by Louise Clark
Christy had always suspected that the possibility she might one day inherit her brother's fortune had been why Ellen had hated her so much. Frank's marriage meant that there was a potential for kids, and Christy had fulfilled that fairly quickly. Noelle's arrival was one more reason why Ellen, though wealthy, would never be as rich as her annoying nephew.
But what about Gerry Fisher, who had been Frank's mentor and father figure? Wouldn't Frank want Gerry to know he was safe, that he was home again?
Noelle put the math sheet away, drawing Christy's attention. "What's next, kiddo?"
"Handwriting." Noelle drew out a lined sheet of paper. "I have to practice the letter g."
"Why g?"
"Because it's hard to do." With painstaking slowness and infinite concentration, Noelle shakily drew the letter on the page.
Christy watched, fascinated. Her daughter was absolutely right. The only way to learn was in the doing. She could stand here for hours thinking about finding Frank, or she could do something about it.
She sat down beside Noelle at the kitchen table and wrote down all the places Frank might go if he had returned to Vancouver. It included all the top hotels in town, much more Frank's style than the economy-grade Strand Manor.
Then there were the people he would want to see—or not see. Top of that list was Noelle. Just below was his best friend, Aaron DeBolt, another wealthy young man with too much time on his hands and more than enough money to spend wasting it. At the bottom were the trustees.
By the time she finished she'd filled a page and she was completely overwhelmed.
"What's that, Mommy?" Noelle asked, taking a breather from her handwriting practice to rest her hand.
"It's a list of stuff I have to do, honey," Christy said, frowning at the paper.
Noelle frowned too. "There's lots on that list. It looks like the ones you used to make for my school."
When she had been president of the Parents Advisory Council at VRA. "That was different, honey."
"Yeah," Noelle said with a sigh, "it was."
Christy faltered, then continued on with nothing more than a little shake in her voice. "I had a bunch of people helping me. All I had to do was figure out what needed to be done, then give the jobs to the people best suited to handling them."
Noelle nodded. "Then why don't you find someone to do all that stuff for you?" Conversation over, Noelle went back to her careful practice writing the letter g. Christy stared at her daughter as if she'd just announced that the world was round at a meeting of the flat earth society.
Noelle was totally right. What Christy needed was a professional to find Frank, a detective like Billie Patterson, only the private kind, not one on the public payroll. How did you go about hiring a detective?
For that matter, did she have the funds to pay one?
She mentally reviewed her income and decided, reluctantly, that she didn't. She could approach the trustees and ask that the cost be borne as a direct expense of the trust, but that would mean selling more Jamieson stock. Even if Macklin and Bidwell agreed to it, dear Aunt Ellen certainly would not.
That put her back where she began. She'd have to do the digging herself, because she didn't know any professionals who'd provide her with a free research service...
Or did she? Reporters researched their stories. Quinn Armstrong was a reporter. Quinn Armstrong wanted an interview with her. What if she offered to give him an exclusive? In exchange he would have to help her find Frank. The idea of involving Quinn Armstrong had her stomach clenching and her hands shaking, but there was a certain seductive quality to it.
Over the years she'd learned to manage people, but was she good enough to handle Quinn Armstrong? There was only one way to find out. She'd have to put her proposal to him and set the process in motion.
The doorbell rang. She went to answer it with Noelle hot on her heels. A dark-haired girl stood on the porch. "Can Noelle come out to play?"
"Hi, Mary," Noelle said. "Can I, Mom? This is Mary Petrofsky. I told you about her. She's in my class."
"And I live down the street in the end house," Mary added.
"I thought Mary was in daycare," Christy said.
Mary grinned, revealing a gap where an eyetooth had once been. "I am. Mom picks me up at four thirty. I'm off tomorrow though. Maybe Noelle and I can play together then, too."
Christy looked at Mary, but she thought about Quinn Armstrong. If she followed Noelle outside, she could keep an eye on the kids and ring the Armstrongs' doorbell at the same time.
