Free Racing Against Time by Marie Ferrarella

liked ‘getting his hands dirty.’ I pictured you with a squadron of gardeners to get dirty for you.”
    He didn’t have far to look to know the origin of that image. He was well acquainted with it. Had been schooled in it when he was young.
    “Ah, yes, the good old Montgomery legacy.” It was said that none of his recent ancestors actually knew the meaning of an honest day’s toil. They’d all been lawyers to the rich and celebrated. He doubted if any of them even knew the first name of any of the people who worked for them. “We’re not all cookie-cutter identical.”
    She could hear the annoyance in his voice. At least she’d momentarily redirected his attention from the kidnapping, although she hadn’t meant to get his annoyance focused on her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
    “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m usually better at keeping my temper in check.” Unable to remain seated any longer, he got up, shoving his fisted hands deep into his pockets. Hitting nothing. Wanting to hit something. Wanting more than anything to hit this man who had destroyed his world. “It’s just that I feel so damn helpless, so damn impotent.” He stared out the window. It had long since gotten dark outside. Evening shadows sat where cars had been parked earlier. Brent’s voice was small, tight, as he added, “There’s nothing I can do.”
    Rising, she came up behind him. Feeling for him. “You’re doing it,” she contradicted. “You’re going through cases, looking for a possible suspect.”
    It was beginning to feel like an exercise in futility. He turned to look at the piles on his desk. “About twenty percent of these cases represent possible suspects.” His words were dressed in frustration. He gestured toward the filing cabinets they had emptied. “I really doubt there are many people in there who wish me well.”
    But that was exactly why they were going through the files in the first place. “Wishing and doing are two very different things.”
    He turned completely around to face her. Surprised at how near she was. “So, in your opinion, wishing isn’t the very first step toward doing.”
    “A lot of times, no.” She laughed softly, a tired, resigned laugh that had somehow not gotten lost amid the exasperation she had faced today. “Otherwise, there’d be a lot more dead people out there for the police to process.” The scent of his cologne seemed to descend on her out of nowhere. Callie remembered the electric charge she’d felt when she’d danced with him that night. It was so vivid, she could swear she felt the remnants now. “There’d also be a great many more infidelities.”
    Callie raised her eyes to his as she said the latter, not completely sure of just what she was doing. Or why.
    Maybe it was the hour and the fact that when she was tired, her defenses, always so rigidly in place, tended to slip just a little. Enough to make her think of herself as vulnerable.
    It was the last thing in the world she wanted to be. And he was the last man on earth she had a right to be feeling this way with. The man was fighting desperation, trying to find his daughter before it was too late. He needed a crack detective at the top of her game helping him, not a woman who was feeling odd stirrings in his company.
    Yet there it was. She was feeling something.
    She was feeling.
    The realization slammed itself against her like a loose newspaper page suddenly being blown against a windshield.
    It took her breath away.
    She hadn’t felt anything for a very, very long time.
    He laughed shortly. “Not everyone subscribes to your theory.”
    Very few times did she speak before her brain was engaged, but this was one of those times. “You mean your ex-wife?”
    When Brent looked at her, his eyes somber, she realized that she’d crossed some line she shouldn’t have, but there was no way to retreat gracefully to the other side.
    She shrugged in what she hoped was a casual manner. “There