by Hinze, Vicki
The office looked like a living room. No sleek angles here. Warm greens and browns, conservative and luxurious, in the manner of an old-time gentleman’s club. The carpet was thick and plush. Sinking into it, she tottered on her heels and grabbed Parker’s arm for support.
They sat down across from the fireplace on a leather sofa. Though the air-conditioning whirred softly, a fire snapped in the grate. Atmosphere, Caron figured, and a shameful waste of good trees.
A grandfather clock’s pendulum marked the passing seconds. Parker looked totally relaxed, but with every click she grew more nervous. She was in over her head. Rich was a way of life, a thousand unspoken mannerisms. Mannerisms and attitudes that, though they were natural to Parker, she didn’t have, and had never particularly wanted. But Caron needed those assets now, to find a connection between someone here and Decker, to find Misty.
Three men entered the room. Parker put a proprietary hand on her knee. She didn’t object, and she chided herself for taking comfort in his touch—and for wanting more touches.
While the receptionist handled the introductions, Caron studied the men. One was about sixty, very distinguished, very reserved. Sensing that he was benign, Caron dismissed him, betting herself that every suit in his closet was three-piece and some shade of gray.
The other two men, both somewhere in their thirties, appeared polished and refined—though they were totally different-looking men.
One was a blond boy-next-door type, clad in a perfectly pressed black suit and a creased white shirt. Keith Forrester, the receptionist had said.
“Thank you, Jillian.” Forrester dismissed the receptionist with a nod and a cool smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll take care of things from here.”
Plastic, Caron thought, watching Parker shake Forrester’s hand. When he turned to her, Caron accepted his hand. His fingers were limp. She’d never trusted a man who shook hands with limp fingers, or one she sensed was insincere.
“My pleasure.” She drawled the lie, then withdrew her hand and looped it around Parker’s arm. His biceps was thick and tense, but he still looked relaxed. And if he found her suddenly pronounced accent odd, he didn’t show it.
“May I introduce my associates, Brian Cheramie—” Forrester motioned toward the other young man, then motioned to the older one Caron had sensed was benign. “And Charles Nivens.”
Caron nodded, sure they could see she was a phony. Parker’s smoothing her hand with his thumb didn’t stop her from trembling—or from studying Brian Cheramie.
Small and dark-skinned, he looked typically French. He rubbed at his graying temple, and a ring on his finger played in the firelight, glinting colorful prisms. Interesting, that. From the five-plus-carat stone winking at her from his pinky, it was clear that Brian Cheramie was rich in his own right. But upon clasping hands, again she sensed insincerity. Was the trait common to all brokers?
Keeping her expression passive, she accepted Charles Nivens’s outstretched hand—and sensed guilt—and the reason for it. The stoic Mr. Nivens was having an affair.
Surprised, Caron met his gaze. He hadn’t seemed the type. He stepped out on his wife, but he was faithful to his work; she knew that the moment she saw his eyes.
The men sat down in traditional wingback chairs across from the sofa. The fire in the grate snapped, and a log crunched, shooting a spray of sparks up the chimney.
Parker nodded. “I don’t believe in wasting time—yours or ours—so I’ll get right to the point, gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Forrester alone had answered. Caron didn’t like him. She didn’t like Cheramie, either. She wasn’t sure why... yet. Did it have anything to do with Misty?
Parker sent Caron a look so warm it conjured up a stellar flush inside her. “My wife and I are seeking a broker to handle some of our stock transactions. We’re considering all three of you. What we want are your personal dossiers and a status report on all the accounts you’ve handled in the last, oh—what do you think, darling? Five years?”
He didn’t believe in being timid. Or in asking for just the sun, not when the moon and stars, too, were hanging there, ripe for the plucking. Forrester’s brazen attitude had irked her, but Parker’s seemed second nature, unassuming. Admiring him for that, she nodded. “Five years sounds reasonable, darling.”
Parker smiled at her, then looked at the men and sobered. “Five years.”
