Conrad (The Minnesota Kingstons #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

If they’d been on the ice, Conrad Kingston, center for the Blue Ox hockey team, would have done time in the penalty box.

And pretty-boy television-talk-show host Ian Fletcher would have a broken nose, maybe a few gaps where teeth used to be.

Instead, the smug man sat across from Conrad on the set of The Morning Brew , the “In the Locker Room with Fletch” segment, sporting a perfectly groomed fade-style haircut, blue eyes, and a too-wide smile, prying into Conrad’s life.

This was not a locker room Conrad had ever seen, with the chesterfield sofas, a backdrop of fake lockers, and most importantly, bright lights that burned into his eyes, so that the cameras could capture every expression in slow motion as he went over the glass coffee table and neatly put a fist into Ian’s prying piehole.

Or at least wished it.

But Conrad was working on his impulse control, on and off the ice, and using his words instead, and so far, so good.

See, he could play nicely.

“So, do you have a date for tonight’s event?” Ian asked, waggling his eyebrows. “Seems to me that you might have a lineup after your centerfold.”

“It’s not the centerfold,” Conrad growled.

“Sorry. Mr. June .”

He should have expected the too-personal, off-script questions, what with his half-naked picture on the screen behind him. He couldn’t look at the photo.

One more of his many, many bad yeses.

Instead, of course, he smiled. “Maybe we talk about the charity event tonight.”

“Of course.” Fletch leaned back, crossed his legs, his grin a sort of victory pump.

Please. Just thirty seconds without the cameras ? —

No, no. No. The last thing he needed was a splash on social media about King Con being unhinged. Not with the trade season still alive. Conrad flicked his wrist and managed a glance at his Rolex Daytona. Four more minutes and then he could flee?—

“I’ve heard tonight’s auction already has bids in the triple digits. Everyone wants a piece of Mr.—”

“It’s really about raising money for the kids who’ve been affected by crime.”

Something of a challenge flashed in Ian’s eyes, but Conrad didn’t flinch.

“EmPowerPlay. Play strong, heal stronger, right?”

“Exactly.” Conrad kept his smile, tried to recall what Felicity had told him to say. “EmPowerPlay is dedicated to empowering young victims of crime by facilitating their involvement in sports. We fund local sports teams, helping children build confidence and resilience, fostering emotional healing and personal growth, and offering kids a constructive outlet to channel their energies and reclaim their strength after facing adversity.”

Bam. Just like he’d rehearsed.

“And it was founded by the Pepper family, who are shareholders of the Blue Ox hockey team, right?”

“Apparently.” He refused to let Penelope Pepper flash into his brain, although the memory of her in his arms a month ago, after the craziness at his sister Boo’s wedding, had done a little number on him. Occupied his brain for far too long.

She’d texted him once, asking to meet for dinner. He’d promptly gone on the road for nearly two weeks with the Ox, and when he’d returned, she hadn’t answered his reply text.

So, whatever.

Still.

Nope. Not going back there.

“And you’ve met the Peppers, or at least Penelope.” Ian grinned and glanced at the screen behind him, and Conrad tightened his jaw at a bootleg paparazzi picture of exactly his memory—him carrying Penelope up the stairs into the wedding reception after she’d been attacked in the parking lot.

Great. He kept his gaze even, smiled. “She needed a lift.”

Ian laughed. “Ah, that’s a good one, King Con.” He turned to the cameras, somewhere out in the darkness, and finger quoted the word. “Just like the ‘lift’ you gave to Jasmine Hartwell.”

Aw, shoot. That’s what he got for trying to be clever.

His mouth tightened. “That was different.”

“Right. That was Tyler Anderson’s girlfriend. Bit of a messy dustup there, if I remember right.” He winked at Conrad.

Conrad only needed ten seconds. Less.

He lifted a shoulder. “Just a misunderstanding. Torch and I figured it out.”

