A Season of Miracles by Heather Graham Page B

Murphy.”
    â€œJoe’s wife. I know,” Marston said. He smiled and took her hand, and his eyes met Joe’s. “Your husband and I have already worked together.”
    â€œYes, of course.” Connie looked flushed. It had been one thing for her to tease Jillian about company gossip, but now that she was actually meeting Robert Marston, she seemed a little awed herself. He did make an impression.
    Was that why Douglas had brought him in? Connie wondered. She answered her own silent question quickly and defensively. No. Daniel, full of confidence, ability, authority and composure made quite an impression himself. Theo was equally presentable. Eileen was pure elegance and assurance. And Griff…
    Griff excelled at being Griff.
    â€œOffice meeting over,” Jillian murmured with false cheer. She tried to slide off the car, but Marston stopped her.
    She looked at his hand, then met his eyes. “I told you I’m all right.”
    â€œIf you won’t go to the hospital, at least let me take you home.”
    â€œI’m fine. Tip can see me home. He may look like Carmen Miranda, but in real life, he’s one of New York’s finest.”
    â€œSo you’re a cop. Nice to meet you.”
    â€œDitto,” Tip told him, as the two men shook hands.
    â€œDid you drive, Tip?” Marston enquired, those dark eyes settling on the cop.
    â€œNo, ’fraid not,” Tip told Jillian apologetically.
    â€œI don’t need a ride,” Jillian protested.
    â€œJillian, you passed out cold,” Connie said.
    â€œThanks, Connie,” she murmured.
    â€œYou might have hurt yourself.”
    â€œBut I didn’t!”
    â€œYou were leaving, anyway,” Marston reminded her. “So let me take you home.”
    â€œYou just got here, so I’m sure you don’t want to leave. Go on in and have a good time.”
    â€œAnd what would I tell Douglas in the morning?” he asked, a half smile curving his lips.
    â€œThat his granddaughter is pigheaded?” Joe supplied.
    â€œJoe…” his wife said warningly.
    â€œI really don’t think that watching me is part of the job,” Jillian began.
    â€œI wouldn’t want to bet on that,” Joe said.
    â€œOkay, okay. I’ll go home with Marston,” she said, aggravated.
    â€œYou can call me Robert, Bob, Rob, or even Bobby. Most of the time, when people call me Marston, they put a ‘mister’ in front of it,” he said, his tone conversational but with a slight edge, his dark eyes on her.
    She eased off the car, meeting that gaze. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Marston.”
    He smiled. An honest smile. She looked away, biting her lip.
    â€œâ€™Night, then,” Connie said.
    â€œGood night.” Jillian hugged Connie, kissed Joe and then Tip on a cheek, and walked around to the passenger side of the car. He was already there, opening the door for her.
    Call me, Connie mouthed.
    She would call her, all right.
    A moment later, they were in traffic.
    He drove competently, assertively, but not recklessly. He was playing a Celtic CD; a woman was singing about a highwayman. Partiers filled the sidewalks, all laughing, some loaded, some simply happy. Taxis veered in and out; horns blared.
    â€œI live at—” she began.
    â€œI know where you live,” he told her.
    Fine.
    A few minutes later, they pulled up to the house on Manhattan’s upper east side. It was one of the few old mansions that remained. Among a sea of skyscrapers, it stood three stories tall. A brick wall with wrought-iron gates separated it from its neighbors.
    Here, away from the throngs, the streets were quiet. Marston didn’t opt to enter the driveway but slid into an impossible spot on the street.
    Before the engine had died, Jillian was reaching for the door handle.
    â€œAre you afraid of me?” he asked her. She could hear his amusement.
    â€œNo, of course not.” Her fingers