"We lease the apartment from the owner. He lives in the flat across the hall and uses the office space downstairs."
"So?"
Foy paused, looking as if he were struggling with what he had to say next. "I've known him almost all of his life. His brother works for me, and several of his cousins." Caroline said nothing but waited, sensing another shoe about to drop.
"His name is Michael Mahoney."
Mahoney! The Mahoneys of Sebastopol!
"Brian Mahoney is his brother."
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She mentally ran through the names and faces of the staff she'd met today. Surely she would have remembered a Mahoney. "Did I meet him this afternoon?"
"He was out on assignment."
"Okay," she said slowly. "Why is he a problem?"
"Because, my dear Caroline, I believe Brian Mahoney is our thief."
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Chapter Three
AT HALF PAST six Ian Foy walked Caroline to her car. The parking lot stood empty except for two vans owned by the janitorial service whose staff swarmed ZyQyx Headquarters like killer bees.
"You're sure you don't want me to lead the way to Sebastopol?" Foy carried the two file cases Caroline planned to wade through before reporting for work in the morning.
"I have these." She waved the handful of maps she carried.
"I'm furious with Michael Mahoney. What errand is so important he couldn't wait a few minutes to give you your key?" He wore a sour expression. "That's one of the problems with the entire Mahoney Clan—they insist the world revolves around them."
Caroline only half-listened. Foy had been damning Mahoneys for the last hour, since his phone call to her landlord. "Ian, please, I'll be fine." She inserted the key in the trunk lock. She was growing weary of his parental concern as well.
"You're sure?"
"I've found my way around cities all over the world. Sebastopol can't be any more challenging than Tokyo." She saw his expression soften.
"Besides, I'm sure Mr. Mahoney is back from his errand and waiting for me right now."
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"Don't count on it." He stared off into the distance, squinting. "You'll see what I'm talking about when you meet them. They're a tiresome bunch."
Then why did you hire Brian Mahoney and his cousins? She wanted to ask him the question, but sensed it would exacerbate his annoyance with Michael Mahoney. "You said there's a restaurant next door to his office. If he's not in, I'll leave my card and have dinner while I wait."
"I hate to see you dining alone on your first night." She rested a hand on his forearm. "I've done it many times. Now hurry along. I'm sure your wife and kids must be wondering where—"
"I have no family," he interrupted. "ZyQyx is my family."
"I'm sorry." She meant it. Now that the Springs had dwindled to Travis and to her, she knew the same feelings of loneliness Ian must feel. She also knew a paid staff never replaced family.
"Don't be sorry. I made the decision to stay single long ago. I'm willing to pay the price."
She hated to leave him on such a down note, but fatigue and the time change had worn her to a frazzle. "It's getting late."
"Remember, we're starting early tomorrow."
"Seven a.m."
"If you don't like your apartment for any reason, Caroline, check into the Holiday Inn down the street. We'll find you a new place in the morning." He slid the file boxes into the trunk of her car, next to her luggage and the garment bag of 31
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business attire that would tide her over until Travis shipped the rest. "Drive carefully, young lady." She smiled. "You, too, young man."
* * * *
AS IF GUIDED by radar, Caroline found Sebastopol and the Mahoney Building without one wrong turn. Unfortunately, she also found the blinds drawn and the door locked to the offices of Michael G. Mahoney, Ph.D., MS, MBA, LL.B., FSCIA, DABFA.
Her landlord wasn't Mister Mahoney, but Doctor Mahoney. With the alphabet soup following his name, likely a nerd extraordinaire. Short, wizened, three-inch thick lenses in black Buddy Holly frames, polyester pants and a pocket protector stuffed with broken-tipped pencils and leaky pens. Or worse, an academician with elbow patches and a pipe. Caroline stepped into the doorway next to Dr. Mahoney's office. Through an authentic ship's porthole about ten inches in diameter and encased in weathered brass, she saw a staircase leading to the second floor. Two shaded bulbs drawn through wooden ship's wheels, one slightly larger than the other, lighted the stairs. Perhaps Dr. Mahoney wasn't a nerd, but an avid sailor.