“Didn’t you take a restraining order out on Jasmine?”

He said nothing.

“And then there was that fight on the ice?—”

“That’s in the past.”

“Maybe not”—Ian leaned forward—“given last night’s game. You deliberately kept the puck three times when Torch was open, and took failed shots on goal.” His smile dimmed. “Are you at all worried about the fact that your contract expires after this season?”

“Listen, it’s a fast game, and Torch wasn’t as open as you think.” Conrad’s smile had also vanished. “And no, I’m not worried.”

Really. He and Torch had ironed out the misunderstanding long before social media had made it a deal. Bros over—well, ice bunnies.

Ian held up his hands as if surrendering. “Just wondering, given the fact that rookie Justin Blake scored for the win.”

“Blade is a solid young player, great potential.” Oh, Felicity would be so proud of him.

“And a center, ready to take your spot.”

Maybe those were veneers. Conrad had a couple of his own veneers, for different reasons.

“It’s Coach Jacobsen’s call. I’m just there to play hockey.” He looked at the camera, gave them a photoshoot smile. “The calendars are available at the Minnesota Blue Ox website?—”

“Right,” Ian said, following Conrad’s lead. “Visit the website to donate or volunteer.” He turned back to Conrad. “Thanks for being here today.” He stretched out his hand.

Conrad took it. Gave him a firm hold. Added a squeeze.

Ian’s eyes flashed and Conrad let go, then waved to the camera.

“And we’re out,” said a voice in the shadows, and Conrad stood up, ripped off the mic, turned to Ian.

Ian stood also, his smile gone.

And oh, the urge?—

No. Impulses always turned to regrets.

Conrad shook his head, moved toward the set.

“All press is good press,” Ian shouted after him.

A PA met him. “Mic?”

He dropped the mess into her hands and stormed out into the hallway. Ian stayed on set, probably saving his life.

“I thought that went great.” Felicity Grant stood in the hallway, holding two cups of coffee, wearing an earbud, her blonde hair cut short, an athletic build. She’d played women’s hockey at the U of M and of course knew the sport well enough to talk shop with the players. Now, she shoved a coffee into his hand. “Just breathe.”

Conrad headed down the hallway toward the greenroom. “None of those questions were in the preinterview chat.”

“He does that.” She followed him inside and stood at the open door as he grabbed a couple wet wipes and ran them over his face. Makeup coated the cloths, and he scrubbed under his chin, hating how it’d stained his dress shirt.

“I’m never doing this again.” He threw down the wipes and grabbed his coat, headed for the door.

Felicity put out her hand and even stepped in front of him. “Yes, you will.” She arched a brow. “Attendance is down, and a little goodwill from our starting center doesn’t hurt. You were handsome and fabulous, and who cares what Ian says?—you got our message out. Live above it.”

“I hate the press. Torch wasn’t even dating Jasmine?—”

“Drama sells.” She lifted a shoulder.

His gut tightened. “Wait—you didn’t . . . I mean . . .” He met her eyes. “You weren’t the one who called the cops that night, right?”

Her mouth opened. “And possibly get you pulled over for DUI?”

“I don’t drink.”

She smiled.

He frowned, narrowed his eyes. “That photo with her made me shut down my Instagram account.”

“I know. I set up the new one, remember?”

He did know. “Just—no drama tonight, okay? I don’t even want to be there.”

“You have to be there. It’s required in your contract.”

“I just . . . are they really auctioning off dates ? C’mon—the 1990s called, and they want their charity gimmicks back.”

She laughed. “It’s not a date. It’s a seat at the table. Calm down.”

“It’s hard to stay calm about being property.” He stepped past her, headed down the hall.

“You’re a professional athlete,” she called after him. “Of course you’re property!”

He took a sip of the coffee, made a face, and dumped it into the garbage on his way out of the building. The Charger sat in the lot under a dour, gray mid-February sky, the air brisk, the snow piles grimy. Winter refused to surrender, a forecast of snow and ice over the next week, which made it überfun to live in Minnesota.