"Okay. Put away your homework first, Noelle. Then you can go out."
"Thanks, Mom!"
Noelle rushed away. Christy took a deep breath and stepped outside. Time to put the process in motion.
* * *
Roy Armstrong answered the door. He was holding a cup of coffee and there was a distracted look in his eyes, as if his body was here, but his brain was somewhere else. But he smiled when he saw Christy and opened the door wider.
"Hi, Roy," Christy said. Dressed in tie-dyed T-shirt and jeans with holes in them, he didn't look like a famous author. There was more than a passing resemblance to his son, though. She heard her voice shake as she added, "I'm Christy Jam—"
"I know you," Roy said. "I do. Quinn!" he bellowed over his shoulder. "Shake a leg. Christy, our new neighbor, is at the door." He smiled at Christy again. "Since meeting you, Quinn's been jumpier than that cat he took in a while back. Be kind to him, and give his old man some peace, would you?"
Christy's eyes opened wide. "It's not like that, er, Roy! It's... it's business."
His eyes lit up. "You don't say."
Footsteps sounded, then Quinn Armstrong appeared. The layout of the Armstrong house appeared to be exactly the same as Christy's. The front door opened into a small landing from which stairs ran up and down. At the top of the up flight was the living room-dining room combination, which opened into the kitchen. Further stairs led up to the bedrooms. The other set of stairs went directly down to a large family room.
Christy watched Quinn descend, her nerves tightening with each step.
On the last step he paused and surveyed her. "Mrs. Jamieson."
"A mite formal, aren't you, boy?" Roy said, cocking a brow. He observed his son over the rim of the cup before taking a sip.
Quinn shot him a look. "Until this moment, Mrs. Jamieson was hardly willing to acknowledge my existence. Formality seems appropriate in the circumstances."
"Is that a fact." There was laughter in Roy's eyes as he looked from his son's cool expression to Christy's reddening cheeks.
"Until this moment, I had no reason to agree to your request, Quinn," she said, deliberately using his first name.
His brows snapped together. He stepped down that last stair to the landing, a movement of lithe grace and loose-limbed elegance.
Christy watched him with an enjoyment she didn't want to acknowledge. Quinn Armstrong was a pleasure to look at, and she had a suspicion that he could be defined as 'hot.' He was, however, a member of a profession she loathed. She had also decided he was going to be an employee, of sorts. That alone should be a reminder to keep her eyes to herself.
"Christy, why don't you come in? Dad, don't you have something you need to do? Like work on that book?"
"You nag me worse than your mother did, boy," Roy said amicably. He sipped coffee as he locked eyes with his son.
Christy said, "I can't. Come in, that is. Quinn, would you mind talking to me out on the porch while I keep an eye on my daughter and her friend?"
"Solves that problem," Quinn said, shouldering past his father.
"Work, work, work. That's all the boy thinks about," Roy muttered to no one in particular. "Okay, you two, have fun." His eyes danced as Quinn glowered at him, then he firmly shut the door, leaving Christy and Quinn facing each other on the small porch.
Quinn shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe. "What made you decide to do the interview?"
; "You get straight to the point, don't you?"
He shrugged.
She drew a deep breath, told herself she was doing the right thing, then put the process in motion. "I haven't agreed to do the interview—yet."
He didn't move, but Christy could have sworn that he stiffened. "So you've got terms? Most people in your situation do. I don't write promo pieces. I do my research. If what I discover differs from the spin you're putting on the information, I write the story the way I feel it should be told."
"I'm glad to hear that. It's your research skills that prompted me to agree to your request."
"Checked me out, did you?"
Christy laughed. It wasn't a happy sound, but one aimed directly at herself. "Oh no. I wouldn't know where to start. That's my problem, I don't know how to find information on people."
He studied her, his brows drawn together in that little frown that was surprisingly sexy. "You're losing me."
"I have someone I need to find."
"Your husband."
