moving farther away from the grand ballroom and the rear veranda and rushing down the hall toward the front door and the thick, carved oak doorway that led into the drawing room.

      The doors were closed, and Tucker shot a questioning glance toward his sister. The room was usually kept open, and during their fetes, the room often saw the still-sober crowd, smoking and discussing philosophy or jazz from the comfort of the oiled-and-rubbed leather furniture.

      “I didn’t want anyone wandering in,” Blythe said. “I left Anna in there with the body,” she added, referring to their housekeeper.

      “Good Lord, woman,” Jonathan cried. “Have you gone mad? Anna with a dead body? The story will be all over the gossip rags by tomorrow. I imagine that wretched photographer has beaten us to the room.”

      “I’ll thank you not to question my judgments in my home, Jonathan,” Blythe said, looking down her nose at him. “I trust Anna implicitly. She’s been with us for years.”

      “Perhaps you would do well not to—”

      “Enough,” Tucker said. “There’s no point in bickering. Open the door and we’ll see the situation for what it is, whatever it is.”

      As it turned out, Blythe was right. Their motherly housekeeper hadn’t moved, and certainly hadn’t brought in any other help. Instead, she was hunched over the prone form of a young woman. She held one of the girl’s hands tight against her breast, and with her free hand, she patted the girl’s cheek.

      Tucker raised his brow. “I know that the dubious bit of combat medicine I gleaned during my infantry days is no substitution for a formal medical education, Anna darling, but I sincerely doubt that a pat on the cheek will prove restorative.”

      “She’s not dead, sir. Just a mite under the weather.”

      Tucker took a tentative step forward and found himself looking into a very alive—albeit very unconscious—face. A beautiful face, too, with light brown hair framing angelic features.

      She wore no makeup, unlike the current fashion, and Tucker tried to recall the last time he’d seen a young woman without her face painted. He’d gotten so used to seeing his sister and her friends, their eyes outlined in kohl, their lids painted blue, their cheeks and lips flush with rouge.

      He’d forgotten how fresh a woman could look. Soft and new, as if she’d just woken in his arms after a night of lovemaking.

      Tucker closed his eyes, frowning, and wondered where the devil such absurd thoughts had come from. Yes, the woman was attractive, but she was also quite knocked out. And he was behaving like a foolish schoolboy.

      Quickly, before anyone noticed his distraction, he bent beside her, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it over her. “Yours, too, Jonathan,” he said. “If she’s in shock, we need to keep her warm.”

      “Do you think that’s it?” Talia asked. “Shock? Did she meet the Strangler perhaps?” Her eyes, Tucker noticed, were wide with excitement. “And what a strange costume she’s wearing. Dungarees and that odd top. I realize this is a masquerade party, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a young woman choose such inappropriate attire. It’s both provocative and entirely unflattering.”

      “Out,” said Tucker firmly.

      “Pardon me?” Talia’s eyebrows rose in amazement.

      Tucker nodded his head, in deference to the woman’s years. “Please. I’d like you to step out.” In truth, he agreed with Talia’s assessment. It all was very odd. And the way the black material clung to her breasts was, indeed, very alluring. “The girl hardly needs to wake up to five strangers peering at her as if she were a carnival sideshow.”

      For a moment, he thought Talia would argue. But the older woman surprised him, her eyes losing their scandalous gleam and fading to a warm sympathy. “Quite so,” she said. She took Jonathan by the elbow and started to steer them both toward the door. Jonathan, however, held back.

      “You, too, old man,” Tucker said.

      “Very well,” Jonathan said. “But first, a word.”

      Reluctantly, Tucker left the girl’s side. “What?”

      “The way she’s dressed. Dark colors. Pants more suitable for a working man.” He exhaled loudly. “The woman has a pretty face, but don’t fail to consider the obvious, Tucker. Your home is filled with valuables as well as with your guests. You’d do well to ensure the security of both.”

      Tucker bit back an instinctive response to slug Jonathan and defend the girl’s honor. Instead he nodded stiffly. “Of course,” he said, then motioned for the door.

      “Give a shout if you need anything,” Jonathan said, casting one backward glance at them before the oak doors swung shut, leaving Tucker alone with Anna, Blythe and the unconscious woman.

      “Anna, go prepare a room. I expect we’ll have an overnight guest.”

      “Of course, sir. Should I send for Dr. Williams?”

      Tucker looked at Blythe, who shrugged. “Yes,” he told Anna. “I think that might be a good idea.”

      As Anna scurried out to take care of the various tasks, Tucker bent over the woman, her hand tight in his. Blythe knelt down beside them, her face furrowed with concern.

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