He got in, turned the car on, and let the motor rumble a moment, the heat turning him from ice-cold to warm.

Maybe he should visit his sister Austen down in the Keys during his next bye week.

The sun hung low, casting late-afternoon shadows over the river as he drove out of the city, into uptown, and to his remodeled mid-century-modern home on W 24th, near Triangle Park in South Minneapolis.

Black exterior, angled roofline, too many floor-to-ceiling windows, and inside, despite the hardwood flooring and beamed ceiling, the place felt too austere, too modern.

Another yes he should have thought through.

He pulled into the underground garage, got out, and took the elevator up to the main floor. Amber sunlight streaked the white wooden floor, the bouclé sofa, the concrete countertops. He picked up a remote and shut the shades to the street, then voice activated his audio system.

He had his shirt unbuttoned and off, sprayed on stain remover as Tommy Emmanuel came on, plucking out a rendition of “How Deep Is Your Love?” on his acoustic guitar.

Breathe.

The sunlight had found Conrad’s master bedroom through the transom windows, but the picture window (covered in a one-way film that his brother Doyle had helped him install) overlooked the back of his property and Cedar Lake, still snow-covered.

Any day the cold would break, and the thaw could turn the ice on a lake deceptively lethal, cracking and snapping as the currents beneath awoke. But for now it was a glistening, brittle beauty under the twilight hues.

He threw the shirt in a hamper, jumped in the shower, and felt recovered by the time he emerged, donned a towel, and leaned over the sink for a beard trim. His cell buzzed from the bedroom, and he recognized Jack’s assigned ringtone—“Go Your Own Way,” Fleetwood Mac.

Although, recently Jack had decided to put down roots at the family homestead some sixty miles west, at least until he sorted out his relationship with reporter Harper Malone. So maybe Conrad needed to change up songs.

Maybe “Home,” by Daughtry.

Video call. He thumbed it open. “’Sup, bro?” He turned his video off, left the call on speaker.

Jack sat in the kitchen of the Norbert, one of the heritage homes their parents rented out on the King’s Inn property. Jack’s dark hair lived below his ears and had its own mind, just like Jack. He wore a flannel shirt and a dark grizzle of beard, the perfect look for a handyman, despite his real job as a finder of all things lost.

His most recent finds had been himself, forgiveness, and a second chance with the girl next door he’d never forgotten. And a job, taking over for little bro Doyle, who took care of the grounds and lived in the Norbert. For now.

Apparently, Doyle had decided it was time to escape his grief and the broken dreams of the past and start new. He hadn’t yet left for the Caribbean, but their mother was planning a sendoff party next weekend.

About time, really.

“So, just a heads-up,” Jack said in greeting. “Penelope is going to be at tonight’s gig.”

Conrad had been filing through his suits—not the Armani, of course, but maybe the charcoal cashmere-wool Canali Kei. He pulled out the jacket. Slim fit.

He’d put on some muscle since he’d purchased this a couple years ago.

“I figured, since it’s her family’s gig.” He put the suit back, pulled out the HUGO BOSS. “The Pepper Foundation started EmPowerPlay, and they’re sponsoring the event.”

“You two ever connect?”

Again wool, slim fit. And boring. He put the suit coat back. “No. I texted her after I got back from Nashville. She never answered.”

“Probably because she’s still working on her murder podcast.”

He pulled out the TOM FORD windowpane. He’d worn it for the Blue Ox Man of the Year awards ceremony last year. Understated. Elegant.

“Her only lead in the Sarah Livingston case—Kyle Brunley—was killed the night he posted bail,” Jack said.

Conrad stilled, his hand on the midnight-blue velvet-and-silk Brioni smoking jacket. “Wait. Kyle Brunley is dead? The guy who tried to kidnap her and Harper?”

