Careless Rapture

by Dara Girard

  Clay looked at her. “What happened?”

  She waved the invitation. “That bastard!”

  “What?”

  “Brian sent me a wedding invitation. I asked him to, but this was before I asked him to.”

  Clay stared, confused. “What?”

  “That little snot was planning to marry even while he was dating me.”

  He grabbed her shoulders. “Calm down.”

  “Calm down! I should rip off his balls and serve them as hors d’oeuvres to his fiancée.”

  Clay winced.

  She grimaced. “Yes, that is a rather disgusting image. I apologize.” She took a deep breath, tightening one hand into a fist. “I am so angry.”

  Clay led Jackie to the couch and gently forced her to sit. “Relax. You’re not going to demolish anything after we’ve just finished cleaning up this place.”

  Jackie shook the letter. “Not only did he insult me, he’s mocking me.” She pounded the couch.

  Clay sat beside her. “Perhaps he wants to show he has no hard feelings.”

  “He has no hard feelings?”

  “I’m hazarding a guess.” He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know. Just tear up the invitation and forget about it.”

  “Do you know when the wedding is scheduled?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “This Saturday. Do you know how long it takes to schedule a wedding?”

  Clay looked at her blankly.

  “At least ten months.”

  He snatched the invitation and tossed it aside. “It could be a simple wedding. Weddings in Las Vegas take no planning at all.”

  “This isn’t being held in Las Vegas,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “You’ve discovered the man’s an ass. Consider yourself lucky.”

  She tapped her finger against her chin as a thought came to her. “This weekend, huh? I bet he doesn’t expect me to show up.”

  “And you don’t plan to go, so everything’s settled.”

  She sent him a sly glance. “You realize he’s offered me a challenge.”

  “What?”

  “This means war.” She picked up the invitation and studied its rose and ribbon design. “ I will go.”

  “Why?”

  “To show I have no hard feelings.”

  Clay scratched his head, confused. “You just said you wanted to rip his—”

  She made a dismissive gesture. “Yes, I know, but he doesn’t need to know that. I’ll be gracious and show that I’m above him.”

  He sat back and stretched his legs out. “That’s up to you.”

  “Of course, I’ll need a date. Someone sophisticated, suave, preferably rich. But then again, he would expect that.” She rested her elbows on her knees and drummed her fingers together. “I could go with the complete opposite. A man with an interesting career, a bit intimidating and little rough, uncouth but presentable.” She leaned back and folded her arms. “But where could I find a guy like that on such short notice’?” She slowly turned to him.

  Clay stiffened. “No.”

  “Come on,” she urged. “It’s just one night.”

  “No.”

  She straightened. “All you’d have to do is wear a tuxedo for a few hours, dance with me, then leave.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Clay’s eyebrows shot up. “Do I need a reason?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not only is your plan juvenile, asinine, and deceitful, it would be a complete waste of my time.”

  “Do you know the type of women who attend weddings? Lonely women—”

  “Who want to shackle the first single man they see.”

  “Substitute 'shackle' for 'shag' and you’ll be right.”

  “I’m not in short supply of women.” He stood and grabbed his jacket. “And presently I’ve had my fill.”

  “Just one night. Please.” She jumped to her feet. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He paused. “How?”

  “You tell me.”

  He grinned maliciously and opened the door. “Perhaps I will,” he said, then left.

  ***

  On Monday, Jackie darted through the spring drizzle of a cool rain that slickened streets and accentuated the mingled scent of blossoming trees and car fumes. The swish of wipers and honking horns filled the air, while umbrellas knocked against each other as people raced to work. She rushed into the lobby of her office building and nearly opted to stand outside when she saw William Chavis, an accountant who bored her with his smile and constant attention. She tried to hurry past him and make it up the stairs before he saw her. She failed.

  “Jackie,” he said, blocking her path.

  She offered a brief smile and tried to move around him. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “This is a quick question. The Cherry Blossom Festival is coming up. Would you like to walk with me along the Tidal Basin?”

  Sure, to push you in. “I’m very busy right now.” She shook her umbrella, getting water drops on his shoes. “Sorry, excuse me.” She dashed into an elevator and sighed with relief. A few moments later, she entered the airless three-room office of HOPE Services, a nonprofit organization that fed homebound people and helped others reenter the workforce. She hoped that in a few years the company would own an entire floor and be nationally recognized. Right now she was content with a job as vice president in charge of finances. It was a step up from coordinator at another nonprofit organization that helped young people with employment. In two years she’d be thirty-five. By then she hoped to develop a program so large and profitable that grant funding would become unnecessary. She knew it was a lofty goal but she was determined.

  “Did you have a good weekend?” Patty Jayson asked as Jackie came through the door. She wore a short, curly red wig that complemented her honey skin and brown eyes, but looked oddly out of fashion for a woman of fifty-seven.

  Jackie hung up her jacket and umbrella. “I discovered my boyfriend is getting married.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  Jackie checked her in-box. “Would it hurt your feelings if I ignored you?”

  “If he’s ugly, who cares? I just think you should look on the bright side of things. Especially now.”

