"J.B.!"
"Hey, kid, how are you?" came the cheerful familiar voice from the other end.
"Never mind me. J.B., what's going on?"
"Long story and no time to tell it. Your license current?"
"Never the hell mind! If this is all some trick to get me back in the business…"
"Would that it were, Sher."
She stiffened, nodding solemnly. She had always been able to tell when J.B. was lying. And this time he wasn't. "How serious is this?"
"I don't know."
"Going to start at the beginning?"
"No time. Sher, I need you."
Her heartbeat quickened, and she hated herself for the rush of adrenaline, the feeling of excitement. "That's why I'm here, Pop."
"I want to hire you. Two hundred dollars a day plus expenses."
"No, I'm out of that racket. If you need a favor, it's done. But no money."
"I don't work that way, you know that, even with you. Now look, all you have to do is keep an eye on St. Charles. I don't want him in my hair. Think you can do it?"
Sheridan gripped the phone, holding in her aggravation and remembering that her ulcer had started long before moving to Boston. "I'll need more information, J.B."
"What for? It's a simple, straightforward assignment."
"And if Richard St. Charles were a simple straightforward man and you hadn't stiffed him for a hundred thousand dollars, maybe I'd do it, no questions asked!"
"So he told you what happened, huh?"
"Of course. Wouldn't you?"
"Hell, no. I got more pride than to admit I'd been taken like that."
"J.B., did you con him?"
"Sher, Sher."
"I can't stand this… Pop, where are you? Why don't we meet and—"
"Will you keep St. Charles out of my hair?"
"You don't know what he's like…"
"I guess maybe all this financial-analyst garbage has made you soft. I'll give someone else a call and—"
"Dammit, of course I'll help you. I just wish—"
"Terrific, kid, I knew I could count on you. Here, put Lucy back on, and I'll give her the okay to spring loose some cash."
"Pop—"
"Give me a week, Sher."
There was no arguing with him. Sheridan sighed, resigned to not getting any more information from this phone call. "Keep in touch, okay? I gather St. Charles isn't supposed to know I'm working for you?"
J.B. only laughed.
"Lordy Lord," she muttered. "How do I get myself into these messes?"
She handed the phone to Lucy and, clenching her fists at her sides, stalked over to the bay window and looked down on Hyde Street. She had just accepted an assignment as a private investigator. Damn. Her own ambivalence was undermined by questions, plans, possibilities. She was back in San Francisco, and she was thinking like a detective again.
Sheridan wasn't sure she liked that. But she wasn't sure she didn't like it, either.
Below her a cable car clattered by, and she was stunned to realize how much she had missed the city. The cable cars, the Golden Gate Bridge, the fog rolling in, the awesome vistas of city, mountains and ocean. While living here she had always seemed to be rushing about, working, never taking time to relax and enjoy the present. And she was still hurrying herself into the future. Tomorrow I'll do this… meet the right man… get the right job… have enough money saved for a vacation. If only she could enjoy today.
A shiny dark-green Porsche screeched into a parking space behind Sheridan's rented car. She saw the black hair, then the broad shoulders and tall powerful frame of Richard St. Charles. He was in gray and white today: pearl-gray pants and shirt, gleaming white loose-fitting jacket.
He slammed his car door shut and glared up at the bay window. Sheridan shifted to one side. Even from the second floor she could see the look of malevolence in his black eyes.
"Lucy, quick, it's St. Charles."
"J.B., St. Charles is here. You want to talk to him? No—wait!" Lucy banged the phone down. "Damn him."
"He didn't leave a number?"
"No. He knows I hate his seat-of-the-pants way of doing things."
"I guess so." Lucy had been grumbling about this for twenty-five years. Sheridan peeked out the window: no St. Charles. "He's probably on his way up."
"I don't hear footsteps."
"He wears rubber-soled shoes."
"You want to hide?"