Mr. Nivens lifted a haughty brow. “Releasing personal information is a violation of the Privacy Act, Mr. Simms.”
“Only if a third party releases it, Mr. Nivens. The typical prospectus is too dry— Boring is deadly, don’t you agree?” Without waiting for an answer, Parker went on. “We don’t require your client’s names or copies of their portfolios, only proof of how you’ve managed those portfolios.” Parker leaned back. “The information is a requisite. We dabble with roughly ten million. But we won’t spend a dime with people we don’t know and trust.”
Eager, Forrester leaned forward on his chair. “If you have a few minutes, I’ll get the information together.”
Brian Cheramie jumped on the train. “So will I.”
Mr. Nivens stood. “My client list is full at present, but thank you for thinking of me.”
Parker nodded, avoiding Caron’s gaze.
She understood why Mr. Nivens felt compelled to withdraw. His wife’s family was Mafia-connected. Mafia-entrenched, more accurately, straight from Sicily. Nivens was an outsider with an ill wife. That prohibited him the right afforded married “family” men to dally in affairs. If they learned of his infidelity, the family would take it as a personal slight. And Charles Nivens feared the costs of offending the family.
Under the circumstances, Caron deemed that wise.
The gleam in Forrester’s eyes, and in Cheramie’s, Caron catalogued with one word: greed. Rubbing Parker’s arm, she focused, hoping to sense a connection between Decker and one of the men. Both wanted the account, and would do anything to get it. That sensation came through loud and clear. But nothing came that connected either of them to Misty.
It was their focus that was limiting her. They had blocked all thoughts not pertaining to acquiring the Simms account.
Reaching down, she rubbed the tender spot in her leg. Misty? Again Caron saw the little girl crouched down in the corner of the tool shed. And again Caron’s heart ached. She had to try harder, she told herself. She couldn’t let Misty end up like Sarah.
A knock on the office door had the men falling quiet.
Jillian ducked her head in. “Pardon me.” She looked at Forrester. “I’m sorry, sir, but you have an urgent call.”
“Thank you.” Forrester stood. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Caron watched him leave. Something in his swagger, in the tilt of his head, alerted her senses. And, though she had no proof, instinctively she knew he was their connection.
She forced herself to be patient for a few moments, then interrupted the talk between Parker and Brian Cheramie. “Darling,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”
The men stood when she did, and Caron left the office. The look in Parker’s eye said he wasn’t surprised.
She walked down a short hallway and heard Forrester speaking to someone.
“Vanessa,” he said, “will you stop panicking?”
The phone, Caron realized. He was on the phone. She checked to make sure no one had entered the hallway behind her, then stepped closer to Forrester’s office door, pretending to be interested in the artwork lining the wall.
“Come on, sugar,” he said in a cajoling tone that grated on Caron’s nerves. “Now isn’t the time for cold feet. We’re almost home free.”
A shiver streaked up Caron’s spine. An image was coming. She could feel herself tottering on the brink.
“Mrs. Simms?”
Jillian!
Caron jerked, then lifted her foot to check her pump. Forcing it to wobble, she looked up into the receptionist’s cold gray eyes. “Yes?�
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“Broken heel?”
“No, it’s just loose.” She didn’t wear pumps often, and her arches ached like the dickens.
“The conference room is this way.” She pointed toward the office Caron had left.
“Yes, it is.” Caron slid her a saccharine smile. “But the ladies’ room is that way.” She pointed in the opposite direction.
“Shall I show you?” Jillian’s eyes hadn’t warmed.
She knew Caron had been listening in on Forrester. Faking bravado, Caron smiled. “I can manage.”
Jillian stood waiting. Caron waddled like a duck to the ladies’ room, waited a minute, then exited.
When she returned, Parker, Forrester and Cheramie were standing outside the conference room door.
“Are we leaving already, darling?” Caron asked.
“Yes.” He held up two folders. “I spoke with Mr. Nivens, but he’s elected not to participate.”
“Well, I’m sure we’ve found our broker.” She deliberately focused on Forrester and took Parker’s arm.