Penelope had vanished from his sister’s wedding event last month in a move many pegged as a PR gimmick for her show. Nope. Conrad might never forget her worn but tough-edged expression when she’d been found . . . having escaped on her own and hidden out.

“Yep. He was arraigned, posted bail, and the next day, vanished. They found him in his car about a week ago in a ditch off Marsh Lake Road. Harper told me about it last night at dinner.”

Conrad carried the smoking jacket out to the bedroom. “That’s the third person murdered in the Sarah Livingston case.”

“If you don’t include Sarah.”

“Right.”

“Harper’s worried about Penelope. Penelope hasn’t answered her texts either, so . . . track her down, and find out how she’s doing.”

Conrad found a light-blue shirt, matching trousers. “My bet is that she’s just fine. She’s smart, resourceful, and tough. After all, she did survive three days in a freezing icehouse?—”

“For ratings. ”

Well, not quite, but Conrad could see why Jack, who’d found her, might think that.

“Which makes a guy wonder just what else she’d do for her story,” Jack continued.

Conrad put on a T-shirt, then the dress shirt. “I’m not sure what I can do. She’s got her own mind.”

“Just . . . I don’t know. Harper asked me to call you. She seems to think that Penelope likes you.”

He pulled on the trousers. Still a good fit. Then he returned to his wardrobe and opened his tie drawer. Grabbed out a black satin bow tie and flipped up his collar. “Fine. Sure. But let’s not overthink this. I have a full roster of games, and I need to be on point if I hope to be in a position to renegotiate this summer. And frankly, Penelope is . . . she’s all over social media. I’m not going there again, bro.” He flipped down his collar. Smoothed it out. “Besides, I doubt she has any bandwidth in her life for anyone extra.”

“Even Mr. June?”

He stilled, walked out to the bed and picked up the phone. Jack was grinning.

Conrad turned on his own video.

Jack raised an eyebrow as Conrad’s mug showed up. “Wow. Seriously?”

“I swear to you, if I see one calendar at the King’s Inn?—”

“Dude. I caught your ‘In the Locker Room with Fletch.’ You’re going to sell truckloads. Did you wax before you?—”

Conrad hung up. Threw the phone on the bed. Clenched his fists for a second, staring into the mirror.

The sweat broke out along his spine, his heart slamming against his chest.

And just for a second, the world narrowed.

Breathe. He sank down on the bed. Put his hands on the cool comforter. In. Out.

Visualize. His eyes opened, his gaze finding the picture of the sailboat, the one pitched at an angle, the splash of the deep-blue lake catching the sun. He sat holding the tiller, hair wild, no beard, barefoot.

He could smell it. Lake water. Wind. Spray.

His heartbeat softened. More breaths.

Getting up, he went to the bathroom, downed a glass of water. It sat in his gut without returning . So far, so good.

He just might live through this night without being the center of paparazzi attention. Please.

His Rolex said he had thirty minutes before the event—so great, he’d be late. Maybe he could slip in the back.

Except, as he drove up to the event—at the historic Frederick mansion in Minneapolis—the coned entry directed him to the valet entrance.

He surrendered his keys to some youngster in a suit. “Don’t dent anything.”

The kid—okay, probably a college student—nodded, and Conrad got in line to enter the building. He recognized a few of the other Blue Ox players—rookie Justin, of course, grinning for the press, and Wyatt Marshall, their goalie, with his pretty, petite wife, and player Kalen Boomer, and even Coach Jace with his wife Eden.

A heater blasted the portico, so he wasn’t cold as he stood at the bottom of the grand staircase.

A plaque near the walk said the place had been built in the late 1800s. It bore an Italian Renaissance aura, with pillars flanking the doorway of the covered entrance.

Massive floral arrangements in the blue and white of the Blue Ox stood in urns on either side of the door. And from the terrace over the entrance hung a banner with the EmPowerPlay logo.

