Love In Plain Sight

by Jeanie London

  There was nothing to work out. She would pay him or not. Simple. But he kept that to himself and went the professional route, since she was going out of her way to be so accommodating. “All expenses plus the roof and transportation. My premium is ten grand. Five K now. Five K on delivery.”

  She blinked. Silence stretched between them.

  “There’s no bounty on this kid,” he finally said. “So I won’t be making my usual twenty percent.”

  “You factored in the roof and car service?” She sounded surprised.

  “I won’t have power of attorney to bring in this kid, so we could be talking questionable legalities.”

  And he wasn’t the only one who ran the risk of interfering in an active federal agency investigation. She was definitely walking a thin line, but her potential legal troubles were her problem, not his.

  Marc leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Let me explain what I do for a living. First off, I’m a free agent. I’m the guy bondsmen and insurance companies call when a criminal defendant defaults on bail. Think of me as a fixer for businesses that are willing to pay a lot of money so they don’t lose a hell of a lot more money. I don’t get called for defendants who get sprung for a hundred grand. We’re talking a minimum bail of six hundred grand and usually upward of two or three million. Bounty is twenty percent. You do the math.”

  He gave her a chance to calculate, then added, “You’re getting the family discount. I was never your cheapest option, so if you want to reconsider, now would be a good time.”

  He was out of his mother’s house already, so he’d get a lift to the airport and hire some nurses or something when he got back to Colorado. Maybe new doctors and therapists would help him get past this plateau he’d hit. Or wouldn’t be so tightfisted with the pain medication like his brother the doctor.

  Courtney looked like she might be reconsidering, and for one hopeful moment, Marc thought he might get off the hook.

  “Are you worth the money?” she asked.

  He wouldn’t even dignify that question with a response.

  She narrowed her gaze but didn’t look in the least bit deterred. Her expression grew determined right before his eyes, a fierce combination of snapping gray eyes and pouty lips.

  “Let me rephrase that, Marc. Do you think you can find out what happened to Araceli? You’ve seen the file. I don’t want to waste time—mine or yours.”

  “That’s good.” Even with his busted leg, he was better than most bounty hunters. But what he found most telling was her question.

  Find out what happened to Araceli?

  From where he was sitting, she didn’t sound as if she held much hope of finding this kid alive. He respected, albeit grudgingly, that her expectations were realistic. That was a plus. He also thought it was interesting she would still entertain spending a chunk of change to unearth what had happened to this kid.

  “Clarify something for me, Courtney.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “From what I read in that file, you were only assigned this case earlier this year. No one can seriously believe you’re responsible for a kid who may have vanished any time in the past eight years. So why are you on administrative leave?”

  Her sigh issued through the quiet, a sound that had the ability to bring that quiet to sudden life. Marc could practically feel her in that sigh, despair, frustration, fear. Only the two of them existed in the world right now. Him. Her. And the problem that had brought them together.

  Bringing her legs up, she wrapped her arms around them until her body was neatly compacted. Resting her chin on her knees, she finally met his gaze.

  “Administrative leave is standard procedure whenever there’s an active investigation about a case worker. The protocol is in place to protect the department and me and minimize the amount of damage the media can do. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve managed the case or whether the FBI will clear me of responsibility. They will because I haven’t done anything negligent, and when they do, the investigation will end. I’ll be reinstated and get back to work.”

  “So what’s wrong with enjoying a paid vacation while they figure things out? I want to know why you’re willing to drop a lot of money and take so much risk to do what the FBI is already doing.”

  From his perspective, two plus two wasn’t adding up, and for some reason, understanding her reasoning was important. Not that he would necessarily believe her, but he wanted to know.

  “I can’t sit around waiting.” She tucked her knees even closer, drawing in on herself. “What if you’re right and the foster parents are lying? What if they harmed Araceli? What if something happened to that child and people who were supposed to protect her just gave away her name as if she didn’t matter?

  “Marc.” Her voice trembled when she said his name, a plea for understanding. “There were three other kids with that family. Now they’ve been moved and my caseload has been divvied up among my coworkers. Even my supervisor is in the field, and it isn’t as if any one of us had a light caseload to start. How am I supposed to be okay with that?”

  She swallowed hard, visibly wrestling her emotion under control, and sounded stronger when she said, “That child has been discovered missing on my watch. It doesn’t matter that the case hasn’t been mine long. It’s mine now, and I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror. I can’t if I don’t do everything in my power to find out what happened. I’ll pay your premium if you think you can help me.”

  Marc had been wrong. There was hope in her, enough to fork over good money and put up with his shit.

  For her peace of mind? To clear her conscience? To assuage her guilt for inconveniencing her coworkers? He heard what she said but resisted believing her. Why?

  Marc didn’t know, but to his surprise, he no longer felt as inconvenienced by the idea of helping. Why? He didn’t have an answer for that question, either. Not good. He wasn’t invested in Courtney or her problems, but he reacted as if he was.

  A sign of emotional instability?

  That question had an answer—one he didn’t like. He had to get himself back under control. Work was the place to start.