  She glanced up from her letters. “Why especially?”

  “I suppose the news can wait.”

  “What news?”

  Faye Radcliff came out of her back office with the panicked look of a workaholic in crisis. Her conservative gray dress made her look older than her thirty-eight years. Reddish-brown hair fell around her slightly flushed pale skin. “Have you told her?” she asked Patty in her smooth, husky tone.

  Patty shook her head. “No.”

  Jackie’s gaze darted between them. “Told me what?” Her shoulders drooped. “Is it bad? Did another client cancel services?”

  Faye leaned against Patty’s desk. “No, it’s worse.”

  “What could be worse?”

  Patty waved her hand. “You’re going to wish you didn’t ask that.”

  Faye sighed. “You know Mr. Everton Hamlick, our generous funder? The man who said he’d support us for the rest of his life?”

  Jackie nodded with mounting dread. “Yes?”

  “His life ended yesterday.”

  Chapter Four

  Jackie fell against the wall. “Somebody killed him?”

  Faye shook her head. “No, he dropped dead. He was waving to the mail carrier, then toppled over. And since he has such a nice, close-knit, and loving family,” she drawled in a sarcastic tone, “they all swooped in and immediately cut the funds to all his charitable organizations. His recent donation is all we’ll ever see.” She sighed. “I told him we should have had something in writing.”

  “The guy was sweet. Unfortunately, he refused to see that not everyone thinks and cares about things the way he does. Or did.” Jackie frowned. She hated having to refer to him in the past tense. Mr. Hamlick had become an integral part of their li
ttle group and it wasn’t only because of his financial help. An older white man with wispy gray hair, he’d always been superbly dressed, with piercing hazel eyes and a booming laugh that shook his lanky frame. She’d miss him.

  “It made him unique, but vulnerable. The funeral is next Saturday. Do you want to go?”

  Jackie made a face. “And see those vultures? No, thank you.”

  “Perhaps if they see us, see how much he meant to us and the people we help, they may be persuaded to continue his legacy.”

  Patty rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Rich people like that only care about themselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t kill him off.”

  Faye frowned. “Don’t be disgusting.”

  “I’m not. You’re always hearing stories like that—sons killing their mothers, daughters pushing their fathers down the stairs or hiring hit men.”

  “The man was seventy-six years old. He died of natural causes.”

  “My dad’s ninety and still has a few years left.” Patty wagged her finger. “You know there are drugs out there that can make a death look natural.” She adjusted her hair. “I know, I read.”

  Faye opened her mouth; Jackie shook her head in warning. Getting into an argument with Patty could last all morning. Jackie said, “The fact is he’s dead and our present grant will never be able to cover all our expenses.”

  Faye nodded. “We can struggle by for a few months, but after that we’ll have to greatly reduce our services.”

  Jackie pushed herself from the wall. “No, we can’t do that. People depend on us.”

  “What else can we do? Our best plan of action is to meet his family.”

  “A funeral is a tacky place to ask for money.” Jackie affected a wide grin and held out her hand. “Hi, sorry for your loss, but we want your money. Can you write a check?”

  Faye scowled. “I wasn’t going to ask there. I’d meet with them, then call them later. There must be a bleeding heart in the family.”

  “You’re assuming they have hearts,” Patty muttered. “The rich can afford not to.”

  “What do you have against rich people?”

  “I envy the fact that I’m not one.” She rested her elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “Do you know what I would do if I had money?”

  “Besides generously donating to us?”

  Patty waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. If I had money I’d”—she wiggled in her seat and winked—“you know.”

  Faye and Jackie looked at her blankly. Jackie said, “No, we don’t know.”

  “I’d get everything done.” She gestured to the ceiling, then the floor. “Head-to-toe makeover.”

  Faye folded her arms. “You don’t need it. You look fine.”

  “In a few years time, ‘fine’ will be the new ugly. By then everyone will have had something done.”

  “I certainly hope not. Imagine a world of porcelain veneers and silicone butts. That would be a scary world.”

  “Not if everyone is doing it.”

  Jackie cleared her throat. “I'm sorry to have to redirect this thrilling and socially essential conversation for more mundane matters, but we need money.”

  Patty nodded. “See? And if I were prettier, I could get a rich man and help you out. You two should seriously consider that. Men like to help beautiful women.”

  “I think we’re attractive,” Faye said.

  “You’re pretty.” She looked at Jackie. “And you’re cute. It’s not the same. Now if—”

  Jackie interrupted her. “Yes, thank you, Patty. But since we don’t plan on getting anything done, we need to think of something else.”

  Faye said, “The funeral is worth a try.” She caught Jackie’s frown. “Unless you have another idea.”

  Jackie tapped her chin, pensive. Suddenly, an impish grin spread on her face. She snapped her fingers. “What about that man who used to fund us when Latisha was here?”

  Latisha Robins had developed HOPE Services. After seven years as president, she had suddenly resigned, stating family obligations.

  “There were a lot of men when Latisha was here,” Faye said, too well bred to let complete disdain color her words.