Music spilled out—Pharrell Williams’s “Happy.”

This might not be a disaster. He’d get inside, glad-hand a few donors, eat some shrimp cocktail, give Coach Jace a thumbs-up, endure dinner small talk, and then skedaddle.

No harm, no foul, and he’d escape the media chaos.

Except, as he neared the door— no. Oh no.

Inside the foyer, larger-than-life posters of the calendar models flanked the stairway leading up to the ballroom, and even from here . . .

He looked like he might belong in a Magic Mike movie. Shirtless, his body photoshopped into a tan. What hockey player sported a tan in April (when they’d taken the shots)? His beard was tangled, the red hues accented, his hair mussed, and good grief, they’d added blue to his eyes.

Forget Magic Mike —he could be on some sordid magazine cover, or worse, a romance novel.

No, he couldn’t do this?—

He turned, and nearly plowed over?—

“Conrad!”

Penelope Pepper. She held her hands up, catching his wrists, balancing herself a little.

If he thought he’d lost his breath before . . . He just stared at her, not sure if his thundering heartbeat was panic or . . . awe.

He’d forgotten—or maybe simply tried to forget—the effect she had on him. The high cheekbones that framed the curve of her face, those golden-brown eyes, dark on the outside, radiating to a glimmer of light around the irises, her full, shaped lips, now smiling.

She wore her dark hair swept back and up, trickling in chocolate waves around her slender neck. A white faux-fur shawl wrapped over a white V-necked silk top with puffy sleeves, and a belted long teal skirt. And she smelled—well, not quite exotic, but exciting and fresh and tempting.

And right then, something he’d dismissed awoke inside him.

“Penelope,” he managed, aware of her hands on his wrists. He turned them and grabbed hers back. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to plow you over.”

“I missed you too, Con.” She laughed, pushed out of his grasp and smoothed her hands on his chest. “And I should know better than to stand too close to a Blue Ox.” Then she winked, and yes, Jack, Penelope seemed Just. Fine. “A gal can get knocked over way too easily.”

He had no words for that.

She peered past him toward the foyer, and her eyes widened, her mouth opening to a perfect O. “I see the problem.”

“A poster-sized problem.”

Then, just like that, she turned him around, stepped up beside him, and slipped her hand around his arm. “Steady on, soldier. This is for the kids.” Then she looked up and winked. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

Cameras flashed as she walked him into the event.

And he didn’t know whether to hold on, or run.

* * *

It didn’t have to be fake. Penelope liked Conrad—really.

Who wouldn’t love a guy who stood over six feet, with tousled dark-blond hair, a rakish beard, devastating blue eyes, and owned the room with his smile?

If a gal went for athletes, that was.

He cleaned up well too, in that velvet-and-silk jacket, the cute bow tie, all the red highlights standing out in his trimmed beard. He even smelled good. Woodsy, with a little cinnamon spice thrown in. Yum. And his grip on her as he’d nearly knocked her over—well, a girl might hold on to that.

If she needed help.

Which she didn’t.

But he made good cover, and tonight was all about subterfuge. For the kids .

She didn’t have to show an invitation at the door, of course, and neither did Conrad. She simply pointed to his overlarge and— wow —blown-up picture, and security waved them inside the Frederick mansion.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” she said as he walked her into the foyer jammed with guests making their way to the second-floor anterooms and the third-floor ballroom. A grand chandelier splashed light on the blue carpet that led up the mahogany staircase with the scrolled banisters. The place felt even more regal than her own home, and that history stretched back to the 1880s.

In each of the second-floor rooms, a representative from one of the many EmPowerPlay sports teams offered more information about their respective team—soccer, baseball, volleyball, and of course, hockey.

Probably, Tia would be upstairs, mingling, glad-handing, and stoking the charitable fires.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text back earlier,” he said as they moved forward, toward the stairs, and she couldn’t resist a glance at the magnificent poster. Not just of Conrad, of course, but the whole first line, the goalie, their leading wings and defensemen, and the other center, a rookie.

