Carter hadn't taken his eyes off me since entering the office. It made me just a little uncomfortable. I wondered if he was trying to undress me with his penetrating gaze, as if he hadn't seen the merchandise before.
Either way, it was not winning him any brownie points, if there were any left to win.
I glared at him and said dryly: "Glad you like what you see."
He immediately turned his eyes downward, as though searching for something. When he looked at me again, Carter's smile had faded as he said, clearly for my benefit: "I've been meaning to stop by, see how things were going, but between work and—"
I was only too happy to bail him out in this instance, though I had the feeling he was stalling. For what, I had no earthly idea.
"Don't torture yourself, Carter," I told him. "It's a little late for a guilt trip. Or have you forgotten that we're not married anymore?"
At least not to each other. Six months to the day after our divorce was finalized, he and the mistress tied the knot. Rumor had it she was pregnant at the time. Rarely did I take rumors seriously but, sure enough, the newlyweds did produce a baby girl shortly thereafter. I didn't want kids—at least not until I had done the career thing first. Carter didn't want to wait for me or my career.
To this day, we've never discussed whether that was the beginning of the end or just the beginning of his wandering eyes. Either way, it did little to erase my self-doubts, what might have been, or what had transpired since.
"Like it or not, a part of us will always be married, Skye," he declared, "at least in spirit."
"I don't think so," I said, sneering. "In spirit or otherwise. What's done is done."
"Maybe you're right." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Do you plan to tell me why the hell you're here?" I decided to be blunt, since he seemed willing to take his own sweet time. And in my business, time was money. He didn't have to know that it was only trickling in at the moment. "Or am I supposed to guess what reason my ex-husband might have for paying me an office visit?" I asked.
I honestly couldn't think of any reason for him to be there. Other than maybe to check out my office digs out of curiosity or get a glimpse of what he'd given up back in the day.
He chuckled. "Still as impatient as ever, I see."
I frowned. "Guess some things never change..."
We eyeballed each other for a moment or two of stubborn reflection. Finally, he asked coolly: "Mind if I sit?"
I indicated either of two brandy-colored cluster armchairs. He sat down and for some reason I was glad that my desk separated us.
Carter sat there staring blankly at me, as though in a trance. I stared back and waited with uneasiness at this unlikely get together.
I suddenly felt compelled to ask: "So how's your wife and...?"
At about the same time he was saying: "I'd like to hire you..."
My question could wait. If I hadn't known better, I thought I just heard Carter Delaney actually say he wanted to hire me! If the notion wasn't so absurd, I might have burst into laughter at that moment. Instead, I forced myself to say: "I'm listening—"
He shifted in the chair unsteadily. "I think Darlene is cheating on me..."
He was referring to wife number two. I'd always detested the idea that someone named Darlene took my place in his life. It was as if her name was darling—somehow making her more endearing than I ever was to him.
Apparently, a certain someone must have concurred.
I resisted the urge to say what goes around comes around. Oh, what the hell, I thought. Let's hear what else he has to say.
"Really?" I said. "Now isn't that a terrible thing to suspect—" I couldn't resist smiling when I said it, in spite of myself.
Carter peered at me beneath thick, dark brows, clearly annoyed and perhaps embarrassed. "I'm not looking for sympathy or amusement," he said.
I got serious again. "Could've fooled me." A well-timed sigh. "Exactly what is it you want from me?" I dared ask, almost afraid of his answer.
He recomposed himself, and after a moment or two said: "I'd like you to follow her around, see where she goes, who she talks to..."
I suddenly found myself laughing, almost hysterically, probably to keep from crying. When I finally stopped, I said: "You can't be serious!" But something told me he was. "You don't really expect me, of all people, to spy on the very bitch-slash-bimbo you left me for, do you?"
His brow furrowed. "Can you lay off the name calling? I was hoping this would be a bit more civilized—"
I was almost enjoying this. Almost. "Get real, Carter. You didn't come here for civility. That ended between us the day you decided I wasn't enough for you."