"Yes. I have a place to begin the search, but I don't know how to proceed from there. I need help."
"My help."
She nodded. "What I'm proposing is that you help me find Frank, and I'll agree to give you an interview."
Straightening, he said, "Everything we find out I can use."
"Agreed."
"Once we find him, I get an interview with Frank Jamieson, as well as the one with you."
"Agreed," Christy said without hesitation. It was the least the rat could do after deserting her and Noelle.
Quinn shot out his hand. "Okay, we've got a deal. Tell me what you've got, and we'll start from there."
Christy slowly put her hand in his. His palm was warm and a little rough. As his hand closed around hers she had a sense of strength and protection that was immensely reassuring.
There was no going back. She was committed.
Chapter 6
"This is not Frank's sort of place."
Christy had doubted that Frank would stay at a hotel like the Strand Manor from the moment Billie Patterson gave her the scrap of paper with his location written on it. Standing here now, she was quite sure it wasn't possible.
At Christy's comment, Quinn glanced around the small lobby, then he cocked her a questioning look. "His tastes run to luxurious, do they?"
Lit by bright white overhead fluorescents, the lobby branded the hotel as cheap but clean. It featured a seating area to one side of the reception desk and in front of the elevators. The furniture consisted of an overstuffed sofa with square, blocky arms covered in durable leatherette with two matching chairs opposite. A potted fern drooped dispiritedly at one end of the couch. There was nothing welcoming about the little area. This was minimal seating, to be used while a guest waited for a taxi. It was not there to encourage leisurely chats.
The Strand Manor was clearly a pit stop for travelers looking for a place to crash and little else. It was not the kind of place she and Frank patronized when they traveled. Not only was the Strand a bottom feeder hotel, but it was located on Pender Street, in a shabby area on the edge of the Vancouver's downtown east side, the poorest area of any city in Canada.
"Frank has always had money. The cost of a night's stay was never an issue. It isn't an issue now, either, since he has access to the money he embezzled. He likes nice surroundings and he likes people to be there to see to his needs." She looked dubiously at the clerk at the reservation desk. The woman was dressed neatly, but without a uniform. A further sweep noted that there was no bellman in sight and the lobby didn't feature a concierge desk.
Quinn considered her comments thoughtfully as he assessed their surroundings. "So Frank staying at this hotel is out of character."
"Yes. I'd say it's also out of character for Brianne Lymbourn. I only met her a few times, but I got the impression that money and luxury were big issues for her." Christy stopped, hearing the sneer in her voice and mentally cursing herself for expressing her feelings for Brianne all to clearly.
"As in she was looking for a male with lots of the former so she could spend it on the latter?"
Christy laughed, relieved that Quinn had not commented on her situation or the emotions that were so clear in her comment. That showed a respect for her feelings she hadn't expected to find in a reporter. "Yeah, something like that."
At the desk, the reservation clerk finished checking out a guest. Quinn nudged Christy. "Do you have the picture of Frank ready?"
Christy nodded.
"Okay, let's see what we can find out."
He approached the desk with Christy one step behind. She watched his mouth curl in a smile that would melt the hardest female heart. The clerk, a woman in her mid-twenties, smiled back warmly.
"Hi, Selma," Quinn said, reading the woman's nametag.
"Good morning. How can I help you, sir?" She tilted her head just the slightest degree. Her smile grew wider.
Christy held the picture of Frank by its edges so the nervous sweat from her fingertips wouldn't ruin the image. She had spent a lot of time choosing the photo they would use for their search. On Quinn's advice, she'd found a clear snap of Frank showing his torso and head. He was staring directly into the camera, only the faintest of smiles on his mouth. The shirt he was wearing was the casual, open necked and short-sleeved kind she would expect him to travel in.
Quinn leaned against the desk. He appeared to be a man with all the time in the world to flirt with a pretty woman. He got straight to business. "We're here to visit an old friend who is staying at this hotel."