  He extended his hand. “I’m worth the money.”

  Relief softened her heart-shaped face, smoothed away the frayed edges of her expression. She went from zero to sixty before his eyes, and to his surprise, she didn’t shake his hand but propelled forward to hug him.

  Her arms slipped around his shoulders, and she gave an impulsive squeeze that exposed him to the full impact of her.

  Cool silk hairs tickling his mouth.

  Sleek, toned arms tightening around him, close enough so he could feel the soft swell of her breasts.

  The feminine scent of her, something faintly floral that reminded him of flowers and river and heat, all New Orleans.

  Then just as fast, Courtney sank back, looking as wide-eyed and surprised as he felt. Only she was far more forgiving.

  With a sheepish laugh, she said, “Thank you so much, Marc. I completely appreciate your help.”

  Marc wasn’t nearly as forgiving because every muscle in his body galvanized, and the sensation made it hard to catch a breath. He knew this feeling. He had also known being around this woman when his defenses were so low would be trouble.

  “I need to wrap my head around this.” He tapped the folder. “Come back in the morning.”

  For a moment she only knelt there, still smiling, and his abrupt dismissal only registered in degrees.

  “Oh, okay.” She hopped up.

  He could tell by the way her smile faded she hadn’t yet figured out what to make of this change of plans.

  Not that they actually had plans. He was winging it. Still, something about her looked injured. Spinning on her heels, she headed toward the door.

  And he was treated
to the sight of her retreat.

  “See you tomorrow,” she said softly before pulling the door shut behind her.

  Marc wasn’t sure how long he sat there, just coming down off the sight of her. But time passed before he no longer noticed his shallow breaths or his racing pulse. Eventually, his awareness expanded to include how stiff he felt from sitting for so long. And the throbbing. He hadn’t noticed that for a while, either, but now the pain was back with a vengeance.

  Or had it been happening all along and he hadn’t noticed?

  Grabbing his cane, he forced himself upright, went to the bedroom to retrieve his pills. He could start some preliminary research before they kicked in. Maybe he’d even get some real work done if the pain subsided enough to allow him to concentrate.

  But he couldn’t take his pills unless he ate something, or else he’d feel even worse than he did right now.

  “Shit.” Slipping the pill bottle into his pocket, he headed for the kitchen. What were the odds that Courtney kept food around for unexpected guests? The way his luck had been running lately... His first glance at the kitchen wasn’t promising.

  He hadn’t noticed that the refrigerator door was ajar because it wasn’t plugged in. He scoured the cabinets and didn’t find a damned thing but empty storage canisters, plates and glassware. He found a drawer filled with silverware. There was dishwashing soap and dish towels. Oven mitts, too, if he wanted to cook. The place was a fully equipped hotel. Only he hadn’t thought to shop before checking in.

  He flipped the faucet. There was water to go along with the electricity. He supposed that was something.

  Making his way to the bedroom, Marc tried to look at the bright side. No more stairs and no more noise. He had a phone. He could call for pizza delivery.

  But after searching for the number and placing his order for an extra-large thin crust with extra jalapenos, Marc groaned when the retailer asked, “What’s the address?”

  A few blocks off Rue St. Charles in the Garden District wasn’t going to get a pizza delivered any time soon.

  “I’ll have to call you back.” He disconnected.

  Waiting until the display cleared, he intended to call Courtney for the address.

  Except he didn’t have her number.

  His phone GPS wouldn’t yield a physical address and Courtney’s name wasn’t listed as public record. The admiral’s would be, but Marc couldn’t remember the last name.

  “Okay,” he said aloud then sat at the kitchen table.

  Dragging another chair close, he propped up his leg and weighed his options. He could call Harley or his mother. Either of them would have Courtney’s number. Or he could hoof it down the driveway to read the street sign and house numbers. Or he could save himself a few steps and knock on Courtney’s door and ask her in person.

  Marc decided he wasn’t that hungry.

  * * *

  THE COTTAGE LIGHTS didn’t shut off until the wee hours. Courtney knew because she hadn’t slept until the wee hours herself. Not that she had slept much then. Those hours between late night and dawn would be better described as fitfully dozing in between dreamlike images of the man currently inhabiting her cottage and nightmare visuals of every horror story she’d ever heard of happening to a child.

  So when the sun rose, ending the misery of her restless night, she stood in a hot shower for a long time, determined to sear away all remnants of the previous day and frazzled night to start the morning with a fresh outlook. The shower worked, because for the first time in weeks, she actually felt as if she had some small grip on the situation, some small hope that she might be moving toward getting answers.

  Because of Marc.

  She wondered if he had fared any better than she had last night. Were late nights his thing, or had his leg been troubling him? Courtney had no clue, but she did know there was nothing by way of staples in the cottage. So she made a full pot of coffee instead of her usual four cups and rummaged through her fridge to find breakfast. Today was a new day, so they needed to establish a working relationship.

  She whipped up an admirable omelet with some random artichokes and an onion, took a few bites, then arranged the rest with the thermos of coffee on a tray and scribbled a note for her neighbors.

