The Single Daddy Club Boxed Set

by Donna Fasano

The woman remained silent.

  "And why do you think," he went on evenly, "that your seven-year-old camcorder was the only item that was damaged? Why wasn't anything taken? Your TV, stereo, jewelry. That is the usual reason that someone breaks into a house—to take, to steal. To come away with something of value."

  Her full, cinnamon-colored lips tightened.

  Finally, she simply whispered, "I don't know." Then her words increased in volume and in strength as she continued, "I don't have answers to any of your questions. Just as I didn't have answers for the police officer when he asked them. All I know is that my camera is worthless. Burned and mangled and melted. The police report said destroyed by a small, isolated fire. A fire that was not set by me, I assure you. I need your company to pay me the money I'm due so I can purchase a new one. I have a business to run."

  He kept his expression neutral. "And what kind of business do you run, Maggie?"

  It was an irrelevant question. He knew very well that the information must be somewhere in the woman's file. But he couldn't keep himself from asking. The sound of her voice was like heated satin flowing all around him, and even though he wanted to damn the very notion, he had to admit he wanted to hear more of it.

  "I'm a private investigator."

  Leave it to an extraordinary-looking woman to have an extraordinary occupation. He should have known she wouldn't have chosen a job as mundane as, say, a bank teller or a waitress or a corporate executive. As he contemplated it all, his brain became hazy around the edges and his curiosity got the best of him. His tone softened as he found himself asking, "And what sort of mysteries do you solve?"

  Maggie's jewel green eyes roved over his face for several seconds. Finally, she quietly said, "I take exception to being patronized, Mr. Newton."

  Now he'd insulted the woman, and he hadn't even meant to ask the damned question to begin with. Hell, man, his analytical brain raged at him, get your hormones in check. You have a job to do. Quit letting Mr. Happy think for you, and do it already!

  "I certainly meant no offense. I'm interested. Really."

  Again, he felt scrutinized by her cool gaze. Even an idiot could see she was trying to figure out if he really wanted to know more about her job, or if he was being condescending.

  Her full bottom lip glistened when she moistened it with the tip of her tongue. "I don't mind telling you what I do for a living." Her chin lifted a fraction as she looked away from him for a moment. "I investigate—" her eyes returned to his "—wayward husbands."

  When she didn't elaborate right away, Reece's brow creased as he wondered exactly what she meant by the odd description.

  "Some of my clients call it 'fooling around', or 'hanky-panky'. One woman told me her husband was 'getting some sugar on the side.' Adultery. Infidelity. Or good old fornication." She shrugged. "Any of those terms will do." Her chest rose as she took a deep breath. "The women who hire me might use different words to voice their suspicions, but there's always one thing they all have in common. They're desperate to know the truth. And I provide them with just that. Evidence in the form of pictures or video of their cheating husbands in action."

  There was something in the tilt of her head, something in the set of her jaw, that made Reece uncomfortable... almost as though he should feel responsible for every single low-life man she'd ever been paid to investigate. He shifted in his seat, sorry that he'd allowed his curiosity to break loose and ask the question to begin with.

  "Well, Maggie, it sounds like you give your clients considerable leverage."

  Her pretty mouth thinned. "I try."

  Their gazes held for heartbeat, and then Reece looked down at her file.

  "What do you say we focus on your problem," he told her. "Let's get this claim processed."

  "Now you're talking," Maggie said.

  She scooted to the edge of her seat, and Reece kept his attention riveted to the papers, desperately pushing from his mind the sexy image of her trouser-clad bottom inching forward in the chair, her knees turning to one side in that oh-so-feminine manner.

  Remember, this woman just might be trying to rook the company, he reminded himself. She was like every other woman he'd ever met in his life—hiding something, deceiving someone, or looking out for her own best interests. He needed to keep that thought to the forefront of his mind.

  He looked up from the forms. "I have to tell you," he began quietly, "that I tend to agree with Joey's conclusion that this claim should be denied."

  He darted a glance at Maggie and saw her perfectly arched brows draw into a frown. "Give me a second to explain." He eased back in his chair. "Let's look, just for a moment, at the fact that, if someone broke into your home—"

  "If?"

  Maggie Dunlap's lips parted and her eyes went wide, making it completely obvious that she took exception to his choice of words.

  "Okay," he relented. "Hold on. One is left to surmise that whoever broke into your home, did so with little or no trouble. You can't hold my company liable for your home, or your possessions, if you don't keep your doors and windows locked. Could it be possible, Maggie, that you left your home—?"

  "No, it is not possible," she cut him off. "I lock my doors. And my windows. I'm not a moron."

  "I'm not insinuating that you are," he said. "For the sake of argument, let's say you make a habit of locking your doors and windows. Let's say someone did break into your home. Let's say someone did destroy your camcorder."

  Her luscious mouth pursed just enough so that her full bottom lip rounded just a bit. The resulting pouty pucker was nearly Reece's undoing.

  Keeping his gaze fastened securely to hers, he continued, "Let's talk about the damage that was done versus the amount of money you're looking to claim."

  "The camera is worthless," she pointed out.