The caption on the top said Sons of the North.

“I feel like you should be wearing a little halo.”

He glanced at her. “Please stop.”

“What? I heard this year’s calendar sales are through the roof. Tia is over the moon.”

“Tia?” They started up the stairs. She held up her dress with one hand, wishing she’d worn her Converse.

Of course, then her mother would have had a stroke, so there was that.

“My sister. She heads up the event every year and runs the foundation. So she’s a big fan. You can sign her arm or something.”

He rolled his eyes.

She’d glanced back, into the crowd below. Shoot, no sign of Anton Beckett, although she’d only seen a picture of him. Still, narrow face, dark hair, sort of a pinched personality—she should be able to spot a conniving lawyer amidst all the athletes in the crowd.

She nearly tripped and Conrad caught her, glanced over. “You good?”

And just like that, the memory of him sweeping her into his arms to carry her up the stairs at the Kingston wedding whooshed in. He’d smelled of the woods then too, along with the breath of the crisp winter air, strong and capable, and considering she’d just nearly broken her nose, her lip fattened, and felt like she’d spent the night in a dumpster, yes, his embrace had made an impression.

Hence her crazy text later that night, inviting him to dinner. To which he hadn’t responded, so full breath and calm down . He wasn’t into her, despite his help on the stairs. Again.

They navigated up to the third floor and stood at the entrance to the ballroom. Chandeliers hung from an arched ceiling, puddling light on the round tables that surrounded a dance floor. Blue lights, angled from the floor, turned the walls a Blue Ox blue, and the gold chairs around the tables, along with the white and blue faux votives, added a celebratory hue to the room. A DJ worked at a mixer, now playing a Maroon 5 song.

At the front, pictures of the twelve guests of honor were perched on easels with numbers and auction baskets under them. People lined up to offer bids and drop them into the baskets.

Penelope spotted her father, Oscar, wearing a black Armani suit, looking like a gray-haired Sly Stallone, talking with a group of his fellow investors, some of their faces familiar. He didn’t see her, so all things normal. However, her mother Sophia, standing in her own conversation circle, glanced her way. Elegant, with her dark hair back, wearing a shimmery blue floor-length dress, she had never seemed to wonder what her role in the Pepper family might be.

Grand matron, all-around socialite, and the woman who kept Penelope’s father grounded.

Glancing around, Penelope also spotted Tia working the crowd. Tia wore an elegant black dress, poised and perfect and everything Penelope was not.

Although, Tia had her own facade, so Penelope had no desire to switch places.

She noticed a few from the family security detail pocketed around the room too. Geoffrey, her father’s personal bodyguard, and her own shadow, Franco. But with an outside firm guarding the event as well, the private Pepper team had notched down to DEFCON 4.

Her gaze fell on a man near the front. Target acquired. Anton Beckett stood watching the bidding and holding a glass of red wine. Gray suit, white shirt, one hand in his pants pocket, the man who had the answers she needed. But wasn’t getting. Yet.

Conrad’s mouth twitched. He looked at Penelope. “Can I get you something?”

“A glass of Cab. And be sure to pick up one of those scallop avocado toast appetizers. My sister’s concoction, but they’re amazing.”

She released his arm and threaded her way through the crowd, working over to Beckett.

He glanced at her, took a drink, then looked at her again, and his eyes widened.

That’s right, buddy. I’m coming for you.

She kept a smile and glided up to him.

He stiffened. “I’m not sure what game you’re playing at, Miss Pepper?—”

So he did know her. Fine. “I just need to recover what Kyle already gave me.”

“It’s out of my hands?—”

“I know you share a cloud at the office. I just want the files he put on the jump drive.” The corrupted jump drive, the one he’d given her before he’d clearly changed his mind and tried to . . . well, who knew what he’d planned on doing when he’d shown up at the wedding and tried to drag her away.