  A friend of mine is staying in the cottage for a bit. Just wanted to give you a heads-up so you don’t worry if you see a strange man there. His name is Marc. I think you’ll like him.

  Courtney wasn’t sure about the last part. Any other DiLeo and she wouldn’t be lying. But the truth wouldn’t work, either. I had to provide board to a man in exchange for his help. He’s a jerk, so just ignore him.

  The thought made her smile, which proved she was in much better spirits today.

  After taping the note to the admiral’s front door, where he’d find it when he went to get the newspaper, she retrieved the tray and headed out the back.

  She tapped lightly on Marc’s door, unsure whether he would be awake, but she could hear him moving around inside almost immediately. His cane rapped on the wooden floor, growing louder until the door opened. He stared down at her in all his morning glory. His hair was damp, curling slightly around his ears and nape, darker than she was used to seeing, making gold-brown eyes seem even darker. He hadn’t bothered to shave, but his cheeks were pink from scrubbing above the stubbly line of his jaw.

  “Good morning,” she said, taking action against the intimacy of the moment. “I thought you might be hungry, so I brought breakfast. Do you like eggs?”

  “Feathers would work right now.” His voice was gravelly. He hadn’t been up long, either. “And coffee, too. Man, you’re an angel.”

  Everything inside Courtney reacted to his praise, a flutter that ran through her from her head to her toes. She’d thought she’d been awake before. She hadn’t been. Suddenly, her senses came alive. She could hear the day dawning. An unseen bird singing in the leaves overhead. A pair of squirrels chattering as they raced up a tree by the garden. A car sailing down the street, tires chewing up the dewy asphalt. The scent of Mrs. Ellen’s roses on the misty morning air.

  And Marc, so masculine and noticeable in a way she didn’t want to notice him.

  Stepping aside, he allowed her to enter. Courtney steered toward the kitchen, remembering Harley’s warning.

  “I’d tell you to lock your bedroom door and throw away the key so you don’t get your heart broken.”

  At the moment Courtney could certainly see why Harley might worry. None of the DiLeo boys were exactly saints when it came to women. It was just the nature of the beast with really good-looking Italian men. Vince got around less than his brothers because he’d been in medical school, but he’d still brought home his fair share of women for Sunday dinner.

  There was a legal pad beside a notebook computer. Judging by the chair arrangement, he’d been seated with his leg propped up.

  She set down the tray with a full complement of silver and condiments, and poured coffee into a cup. “I brought sugar, but I didn’t have milk. Not even powdered creamer packets. Hope that’s okay.”

  “I drink it black, thanks. Are you eating?” he asked in that husky morning voice as he circled her then sat.

  “All yours.”

  That seemed to please him, because he didn’t even ask what was in the omelet even though the caramelized onion and artichoke weren’t exactly identifiable. He took a heaping forkful, and his expression transformed.

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.” He went for the next bite.

  Courtney poured a half cup of coffee for herself. She didn’t really need any more caffeine since she was already treading a fine line between excited and jittery, but she did need something to do so she didn’t stand there watching him.

  Marc didn’t appear to want to be stared at, either, because he slid the notebook her way and said between b
ites, “I was working on today’s schedule. Why don’t you take a look?”

  Gladly. She sat across from him, sipped from her cup and perused the itinerary scrawled on the legal pad.

  Therapy.

  Shopping.

  Office.

  No times were listed. She felt deflated, and that small sense of relief she’d had to be taking action vanished. She didn’t see how any of the items on his list were going to produce results. “You have a therapy session today?”

  He nodded. “That a problem for you?”

  Nice of him to ask, since he’d mostly been making demands. “No. Just tell me when and where, and we’ll get there.”

  “Great. We’re going to start by establishing a timeline and looking for Judas. That means I’ll be spending the morning staring at my computer screen and making phone calls.”

  “Who’s Judas?” She didn’t remember seeing the name in Araceli’s file.

  The way Marc patiently set down the fork made it clear he wasn’t used to explaining. There was a bit of drama about the gesture, making it a physical sigh of exasperation. “Judas is any person who will give us information about our kid’s situation and her foster parents. I don’t know who this person is yet, but that’s who we’ve got to find. If we’re lucky, we’ll come across someone who’ll be happy to run their mouth so we can figure out where we need to start looking. Judas.”

  “Got it,” she said. The approach made sense even if it wasn’t what she’d expected. “So we’re not going to talk with the Pereas ourselves then?”

  “The FBI already did. They claim Jane Doe is the same girl who came back from Atlanta. What’s your take on that?”

  “It is plausible, I suppose. Araceli had only been with them for two weeks before the evacuations. Then she was in Atlanta for two years, and that amount of time will make a difference on a child at that age. Especially if one isn’t well acquainted.”

  “So you believe them then.”

  Courtney shook her head. “I don’t know. I never had the feeling that anything was going on that shouldn’t be, and I’m trained to notice that sort of thing. The kids were fine. Not perfect. These situations are never perfect, but nothing to make me question whether or not they were well cared for.”