"Gabe and the twins' husbands still work with my uncles. My mother retained my father's share of the business until Brian was old enough to decide he didn't have the stomach for it."
"What about you, Mick?"
"I prefer the science to the application. I've been blessed with a gift, Caroline, the facility to see through the rubble to what others missed. My investigations yield answers that lead to prevention. It's not a showy thing, like the implosion of a huge skyscraper. Crowds don't line the perimeters to watch me work. It's tedious, sometimes taking weeks or months of squatting in blackened earth to find the root cause. Other times, it takes me only a day or two. After that, I prepare a report and usually appear in court as an expert witness. I have a law degree, which helps me articulate what the courts are looking for, and an MBA for the business side of business. Frankly, I've not much of a stomach for either."
"My brother's an attorney, and so was my dad." He shrugged. "More power to them. I prefer a microscope to a jury."
"I suppose you travel a lot."
"I do, and my clients are very generous. They do their best to provide comfortable accommodations, even in the worst 107
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places. Unfortunately, I think I'm becomin' a wee bit aged to be flyin' around the world twice in a week." Caroline stared, fascinated. In some way their lives forged a parallel path. Generous clients, world travel, finding the linchpin to subsequent verdicts or settlements. In other ways, they were different. He considered himself blessed with a gift. She credited her success to hard work and good genes, although her CV paled in comparison to what he'd racked up in degrees.
"You're a scientist, an attorney, a restaurateur, a marvelous dancer, superb chef, you run with sheiks, and babies adore you. If you tell me you design and sew your own clothes and fix cars in your spare time, I'll slink back into the land of the worthless."
He took her hand and ran his thumb gently across her fingertips. "I've repaired a sail or two that's torn at sea, but you're not likely to find me with a needle and thread."
"Ah-ha, so there is one qualification you'd seek in a wife." He raised her fingertips to his lips and brushed them. He caught and held her gaze. "Two," he said, leaving no room for speculation about what the other might be.
Caroline shivered and drew her hand away, hoping he didn't notice. "That was a wonderful breakfast, Mick." She slid off the tall captain's chair and started to take up the plates.
"You cooked, I'll clean up."
"No way. This is your day. You've been here almost a week. It's time you had a look around."
"Oh, Mick, I'd love to, but—"
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"No buts allowed." He placed his hands on her shoulder and turned her toward the door. "Get your purse and a jacket. I'll meet you at the car in five."
"I have to go into the office," she protested, not very strongly.
"The longer you argue, the later I'll bring you back. Go on with you now. Downstairs in four minutes."
"Four? A minute ago it was five."
"That's right, and in another it'll be three."
"You are impossible," she called over her shoulder on her way out.
"Two and counting."
* * * *
SHE BRUSHED HER teeth, refreshed her make-up, and changed her shoes twice before flying down the backstairs. Mick waited at the car. He leaned on one hip against the front fender and dramatically checked his watch as she burst out the door.
"I'm sorry. I hurried."
"A likely story," he said with an exaggerated scowl.
"Women!"
"Oh-ho, we're not going to go there, are we?" A broad grin creased his face, deepening the dimples in his cheeks. "No, we'll save that for ... later." Caroline had never before heard the word "later" uttered with such intimacy.
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For the next three hours, Mick spared not a single doorway or side attraction of the city of 8,000 people and growing. They visited the bookstores, a live theatre that seated only 10, watched fudge being made from scratch, and stayed far too long and spent way too much in a "record" store that sold only CDs. The store was a living museum to the rock-and-roll classics of the 60s and 70s, including prints drawn by the late Jim Morrison of the Doors and tee shirts to fit the taste of every Dead Head still following what was left of the Grateful Dead.
At the northeastern edge of town, Caroline saw a sign for the Shoppe of the Seventh Moon. Thinking that meant New Age, she asked Mick to stop. One of her close friends fancied herself a white witch, and longed for the day she could move to the Bay Area to practice Wicca in a shop of her own. Inside Caroline discovered a hint of New Age and a very large dose of the erotic—in the clothes, the incense, the books and tapes, the posters and other adult playthings to enhance intimacy, self-awareness, and to make sex interesting.
Mick, whom she guessed had likely visited the shop more than once, stood just inside the doorway, a respectful distance away while Caroline pretended not be surprised by what she saw. With her hormones raging each time she stood near Mick, this was the last place she needed to visit, but she'd be darned if she'd give him the satisfaction of seeing how uncomfortable it made her to know he was watching.
"Interesting place," she mentioned once they'd left the shop. "Garish, but I bet it hauls in a ton of money." 110
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"Wouldn't know," Mick answered. "Never been there before myself."
"In a pig's eye," she muttered.
At the open-air market in the middle of downtown, where vegetables reined supreme, Caroline threw in the towel. "I give up," she groaned. "My feet are killing me. Can't we just drive somewhere? I can't walk another inch."
"Thought you Texans were tough."
She hitched her thumbs in her belt, bowed her knees and rocked back. "You've never seen me rope and ride, cowboy."