"Not a problem, sir. If you give me his name, I'll key it in and ring his room for you."
"Frank Jamieson." They waited while the clerk typed and frowned.
"Are you sure he is staying here?" She looked up apologetically. "I don't have a Jamieson registered."
Quinn shot her a small, rueful smile. "Would you try his girlfriend, then? Maybe they registered under her name. It's Brianne Lymbourn."
The clerk keyed in the name then watched the screen. "Ah, here she is. Brianne Lymbourn, party of two." She frowned. "I'm sorry, sir. She checked out an hour ago. You just missed them, I'm afraid."
"Did Brianne leave a forwarding address?"
The clerk played with some keys then shook her head. "She gave her home address as a city in Mexico, but that's all I have."
Quinn looked at Christy. He was frowning now. His eyes told her he wanted her to play along with him. "If that isn't Brianne at her worst!" he said. "Does that woman ever stop to think? We've all been planning this for weeks!"
"Now come on, Quinn! She's not that bad," Christy said. "Maybe Frank got restless and wanted to move on. You know what he's like when he travels." She turned to Selma the desk clerk with a smile.
Selma smiled back, more interested in the conversation than whatever other duties she had.
Christy dropped the photo of Frank on the desktop. "Frank's problem," she said in a confidential way to the desk clerk, "is that he's a nice guy. He's also good looking. The result is that women indulge him."
Selma glanced at the picture and smiled. "Yeah, I can see that."
Christy glanced at Quinn. He was watching her with the hint of a smile on his lips and amusement in his eyes. Enjoying herself, Christy continued on. "So he does pretty well whatever he wants. If he decided it was time to head off to Calgary, Brianne wouldn't have much of a choice. She'd just have to pack up and go with him."
Selma frowned. By the time Christy had finished speaking she was shaking her head. "I don't think your friend was with Ms. Lymbourn. I may have seen this man before, but not with Ms. Lymbourn. And not at this hotel. Maybe our other front desk clerk can help."
But the other clerk shook his head when shown Frank's picture and they also had no luck with the waitresses in the hotel's tiny coffee bar. No one could remember seeing Frank, with or without an attractive blond on his arm.
"So now what?" Christy asked when they were back on the sidewalk.
Quinn stared thoughtfully at the old, low-rise buildings that lined Pender. Cars packed the four-lane avenue, crawling slowly along, just shy of gridlock, even though it was mid-morning, not rush hour. Pedestrians bustled down the sidewalks. As they flowed around the stationary Quinn and Christy, she had a feeling that Quinn was looking more inside his head than at the scene around them.
Suddenly his gaze sharpened. "We check the eating places in this area, particularly the ones that serve breakfast. People don't usually go far without their morning coffee."
Sounded reasonable. An hour later, they were several blocks away from the hotel and had received too many headshakes to count. Christy looked around the tiny storefront café that served fresh-made wraps. The place smelled of fragrant Mediterranean spices and was doing a brisk business in takeout, even though it was not yet noon.
"Okay, no one has seen Frank, but we don't know if Brianne has used any of the restaurants we checked because we don't have a picture of her." Christy's stomach grumbled. She blushed, but ignored it. "Do we keep on looking? Or do we try to get a photo of Brianne and start over?"
Quinn frowned. "First we find something to eat. While we're fueling up we figure out our next step." He indicated the counter at the back of the room. "Want to eat here? The sandwiches look pretty good."
The café had three tiny round tables, two chairs at each. None were in use. "Sure."
Quinn nodded briskly. "Why don't you snag a table? I'll get the food. What would you like?"
Christy scanned the menu chalked on a blackboard. The flowing script was complemented with drawings of scantily clad creatures that might have been mermaids. "Mediterranean Chicken with extra sauce." She chose a table near the plate glass window and sat down with a sigh. She hadn't expected a search for Frank to be easy, but she hadn't expected it to be so physically exhausting either. Or so frustrating. It was as if Frank was invisible. Surely someone had seen him!