This time, a new mental image floated through her mind—
a brawny, good-looking man dressed in bellbottoms that hugged a tight butt, a sleeveless striped polo, and a jaunty white sailor hat.
Whew! She laughed. If she didn't stop this nonsense, she'd smell the scent of Old Spice in another minute. 32
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Two intercoms were on the wall near the door. One was labeled in brass, M. G. Mahoney, the other unlabeled. She buzzed Mahoney's first, and, when no one answered, chanced that he might be across the hall in what she would soon call home. No answer there either.
She stifled a yawn then took out one of her business cards. She kept several sets, and for this trip, brought the ones that were printed only with her name and e-mail address. On the back, she wrote, Dr. Mahoney, I'll be waiting in the restaurant next door. She signed it CS, and tucked it alongside his buzzer.
Dusk settled over the small city. She looked to the west where wisps of fog rolled in from the ocean. How far to the water? Less than thirty miles, she guessed, and a darned site closer to the sea than Dallas.
Her stomach growled, and she ached to slip into sweats or jeans. Not one to fret over things she couldn't change, Caroline turned toward the restaurant. He'll be along soon. In the meantime, everything will look better over a plate of French fries.
* * * *
THE ENTRANCE TO the Calla Lily Inn was less than yards from her new home. Three stories tall, the building looked like it had once been a turn-of-the-century hotel. The windows were dark on the second and third floors, hung with velvet drapery, lace curtains, and panes so sparkling they were almost invisible.
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Caroline stopped and peered in the front window of the restaurant, which she found no easy task. A resplendent white calla lily had been etched into the center of the leaded glass. Through one of the beveled edges, and to her tummy's disappointment, she saw every table occupied. She was starved, tired, and she still had to call Travis to tell him where to ship the rest of her things. The aroma seeping through the open front doors called to her, too appealing to resist. Didn't Travis camp out on his computer from the second he hit home each night? No sense trying to reach him by phone, she'd e-mail him right from the dinner table. With the restaurant's name and the flower emblazoned across the front window, Caroline expected art deco and calla lilies everywhere. To her surprise, she found an eclectic mix of woods and brass, ferns and succulents. A single silk calla lily on each table was the only concession to its name. The diners looked happy, the portions large, and the enticing smells made her mouth water.
"It'll be about half an hour," the hostess told her. "You can wait in the bar."
The bar, not quite Victorian, not quite Wild West, was oddly quiet although it was Monday and still early. Another giant calla lily had been etched into the mirror behind the bar, but Caroline saw nothing else thematic about the place. She found a table not far from the entry to the restaurant and turned on her wireless laptop.
Hi, Travis.
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Hope traf
fic driving back into Dallas wasn't too awful. As you can see, I'm here, and you're not going to believe what's happening.
My new apartment is in a building called—are you ready for this?—the Mahoney Building ... in Sebastopol! That's not all. My landlord's name is Michael G. Mahoney. A Sebastopol Mahoney. I'm telling you, Travis, it's synchronicity—just like this job popping up out of nowhere. It's all coming together. She stopped to accept a glass of Chardonnay from the bartender. It's all coming together. Maybe too neatly. Caroline didn't like coincidences.
I'm waiting in the restaurant next door for my landlord (Doctor Mahoney) to show up with the keys to my apartment. The food looks great, but I guess I'd describe this place as 'in transition.'
She reached inside her pocket for the slip of paper with her new address and zip code.
Here's my address for the next few weeks. I'm not going to bother with a phone.
Call me on my cell if you need me, and thanks again for sending my stuff. I owe you BIG TIME—g—. She typed her address and hit the Send key at the same time she sensed the presence of someone behind her. Expecting the hostess come to fetch her to her table, she turned.