"No, it wouldn't do any good. But don't tell him J.B. called. Just follow my lead, okay?"
The door opened and Richard sauntered in.
Sheridan beamed. "Why, hello, Richard. I was just having some lunch with Lucy. Would you care for some tuna fish?"
"No."
"A pickle?"
His eyes narrowed, taking in her and her sandwich and her pickle, and not with any indication of pleasure. "Sheridan, what are you doing in San Francisco?"
"I felt the urge for a visit."
He moved toward her, but she didn't take a step back, instead cockily popping the rest of her pickle into her mouth. "I said I'd forget this whole thing, Sheridan."
"Then forget it. Go home." She grabbed a paper napkin off Lucy's desk and wiped her fingers.
"What about you?"
"I'm none of your business."
Lucy gathered up the remains of their lunch. "Think I'll run up the street and get me an ice-cream cone."
Richard's deep voice stopped her. "Mrs. Stein, has there been any word from J.B.?"
Lucy hesitated, glancing furtively at Sheridan, seemingly oblivious to the deepening of Richard's frown. Over the years Lucy had become impossible to intimidate. "No," she said, "not yet."
"And you're not concerned?" Richard still addressed Lucy.
"Richard," Sheridan interrupted, "this is none of your affair."
She stopped herself, realizing that wasn't the thing to say. J.B. had lost a hundred thousand dollars of the man's money—not that Richard gave any indication of truly needing it. Money seemed to be the least of his concerns. Nevertheless, she didn't blame him for being upset. She glanced up and saw him arching a brow at her. He wasn't in a cheerful mood.
"Well, I suppose it is your affair—more or less. But I would prefer it if—" She stopped herself again. Here she was running off at the mouth with no thought to the consequences of what she was saying. "I have to think."
"A double-dip chocolate cone sounds good to me," Lucy said. "See you all…" She slunk out the door.
Richard sat in Lucy's chair and put his feet on her desk. Not wanting to look at the long legs and think Neanderthal thoughts, Sheridan paced.
"Would you care to think aloud?" he asked mildly.
"No."
"You know, here in San Francisco I can see you as a P.I. You don't look so self-conscious and ultra-Yuppie. I imagine your ulcer came after your move to Boston."
She scowled at Richard and told him to get his feet off Lucy's desk. It was a childish maneuver; he chose to ignore her. "You're remarkably annoying," she said.
"And you're remarkably beautiful. Do you ever wear your hair down?"
"In bed," she snapped.
"Something else to look forward to, then."
"What!" She whirled around.
He was laughing softly and sprang lightly to his feet. "Don't pretend to be shocked." He moved toward her, slowly, confidently. "You're not meek and you're not stupid. You knew what you were saying, and you knew what I would think."
"It was a slip of the tongue."
"Your back stiffens right up when you're doing your stodgy financial-analyst act."
He was toe-to-toe with her now, occupying her space, that invisible circle around her. She tried to tell herself she was occupying his space, too, but knew this wasn't true. He was doing the violating, not she. But—to her credit, she thought—she didn't move back. Her breathing quickened, and her body reacted in hundreds of tiny intangible ways to the nearness of him. But she stood her ground. She had work to do.
"Outrageous?" He smiled. "Tell me you don't want to kiss me."
"I don't want to kiss you."
"Now tell me you don't want me to kiss you."
"I don't want—this is ridiculous!"
His eyes gleamed with victory. "There, you see? That's not so easy, is it?" His hands—large, solid, warm—settled on her hips. "You're not ready to admit you're attracted to me and to take any responsibility for what we might do together."
"Richard, that's enough."
"Is that a threat?"
"I'd hate to bounce you off the walls. You've been so reasonable—until now."
"I'm still being reasonable." He laughed, the warmth of his breath reaching her mouth like a sweet gentle kiss. "An unreasonable man would have kissed you by now. Or perhaps not. Perhaps my restraint is a sign of irrationality."
