by Mallory Rush
Just let me polish this last toenail? Her safety was supposedly at risk and she was worried about the color of her toes? It was a cool and ridiculous response, but certainly not one that boded well for handling this case.
"Before you ransack the office you might as well know I've got ten bucks to my name. Why don't you save yourself the bother of tearing the place up, and me the mess? Here's my purse." A large ugly handbag was shoved over the floor in his direction, the action making her rear bob a little higher while Rand's seasoned eyes narrowed appreciatively.
"Go ahead," she said. "Pick it up. The billfold's at the bottom and the money's stashed in the change compartment. But you'd better hurry because I've got an appointment in one minute and you're liable to get caught."
Rand granted her credit for ingenuity as well as bad taste in purses. She had his interest though, so he decided to play along. He stooped down to pick up the bag.
How she did it he had no idea but Ms. Tinsdale was no longer under the desk. She was crouched on the floor and pointing the muzzle of a gun in the middle of his face. He was too stunned to look past the chamber but he got the impression of fire bending delicate glass.
"Okay you scumball, drop the goods and lay on the floor. Arms locked behind your head, legs spread, and don't you move a hair while I make a body search."
He should start talking and fast. Then again, having his body searched by Ms. Tinsdale had a certain appeal. To check out her skills—investigator-wise, of course.
"Did you hear me? I mean business, buster. Lay down and spread 'em."
He'd never been one to argue with a gun, especially when the lady was fingering the trigger. He followed her orders.
Her free hand efficiently frisked his arms but when she glided it over his ribs and back, he had the keenest sensation of stimuli. What was he, some kind of pervert? He was actually enjoying this! Rand frowned in self-disapproval.
"I think you'd better stop," he said gruffly.
"Getting too close to something you don't want me to find?"
I'll say, he thought. Her hand was nearly patting his rear which was awfully close to an area that didn't care his only interest in Ms. Tinsdale was business.
"Aren't you just a tad overdressed for the occasion? Or maybe you ripped the threads off, huh? No, don't tell me. You're a hood who likes to make a statement."
Her fingers gripped his ankles, checking for a hidden weapon, then clenched into his calves. When she made a svelte glide over the back of his thigh, he groaned.
"Ms. Tinsdale," he said raggedly, "Why don't you save us both some embarrassment and stop where you are?"
"How do you know my name?" She did stop unfortunately. Her palm rested near his crotch. "The door, of course. Ah-hah! Thought you could fool me, did you?"
She grazed the interior of his thighs then went for the other leg.
"Ms. Tinsdale!" he said urgently. "Enough. I'm Rand Slick. I'm here for our appointment to discuss a missing person."
"Rand Slick?" she exclaimed. "Ohmygosh!"
Deciding he was in no condition to expose his front side, he kept his position but lifted his head. His gaze collided with the most luminous green eyes he'd ever seen in his life.
A spark of recognition seemed to leap between them and for a moment they stared at each other. Had he seen her somewhere before? Or maybe it was just something familiar that struck a long lost chord.
Who was the most surprised, he couldn't say. Ms. Tinsdale appeared speechless, embarrassed, and something else that mirrored his internal confusion. It had the feel of a tightrope, each of them tugging at opposite ends while the tension quivered through the charged air.
"Think you could put the rod away? I have an aversion to being on the wrong side of a trigger."
As quickly as the connection had happened, she broke it. She turned and carefully put the gun in her purse. Rand was momentarily snared by the swish of long, vivid red hair, the sleek, poetic movement of her back twisting around, the exposure of slim ankle and white fabric riding up her thighs as she got to her feet.
She offered him her hand.
It was dry but he caught a faint shake. Or maybe it came from him. He must be having a belated reaction to the gun because he sure wasn't some pre-pubescent kid—not that he'd ever been a pre-pubescent kid. But looking at her, full in the face that seemed fresh but arranged in sweet, provocative angles, he wondered just how old she was.
