He quirked a brow. “You read all the bios of me, princess?”
She felt herself grow red. “Just when the only alternative is reading the instructions on medicine bottles.”
He grinned. “You don’t give an inch do you?”
“You don’t either,” she retorted. “Anyway,” she said, going back to the subject at hand, “Rafferty Security still has an office in South Boston, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, you could say that….”
His hesitancy puzzled her. She knew her information wasn’t wrong and the question had almost been rhetorical. “Well, what else would you say?”
He coughed, then folded his arms.
“Yeees?” she prompted. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he looked uncomfortable.
“It’s not really an office. It’s more like a community-relations clearinghouse.”
She frowned for a second, then laughed. “You mean you operate a charity there?”
He shifted. “That’s about right.”
The urge to tease was irresistible. “Don’t tell me the oh-so-tough Connor Rafferty has a soft spot. Or should I just call you Connor P.—for philanthropist—Rafferty?”
“We don’t call them philanthropists in South Boston, petunia.”
She cocked her head. “Oh, really? What do you call them, then? Benefactors? Charitable donors? People so rich they give their money away?” She was so enjoying this. “Face it, Connor, you’re just like those well-heeled do-gooders you dislike. You know,” she said, throwing his words back at him, “like those debutantes who organize charity auctions.”
He acknowledged her teasing with a raised eyebrow but then shook his head. “I wasn’t born rich. There’s a difference.”
Rather than argue with him, she asked, “What does this charitable organization do? And, by the way—” she held up a hand “—while I’m enjoying this enormously because I like tweaking your nose about your closet philanthropy, I’m delighted you’ve seen fit to try to do good in the world.”
“This ‘charitable organization,’ as you put it, sponsors programs for neighborhood kids.”
“Very good.” She nodded. “I’m just surprised you’re not doing something more tied to Rafferty Security’s line of business.”
He looked surprised for a second.
“What?”
“We are. Good guess.” He added, “We offer self-defense classes and classes on home security.”
“Ah,” she said.
“I can see that light bulb going on in your head.”
“Well, it does explain a lot after all. Your father was into giving back to the community and you grow up and move back to South Boston and set up a charity. Not only that, but your father died thwarting a burglary and you go into the security business.”
He shoved away from the kitchen counter. “Connecting those dots is easy, petunia. Just don’t read too much into it. I don’t.”
“Why? Are you saying your father’s death had nothing to do with it?” she persisted.
“What I’m saying is you ask too many questions,” he grumbled. “But, yeah, I’ll concede the influence.”
Despite his casual tone, she knew she’d finally penetrated a bit below the facade that Connor Rafferty presented to the world. She’d also gained some insight into the source of Connor’s protective instincts.
She really should give him some slack, she thought, even though she disliked the way he had come barging into her life. Having suffered one tragic loss, he was obviously protective of those close to him—and that protective instinct even extended to helping his former neighbors.
“What are you thinking, princess?” he asked. “I can almost see the wheels turning in that head of yours.”
She gave her head a slight shake, her lips curving upward. “It’s hard to believe, but I was feeling almost inclined to like you.”
He stared at her intensely for a moment, then said, “You should smile more often.”
Their eyes caught and held before she looked away, feeling suddenly uncharacteristically shy and awkward.
“What about you, petunia?” he said, leaning back against the kitchen counter and breaking the mood. “Your mother is a judge and you’re a prosecutor. Seems to me you’re just as guilty of some semi-conscious influences.”
She relaxed as they seemed to be back on safer ground. “Psychoanalyze away,” she said lightly, “but you should know the analogy doesn’t work well. If I’d really wanted to make my family happy, I’d have stayed away from prosecuting criminals at the DA’s Office and gone to some nice, comfy law-firm job.” She wrinkled her nose. “You know, doing non-profit law or some such, which would have dovetailed nicely with all those charity auctions I’m supposed to be organizing.”
He grinned, seeming to recognize the jab at him and his comment the night he’d shown up at her townhouse. “All right,” he said, folding his arms, “maybe I was too quick to judge.”
She gave him a look of mock skepticism. “You think?”
Ignoring her bait, Connor realized it was time to turn the tables on her. She’d probed and poked and made him realize and acknowledge more than he’d wanted to. He figured he was entitled to reciprocate. “Why do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Work at the DA’s Office when you clearly don’t have to, and when you could have gotten a cushier job, which your family clearly expected you to do.”
She cocked her head to the side and contemplated him for a second, as if considering how much to divulge.
“Fess up, princess. You’re not the only one who knows how to be dogged with questions.” She looked deliciously delectable perched on the bar stool, her long legs encased in snug blue jeans, a cotton top outlining a pert and enticingly rounded chest.
“Would you believe me if I said a passion for justice?” she asked. “Before a late-life career in the law, my mother was the queen of those philanthropic charity benefits you’re so fond of. I guess some of that do-gooder stuff rubbed off on me and my brothers.”
“And yet, your family wasn’t thrilled by your choice of the DA’s Office.” Connor forced himself to focus on what they were talking about despite the weight that had settled in his groin.
She looked down as if to shield her expression from him, stretching out her legs as she did so, one of the mules she was wearing dangling from her foot. “You may have noticed they’re rather protective.”