  Jackie ignored the implication. “I think his name was Wallace or Wynon or—”

  “Mr. Winstead?”

  “Yes. He used to be one of the biggest donors. Why did he stop?”

  Faye shrugged. “I don’t know. She never explained. She left leaving a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “Perhaps I could persuade him to reinvest.”

  Faye bit her lower lip, hesitant. “I don’t know. Latisha had a certain way of doing business. A bit ruthless, but it suited her.”

  Jackie waved her hand, unconcerned. “That’s fine. We all have our gifts. I’m in charge of funding and I plan to solve this problem. Patty, get me his number, please.”

  “Are you sure?” Faye asked as Patty searched the database.

  “No, I’m not sure, but it’s an option. HOPE has grown and those that want to get-their names seen can use this opportunity. At least that’s how I’ll present it to those who can’t just contribute out of the kindness of their hearts.”

  “Got it!” Patty said.

  Jackie wrote down the number, then disappeared into her office. A half hour later, she came out of her office smiling. “I scheduled an appointment with Mr. Winstead.”

  “Great.” Faye smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  ***

  Clay usually didn’t mind Monday mornings. This Monday was an exception. The day seemed extra wet and the rush-hour traffic extra congested. Sunday night had been a sleepless one. He’d kept thinking about Jackie. Thinking about her eating Swedish pancakes wearing nothing but a red scarf. That wasn’t like him and it was an annoying change.

  He entered Hodder Investigations in anything but a good mood, briefly muttering a greeting to Brent Holliday, their part-time secretary, a college graduate with shaggy black hair and green eyes who’d learned early on that PI work was more tedious than he’d thought.

  Clay walked into the main office, where Mack greeted him with a big grin he couldn’t return. Mack had been wearing that same expression when they’d met years ago in a church. Clay wasn’t a religious man, but found comfort in the quiet of the various churches the city provided. He’d been staring at the row of candles on the altar when he saw Mack. He had never seen a guy look so happy leaving confession. Curious, Clay followed him and asked him why. They started talking and had an instant affinity. Mack had been a police officer who was tired of the bureaucracy and at a crossroads in his career. He wondered if he should try for detective or leave the force and work on his own.

  Clay understood the dilemma. He had worked with an investigating firm in New Jersey when a case brought him to D.C. After reconnecting with his sister, he’d decided to stay. At the time he’d met Mack he had been working for an insurance-fraud firm. They decided to work together after two drinks at a bar. Fortunately, both were sober enough not to regret the decision.

  Mack instantly took to Clay’s quick eye and blunt honesty; Clay appreciated Mack’s grim police humor and cunning mind. They’d worked together three years now At times Clay wondered how much longer they would continue to do so.

  He hung up his jacket, his eyes sweeping the familiar surroundings with little interest. White walls covered the rectangular-shaped room and a large poster of a silhouette of a man in a trench coat hung on the far wall. Mack had a fondness for old PI movies. Presently, he sat at his desk with his legs on the table, staring at his laptop. He was a morning person. Clay learned not to hold that against him. He tossed his keys on the desk, an old pine desk, where one disgruntled worker had carved This is hell. At times, depending on the case, he agreed.

  “So, I take it you had a bad weekend?” Mack asked, resting his laptop on the desk.

  Clay ran a hand down his face and grunted. “Yeah.” He went to the coffee machine and emptied out the pot. It was a daily
routine. Mack made coffee. Clay threw it out then made his own. Neither complained. They both knew Mack’s coffee tasted like tar.

  After fixing his coffee, Clay sat, took a long swallow, then began to feel human again.

  Brent entered the room, tapping a file against his palm. “Evans still hasn’t paid.”

  Clay glanced at his watch then held out his hand. “Get him on the phone for me in an hour. I need to schedule a meeting.”

  Brent’s eyes widened with excitement as he handed him the file. “Are you going to rough him up?”

  Mack shook his head. “He doesn’t have to. Clay walks into a room and suddenly the money appears.”

  Brent’s excitement died. “Oh.”

  Mack watched Brent leave, then rested his elbows on his chair. He grimaced. “So how bad was your weekend?”

  “Bad enough. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I could wait a couple hours before telling you about another case.”

  Clay tapped his mug impatiently “Tell me now.”

  “Milton called again.”

  Clay’s tapping increased. “And you turned him down.”

  Mack shrugged.

  Clay’s expression darkened. “I thought I told you to double his fee,” he said softly.

  “I did. He’s willing to pay.”

  “Then you should have said no. He’s wasting his money.”

  “That’s not our problem.”

  “He’s wasting our time.”

  “He’s making it worthwhile.” He grinned. “If we were really mercenary we could just follow his wife around town and do nothing else.”

  Clay turned on his computer. “But we’re not mercenary.”

  Mack looked disappointed. “Really?”

  “Yes.” Clay sat back in his chair. “Explain something to me.”

  “Ask away.”

  “How much evidence does a guy need that his wife is cheating on him? What level of denial can explain all the footage away?”

  “I think he gets off on them.”