by Julie Kenner
“Mr. Anderson?”
He whipped his head up, managing to pull a muscle in the process. “Sorry. I was just studying his face.” He fingered the photograph. “You can learn a lot from a man’s face.”
“Oh.” Her brows drew together, but other than that there were no signs she thought he was nuts. Good.
He clicked on his tape recorder and whispered, “Soggy tissues,” then clicked it off again. Now she probably thought he’d lost it, but the scene was too good to risk forgetting.
“So this is Al?” he asked, trying to rub out the sore spot on his neck.
For a second she didn’t answer, instead staring at the tape recorder. Then she shook her head slightly and said, “Al. Yes, that’s him.”
“He was your boyfriend?”
She shifted a bit, then pulled herself up a little taller. “Yeah. Why?”
“Dunno. It’s just…Albert.” He dragged the name out, pronouncing it through his nose. “I just don’t think that Alberts are boyfriend material.”
Her eyes narrowed and her cheek pooched out, as if she was truly biting her tongue.
He shrugged. “Just my opinion.”
“And I’ll bet David is the perfect boyfriend name,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Hell no. Davids are fuckups, too.” He grinned. “Believe me. I know.”
“Hmmm.”
He glanced at the photo, deciding that maybe back to business was the best plan of action. She was, after all, the one with the checkbook. “He graduated from Harvard?” Old Al must have dropped out. Harvard law grads were a cinch to track down. Just one big alumni society spiderwebbed across the country.
“Yup.” Her chin lifted. “With honors,” she said, parking herself on his couch again.
“Uh-huh.” David leaned back in his desk chair, the one he’d paid extra for so he could lean way back without falling, and linked his hands behind his head. “So you wanna tell me what’s really going on?”
“I—I don’t understand.”
He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, trying to convey maximum disbelief. “You don’t need the best, Miss Jacey Wilder. From what you’ve told me, this job’s pretty much a cakewalk. Hell, you could probably find him yourself.” He grinned. “So that means you must be looking for the cheapest.”
The phone rang and he reached for it, covering the mouthpiece as he shot her a wide grin. “As luck would have it, that happens to be me.”
Jacey gnawed on her thumbnail as David talked on the phone. She wasn’t completely sure she liked David Anderson. In fact, she was pretty sure that, given the chance, she could dislike him intensely, and the fact that he was pretty darn cute didn’t change that assessment one bit.
Not that it mattered what she thought of him. Theirs was going to be a purely professional relationship and, from what she could tell, he could get the job done. He might not be the best, but he’d clued into her pathetic financial state easily enough, and that had to mean he had some talent. Even if he was a little odd.
Or a lot odd.
Besides, Elliott had already warned her that David was flaky. Considering her mom, that hadn’t worried Jacey at all. Flaky she could handle.
And, since she couldn’t afford anyone else, if she wanted to find Al, David was her man. And she did want to find him. Considering what she’d done, though, Jacey could only hope that Al wanted to be found.
“Sorry about that,” David said as he hung up the phone. He leaned back again and laced his fingers behind his head. “Where were we?”
“I’m…” She trailed off. She’d never hired a private investigator before and wasn’t sure what to say next. “What do I do now?”
“Well, first you write me a check for my retainer. And write your address and phone number on the check if it’s not already there so I don’t have to use my amazing skills to track you down.”
“Oh.” She should have figured that much, and she started to rummage through her purse for her checkbook.
“And then you tell me the rest of the story.”
She froze in midrummage. “I already told you everything.”
“Excuse me, sweetheart, but cut the crap.”
She jerked her hand out of the bag, leaving her checkbook behind as she aimed what she hoped was an insulted, annoyed, haughty glare in his direction. “Are you this rude to all your clients? Or am I some special case? Or maybe this is just your version of the Friday lunch special?”
She cocked her head, sure her eyes were flashing, and not so much because he was being unreasonable, but because he’d figured her out once again. “Can I get fries with that insult? No? Well, then how about supersizing it?” Her voice was rising as she babbled and she tamped it down, not at all keen on the thought of losing it in front of David Anderson. “Guess we know the origin of that private dick jargon, huh?”
“And you say I was being rude?”
She frowned, but didn’t bother to answer, and held her hands tight in her lap so she wouldn’t do additional damage to her thumbnail.
He leaned back farther, the chair creaking precariously. Jacey held her breath, sure he was going to fall backward and break his neck. That wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, but her CPR was rusty, and she didn’t much feel like a good Samaritan at the moment, anyway.
“I’m not rude,” he continued, still teetering on the chair. “Just honest. Which is more than I can say for you.”
Okay. This was a bit much. The truth, yes, but that wasn’t the point. “You don’t even know me. How do you know I’m not being honest?”
“Because no one—least of all a woman—knows absolutely nothing about a boyfriend except his name and where he went to school.”
