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described her. Maybe
delicate
. Or
pampered
. Her features were fine, hence delicate, and her skin was creamy and flawless. Maybe from expensive beauty treatments. He could be wrong, of course, but he suspected she’d been pampered all her life.
    His phone chimed, and he read a message from Darcie. You get Morgan home okay?
    He didn’t want to tell Darcie about this incident via text.
 
He typed, In her apartment safe and sound.
    He phone chimed another message and he switched to Jake’s profile
.
Rossi on the way. ETA 5 minutes.
    Perfect.
    Morgan hung up, and glanced at him, seeming surprised to see him still standing there.
    â€œWhy don’t we go into living room to talk about this?” He didn’t give her a chance to respond but lifted her into his arms to carry her over the glass.
    She pushed back and gaped at him. “What are you doing?”
    â€œThe glass. You’ll cut your feet.” As he continued walking, her scent wrapped around him. Soft, feminine. Fresh, like a spring breeze after the rain.
    She scowled. “You could have gotten my shoes instead of taking over and manhandling me.”
    It was his turn to gape. “Manhandling? I’m simply helping you out.”
    The minute they hit the living room she squirmed out of his arms and planted her hands on her hips. “That kind of help I don’t need.” She stormed across the room, moving as far from him as possible.
    He liked the fire in her eyes as she stared at him. Liked her animated expression. Liked that the vivid fear was gone from her face.
    He glanced at his watch. Four minutes remaining until Rossi’s arrival. If he continued to let his interest in her distract him, it’d be four very long minutes.
    Distance and professionalism. That’s what he needed.
    He gestured at the sofa. “Let’s sit down and talk about the rose and picture.”
    He expected an argument, but she perched on the edge of a red chair.
    He took the far end of the sofa, feeling like a giant. He didn’t know how to start this conversation other than bluntly stating his opinion. If she was lying, he’d soon know. “There was no sign of forced entry. Whoever left this surprise either had a key or is a master at picking locks.”
    â€œAs I said, only my parents have a key.” Her tone remained terse and irritated. “I suppose that means their live-in staff would have access, too, but I’ve had little to do with my family since I moved out of their guesthouse three months ago.”
    Live-in staff. Just as he’d suspected. Pampered. He’d have to make sure Rossi knew about the staff. Maybe one of them had a thing for her or resented her. “Would you mind calling your parents to see if their keys are missing?”
    â€œMind?” Her eyes narrowed. “Honestly, yes. If my father hears about this, he’ll drive over here and demand I move back home.”
    â€œAt your age?”
    She sighed, a long, drawn-out breath, her eyes lifting to the ceiling. “I think I could be headed for the retirement home, and as his only child, he’d still insist on taking care of me. By his definition, that means keeping me where he can see me.”
    â€œWe need to know if they still have the keys or if they’ve been stolen and the intruder used them to gain access.”
    Her shoulders stiffened. “Then I’ll have to call them, but only after I figure out what to say that doesn’t bring Dad running over here.”
    â€œOkay, so give it some thought, but be sure you make that call tonight.” Her response was a clipped nod so he moved on. “Is there a building superintendent or manager here, who might have a key?”
    â€œObviously the rental company would, but they’re off-site.”
    â€œThey could have had a break-in where keys were stolen, I suppose,” Brady said, thinking aloud. “Though they’d likely inform you of such and