  "I'm sure it is." He hesitated a moment, wanting to make an impression with his next question. "Tell me, Maggie, how much do you think it was worth... before it had been damaged?"

  Direct hit. Maggie Dunlap's green-eyed gaze averted for a moment. She shifted in her seat, propped an elbow on the chair's armrest, then eased it back down to her side.

  When she didn't answer for some seconds, he rephrased the question. "Do you really believe technology that dated is worth... anything?"

  She looked at him then, her eyes narrowing to a glare. "Granted," she said, "I bought the camera secondhand. But the darned thing has to be worth something. It was worth a small fortune when it was new. Why else would I have paid to have it insured?"

  "Placing monetary value on your personal possessions isn't my company's responsibility. That is, until you want us to pay for them or replace them."

  Her mouth screwed up and she said, "So. You're not going to give me anything?"

  He thought it best to stifle his urge to shrug. "The camcorder wasn't worth anything, Maggie."

  Her jaw jutted forward. "I have a good mind to call the state insurance commissioner. I'm sure he'd like to hear about this... this..."

  Reece's eyebrows and his irritation rose at her challenge. "And I may have to put a call into his office myself. You might like to know that he has an entire staff of people eager to go after criminals who are trying to defraud insurance companies."

  The chair Maggie Dunlap was sitting in scooted backward several inches when she stood with force. "I am not trying to defraud anyone! There was a recording in that camera when it was destroyed. A recording that contained proof that took me weeks to get. A recording that would have been worth money from a client. I know you and... and Joey out there both think I burned up my own camera so I could update my equipment with money from your stupid insurance company. But it simply doesn't make sense that I would destroy evidence that has cost me time and income."

  A tense silence hovered between them.

  "I didn't know about the recording." Reece sat back in his chair. "Is that information in the police report? I don't remember reading that. And if what you're telling me is true, then you're
right, it doesn't make sense." He felt more confused than ever about Joey's suspicions regarding this woman.

  "Look, Maggie," he said, "I'm not only the senior claims adjuster in this office—I also act as the insurance investigator for southern Maryland. I can look into this for you. It will take me a week or so to get out from under all these files." He placed the palm of his hand on top of the pile of manila files that sat on his desk.

  Her body visibly relaxed. "I'd appreciate your help," she said at last. "I know you're going to find that I'm telling the truth... so is there any way you could give me just enough money to buy myself another camera?"

  Reece felt badly, but he shook his head. "My hands are tied, Maggie. I can't do that." He looked down at the file. "And an investigation—no matter what the findings—won't change the fact that the camera was over insured."

  "So why bother investigating?"

  "Because the cost of the recording and your lost wages are included in a clause in your contract. Those items are covered."

  She glanced at the stack of files on his desk. "But it'll take you a week to get to me?"

  He nodded.

  The woman inhaled deeply. At last, she said, "I guess there's nothing left to say."

  She stood there, defeat evident in every stiff muscle of her body. For some godforsaken reason—one that Reece couldn't fathom at the moment—he was besieged by the oddest desire to somehow fix this for her. To do something that would make her day a little less miserable.

  Unable to understand why, he found himself saying, "Look, Maggie, I feel terrible about this. I really do. Let me contact your insurance agent. I'm sure I can get him to refund to you the portion of your premium that's been going toward insuring that outdated camera. It won't be much, but it'll be more than what you have now, which is nothing."

  Her jaw muscles clenched tight, honing her hollow-cheeked face into sharper, sexier angles. And just when he thought she was going to turn him down, she nodded her head slowly and said, "I'll take it."

  Maggie Dunlap turned on her heel, pulled open the door and marched out of his office. And from his excellent vantage point, he was able to watch her subtly swaying fanny as she walked the entire length of the hall.

  * * *

  The sharp, rumbling pug-pug-pug-pug of the motorcycle engine jerked Maggie to attention. She rushed to the window to peek through the drawn shades. But all she saw was the red brake light of the bike as it slowed to turn the corner and disappear.

  She stared out the window and waited, every muscle tense, ready.

  Finally, she exhaled.

  "Damn it!" She stalked away from the window. "I hate this." And for that moment, fear was displaced by a healthy flash of anger.

  She'd never experienced this kind of panicky apprehension before—a mind-numbing anxiety that had her looking over her shoulder, jumping at loud noises, listening for every approaching vehicle.

  Under normal circumstances, she'd always thought of herself as a pretty courageous person. One would have to be in order to work in her profession. She'd faced dozens of angry men—husbands of her clients who were furious over being caught, via a photograph or video recording, in one compromising position or another. Yes, normally she was anything but fearful.

  But someone had been invading her home. Someone had been violating the sanctity of her very own private space. On a daily basis.

  Oh, she had no concrete evidence. That was the most frustrating thing about it.

  The episodes had begun over a week ago with the senseless destruction of her camcorder. She hadn't recognized the act as the beginning of anything, had only thought it was an isolated case of someone looking to destroy evidence, or maybe a neighborhood teen who lost his nerve after destroying her camcorder.