This time she crossed her arms over her chest and crossed her legs. “Least of all a woman?” she repeated, entirely avoiding the fact that he was right. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Women are nosy.” He shrugged, as if he’d said nothing more insulting than women have hair.“They poke. They pry. They get into the crevices of a guy’s life where they don’t belong, and then, before you know it, poof, the poor guy doesn’t have any secrets, he’s married, he’s got two kids and an SUV, and his whole life is tied to a three-bedroom, two-bath house in Valencia with a mortgage he can’t afford and a lawn he has to mow.” He leaned forward, propping his chin on his clasped hands. “And the worst of it? He’s not even getting laid anymore.”
“No? Then how’d he get the two kids?”
David waved his hand in the air, shooing away her words. “Hell, he probably begged for it. Not my point. My point is—”
“That you’re a chauvinistic, Neanderthal prick that no right-thinking woman would want to share a mortgage with?”
“No.” He matched her gaze head-on, apparently not the least bit perturbed by her insult. “That you’re not telling me everything you know about this guy. And I need that information. If you want me to find Mr. Wonderful, I need to know everything.”
She licked her lips. Everything wasn’t exactly her style. Heck, she’d only recently admitted out loud to her gynecologist that she had sex. And everything would require admitting to supremely sarcastic David Anderson that she’d run out on Al because she’d mistakenly confused him for a serial killer. A rather hefty social faux pas, but the mistake had made sense at the time.
And now that she knew he wasn’t a killer, she wanted—no, needed—to find him again. To apologize. And to see if maybe, hopefully, they could pick up where they left off. But she really didn’t want to explain all that to David.
“I take it you’re not too keen on the everything plan?”
“What?” Blinking, she shook her head, trying to get her bearings.
“I said I needed to know everything and you suddenly went catatonic on me.”
“I went catatonic?” He’s the one who’d totally spaced out on her earlier. “Hardly.” She lifted her chin. “I was thinking.”
“Thinking about telling m
e?”
“There’s nothing to tell.” She pointed toward the desk. “You’ve got his name. His picture. What more do you need?”
The second the question was out of her mouth, she knew she shouldn’t have asked it. Of course he’d want more info. It made sense, really. She’d just hoped to avoid that part of it. It all seemed so personal somehow.
“Information would be good.” He sighed, the irritated look on his face fading to one of understanding. Or maybe frustration. She really didn’t know him well enough to read his moods.
He surprised her by pushing his chair back, then getting up and coming around the desk. He leaned up against it, right in front of her, with nothing but a few cubic feet of air separating them, and she suddenly realized that she had to concentrate on breathing.
He was bigger than she’d realized. She’d seen him when he’d let her in, of course, but she’d been so annoyed she hadn’t really paid attention. And after he’d sat down, she’d noticed his broad shoulders, but she hadn’t gotten the full impact until he stood up. Now that she had the complete picture, she had to admit that, obnoxious or not, the man was incredibly good looking. Big, but not one of those Herculean guys whose biceps were the size of her thigh. The angles of his face were hard, chiseled, but with his dimpled smile, she could picture him snuggling close with a woman, or even playing with a baby.
She could also imagine him beating the crap out of the bad guys and, considering his line of work, that had to be a good thing.
With one hand, he flipped a chair around and straddled it, facing her. “Look, think of me as your priest. Or your lawyer. Or your doctor. Take your pick.”
She shook her head, totally clueless.
“My point is, you tell me, it doesn’t go any further. And believe me, I’ve heard it all.”
Fine. Okay. She could do this. As much as she hated talking about personal stuff, what he said made sense. And it wasn’t like she had to tell him everything. She just had to tell him enough.
She pulled in a deep breath, exhaled, and then started blabbing. “We met at the beach.”
“When?”
She quelled a flash of irritation from the interruption. “About four months ago. I’d gone down to San Diego for an artists’ convention and I decided to splurge and stay at the conference hotel instead of driving back and forth.” It had been a huge splurge, actually, but she was already eighteen months behind schedule, and she’d considered the conference a last shot at making it with her art. She’d needed the opportunity more than she’d wanted her savings account.
“What hotel?” He had a pad out and was taking notes.
“The Monteleone,” she said. “I’d gone to show my portfolio around.”
“You’re an artist?”
“A collagist,” she said. “Or I used to be.”
“Of course you were,” he said, giving her the blank look she’d gotten used to.
“It means I take snapshots and drawings and paint and whatever other media I find appealing and mix it all together to make a statement.”
“Oh, right. I’ve done that.”
She tilted her head. “You have?”
“Yeah,” he said. “In kindergarten.”
She just stared at him.
“Sorry. My mouth gets away from me. I’m sure your collages are beautiful.” He actually sounded like he meant it, but Jacey knew that had to be a ruse. So far, David Anderson was proving to be both a flake and a bit of a jerk. “So why aren’t you a collagist anymore?” he asked, pronouncing the word slowly and clearly.
She licked her lips, not really wanting to talk about it, and shrugged. “I have a degree in accounting and I’m almost thirty. It was time to quit fooling around.”
“Uh-huh.” David didn’t look too impressed that she’d sacrificed her artistic soul for a computer spreadsheet. “So,” he said, “back when you were irresponsible, you took a snapshot of Al.”
“Right.” She’d actually taken that picture before she and Al had met. She’d been photographing the wave pattern on the beach from the balcony of her room, and had happened to catch him in the background. After she and Al hooked up, photography was the last thing on her mind. Not that she intended to share that little tidbit with David.