Apparently not too young to know how to tote a pistol.
With surprising strength she helped him to his feet. Standing, she came just beneath his chin. Her own notched up. For looking so delicate it sure had a stubborn set to it.
"Do you care to tell me what that little stick-up act was all about, Mr. Slick? I could've blown your head off."
"Sorry. I wanted to test out your reflexes. Not a good move on my part I'm afraid."
She snorted her agreement then nodded to a chair facing her desk. As they sat opposite each other his respect climbed a notch. She looked composed in spite of the test that had gone awry.
Or had it? She was good. She was also one first-class frisker. He shifted in the chair, feeling an uncomfortable reminder.
"So tell me," she said. "Do you make it a habit to hit people out of left field? Or was this just a lapse into—"
"Stupidity?" He chuckled. "I've been known to be unorthodox in my methods. But I get my answers and results one way or the other."
"Mr. Slick, I think we just connected."
No, Ms. Tinsdale, we connected on the floor. Did she read his mind? Is that why she was suddenly busy shuffling papers and quickly averting her gaze from his?
Rachel could feel his shuttered dark eyes boring into her. Something was happening here she wasn't comfortable with. Growing up in the PI business had netted her fine instincts on first impressions. Rand Slick had a quality of patina polish hiding some dangerously rough edges.
He was handsome for sure, but there was nothing soft to balance out the stern planes of his face. His eyes were the color of slate which came close to matching his hair. He wore it a little long for an executive, brushed straight back from a well-shaped forehead. The severe style exposed several lines permanently creased into his brow; smaller lines edged his eyes. Great mouth. Nice jaw. Nothing weak about either.
For some reason he reminded her of Rocky Balboa. The kind of man who maintained an aura of the streets no matter how far he moved up in the world. Or maybe it was just those muscles of his that felt more brawler tough than work-out lean.
"Okay," she said brusquely, "You tested me out and you're still here, so I take it I passed?"
"With flying colors."
"Then it's my turn. Before I take a client on I like to know exactly what I'm dealing with. We'll start with some questions."
"Shoot."
"I almost did."
Rand chuckled, coaxing her to join him. Hard to stay tough with this guy, she realized, while she struggled to maintain her objectivity. Just because he needed her services and had a terrific smile didn't make him an okay person.
"So what do you want to know?" he said, easing into a position that suggested comfort but struck her as guarded.
"Let's start with you. Harry Kline put us in touch but he wasn't too liberal with facts. He said you're legit, you've got some mutual business interests and a personal cause to find someone who's missing. For knowing you a couple of years he didn't seem to know much. I'd like to know more."
His smile dissolved into a thin expressionless line. "I didn't come here to discuss myself. Let's stick to business and any information you need to find my sister." His voice was the flat tone of unquestioned authority.
Rachel felt as though she'd just slammed into a concrete rail after cruising along at a smooth speed. She'd picked up on the rough edges, but she hadn't been prepared for them to emerge so abruptly. Whoever Rand Slick was, he definitely was not a man people messed with. He had a way of turning tables.
She didn't like it. Took a
lot to unnerve her, but he did with his tense posture, a sharp but strangely distant stare.
Never let nobody know you're shook, she remembered her dad saying. Look 'em in the eyeball and even if your innards turn to mush don't back down.
Rachel made herself sit up straighter. Fortunately, the desk hid the foot she was busy shaking.
"In that case tell me everything you can, no matter how unimportant it seems. Her habits, her hobbies, and especially the kind of people she hangs out with."
For a split second she caught a glance of something vulnerable in his expression. He quickly replaced it with the implacable mask. The unexpected reaction caught her like a velvet upper-cut to the right before she'd recovered from the brass-knuckled sting from the left. Against her professional judgment, she found herself growing more curious about this quicksilver enigma than the sister that had brought him here.