He gave me a quizzical look. "Remember who kicked out who? It's not like I'm asking you to do something illegal. Isn't this the sort of work a private investigator does? Or is my money not green enough for you?"
I leaned toward him; anger building up that I thought had been buried for good. "Don't patronize me! It's not about money. It's about respect! You've got a hell of a lot of nerve showing up in my office and asking me to snoop on your wife. I'm afraid I don't come that cheap—" I took satisfaction in making that abundantly clear to him.
He actually seemed shocked by my reaction, and maybe even hurt. "Dammit, Skye, I didn't come here to insult you. I came because I need your help." He batted those charming eyes at me emotionally. "You think it was easy for me to come to you with my, uh, problem? Hell no, it wasn't, but I did because I thought you'd understand."
"Sure, I understand all right," I told him. "You're feeling betrayed, humiliated, and agony over your suspicions. Am I right?" I was sounding like a still bitter ex-wife and found it to be oddly refreshing.
Carter sighed, sounding exhausted. "You're never going to give up the spiteful ex-wife routine, are you? What happened between us is history. Right or wrong, I can't do a damned thing about it now." He hoisted to his feet so fast he nearly toppled over. "I guess it was a mistake coming here. I thought you were professional enough to take on any case without letting your personal feelings get in the way. Obviously I was wrong." He turned his back to me and headed for the door.
Carter always had an incredible way of being able to manipulate people—especially me—into seeing things his way. Not this time! I was not about to be conned into feeling guilty or unprofessional because I refused to take a case that was far too personal and could only stir up feelings that I would just as soon forget, if that was possible.
I stood and asked what seemed like a legitimate question under the circumstances. "Why me? Surely you could have found some other private eye in Honolulu to follow your wife around—one who didn't happen to be your ex-wife."
He turned around and gave me a look that implied the answer should have been as obvious to me as it was to him.
"Do you even have to ask why?" He clenched his jaw. "The last thing I want or need is to make public to already jittery investors my private business...or the fact that I think my wife—the mother of my three-year-old little girl—is cheating on me. You're the only private detective I felt I could count on for a discreet investigation that wouldn't come back to haunt me." He lowered his head. "I guess in some ways it already has—"
I suppose I took it to heart that he trusted me enough to feel that I would handle such an investigation with the utmost discretion. But, all things considered, I wasn't sure that I could trust myself as much.
"I can recommend someone—" I offered as a goodwill gesture.
"Don't do me any favors," Carter muttered irritably as he turned toward the door, gave me a final heated glare, and vanished much the way he had appeared.
I slumped back down into my chair, angry that he had put us both in an unenviable position. In truth, things had not been all that great for us even before the other woman entered the picture. Carter's obsession with getting ahead at all costs and his insistence on meticulousness in every aspect of our lives clashed heavily with my somewhat lower aspirations and l
ack of perfect order in my life. And our differences over when children should become part of the picture hadn't helped matters either.
The final straw came when I learned of Carter's affair and the reality that he didn't really seem to give a damn that the cat was out of the bag. It was more like a big relief to him. And when confronted with the option of me or the other woman, he was unable or unwilling to make what I believed to be the intelligent choice.
I sought to hold my ground where it concerned my ex. It had been over between us for a long time. I owed him nothing but the painful memories of days gone by. Neither of us had even pretended to be friends once our relationship had officially ceased. (I even turned down a generous divorce settlement, preferring to leave the marriage with only what I brought to it. At the time, it seemed like only a clean break could allow me to regain my dignity.) What was the point when we had gone too far beyond friendship to go back?
As far as I was concerned, that overused cliché applied perfectly when I thought of Carter Delaney. He had made his own damned bed and now had to lay in it—but not with me!