“Okay. Go on.”
“Well, the conference ended on a Wednesday, but I decided to stay. I’d always wanted to do that, you know? Stay in a really nice hotel on the beach and order room service and just lie around. And I had the conference rate through Sunday, so I figured why not.”
“Sure. Then what?”
“I was in the bar one night and I met Al.” That was more or less the way it had happened. And it was surely all David needed to know.
“And you hit it off.”
“Exactly.”
“And then what?”
“Well…” Again, her cheeks burned. “You know.”
“You spent the weekend doing the nasty, parted ways, you gave birth to his kid, and now you’re trying to track down Daddy.”
“Are you insane? I am not anyone’s mom.” Not yet, and certainly not like that.
He cocked his head, clearly examining her. “Yeah, and it was only four months ago. You don’t look preggers from here.” He shrugged. “Not that I’d be able to tell in that dress.”
She sucked in her cheeks, a handy technique for keeping control of her tongue. Otherwise she might let him know—in small, easy-to-understand sentences—just how much of a jerk he was. But if she did that, she’d have to find another PI. And as far as she could tell, no one within a hundred-mile radius was as cheap as David Anderson.
“Well?” he prompted. “A hot time but no kid, or what?”
“We had a very nice time,” she said. If he wanted to interpret that as a weekend of wild sex, then so be it.
“Uh-huh,” he said, his slow gaze burning a path down her body. “Like I said—a very hot time.”
She sat up straighter, ignoring his innuendoes even as she tried to ignore the way she shivered under his uncompromising appraisal. “It was a very…uh, pleasant…weekend,” she said. “But we lost track of each other.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why’d you lose track? I mean, if I’m having a hot time with a hot woman, I’m going to know how to get in touch with her.”
Yes, she imagined he would. “There was a miscommunication,” she said, banishing thoughts of David and hot time.
He raised an eyebrow. “A miscommunication?” he repeated, his voice rising. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means it’s none of your business.” She lifted her chin, hoping she looked superior instead of defensive. “The point is, I don’t know how to find him to apologize. That’s why I’m here.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “With you.”
“Gotcha.” He picked up a pencil and started tapping away at his desktop. “So let’s see if I’ve picked up on all the salient points. You had a hot time on the beach with a guy you barely knew, who you haven’t seen again, and now you’re trying to track him down because he made such a huge impact on your life.”
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Heck, part of her thought she was crazy. Especially when he put it that way. Except she knew she wasn’t. In a moment of pure foolishness, she’d run away. Now she needed to find him, apologize, and find out if they still had a chance.
“Sweetheart, it’s not my place to say whether you’re nuts or not.” He nodded toward her purse. “All I care about is that you keep my checks coming. You do that and I’ll search for our boy Al for as long as you want.” He aimed an intense look in her direction. “If that’s what you want.”
“Of course it’s what I want.” She tilted her chin up.
“In that case,” he said with a grin, “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”
In Al’s opinion, the little diner on the outskirts of San Diego had only two things going for it, and the quality of the food wasn’t on his list. N
o, the diner would never make the Zagat Survey, but it did have big windows, so he could keep an eye on the parking lot. Plus, it was walking distance from a no-tell motel. Not that Al particularly wanted to spend the night in such a rattrap, but he didn’t have the cash for four stars. Hell, right then he couldn’t even afford three stars.
He had to laugh at the irony. Four months ago he’d been sitting pretty, and now he was flat broke, with only the contents of his wallet, a pair of khakis, a Perry Ellis shirt, one Armani suit, and a counterfeit Rolex he’d picked up in Mexico City. Not exactly the life he’d planned.
A car pulled into one of the spaces in front of the diner, and Al slunk down in his seat, even though he was certain Joey couldn’t have found him so fast. His fingers tightened around his battered copy of The Firm as he tried to get a glimpse of the driver through the glare on the windshield. The door opened, and a college-age girl in a bikini top and cut-off shorts slid out, a tiny purse swinging from her shoulder. His shoulders sagged with relief. Nobody.
He exhaled. Once more, he’d beaten the devil. He ran his fingers through his hair, idly wondering when his luck would run out.
“You doing okay on coffee, Al?” Doris stopped in front of his table, her overly bleached hair piled high.
“I’m doing fine.” He aimed his most winning smile at her. Showtime. If he nailed this performance, he might just have a free place to hole up for the night. “Even better now that you’re back.”
“Really?” Splotches of red mottled Doris’s cheeks, and she stood up a little straighter, the seams of her too-tight uniform straining.
He nodded. “In fact,” he said, boldly taking her hand and squeezing, “I was hoping we could spend the evening together. Some wine, some crackers…” He trailed off, letting Doris draw her own conclusions.
“Well, I just don’t…I mean, I…”
“I hope you don’t think I’m too bold. But, well, talking to you…I felt a connection. I thought you’d felt it, too.”
She giggled, her face scrunching up. “Well, sure I did.” She took a deep breath and he knew he’d won. Hell, where women were concerned, he always won. “I get off in an hour.”