Caroline's mouth dropped open. Behind her, blatantly reading her e-mail over her shoulder, stood the last person she ever expected to see again, the red-haired sheik named Mick.
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"You!" she gasped, and slammed the cover shut on her laptop.
"Me!" The dimples in his cheeks deepened as a mischievous smile played on his full lips. They looked so soft, so ... so kissable. Argh! What was she thinking?
The rest of him looked terrific, too. Traces of weariness still shadowed his long-lashed violet eyes, but with his face cleanshaven and his teeth dazzling white against the dark tan he'd likely gotten in Saudi, he was the complete package. Enough to take her breath away.
This evening, he dressed in a pair of tan shorts and a longsleeved Rugby shirt. He'd pushed the sleeves up his forearms, revealing he was no stranger to working out or to manual labor. In one hand, he carried a almost empty mug of ale, and in the other, a fistful of pretzels.
"What are you doing here?" she managed once she'd gotten past her surprise.
"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" He set down his mug and pulled out the chair across from her where she'd put her purse and briefcase. "May I?"
"Can I stop you?"
He chuckled. "Probably not."
Ignoring his answer, she asked, "Are you following me?" He scooped up her things and deposited them in the chair next to her. "Hardly, since I don't know you."
"Didn't I see you drive off with a couple of sheiks in an embassy limo this morning?"
Mick slid into the chair and stretched his long, long legs in front of him. "I guess it's you who's following me." 36
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"What?"
"I was first off the plane. If you weren't following me, you wouldn't know where I went or with whom." Caroline rolled her eyes and sipped the wine. "Don't flatter yourself. I saw you drive off while I waited for my ride to the car rental agency." She wrinkled her nose disapprovingly.
"Not all of us ride around in stretch limos."
"'Tis a shame, too," he said, a slight yet distinct Irish lilt to his speech. "It's the only way to get around San Francisco with all the construction." He leaned over and brushed back a strand of hair that had escaped from her now lopsided topknot and caught on her eyelash.
She batted at his hand. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I don't like hair in my eyes. Didn't think you did, either." She noticed that he did not wear a wedding ring. Which, of course, meant nothing at all.
"If you'd like me to put it back, I'll be more than happy to."
"Don't be ridiculous." She regretted her gruff tone. It wasn't his fault that she was tired and hungry. "Thank you." He accepted her thanks with a nod and a pull on his ale.
"So tell me, if you're not following me, what are you doin'
here?"
"Here at a restaurant, or here in Sebastopol?" He appeared to weigh his choices. "Both." She pointed to her glass. "Enjoying a glass of wine while I wait for a table."
"On holiday?" He glanced down at her briefcase. "Or business?"
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"I'm waiting for my new landlord to bring me a key. I plan on staying awhile."
He raised his mug. "Welcome to our fair city." She touched her glass to his.
"Who might your landlord be? P'haps I know him."
"Dr. Mahoney. Dr. Michael Mahoney." His face split into a grin. "The bloke next door? He told you he's a doctor?"
"It's on his door. Ph.D. D'you know him?"
"Very well. Good-looking fellow with brains to spare. A complete genius."
The good-looking part sounded promising. "Do you come here often?" Instantly she cringed. How did the words to the world's oldest pick-up line slip past her lips?
He looked at her, long and hard. "Are you hittin' on me, gal?"
"Oh pul-leeze," she answered almost too quickly. "You're the one who joined me. Uninvited, I might add."
"So I did." He turned and waved his empty mug at the barkeep. "May I buy you another glass of wine?"
"Why, so I can drink too much, too?" Obviously taken aback, he said, "I beg your pardon. This is my first today."
"Is that Pacific Coast time or Saudi time?"
"Well, look at you." He teased her with a sly gin.
"Pretendin' you didn't care, yet takin' the trouble to find out where I'd been."