Perhaps, she thought, hers was, too. She wanted nothing more than to hurl herself into his arms and go with the sparks crackling between them. But years of training, years of self-restraint, self-discipline, self-denial, held her back. A difficult-enough trail lay ahead of her without getting involved with Richard St. Charles. If she permitted herself a moment's indiscretion anything might happen, and anything couldn't happen. She had to finish this business between Richard and J.B. and get herself back to Boston. Back to work and the life of the competent, professional, dutiful Sheridan Weaver.
It would have been easier if Richard hadn't given her so much time to think, had just gone ahead and kissed her. She wouldn't stop him, though they both knew she could. He was right: she wasn't ready to admit her attraction to him.
"When we do kiss and make love," he said, "we'll do it together… with each other, not to each other."
The rough silk of his words loosened the muscles in her back. He stroked her sides with his fingers, then let go and moved back out of her invisible circle of space.
If her father were a fly on the wall right now, Sheridan wondered, would he change his mind about hiring her?
"Did you know I was here?" she asked softly.
"More or less." He sat on the edge of Lucy's desk. "I decided we had left things on a sour note last night, so I tried to call you at your office after I got back here this morning. When I heard you'd taken some personal time off, I figured you'd be heading to San Francisco. I flew back and drove on out here to J.B.'s office, figuring I'd have to wait. But you don't waste any time, do you?"
"Not where my father's concerned, no."
"I know you care very much for him, and I'm sorry I can't change the facts."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You still believe J.B.'s a thief."
"I'm keeping my options open, but for the moment I'll give him the benefit of the doubt."
"For my sake?" she asked acidly.
"For mine, too." He grinned. "If I don't, I have a feeling you're going to pitch me out on my ear."
She couldn't hold back a laugh. "Ah, St. Charles, do I frighten you?"
"Frighten isn't the word."
"Unnerve?"
"No."
"Intimidate?"
"No."
"Threaten?"
"No."
"Then what?"
He didn't even hesitate. "Excite."
"I guess I should have seen that one coming."
"I guess you should have." He stood up. "What next, Ms. P.I. Weaver?"
She sauntered—as boldly and sexily as she could in her spit-polished penny loafers—and stood toe-to-toe with him, violating his space this time. Only he didn't seem to mind. Up close his black eyes looked to her as if they were flowing, and she could see tiny lines at their corners, hints of amusement and, deeper down, desire. She felt brash, daring, devil-may-care. Her old self.
And there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it.
"I think the next item on our agenda," she said with assurance, "is for us to have a look in J.B.'s office for some clue as to where he is and what he might he up to… and for you to tell me more about Richard St. Charles. I want to know why you were playing poker with J.B. and Vincent D'Amours a week ago. I want to know who else was in the game. I want to know what was said, how people reacted when J.B. dragged out that necklace. We have a lot to go over, St. Charles. My father's disappeared, and I want to know why and where he is and what, if anything, it all has to do with you."
Richard appraised her with an intelligence and openness she found unsettling. "No wonder J.B. wants you back," he said softly. "You must have been one hell of a partner."
She sighed. "I was."
And until he was back, she would be again.
4
While the rest of San Francisco worked at being impossibly chic, J.B. and his office remained an island of functional tackiness. The walls were painted a dingy tan, the trim a shade darker. There were no curtains on the windows and no view.
He'd picked up his big oak desk twenty years ago when a country school up north had gone regional and had organized a going-out-of-business sale. The desk was pushed up against one of the short, windowless walls. J.B. had an army-green swivel chair with arms, and two four-drawer gray file cabinets occupied the same wall as the desk. On the opposite wall, Sheridan's former desk—cheap teak veneer—sat alone with no chair, piled with newspapers, files, cigar boxes. There was a blue corduroy sofa bed under the windows. Across from it were an L-shaped kitchenette and the door to the small bedroom. The bathroom was off the bedroom.