“I just want this over.” His voice, still in her ears, right before he’d hit her. The bruises had finally faded. But yeah, buddy, her too.

Nothing, especially not some uptight lawyer, would stand between her and the truth of who had killed Sarah Livingston.

And beyond that, who had killed Edward Hudson.

But she’d get to that.

“Those are protected files, Miss Pepper.”

Her voice softened. “The files never belonged to Kyle or the firm. They were from Sarah Livingston’s laptop. She gave them to Kyle for safekeeping. And he gave them to me.”

“And you lost them.” He took a sip of wine.

“No. When I opened the drive, it had a formatting error. He must have saved over information and corrupted the drive. I just need access to his cloud. Or his computer?—”

He shook his head, cut his voice down. “Not here.”

She stared at him, and maybe it was the last month of hunting for Kyle—and then discovering his dead body, so that had been awesome—or even the nightmares, waking her in the dead of night, replaying running for her life across a frozen lake—but she was just over it. Tired of lies and missing leads and injustice, and the simmer in her gut just lit up.

He lifted his drink, and a woman walked by, and Penelope used the moment to trip into him.

Red wine splashed across his chin, down his shirt.

Oops.

“What the—” He backed away from her, shaking the wine from his hand, grabbing up a napkin to blot his shirt. “What is wrong with you?”

“Everything okay here?” Conrad walked up carrying a glass of wine and a plate of appetizers.

He could carry the room the way he sauntered up, almost like a dare. Anton glared at her, then spun and strode away.

Conrad glanced after him, frowned.

“He’s getting away,” she said, not really meaning that, but, well, meaning exactly that because he just might head home, and she’d lose any hope of talking him into?—

“Getting away?” Conrad raised an eyebrow. “Who is that?”

“Anton Beckett, from B & B Law Firm.”

He wore a blank look.

“Kyle Brunley’s firm. Beckett and he were partners.”

Conrad’s expression sharpened with recognition. “Kyle Brunley, the guy who tried to kidnap you at my sister’s wedding.”

“Yes. Maybe. I dunno.”

“I was there. I’m going to say that’s a hard yes.” His mouth tightened. Looked a little fierce and lit a strange tiny spark in her.

She lifted a shoulder. “He’s dead, so really, we’ll never know.”

“Jack told me.”

“The problem is that the jump drive he gave me before . . . well, before everything went down is corrupted. So I never got the information he intended to give me. But I know”—she put a hand to her chest for emphasis—“that he stored it on his computer. Which of course is backed up to his cloud. I’ve already searched his house, and his computer isn’t there, so?—”

“You searched his house?”

“I was worried, okay? And if it weren’t for me, maybe no one would have found his body.”

His eyes widened.

“Listen—I know the working theory is that Kyle Brunley killed Sarah Livingston in an act of passion, but he did care about her. They were lifelong friends. I believe the information he gave me was real, that he was trying to help me find her real killer—who I think is a man named Swindle. More, that information also implicated Swindle in a slew of other crimes?—”

“Like the death of your sister’s fiancé.”

How he knew that, she didn’t know, but a lot had gone down at the Kingston wedding fiasco, so who knew what she’d said? “Yes.” She sighed. “I need that information. And Beckett is the gatekeeper.”

He glanced at the door where Beckett had disappeared. “Okay.” Then he turned and headed across the room.

What? She followed him. “Where are you?—”

Conrad pushed out into the hallway. There, at the end, sat the bathrooms.

The hallway was empty. He handed her the glass of wine, scooped up the last appetizer, popped it into his mouth, then entered the men’s room.

She stood in the hall, not sure what to do.

A second later, the door opened. Conrad popped his head out. “All clear.”

All . . . clear?

He held the door open. “Now or never.”

Right. She stepped inside the room.