"She's seven years younger than me. That puts her at twenty-six. I know next to nothing about her habits, what she does for kicks, or how she makes a living."
"Do you have a picture?"
Again, that flash of unguarded emotion. Again, the disguise. He reached inside his coat pocket and handed her a faded black and white snapshot. He looked away while she studied it.
Rachel's heart softened on a lurch. There was a story in this picture. A very sad story. It wasn't so much the faded image of Rand Slick as a young boy hugging a little girl who stared up at him adoringly. It was the creased texture of glossy paper, the edges rubbed smooth from years of constant touching.
She struggled to appear unaffected. This wasn't a person who liked to expose himself and any sympathy from her would be deflected with the same stony look he was now wearing. Besides, there was the cardinal rule: A PI never let himself get emotionally involved in a case. It wasn't professional.
"Nothing more recent?"
"No. We were separated shortly after this picture was taken."
"How?"
"It doesn't matter. What does is that I've been tracking her for years. I've pulled strings, gone through litigation, and run into one dead end after another. The family she was living with died when their house caught fire. Any pictures there went up in smoke."
"She got out?"
"They lived in the country but I understand from the closest neighbors she ran off a year earlier with a drifter who was passing through. She was a senior in high school."
"There's an angle—high school. Did you check the yearbook? We could get a more recent picture there."
"I checked that out. Country school and not enough students to go to the bother. Believe me, Ms. Tinsdale, I left no stone unturned."
"Do you think you'd recognize her if you saw her?"
"I do. I... had occasion to see her twice. Once when she was ten and then at fourteen. At least I thought it was her from a distance. A brother can spot his sister no matter how many years pass."
"You didn't talk to her? Find out any facts we can use?"
"No. There were too many people around and besides I—" He passed a hand over his eyes, concealing what she suspected was some emotion he didn't want her to see. "It was an unusual situation. Don't ask me to explain. Please?"
The last word seemed hard for him to get out, as though he was requesting a personal favor and asking favors didn't come easy. He'd kept his voice even but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of something raw. If necessary, she'd probe later; for now she respected his need for privacy.
Rachel extended the photo. Their hands touched. They came to an understanding with that touch. She cared. He needed her to care enough to share his search.
They shared more. A distinct but disturbing current was passing from him to her. It was achingly personal and something she couldn't acknowledge with a client. Especially not with a man as mercurial as him.
"There's more." He pocketed the snapshot. "You might as well know five different detectives have worked on this case. I've got a thick file that you're welcome to look over if we can come to terms."
"Go ahead and give me the rundown." She put pen to paper and began to take notes.
"Sarah—my sister—moved around a lot after she ran away." He paused and she perceived a troubled thought.
"Do you know why she ran away? Could it have anything to do with why she stayed on the move?"
"I don't think so. The family she was with seemed pretty solid. Who knows? Maybe it was just a crazy whim or an idea she picked up from... a bad influence." He cleared his throat and shifted as though the chair was a bun warmer and he wanted out from the toasty heat. "Anyway, I got pretty close several times, but either she had wanderlust or she was on the run."
"Any guess why?"
"My sources indicate the man she ran off with had some shady connections."
"Were your sources reliable?"
"They were shady enough themselves to make the connection."
Her pen stopped in mid-scratch. "Back up a minute. Are you telling me you're in with some undesirable characters?"
As he raked a hand through his back-brushed hair, light filtered through flecks of silver. How much of his quest had put them there, she wondered? Didn't matter. Even if she sympathized with him, no way was she getting mixed up with the wrong crowd. Her reputation was more important than getting kicked out of this office because she couldn't pay the rent.
"Look," he said, sighing. "I'm clean. I've got no faith in the system and I do know some people outside it who've gotten me information that money can't buy. I don't set myself up to owe favors, only to collect. Relax. Whatever my connections, they're not who I am."
Rachel unconsciously tapped the pen against the paper and studied him intently.
"And just who are you, Mr. Slick?"
