I didn’t know the answers to those questions, so I shrugged. “None of the neighbors knew her name?”
“Just Judyta, or Judith in English. There are probably a half million or more Judytas in Poland, so it’s not much to go on.”
I agreed with him. “So what’s the bottom line?”
“It seems pretty obvious to me. There’s something strange going on at CGM. Now that Harold is dead, it’s fallen to me to figure it out.”
He’d said it simply and eloquently. I looked at him with a mixture of admiration and suspicion. Could it be that I sat across the table from a decent human being…and a lawyer to boot? Or did he have some other underlying motive?
“Aren’t you nervous doing something like that?” I asked. “What if it’s something unethical, or worse, illegal? We’ve all seen what happens to whistleblowers.”
“How can I not follow through? The woman in Warsaw may have believed she received legitimate medical treatment. As far as I know, she didn’t. Since she’s pregnant, we are talking about two lives in potential danger here. Besides, I strongly believe Harold hid and then marked those documents for me for a reason. I need to find out why. Can you help me?”
I set down my fork and studied him across the table. He met my gaze evenly and without blinking. Again I was taken aback by the startling emerald color of his eyes and the way they seemed to be measuring my worth. I’d bet he was tough to face in a courtroom.
I wanted to trust him, I really did. And it couldn’t hurt to let him in on at least part of the truth.
“Okay, my turn. Basia sent me the documents for safekeeping. Unfortunately, they were stolen from me last night.”
Finn gaped at me. “Stolen?”
I told him about my encounters with Beefy and Mr. Middle Eastern Guy and how the papers were taken from my apartment while I slept. I omitted the part about the papers being under my head. The entire universe didn’t need to know I was an idiot.
“My God.” He whistled. “Were you harmed?”
“No, I got lucky.”
“You don’t know which of them stole the papers?”
“Nope and it could have been someone else for all I know. I was asleep so I, ah, didn’t see or hear a thing. But Beefy was in my kitchen today looking for the documents and seemed pretty upset when I told him someone else got to them before he did. He doesn’t, by any chance, work for your firm, does he? Because if he does, can you call him off before he kills me—either accidentally or on purpose?”
Finn looked appalled. “A hired thug? My God, Lexi, I truly don’t know what to say except that I sincerely doubt it. I just can’t bring myself to believe that my company would hire someone to threaten you with a gun and break into your home, no matter how desperate they were to get the documents back.”
From what I’d heard so far about CGM and Bright Horizons, I wasn’t so sure of that. “Then what’s your take on Mr. Middle Eastern Guy?”
He paused for a very long moment and I noticed he looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I can’t say for certain except that we do have a very large Arabic clientele. Tell me, Lexi, did you have a chance to look at the documents before they were stolen from you?”
“I did, but like you said, they were in Polish.” I decided not to tell him I’d had Paul look over them for me.
“Was there a note from Basia?” he asked. “Instructions of any kind?”
“She just told me to keep them safe and she was going out of town to help a friend.”
He looked interested in that tidbit. “She didn’t say who she was going to visit or where?”
“No.”
“Was there anything else unusual about the documents? Had she provided a translation, for example?”
“No translation,” I said. “Just the seven pages of the contract in Polish.” I got a distinct feeling he was fishing, but decided not to mention the code she had penciled in at the bottom of page three.
“Look,” I said. “Something else is bugging me. You said the contract provided for specific living arrangements, special doctors and a stipend. Aside from the fact that CGM doesn’t typically handle such legal arrangements, what’s up with that?”
Finn shrugged. “I suppose I could take an educated guess. It’s no surprise some wealthy men pay women to act as surrogate mothers for their offspring. They have very specific requests to see that the pregnancy and birth goes exactly the way they want. Many insist on no contact with the mother after the child is born. For a few of them, it’s a purely business transaction and they purposefully seek out women who understand that well and will perform to those expectations.”
That seemed really creepy to me—a business transaction involving human lives. “Yuck. I guess I’ve lived a really sheltered life.”
“I should point out that this is quite rare. Most people who become involved with surrogate pregnancies are just ordinary men and women trying to have a baby. But the point is that to my knowledge, Bright Horizons has never had any involvement in surrogate pregnancies of any kind.”
After that, we seemed to run out of things to say on the topic, or perhaps we both needed a little time to digest the information we had learned. We ate and talked for a while longer, eventually discussing other matters that had nothing to do with people trying to kill me or men paying women to have their babies.
I learned Finn was born and bred in Cork, Ireland and had come to the U.S. to go to Georgetown for law school and then decided to stay. His Irish accent was faint, as if he had worked to tone it down, but it came out occasionally when he pronounced certain words. He also had an off-kilter sense of humor surprisingly similar to mine. Of course guys as good-looking as Finn rarely looked twice at a girl like me, but for this night, regardless of the circumstances, I was the one sitting at the table having dinner with him. Since these occasions didn’t come my way often, I planned on enjoying every moment. Maybe change wasn’t so bad after all.
