"So what?"
She could feel another sob bubbling in her chest and blurted out the words before it could escape. "I got fired."
He continued calmly cleaning and drying her face. "Why?"
"They think—" Her voice hitched. "They think I—"
"Take a breath," he advised, "and say it fast."
"They think I stole money out of client escrow. Embezzled. Seventy-five thousand."
Watching her face, he stuck the ruined linen back in his pocket. "Why?"
"Because—because there are duplicate 1040s, and money missing. And they're my clients."
And my father—my father. But she couldn't say that, not out loud.
In fits and starts she babbled out the gist of her meeting with the partners. A great deal of it was incoherent, details crisscrossing and overlapping, but he continued to nod. And listen.
"I didn't take any money." She let out a long, unsteady breath. "I don't expect you to believe me, but—"
"Of course I believe you."
It was her turn to gather her wits. "Why?"
Leaning back a little, he took out a cigar, shielding the flame on his lighter with a cupped hand. "In my line of work, you get a handle on people quickly. You've been around the hotel business most of your life. You know how it is. There are plenty of times with a guest, or staff, that you have to make a snap judgment. You'd better be accurate." Puffing out smoke, he studied her. "My take on you, Katherine, in the first five minutes, was—well, among other things—that you're the type of woman who would choke on her integrity before she loosened it to breathe."
Her breath came out shaky, but some of the panic eased. "I appreciate it. I think."
"I'd have to say you worked for a bunch of shortsighted idiots."
She sniffled. "They're accountants."
"There you go." He smiled, ran a finger down her cheek when she glared. "A flash there in those big brown eyes. That's better. So, are you going to take it lying down?"
Rising, she straightened her shoulders. "I can't think about how or what I can take now. I only know I wouldn't work at Bittle again if they came crawling on their hands and knees through broken glass."
"That's not what I meant. I meant someone's embezzling and pointing the finger at you. What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't care."
"You don't care?" He shook his head. "I find that hard to believe. The Katherine Powell I've seen is a scrapper."
"I said I don't care." And her voice hitched again. If she fought, looked too close, demanded too much, they might uncover what her father had done. Then it would be worse. "There's nothing I can do."
"You've got a brain," he corrected.
"It doesn't feel like it at the moment." She put a hand to her head. Everything inside was mushy and aching. "They can't do anything else to me because I don't have the money, and they'd never be able to prove I do. As far as I'm concerned right now, finding who's skimming is Bittle's problem. I just want to be left alone."
Surprised at her, he stood up. "I'd want their ass."
"Right now, I just want to be able to get through the next few hours. I have to tell my family." She closed her eyes. "Earlier today, I actually thought, hoped, that I was going to be called in and offered a partnership. Signs indicated," she said bitterly. "I couldn't wait to tell them."
"Brag?" But he said it gently, with hardly any sting.
"I suppose. 'Look at what I did. Be proud of me because…' Well, that's done. Now I have to tell them that I lost it all, that the prospects of getting another position or finessing any clients are nil for the foreseeable future."
"They're family." He stepped toward her and laid his hands on her shoulders. "Families stand by each other."