Beckett stood at the sink, his shirt saturated as he tried to wash it. He glanced up at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I don’t think murder is something to be kidding about. And if you’re hiding information that implicates your client, that makes you an accessory.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He turned off the water, his shirt pink.

“Yes, it does. If you hold information that suggests more crimes will be committed, you’re legally bound to turn it over.”

Beckett had reached for towels, was vainly trying to dry the shirt.

Penelope grabbed a couple more, held them out to him. “Since I’ve been investigating this case, I’ve been kidnapped and seen two men shot and people murdered. So it’s a fair guess that whatever Swindle is up to, it’s not over.”

He stilled at her words. Frowned. Swiped the towels from her. “Kyle wasn’t murdered.”

“Tell that to his car, the one upside down in the ditch with side-swipe dents on it. But it wasn’t the crash that killed him.” She handed the wineglass back to Conrad. “I’d blame the 9mm JHP bullet in his chest. But whatever.”

He swallowed.

“Sarah’s apartment was looted, her first computer stolen three months before her death. That’s when she gave Kyle the jump drive. And then she was killed. Whatever was on that jump drive is incriminating enough to kill for.” She cocked her head. “Still want to hold on to it?”

His mouth tightened. Opened.

And right then, a patron walked into the room, past Conrad. He stopped, glanced at Penelope, then the two men, and froze.

Beckett pushed past him, fleeing. She turned to go after him, dodging the man and?—

Bam! Right into Conrad, standing in the doorway.

Oh, she was clumsy tonight. The wine splashed down the front of Conrad’s shirt, soaking his torso.

He held out the wineglass, looked at her.

“Sorry.”

The patron had also fled.

Red wine dripped down Conrad’s front onto his expensive dress pants.

She grabbed a couple paper towels, ran them under water. “I’m so sorry—” Her eyes burned. What had she been thinking, trying to?—

“Hey.” He’d put the glass down on the marble countertop. Met her eyes through the mirror. “This isn’t over. You gave him a lot to think about.”

“Yeah, which he’ll use to look up some case law and hunker down on top of it like a junkyard dog on a pile of old hubcaps.”

She got a smile.

He took off his jacket and hung it on an open stall door. And then he took off his soiled shirt.

And the undershirt.

Which left only his stained skin. He cleaned it off while she ran his shirt under cold water, soaping it up and scrubbing. It worked out much of the stain, leaving a cloud of gray, but maybe with some bleach. . . .

He threw the undershirt into the trash. Then he took the wet shirt from her, ran the dryer and held the garment under it.

Penelope leaned against the tile wall, her arms folded. Tried not to admire the view, but yes, so much better than a stupid calendar. Washboard stomach, burly shoulders, muscled arms.

The man was beautiful.

Too bad she didn’t date. Athletes or otherwise.

He finished with the shirt and tugged it back on. It was still wet, and it stuck to his skin in places, but he grabbed his jacket and pulled it on too. Shoved his bowtie into his pocket.

“I have an auction to attend,” he said.

“And I’m in the mood to spend money.”

He held out an elbow. She looped her arm through it, and he opened the door.

He stepped out first, and by the time she followed him, the press had already grabbed their shots. They blocked the hallway, shouting.

“Miss Pepper, why were you in the bathroom with Conrad Kingston?”

“Conrad, is Penelope Pepper your good luck charm?”

“Penelope, is he your plus one?”

Maybe.

Conrad held up his arm and ushered her out into the hall.

She spotted Franco near the door, his arms folded, a look of annoyance on his face. Oops. Thankfully he hadn’t made a scene. Calm down . Conrad was harmless.

Even, maybe, safe.

Now, Conrad ushered her into the event area, shutting the door on the paparazzi.

She looked at him. “Thank you.”

He smiled down at her. “Anytime.” He winked.

And she couldn’t help but lift herself up and kiss him. Sweetly, on the cheek. Like a friend.

Then she lowered herself back down and patted his chest. “Now. Let’s see if I can win me Mr. June.”