After we had finished dinner, Finn graciously paid the bill and then walked me to my car. Once in a while his arm would brush against mine until my nerve ends were jangling. I didn’t know if the arm brushing was accidental or he was sending me a covert message that he liked me. How could a person tell? Maybe I was supposed to brush his arm with mine to indicate reciprocal interest.
He stood close enough now so that I could smell him, a pleasant scent of male and expensive aftershave. The attraction thing was in full bloom, at least on my side, even though my brain kept protesting that this wasn’t a date and I’d just met him. However, my body wasn’t even remotely listening to what my brain was saying. For once, I got a feeling of what it must be like to be a guy.
We arrived at my car and I unlocked the door. We turned to look at each other. Finn stood so close that I could see the smile crinkles at the edges of his eyes. He smiled at me and, in a moment of inspiration, I swung out my arm, hoping to catch his in a light brush. Instead I hit the car door and it slammed on his fingers.
“Bugger that!” he shouted as I looked on in horror. Swearing and shaking his fingers, he hopped around like a rabbit on steroids.
“Oh. My. God,” I screeched. “Are you all right?”
He looked ruefully at me, gripping his fingers with his other hand. “I’m, ah, fine. I’m sorry. I crowded you.”
“No, no,” I protested. “I’m sorry. I liked being crowded.” My face turned beet red…again.
Finn reached into his jacket. For one weird instant I thought he was reaching for a weapon to shoot me for being a social imbecile. Not that I would have blamed him. But instead, he pulled out a business card and handed it to me. It was embossed in gold and had Finn’s name and the impressive title, “Attorney-At-Law.” It also had his work address as well as fax, phone and cell numbers. The logo for CGM, Inc. was a double rainbow in front of a snow-covered mountain. Pretty classy looking.
“Can I have your cell number?” he asked. “In case I need to get in touch with you quickly.”
“I don’t have a ce
ll,” I said. Until these past few days, there was no one I needed to call on a moment’s notice except Basia.
He looked at me in astonishment. “No cell? And you work for the NSA?”
“I never admitted to that,” I said. “Even if I had, my operating hours for protecting America are nine to five. I can give you my work number if you’d like.”
“I’d like,” he said firmly, so I scrawled it down on the back of another of his business cards. “If you think of anything else, give me a call,” he said. “I’m glad we had a chance to meet and talk, Lexi.”
I really liked the way my name rolled off his tongue in that Irish brogue of his. “Me, too. Um…sorry about the fingers.”
He touched my hair with his injured hand and I held my breath. My heart was beating so loudly, I was certain he could hear it.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” he said.
I didn’t know whether he meant he would be in touch soon to update me on the Basia situation or call so we could go out sometime. I was really hoping for the latter.
Then, to my utter surprise, he leaned over and pressed a soft, gentle kiss on my mouth. It happened so quickly, I didn’t kiss him back. For a moment, I think I just stood there forgetting to breathe. Had one of the most gorgeous guys on the planet just kissed me? On the mouth?
He gave me another of those million-dollar smiles and then turned and walked down the street. I gave a quick laugh and then danced around. At precisely that moment, Finn looked over his shoulder and saw me doing my little jig.
His eyes widened and then he grinned, giving me a jaunty thumbs-up before wincing and then wiggling his injured fingers.
Could I possibly act any more like an idiot?
Probably not. Oh, well. At least he kissed me!
Elated, I jumped into the car and turned on the music as loud as my ears could stand. I drove home singing at the top of my lungs and was dead tired by the time I got there. Letting myself in the complex, I climbed the stairs to my apartment. The door was still locked. When I opened it, I heard the soft buzz of the alarm. To my relief it still blinked red, which meant it was working.
Just the same I did a quick sweep of the apartment, thankfully finding nothing or no one else of interest. I did a half-assed job of it, partially because my paranoia was fading. I relocked the door, set the alarm and dropped my purse on the couch. I checked my answering machine and saw I had three messages.
The first message was from my mother asking me when we were going to go shopping. I groaned. Payback was hell.
The second message was from my brother Beau.
“The check on Lars Anderson came back and he’s clean,” my brother said. “He arrived in the U.S. from Sweden four years ago, was naturalized last year along with his two younger sisters both of whom still reside in Sweden. Mr. Anderson, age thirty-three, is divorced with no children and currently resides in Laurel. He runs Anderson’s Karate Academy, located in a strip mall not far from his home. As far as I can tell, he’s never had a run-in with the law, not even so much as a parking ticket. He pays his taxes regularly and even contributes to the police annual fund, bless his heart. He’s good to go, sis. Have fun, but remember to practice safe sex.”
I rolled my eyes. Beau is such a kidder.
The third message contained some heavy breathing and a hang up. Oh God, it was probably Beefy. It sounded like his breathing. Heavy and perverted. Why was he still bugging me?
Somehow I had to go to work tomorrow and act as if my life were normal. All this crazy stuff was killing me. I was in way over my head and I knew it.
Tonight, I just wanted to go to sleep and have wicked fantasies about a handsome Irish lawyer with amazing green eyes. So that’s exactly what I did.
***
I’m pretty sure I was in the middle of a hot dream when my bedside lamp abruptly switched on, the bright light unceremoniously ripping me from my fantasy. I blinked and then tried to scream.