“I’m sure we have.” Parker looked at Cheramie.
Nothing like a little competition to bring out the fangs, Caron decided. Parker was clever. Now, if he’d dangled a one-million-dollar account before the men, rather than a mind-boggling ten-million-dollar one that usurped their every thought, then she would have thought him brilliant.
He started toward the door, and Caron glanced back at the two men. Certain they would hear, she sweetened her voice and said, “I rather like that Mr. Forrester, darling.”
“Cheramie’s our man, my love.”
Parker had given her a license to flirt. Using it, Caron nuzzled closer and fingered the hanky in his pocket. “I suppose I’ll have to change your mind, then. I really do want Forrester. He has an excellent crease in his slacks.”
“Maybe I’ll change your mind.” Parker looked down at her, his eyes twinkling that beautiful dove gray. “Forrester has creases, but Cheramie’s an aggressive broker.” Parker dropped his voice to a husky growl. “We both know how much you appreciate aggressiveness.”
She stopped and stroked his lapel with her fingertip. “Now, honey, I’m sure Mr. Forrester’s aggressive, too.”
Parker dropped his voice so that only she could hear. “Kiss me, Caron—to make it look good.”
The kiss wasn’t for Forrester and Cheramie, and Parker and Caron both knew it. But, since it was the handy excuse she’d been looking for since the Mr. and Mrs. Mud Boots incident, Caron covered his mouth with hers. His hand at her waist tightened, and he let out a little grunt of approval.
“How’s that?” she asked, giving him a genuine smile.
He smiled back. “Better.”
Caron focused. The image came easily. Behind them, Forrester and Cheramie stood watching...and smiling. Parker had been right about this ruse, too. He held the personal dossiers on both Forrester and Cheramie, didn’t he?
Before the door leading outside closed behind them, an upright Fred had the rear door to the limo open. Caron slid in, kicked off her pumps and wiggled her toes. She could get used to this curbside service. And more so, she feared, to Parker’s kisses.
When he settled beside her, she let out a relieved breath, glad the charade was over and eager to measure its success.
“I’ll take Forrester.” She reached for the file. “You take Cheramie.”
“First things first.” He took her hand. “You make a lousy airhead, Caron.”
“Excuse me?”
“You were supposed to act dippy.”
She frowned, trying to keep her temper tamped. “I told you I didn’t want to playact. It goes against my grain.”
He gave her a doubtful look that quickly changed to a smirk. “I guess we’ll have to practice that, too.”
That tilt was curling his lip again. Torn between biting it and kissing it, she frowned. But before she could decide, Parker tapped on the glass between them and Fred.
It glided open. “Police headquarters,” Parker said.
Caron’s stomach lurched. Watching the glass slide back into place, she felt something inside her closing, too. For a while, she’d been able to push aside the fact that someone meant to kill her. But she couldn’t deny it anymore.
Parker lifted the car phone and passed it over, his soft voice insistent. “Let Sanders know we’re on our way.”
Acknowledging the incident by signing a statement somehow would make it more real, more menacing. She licked her lips, her hand hesitant.
“You have to face it, Caron.” The receiver in one hand, Parker opened Cheramie’s file and thumbed through the pages with his free one. “Then you can start to heal.”
He understood her feelings, the sense of violation that was eating away at her. “I know. It’s just—” She paused, searching for the right word to describe how inadequate she felt facing a second unknown enemy.
“Disconcerting?” Parker suggested.
“Yes.”
His voice lowered a decibel. “You could drop your investigation.”
Caron cringed and rubbed her arch with her other foot. “I can’t just forget that Misty’s in trouble, Parker. What kind of woman would that make me?”
“Then take the phone.”
Staring at the receiver, she forced her fingers to wrap around the cold, hard plastic. Her hand shook. Cursing the tremor, she dialed Sandy’s number.
Parker wasn’t watching her. She appreciated that thoughtfulness. He was studying Brian Cheramie’s file, but she didn’t fool herself; he’d listen intently to every syllable she uttered. And if their positions were reversed, so would she.