"No, but I'd love to see you mud wrestle." With that he ducked and jogged away, leaving her laughing while he fetched the Jeep.
A few minutes later, Mick pulled up to the curb. "Direct route to the ocean, or the longer way?"
"The longer way—please." Caroline slipped her bare feet out of her sandals. A small blister shone along the side of her left pinky toe.
"Guerneville, it is. That winds along the Russian River to the ocean. We'll come back through Bodega Bay." As they drove along, Mick continued in tour-guide mode:
"The first known inhabitants of the area were the Minok and Pomo Indians." He pointed to a roadside marker commemorating the early inhabitants.
"Sebastopol doesn't sound very Native American."
"It's Russian, named for a Crimean seaport, Sevastapol." She looked around, at acres and acres of farmland that stretched as far as she could see in all directions. "I don't see any water."
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"Over there," he pointed to the mountains. "About thirty miles northwest to Jenner and ten miles due west to Bodega Bay. Remember the movie 'The Birds'?"
She grimaced. How could anyone forget the Alfred Hitchcock classic that had awakened her with nightmares for weeks after she'd seen it as a child? "Too well. It scared me to death. I'd run and hide every time I saw a grackel after that."
He patted her knee. "The birds weren't real, but if you went surfing at Bodega, you'd be dealing with 'Jaws.' It's one of the premier breeding waters for the Great Whites."
"Terrific," she said without enthusiasm. "I suppose we'll stop by the Cat o' Nine Tails Factory along the way."
"Nope, just a French bread factory." Keeping his word, they stopped several miles out of Sebastopol proper and off the main road. Caroline didn't need a sign to tell her wha
t was baking inside. The aroma alone could lure ships through a heavy fog. The Bread Factory made only French bread, sweet rolls, and sticky buns. If she weren't still full from breakfast, Caroline knew she could have eaten half the tray of brioche the baker had set out to cool. "Boy howdy, I thought the kolachi shop a block from my condo smelled good," she said.
"Kolachi?"
"Czech pastries. Very popular in Texas. My favorites are the ones made with cream cheese."
"Latté? Brioche?" Mick pointed to a plate of the small, sweet buns.
"A latté would be great."
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Outside, sitting under a Campari umbrella with a bee sucking nectar from the wildflowers growing along a split rail fence next to them, Caroline and Mick shared a brioche and sipped their lattés in comfortable silence. In this peaceful setting, the problems at ZyQyx and even the puzzle of Caroline's birth seemed as far away as the freshly mown hay they'd seen bundled in large rolls along the way. She could have sat there for hours, happy and content, with only a few inches separating her hand from Mick's. Perfect, and so natural.
"You're not sleeping, are you?" she heard Mick ask. Caroline hadn't realized she'd closed her eyes. She shook her head feeling so relaxed, she felt almost dreamy. "Enjoying the day," she said softly to sustain the mood and the sounds of nature. She sat up. "Thank you, Mick, I'm having a wonderful time."
"Even with a blister?"
She leaned back, held up the injured foot and wriggled her bare toes. "Even with a blister." He surprised her by reaching over and catching her foot with both hands. She was normally ticklish, but when he kneaded her instep, she thought she was on her way to heaven.
"Tell me about yourself, Caroline." He shifted his position so that he balanced her foot on both his knees. "I know you're from Dallas and that you work for Striker Foy. That's where the mystery begins."
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much did he know about her assignment that he wasn't telling?
Caroline snatched away her foot, and measuring her words, carefully choosing what to expose, she said, "There's no mystery. Ian wants to open a Canadian headquarters. I'm here to make sure the network will support it." Mick raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He looked around, snapped a wildflower off its vine and handed it to Caroline. "How long have you worked for him?"
"Ummm, I dunno. Long enough."
"Long enough for what?"
She sat up straighter. "What do you mean?" Mick sat up straighter, too. He rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward, until their faces were only a few inches apart. "I know Striker Foy better than anyone. He's a braggart and a liar. If he had an office in Dallas, we would have known about it from the moment he signed the lease. If he had a beautiful young partner, he would have flaunted her along with it." He leaned back, smiling that same sly smile she'd seen before. "So tell me, Caroline Spring, who are you really, and what are you doing here?"
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Chapter Nine
CAROLINE'S PULSE QUICKENED. This wasn't the first time someone on the edges of one of her assignments had become suspicious. But it was the first time she'd had such a personal stake in it. Mick was too smart to fool with a flip answer. She'd have to choose her words carefully.
"I'm exactly who you think I am. Caroline Summer Spring of Hummingbird Way in Dallas." She smiled. "I'll be happy to show you my driver's license."
Mick cocked his head to one side and ran a fingertip along the edge of the Styrofoam latté container. He kept his eyes down, not on her. "You work for whom?"
"For Ian Foy, of course."
His gaze shot up and trained on hers. "You're not a ZyQyx employee."
Her glance never wavered although her stomach did flipflops. "I don't believe I ever said I was."