Caroline looked away. Where the devil was the hostess and why wasn't her table ready? "You made sure everybody on 38
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that plane knew where you'd been. Everyone who walked by felt compelled to tell me."
"Because you made such a fuss over my seat."
" Your seat? It was my seat." He offered her a pretzel. "Besides, darlin', I'm not the one who scoped you out with a mirror." Heat rushed up her neck and flooded her cheeks. "I wasn't looking at you, I was refreshing my make-up."
"Whatever." He brushed aside her excuse with a wave of his hand. "I'm more interested in why you think I drink too much."
"First," she said, raising her hand and counting off the reasons on her fingertips, "you do come here every day, don't you?"
"I do indeed."
"This is a bar, is it not?"
He stretched his arms and shrugged. "A given." She paused and watched the bartender place a fresh mug in front of him.
"Thanks, Seth."
"Aye, Mick."
"You carried your mug to my table. That tells me you can't walk across a room without the security of a drink in hand." He sipped through the light foam. "That's a stretch."
"Your name's Mick. An Irish name. Where does the mind leap when we think of the Irish?"
Mick burst into a hearty guffaw and slapped his bare knee.
"To shamrocks and beautiful red-haired colleens." His gaze swept appreciatively over her face and hair as he slid deeper 39
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and more comfortably into the chair. "Are you sure you won't have another glass of wine?"
Her neck and chin prickled under his scrutiny. "My table will be ready soon." She looked away. His eyes were mesmerizing. If she kept looking into them, she'd probably say yes to anything he asked.
"So you're havin' dinner with Doctor Mahoney?"
"If he cares to join me." She sat up straighter. "If not, I'm happy dining alone."
He tilted his head to one side and folded his arms across his chest, pondering her words as if she'd said something profound. "I'm guessin' you do a lot of things alone." Bull's eye! Without even knowing her, he'd pressed one of her most tender buttons. She hadn't dated anyone since she'd pushed Luke Enright out
of her life almost eighteen months ago. Was her impending spinsterhood so obvious? "What's that supposed to mean?"
Mick jumped on the opening and mimicked her. "First, you're sitting in a bar alone." He raised his fingertips and started counting off the points as she had. "You have the face of a Madonna and the tongue of a wasp." She bristled at the insult yet had to bite her lip to suppress a smile. She deserved his assessment.
"You're waiting for someone you've never met to give you a key to his apartment."
"Not his apartment, my apartment. Besides, I didn't say I'd never met him."
"Oh, but you did. Maybe not in so many words." She scowled. "You're wrong."
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"Describe Dr. Mahoney," he challenged. "You forget, lass, I know him quite well."
Enough was enough. She was too tired for his verbal swordsmanship. He'd ruined her flight, but he wasn't going to ruin her dinner.
Caroline slid back her chair, picked up her laptop, retrieved her briefcase and purse from the chair beside her and smiled sweetly. "Since you know Dr. Mahoney so well, if you see him, please tell him I'm in the dining room." Mick stood, too, and caught her wrist before she could walk way. "D'you have a name?" He wasn't smiling now. He was giving her a long, slow appraisal, from the tip of her painted toenails right up to—and stopping—at her breasts.
"Or would you rather I describe you to him?" Caroline stared at him. He held her wrist loosely enough, but the look in his eyes rooted her in place. She saw something so wanton, so male and hungry in his unwavering stare that it sparked pleasure in places she'd been ignoring since her break-up with Luke. Involuntarily she shivered and snatched away her hand. "My name is Caroline," she said, lifting her chin and straightening her spine. "Caroline Spring." 41
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Chapter Four
MICK LEANED AGAINST the bar, crossed his ankles, and stared at the short hallway leading from the lounge to the restaurant.
Behind him, Seth refilled peanut and pretzel bowls. A television no one watched droned softly at the end of the bar. Mick shifted his weight to his right elbow and glanced at the clock—again.
"Hmmm," Seth said, breaking into his thoughts. "I've known you how long? Fourteen years?"
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