Parker flipped the page and, without a word, lifted her foot onto his thigh and began massaging her arch. She nearly purred. Did he even realize what he was doing? No, she decided. His brows knitted, he scanned the page, his focus and his attention completely on Cheramie.
She stretched and replaced the phone. “No answer.”
“Here’s our man,” Parker said, then passed the file to her. “Cheramie.”
His fingers still working their soothing magic on her foot, Caron read through the file, then reread it. “I’m not sure. Just because he’s been in trouble before doesn’t mean he’s doing anything wrong now.” She dropped the file in her lap and rubbed her leg. “My money’s on Forrester.”
“Why?”
“Just a feeling.” Parker was looking at her calf. Caron moved her hand back to the file. “Forrester’s too eager, for one thing. For another, his dossier makes no mention of a wife, and the man’s definitely married. He was wearing a wedding band.”
“A ten-million-dollar account can make a man eager.”
“Not Nivens.” Inhaling the smell of the leather, she inched down in the seat. “And even for a ten-million-dollar account, Forrester’s too eager.” She tilted her head. “I was sensing something about him. I almost had it...”
“Had what?”
“The image. I don’t know what it was. He was on the phone with someone named Vanessa. The gist of the conversation made me think they were into something crooked and Vanessa was getting cold feet. In fact, Forrester himself said as much.”
Parker’s eyes narrowed. “Something crooked?”
“I don’t know for sure. Jillian interrupted before it came to me. The important thing is that I was sensing something. I didn’t with Cheramie— at least, nothing more specific than that he wasn’t being sincere.”
“Sensing something doesn’t make Forrester a conspirator in a kidnapping. He could have been talking to an anxious stockholder who wanted to dump a block of stock too soon. It could have been normal business.”
Caron weighed her options. Considering that every time she talked about imaging, Parker pulled away from her— mentally and physically—she wasn’t enthusiastic about discussing the matter with him. But he was her partner. She had been attracted to him from the start, and last night she’d come a long way toward respecting and admiring him. Their relationship
had to be planted on solid ground, on mutual understanding. Just as she must accept him—assets and flaws—he must also accept her. The images were a part of her, a part of what had shaped her into the woman she’d become. And, yes, she admitted to herself, she wanted him to understand that—and to approve of her.
The seat was butter-soft. Smoothing it with her hand, she opted for the truth. “If I can connect Decker and Forrester, me sensing something does make him a conspirator.”
“If we connect.”
Even his arrogance had become less irritating to her. “If we connect them,” Caron repeated. She had to explain. Yet, if Parker still didn’t believe her about Misty afterward, Caron wasn’t sure she would be able to hide her reaction. It would anger and hurt her.
Lowering her foot to the carpet, she looked out the window at the blur of trees they were whizzing past. “You don’t understand about my images. I rarely sense ordinary people.” Her throat locked shut. She swallowed and forced herself to finish. “I sense victims.”
Parker’s hand stiffened on Cheramie’s file; the folder crunched. “Forrester’s a victim?”
Solemn, she looked over. “Forrester causes victims.”
“I see.” Loosening his tie, Parker sighed, then freed the top two buttons on his shirt.
“You don’t see,” she said, contradicting him. “Not yet, but you will.”
“We’ve checked with all your neighbors,” Sanders said to Caron, “but no one saw or heard anything.”
Parker stepped into Sanders’s office and touched Caron’s shoulder. “About done?”
Strain etching her face, she nodded. Parker hated seeing it, and gave her shoulder a reassuring rub. Suspicion glimmered in Sanders’s eyes, but Parker couldn’t resent the look. Caron and Sanders were friends; Sanders knew Parker had been after Caron for a long time. And after getting to know her, Parker better understood Sanders’s anxiety. Caron was a strong and courageous woman, but there was still something very fragile and feminine about her that made a man feel protective.
“On the abduction.” Sanders rocked back and slid his cigar into the ashtray, burying its tip in cold ash. “Have you imaged anything else, Caron?”