"There aren't any ZyQyx offices in Texas, either. Or anywhere except California for that matter." She shrugged.
"Then I'll ask again. What exactly are you doing for Striker Foy?"
She started to take a sip of coffee but saw her hand trembled enough that he'd surely notice. She pushed aside the cup and folded her arms across her chest. "You're either the world's biggest worry wart or a nosey nellie." 115
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She forced a grin. If he'd taken the trouble to verify her employment, how much more had he learned about her assignment? About her? "I'm a software designer and engineer, a systems analyst, and a programmer," she said.
"It's not unusual for people in my field to work as independent contractors. I have clients all over the world. But," and she raised her forefinger to punctuate what she said, "when I'm on assignment, I'm one hundred percent dedicated and loyal to my client, as every good employee ought to be. The only difference is that my paycheck comes from my agent rather than the organization who contracted for my services."
Mick looked back, unconvinced. "Brian's a programmer and a systems analyst." He grimaced, as if the thought of what he was saying was vinegar on his tongue. "Striker leads him around by the nose. My little brother is the quintessential perfect employee. What are you offering Foy that's so specialized, he can't trust Brian to do it right?" Without hesitation, she said, "I suggest you ask Ian that. I have a very specific assignment—to evaluate whether or not the ZyQyx network can hold up in an international marketplace. I'm sure Brian is doing an excellent job. I can only comment on what I was hired to do, not what anyone else is doing."
Mick placed his hand over hers, stopping her from going further.
"I've made some calls, Caroline," he said. "There are no applications on file or permits pending with the FCC or the SEC. Nor with any of the Canadian commissions." 116
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She pursed her lips and slipped her hand out from under his. With a sweeping, dismissive gesture, she said, "I'm not here to advise Ian on international commerce. Frankly, I don't care what he does with my findings once I turn in my final report. Since you're so interested, although I can't imagine why, ask him yourself. You said it—no one knows him better than you do. If you're that close, what's the problem?" Mick scowled. "I never said we were close, only that I knew him better than anyone."
"Fine, whatever." To hide her annoyance at the turn of their conversation, Caroline looked away. She'd had about enough of the bad blood between Ian and Mick. Why was Mick so intent on ruining a perfectly wonderful day?
"Go ahead, say it."
"What?"
"Whatever you're thinking."
Caroline looked him straight in the eye. "You're beginning to annoy the hell out of me, Dr. Mahoney." He blinked and drew back in surprise.
"This a gorgeous day. I thought we were having a nice time. Why are we talking about ZyQyx?" She raised her wrist and checked her watch. "Where, I might add, I ought be at this moment. I have about four hours of work that I have to do before eight o'clock."
She saw Mick relax. He smiled. "Are you saying you're not having a good time?"
"I was until you interrupted it with an interrogation."
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"Both, and don't start smiling at me, mister. You've got some 'splaining to do, Lucy."
"About what?"
"Why you ran a background check on me." She raised her hand to stop him from interrupting. "Don't tell you didn't. Otherwise, you wouldn't know I didn't work for ZyQyx." She wasn't sure whether he was embarrassed, or just pretending to be.
"Why did you do it, Mick? Do I strike you as someone who'd run off in the middle of the night with a suitcase full of your bathroom fixtures?"
He laughed. Caroline saw his mirth came from deep w
ithin.
"You can't be too careful these days."
"Mick Mahoney, how dare you?" She fought to keep a straight face and knew he saw it, too.
"I wanted to learn more about you."
"You could have asked. That's generally the most direct way to get information."
"Would you have told me the truth?" Caroline watched the bee circle around them and fly off into the vines. "I'll answer any question you ask, provided I think you need to know the answer."
Mick leaned forward. "Are you married?" She leaned forward, too. "No."
"Ever been?"
"No."
He inched his fingertips toward hers. "Are you in a relationship?"
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"Because?"
She reared back. "You don't mince words, do you?"
"What's the point?"
"Courtesy, compassion."
"I suppose."
They sat silent a moment, then Mick asked, "Are you seeing Striker?"
Caroline almost choked on the last of her latté, now tepid and bitter. "Are you out of your mind? Ian's old enough to be my father."
"You left the party with him last night."
"He's my boss." She couldn't stop her voice from rising. "I told you before, he walked me to my car. We talked about business for a few minutes, I went to post office then home."
"You still didn't answer the question. What is your relationship with Ian?"
Caroline glanced up at the heavens. What is your problem?
"Maybe you weren't listening a second ago. He's my boss for the next six to eight weeks. He's also kind and treats me very well. By the end of my assignment, I suspect we'll be good friends. Is there something wrong with that?"
"Of course not. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked about your relationship with him."
"You're right, you shouldn't have. But since you did, now it's my turn."
He scratched his chin. "Go for it."
"What about you? Ever been married?"
"Never have, never will. A few relationships, none that lasted."
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She hesitated before asking the questions to which she already knew the answers. "Why won't you marry? You don't believe in love?"
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