* * *
The privilege of sharing bed space with me in the post Carter Delaney era currently belonged to Ridge Larsen. A homicide detective for the Honolulu Police Department, Ridge had transferred from the Portland Police Bureau in Oregon just after I had gone into early retirement. He was forty, divorced, and handsome in his own rough-hewn, square-jawed way with crafty blue eyes, a shaven bald head, a thick dark moustache, and six foot three inches of solid muscle.
Ridge and I had been dating for the past six months. I wouldn't exactly call what we had serious, insofar as my wanting him to put a ring on my finger. Being on my own for some time, I had become extremely possessive of my independence and privacy and was in no hurry to share my space with anyone on a permanent basis. Ridge seemed to understand and fully accept this, being of the same mind after a disastrous marriage, which probably accounted for half of why we seemed to work so well together.
The other half was that he tolerated my infrequent but not very pretty mood swings, knew when to leave me alone, was a great cook, and an even better lover.
An added fringe benefit of having Ridge around was that he came in handy during those not so rare occasions when I needed official snooping or able-bodied assistance in the every day and sometimes dangerous world of private investigations.
"I've never had the pleasure of meeting the current Mrs. Carter Delaney," hummed Ridge in bed, his strong arm holding me close to his taut body, "but from what I've heard, the former prosecutor's wife is hot stuff."
I jammed my elbow into his ribs and watched him wince. "I wouldn't know about that," I said tartly. "And now is definitely not the time for you to fantasize about my ex-husband's wife."
The afterglow of making love for the past hour was dimming quickly.
Ridge groaned. "I wouldn't dream of fantasizing about anyone but you these days." He planted a nice kiss on my lips. I enjoyed the taste of him. "I only go for pouty ones with long blonde hair and a smokin' hot body."
I soaked in the compliment and felt my annoyance beginning to wane.
Ridge sat up and asked nonchalantly: "So are you going to take the case?"
I looked at him dumbfounded while partially covering myself with a satin sheet, as if he hadn't already gotten a bird's eye view of every inch of me. "What case?"
"Delaney versus Delaney," he said cutely. "Sounds like pretty routine stuff to me." He grinned. "Let's face it, it took guts for him to come to you of all people for help."
I couldn't believe my ears. "Give me a break! Guts or not, why the hell would I want to find out for poor Carter if his wife is fooling around on him?"
"What are you afraid of?" Ridge asked.
"I'm not afraid of anything," I insisted. Except for maybe not being in full control of my own life at all times, I thought. But I knew it didn't work that way in the real world. We were all victims of circumstances for which we often had little to no control.
Ridge eyed me suspiciously. "You don't still have the hots for your ex, do you?"
I stared at his chest, then into his eyes, rolling mine. "What do you think?" He gave me that look all men have—the one that says they need to hear the words of reassurance. "No, I'm not still hung up on Carter Delaney," I said with an edge to my voice. "You of all people should know that, Ridge. I don't make a habit of sleeping with one person while fantasizing about another—" I hoped that would erase all doubts.
It didn't.
"Prove it," Ridge challenged me, "if only to yourself and maybe to Delaney. Take his case just as you would any other client. After all, it's just business, right?" He twisted his lips and added: "Who knows, you might even find it therapeutic."
I sneered at him. "Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil."
He grinned crookedly. "Just wait till you get my bill. I don't come cheap."
I could vouch for that, as his expensive tastes included having a sometimes difficult girlfriend.
Reluctantly, I climbed out of his king-sized bed and gathered up my clothes that were scattered about the floor as if a tornado had passed through.
"What are you doing?" Ridge asked with a frown.
"I'm going home," I told him.
"Why? I hope it wasn't anything I said or didn't say."
I slid into my jeans and zipped them. "It wasn't. I have to feed my dog—"
He got out of bed. "Can't it wait—maybe for a couple of hours?"
"No," I said. "Ollie starts to get antsy when he goes practically all day without eating." I looked around, but couldn't find my cami, which seemed to work to Ridge's advantage.
He came up behind me and wrapped massive arms around my waist. "Are you sure you aren't just a little pissed at me?"