  Maggie had been completely baffled by the fact that the perpetrator had left behind no sign of having forced their way into her house. She'd had no suggestions for the police when they had commented on the lack of evidence. And she remembered one cop attempting to explain it away, using the phrase, "the more criminally wizened youth of today". She'd told the police about the recording and had offered up the names of the people involved and they'd promised to investigate further. But from the way they talked about her old camcorder and the lack of any other damage to her house or belongings, she didn't expect them to put much effort into catching the jerk who broke into her home and turned her into a big ball of scared. And she seriously doubted the insurance investigator would do much, either.

  Funny how she still remembered the man's name so clearly. With her carefully fostered bad attitude regarding the male of the species, actual names usually melted from her brain like ice chips on a sun-heated sidewalk. But Reece Newton...

  His name and image had remained firmly planted in her mind for days now. His thick, dark hair, those smoky, dark eyes, his strong, handsome face... those had been the memories she'd focused on to dispel her night terrors when she was lying in bed, wide-awake.

  "Enough already!" she scolded herself, and she refocused her thoughts on the problem at hand—the first of many intrusive visits into her home by person or persons unknown.

  The police had explained to her that the fire that had destroyed her camera had been controlled. Which meant that whoever had set it had stayed around to see that the flames hadn't grown and consumed her entire house. And although one or the other of the cheating couple that had been under surveillance could have come searching for the recording, Maggie was almost positive they'd been unaware of her presence at the motel. That had only cemented in her mind the idea of miscreant teens—out to do damage, but not too much damage, or who had been spooked and had run.

  However, the police hadn't agreed with her scenario at all. Oh, they hadn't come right out and accused her. But the two officers had cast suspicious glances at her the entire time they were in her house. It was no wonder the insurance company had refused her claim, after the report the authorities had supplied that pointed invisible fingers of guilt directly at her.

  It had taken her nearly a week to finally admit the other weird things taking place under her roof. They were small things: her favorite teacup moved from one side of the cabinet to the other, throw pillows bunched at one side of the couch when she knew she always placed one at each end, her shower door left open when she made a habit of keeping it closed.

  Small, eerie things. Things that had her second-guessing herself. Had she left the salt and pepper shakers on the table in the kitchen rather than putting them in the cabinet? She knew she hadn't.

  And then the incidents got a little more frequent, their scope a little larger: a sprinkling of coffee beans dotting the kitchen counter when she never drank coffee, the back door left wide open when she was absolutely certain she'd locked up the house before leaving.

  The open door had scared the hell out of her. She'd had dead bolts installed, and she'd begun sleeping with her .380 pistol in the drawer of the bedside table instead of locked in the desk drawer where she usually kept it. She jumped at noises. Went stock-still and listened whenever the whole-house fan unit kicked on. Paranoia had slowly seeped into her bones, and little by little, her self-confidence in keeping herself safe had trickled away like water from a leaky barrel.

  Who was playing this game with her? And why?

  She glanced over at the files scattered across her dining room table. It had to be one of the men she was currently investigating. One of her clients' husbands was warning her off. Threatening her. There was no doubt in her mind whatsoever now—not after the mess she'd found in her garage this morning.

  Her head snapped up at the sound of a car cruising slowly past the front of her house. She was at the window in a flash. In the dusky light of late afternoon, she watched the car slow to a crawl, and then come to a complete stop.

  Adrenaline shot through her body like hot acid. She ran toward the back of the house, jerked open the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out her gun. Its smooth, stainless-steel handle fit in her palm wi
th a cool and accustomed comfort.

  The hours and hours she spent at the practice range every month gave her the skill and confidence to handle it. And she was leaning heavily on her ten years of law-enforcement experience—experience that was a requirement for her private-investigator's license—for the knowledge and judgment she would need if she ever felt the necessity to pull the trigger.

  Maggie had never shot anyone. Had never felt threatened enough to actually protect herself with the gun she'd owned for many years. But she did feel threatened enough now.

  And she wouldn't be taken unawares. Not ever again.

  Chapter 2

  Reece searched in the dwindling light for a house number, and when he finally found it, he turned the car into the driveway and cut the engine. The small Cape Cod was dark, the curtains drawn. His administrative assistant had assured him that Maggie Dunlap would be expecting him. Reece hoped he hadn't driven halfway to Salisbury for nothing.

  He had been alerted this morning that the infamous Maggie was making another claim, this one against her auto insurance. Apparently, something had happened to completely disable her car. Maggie had bypassed Joey altogether, instead calling Reece and she'd been waylaid by Reece's assistant.

  Thoughts of the fiery redhead had plagued him all week long, and even though he would die before admitting it out loud, he'd worked hard to clear his desk so that he could conduct the investigation he'd promised her. Worry and uncertainty gnawed at his gut like an unrelenting mouse. He found out, via his assistant, that Maggie had sounded stressed, nearly frantic, when she'd called. Had her home and property been once again vandalized? Or was this just another great "acting job" on Maggie's part? Finding real answers to those questions, Reece guessed, was going to be the hardest task.

  As he looked at the darkened house, he only hoped she was home.

  Of course, her car could be in the garage; however, vandals usually attacked automobiles that were within easy access—parked out on the street or on the driveway. And as Maggie's car had been supposedly wrecked...