A man stood by my bed, his hand covering my mouth. Not another one! Intruder man was dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans. Long dark hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, and he had dark eyes and olive-colored skin.
Enrique Iglesias. Yep, that’s who he was. But what was Enrique Iglesias doing in my bedroom in the middle of the night holding his hand over my mouth?
I grabbed his wrist and tried to sit up. He held me down easily.
“Don’t scream, Lexi,” he said softly, not removing his hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help. Do you understand?”
My heart thumped so wildly I wasn’t sure I was breathing. Sweat trickled down my back and beaded at my temples. I nodded even though I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Isn’t that how it worked with psychopaths? If you wanted to stay alive, you fed their delusions and pretended you understood what they were talking about. I swallowed hard, watching him warily.
“I’m going to lift my hand,” he said. “No screams, okay?”
I nodded again.
Gazing into my eyes as if measuring whether I was good for my word, he slowly removed his hand from my mouth. I promptly opened my mouth to scream when I noticed he wore a leather shoulder holster. Because I really didn’t want to get shot, I sat up instead and scooted as far away from him on the bed as I could.
“Look,” I said, my voice coming out shakier than I had intended. “I should warn you, I’m trained in karate.”
It was a blatant lie, but sometimes guys got nervous if they thought that girls could kick the beejeebies out of their privates. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t even had my first karate lesson yet, as long as he didn’t figure out how weak and vulnerable I really was.
But instead of looking scared or worried, he smiled. “What a coincidence,” he said. “Me, too. What belt are you?”
I felt a flicker of panic. Oh, God, this was just my luck. I had to get an intruder who knew karate. I didn’t know diddly squat about karate belts, but I remembered that Bruce Lee had worn a black one. Sounded good to me.
“Black,” I said, raising my chin.
His smile widened. “Really? What degree?”
Degree? As in temperature or as in PhD? “Just take my word for it. You don’t want to mess with me.”
He laughed and I noticed he didn’t look all that threatening when he smiled. I took another quick assessment of him, pegging him from anywhere between thirty to thirty-five years of age with well-defined arms and an amazing cleft in his chin.
“Look, buster,” I said in my sternest voice and then yanked the covers up to my chin. “Just how did you get in here? I have a top-of-the-line alarm system, you know.”
“A waste of money,” he said, shrugging.
Obviously he was right. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”
“No, the question is why did you summon me and what do you want?”
“What do I want? You’re the one who bypassed my alarm and broke in here in the middle of the night.”
He blew out a breath impatiently and made another gesture with his hands. “You requested my presence, cara, so I came. If you have no need of my services, I shall happily leave.”
I was really confused now. Either I had completely lost my mind or this guy was a true-blue psycho. Neither possibility boded well for me.
“Summoned you?” I repeated. “Are you sure you have the right bedroom?”
He muttered something under his breath and then made a gesture with his hands that clearly indicated exasperation. “I’m beginning to wonder that myself.”
“Why do you keep talking like that? Are you Spanish or something?”
He looked offended. “Hardly, I’m Italian.”
“Italian? I suppose this also means I’m not dreaming since I don’t know any Italians and I don’t think you can dream about someone you don’t know.” I was blabbering, but there was a strange man in my bedroom, so I felt entitled. “Look, tell me why you’re in my bedroom at—” I glanced at the clock, “—two-thirty in the morning.
Maybe we can straighten out the whole mess so you can leave and I can go back to sleep. No one needs to get hurt. Cool with you?”
“Okay,” he agreed. He had begun to look amused by the whole situation whereas I felt a weird mixture of terror and crankiness.
I took a deep breath. “Let’s start at the beginning. You said you got my message. What did you mean?”
He crossed his arms against his chest and leaned forward. “I received a message today from the Zimmerman twins requesting my assistance. Since I knew they would never approach me on a professional matter—pride, you see—I knew it had to be a request for a personal favor, most likely one for a friend. Since, as far as I know, you’re their only close friend, here I am. How am I doing so far?”
My mouth dropped open as it hit me. “Wait a minute. You’re Slash?”
He spread his hands. “You were expecting someone else?”
“I—I—I—” I stammered stupidly. “I wasn’t expecting you at all. I didn’t even think you existed.” My thoughts whirled. “Aren’t you supposed to be a national treasure or something, protected around the clock by the FBI or Secret Service?”
He rolled his eyes. “Is that what they say about me now?”
“Is it true?”
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Maybe.”
“Then how come they didn’t stop you from breaking in here?” I asked. “Technically, you just broke the law.”
He chuckled. “You think the FBI could stop me?”
“They are the FBI, aren’t they?”
He laughed this time. “Cara, they don’t even know I’m here. After all, a man needs his privacy when meeting with a beautiful woman in her bedroom at night.”
Beautiful? I sat huddled under the covers in my oversized T-shirt with tangled sleep hair and probably bad breath to boot. He was deranged.
“How do I know you’re really Slash and not just some guy pretending to be him?”
“How would you like me to prove it? A DNA sample?”
“A test.”
“A what?”
No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) Page 10