I wriggled out of his arms and gave him a sincere look. "There's nothing to be pissed about."
At least not with you, I told myself, reserving that for my ex at the moment.
Ridge looked relieved. "Good. I just don't want you to throw away Delaney's money for all the wrong reasons."
He was starting to press his luck and my patience.
I sighed and told him: "This may come as a surprise to you, but what's wrong for one person may be totally right for another—"
So maybe I was a little pissed at Ridge for seeming to represent the typical male in sizing up the situation. It was as if there was no room in the scheme of things for emotional baggage or ethical principles where it concerned making money. I wasn't sure I bought into that or if he really did.
I found my top, which had somehow ended up beneath Ridge's black denims. He gathered up his clothing.
"Any chance we can start the night over?" he asked lamely.
I couldn't help but smile at the thought. "Don't ask more of yourself than you're capable of delivering."
"Try me," he dared.
Though a repeat performance was pretty damn tempting, I grinned and said, "Isn't that what I just did?" while glancing at the wrinkled bed coverings that betrayed the hot and heavy activity that had taken place there tonight.
"At least let me drive you home," Ridge offered.
"My car will get me there just as quickly," I said, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. "You can walk me to the door, though."
He grumbled and hugged me as we walked in step through his ranch style home on Keeaumoku Street in the Makiki section of Honolulu that wasn't far from my office.
I could never be upset with Ridge Larsen for very long. His intentions were usually anything but self-serving. Yet I couldn't help but wonder if by pushing me into this case, he was more motivated by his own insecurities than any self-doubts I may have had.
My instincts told me that both were likely to be tested before this thing was over.
CHAPTER TWO
I left Ridge's house at eight o'clock, feeling a bit worn down for a day that had begun with Carter and ended with Ridge. At the moment, I was happy to be going to my own little piece of paradise,
where I did my best thinking alone.
I had a one-year-old Subaru Forester that fit quite nicely into my current monthly payment budget. I drove to Waikiki, where I owned a nice house on a palm tree lined, dead-end street not far from the beach. I purchased the two-story plantation style home shortly after my divorce was finalized from an elderly couple who decided to move back to the mainland. It was my good fortune to be in the right place at the right time to get the property, which had been well maintained and reminded me of the home where I grew up on the island. My parents had been beach bums who island hopped before settling into Oahu and having me.
I could hear my dog barking when I pulled into the driveway. Ollie was a five-year-old German Shepherd, named after my late uncle who was as mean as a junkyard dog and ornery as ever. In fact, more often than not, Ollie was just the opposite—sweet and gentle as a lamb, as long as he was not provoked.
Opening the front door was all he needed to make me eat my thoughts, as Ollie literally attacked me. Okay, so it was just his way of playing and asking me "Where the hell have you been all day?" Or maybe "I'm hungry as a dog. What's for supper?"
We ended up wrestling for a few minutes before I turned on the ceiling fan in the living room, then fed Ollie his favorite dog food. He wanted more, but I wasn't about to let him get fat on me. That wouldn't help either of us.
After freshening up and changing into a sleeveless shirt and denim shorts, I allowed my sore feet some freedom from footwear, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor and into the kitchen. I made myself a salad and ate it with two slices of wheat bread and a glass of red wine. Ollie loved to hang out on the kitchen's cool ceramic tiles more than anywhere else in the house.
However, the kitchen floor still took second place to the backyard. When he began to grow restless, I got the picture, letting him out of the house to run around in our nice sized, fenced in yard. I joined Ollie a few minutes later and tossed a Frisbee around for him to chase, making sure he stayed clear of my vegetable garden.
Back inside, I watered the flamingo flowers, vanda orchids, and heart leaf philodendron I kept throughout the house, which helped give the place a Hawaiian botanical garden look.
By the time I was ready to call it a night, I had tucked Ollie in his basement hideaway, read a couple of chapters of a John Lescroart novel, and watched the news.
Ph.D in Murder (A Cozy Mystery Short) Page 6