The entire place smelled of stale cigars and of a man who had gotten used to living and working alone.
"He's good at what he does," Richard said.
Sheridan opened a cigar box filled with paper clips and rubber bands. "How can you tell?"
"He's not into appearances, looking slick, obviously doesn't spend a lot of time sitting around here waiting for clients to walk through the door."
"When I was a kid, we had a nice apartment over in Sunset, near a playground. He got rid of it when I moved into my own place. He's never been into space, gardens. He bought himself a top-of-the-line camper and goes fishing a lot. He's more successful than this place might indicate."
"I don't define a person's success by the objects he or she owns." Richard looked at her. "Do you?"
She shook her head. "In spite of my twelve kinds of vinegar and assorted kitchen appliances, no. To me, J.B.'s always been successful because he's lived his life on his own terms. Except for my mother dying young, I don't think he'd change a thing about his life."
Richard said nothing, and she appreciated his silence, his tactfulness… and felt guilty for not telling him about J.B.'s phone call. But she was on a case now, wasn't she? Her circumspection was justified. J.B. had made himself quite clear: he didn't want Richard St. Charles anywhere near him. Never mind that Richard was willing to give J.B. the benefit of the doubt; J.B. wasn't willing to reciprocate.
Which meant Sheridan had to lie.
I'm not lying, she told herself. I'm merely editing the truth.
"We might as well begin with his desk," she said. "You take the drawers on that side, I'll start on this side."
Richard looked at her. "Sheridan, do you trust me?"
Sheridan pulled open a drawer filled with yellowed memo pads she had bought J.B. for Christmas one year
in an effort to encourage him to be more businesslike— or more corporatelike. He didn't use them, but he didn't throw them away. She didn't return Richard's look. "I don't know."
"Do you believe me?"
"About the poker game and the necklace? Yes, I think so."
"I want to find your father because I want an explanation. I think that's understandable."
Dully she nodded and looked under the pads, knowing she wouldn't find anything. "Yes, I agree."
"I'm not going to make him repay the hundred thousand if that violates the gambler's code of ethics."
"But you're not going to thank him, either."
Not as worried since I've talked to him, she thought guiltily. "J.B. can take care of himself, but I do want to know what he's got himself into. You said he brought the necklace to the game?"
"Yes, it was in a black velvet case." He started on the next drawer, which contained two staplers, boxes of staples and, not least important, a staple remover. He moved on. "It still is, as a matter of fact."
"What was he betting before he brought out the necklace?"
"Chips, like the rest of us. He didn't start with much—five thousand or so—and he played conservatively."
Sheridan shut her drawer with a bit too much force. "Five thousand is a lot for J.B., Richard. Damn, I don't know what got into him! Did you get any indication that D'Amours actually invited J.B. into the game?"
"How else would he get in?"
"Maybe he invited himself, I don't know." She huffed. "There's a whole hell of a lot I don't know, isn't there?"
"I'm well aware of that feeling," he said dryly.
"What did D'Amours say when J.B. brought out the necklace?"
"Nothing. They were in the middle of a hand. I'd already dropped out, and Vincent D'Amours is a man of few words when he's playing poker."
Sheridan nodded. "Don't I know it."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yeah. I guess I haven't told you. I played poker with him once, a few years back. I was subbing for someone, a wealthy male friend—you know D'Amours hates playing cards with women, don't you? Anyway, this guy was annoyed with Vinnie and knew I was handy with a deck of cards, so he had me sub for him at the last minute. I thought Vinnie would choke. But he let me in the game, and since I was playing with someone else's money, I had a grand time for myself."
"Did you win?"
"Well, yes, but it wasn't that simple."
Richard was on his third drawer, though he wasn't paying much attention to the task. His eyes were riveted on Sheridan. "Why not?"
She shrugged, wondering how she'd gotten into telling this tale. "Look, it's ancient history, has nothing to do with any of this, certainly nothing to do with who I am today and—"
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