His jaw tightened; a muscle ticked in his cheek. Rand got up and leaned over the desk. Any vulnerability she had sensed in him before was snuffed out by a towering man with a face of granite who was on repeat performance and intimidating the living daylights out of her.
She'd be damned before she let him know it.
"Since you seem as concerned with my background as you are with this case I'll give you a little bio and then we'll drop it. What do you want to know? The ID I can't give for my sister?"
Don't back down. If you do, he's out of here. You keep hitting a nerve and now he's turning the tables. Again.
Rachel swallowed hard. "I like to know how my clients tick. If I'm risking my hide, you can't blame me for that."
His expression said that he did.
"Okay, we'll start with the fact that I find it grating when people tap their pens." He whipped the pen from her hand and tossed it to the desk. "As for habits, I brush my teeth two times a day and shower every morning. I drink moderately, avoid emotional entanglements and practice safe sex. My favorite hobby is making money but I like to play racquetball and poker. I can't stand to lose and it's rare that I do. As for palling around, I prefer to fly solo." He smiled without warning and she was reminded of a barracuda contemplating lunch.
His turnaround bothered her as much as the thought that being devoured by Rand Slick had a certain frightful appeal.
"Now," he continued smoothly, "since you know as much about me as the next guy you can drop the mister and call me Rand. Turnabout being fair play, it's your turn, Rachel."
Belatedly she realized she was staring at him, mouth agape. So much for being her father's daughter, master bluffer and A-1 private eye.
"What... what do you want to know?"
"Everything, actually. But for now I'll stick with some important specifics. Do you like to visit faraway places? Could you possibly endure being stripped in public? And by some miracle, is your virginity somewhat intact? If the answer is no to any or all, can you fake the first two if I make it worth your while?"
"What?"
"You heard me." He gripped her wrist, his fingers biting urgently into her skin. His touch was compelling at the same time it sent off a shrilling alarm. "I need a woman with guts and looks.
You've got both. But they won't do me any good unless you're willing to stand on the auction block and go up for sale."
"You've got to be kidding."
"This is no joke, Ms.—Rachel. I need your skills and I need your body." His gaze raked an incisive path from her head to her breasts. She was shocked to feel an electric reaction. Instinctively she crossed her free arm over her chest. "Good," he said, "The more innocent you appear, the better. If you've got the courage, I've got the in."
"What are you talking about?"
"The reason for this meeting." He fixed her with a level stare. "I want to buy you."
Funny, he didn't look nuts. Jack the Ripper probably hadn't either. Her wisest move would be to humor him until she could buzz security.
"Of course," she said, forcing a smile and wishing the gun was in her hand instead of her purse. "Did you have a payment schedule in mind?"
"You can name your price and quit fumbling for a way to flag the guards. Hear me out and I'll leave if you don't want to cut the deal."
"I think you'd better get to it."
"All right. I tracked my sister down but I can't get to her without a special ticket." He leaned closer to her face. His breath was warm and she inhaled the subtle fragrance of bay and night spice. "Three words," he said in a low, uninflected voice. "White. Slave. Trade."
Chapter 2
"Did you just say White Slave Trade?"
Damn, he thought. He'd let his desperation blind his good sense. Hadn't he been turned down enough times without scaring this one off before she gave him half a chance?
Rand released her wrist, absently noticing he could easily break it, his size nearly double hers. He also noticed, and not so absently, that her skin was soft as feather down and disturbingly pleasant to the touch.
"I think I came on a little too strong." He smiled apologetically, deciding charm might be his best tactic. "It's a long story, Rachel. If I can buy the rest of your day, I'll be glad to pay generously. No strings, just a chance for you to hear me out."
She was silent, probably weighing whether to take him seriously or question his mental stability. He caught her glancing at her purse before turning to an appointment book. She shut it quickly but not before he saw it was blank except for a space with his name. Rand looked away, appearing not to have seen.
