by J. D. Robb
"I'll want copies for my men," Vince put in. "Cooperating with the New York authorities on a suspect believed to be in the vicinity. I'll keep Laine out of it as long as I can."
"Good enough."
"Thanks, Vince. Thank you." Laine lifted her hands, let them fall.
"Did you think we were going to be mad at you?" Jenny asked her. "Did you think this was going to affect our friendship?"
"Yes, I did."
"That's a little bit insulting, but I'm cutting you a break because you look really tired. What about him?" She jerked her chin up toward Max. "Are you forgiving him?"
"I guess I have to, considering the circumstances."
"All right, I'll forgive him, too. God, I just realized, I've been too preoccupied with all this to eat. Just let me make up for that." She took a slice of cake, bit in, then spoke around it. "I think you should come stay with Vince and me until this is all cleared up."
"I love you, Jenny." Because she felt the tears threaten again, she rose so she could turn her back and get them under control under the guise of getting more coffee. "And I appreciate the offer, but I need to be here, and I'll be fine. Max will be staying with me."
She turned back just in time to see the surprise wing over his face. She only smiled as she brought the pot over to top off cups. "Isn't that right, Max?"
"Yeah. Sure. I'll look out for her," he told Jenny.
"Since you're the one with the mild concussion, why don't we just leave it that you'll be staying here. I need to go up and change for work. I have to open the shop."
"What you need to do," Jenny disagreed, "is go upstairs and crawl into bed for a few hours. You can keep the shop closed one day."
"I think the cops—public and private—would both say I need to keep it business as usual."
"You do that. We'll be keeping a close eye on the shop and your house until we run this all down. I want those pictures," Vince said to Max.
"I'll bring them by."
Laine walked them to the door.
"I'm going to have tons of questions. We need to have a girls' night," Jenny decided, "so I can pump you. Did you ever do that shell thing? You know, the switcheroo?"
"Jenny." Vince cast his eyes at the sky.
"Well, I want to know, for God's sake. Tell me later. How about the one with the three cards?" she called out as Vince pulled her toward the car. "Later, but I want specific details."
"She's something." Max watched Vince load his wife into the car.
"Yeah, she's something else again. She's the luckiest thing that ever happened to me." She waited until the car was out of sight before she closed the door. "Well, that went better than I deserved."
"You're doing better at forgiving me than you are at forgiving yourself."
"You were doing a job. I respect the work ethic." She gave a little shrug, turned toward the stairs. "I need to pull myself together and get into town."
"Laine? I figured we were going to go a few rounds when I told you I was going to stay out here. Instead, you tell me I'm staying out here. Why is that?"
She leaned against the railing. "There are a few reasons. First, I'm not a sniveling coward, but I'm not brainless and brave. I have no intention of staying out here alone, so far from town, when someone who wishes me no good may come back. I'm not risking myself or my dog over someone else's rocks."
"Sensible."
"So, I get me a big-city PI who I assume, despite current evidence, can handle himself."
He scowled at that and shifted his feet. "I can handle myself just fine."
"Good to know. Next, since I have a stake in seeing these gems are recovered, I prefer you at hand so I know exactly what you're doing about it. I can use seven hundred thousand dollars, just like the next guy."
"Practical."
"Last, I liked the sex and don't see why I should deprive myself of more of it. Easier to get you into bed if you're staying here."
Since he didn't seem to be able to come up with a term for that one, she smiled. "I'm going up to shower."
"Okay," he managed after she'd strolled upstairs. "That explains that."
***
Thirty minutes later, she came back down looking fresh as the spring morning in a short green jacket and pants. Her hair was scooped back at the temples with silver combs and left to fall straight toward her shoulders in that bright flood.
She walked up to Max and handed him a brass key ring. "Front and back doors," she told him. "If and when you get home before me, I'd appreciate you letting Henry out, giving him some play time."
"No problem."
"If and when I cook, you do the dishes."
"Deal."
"I like a tidy house and have no intention of picking up after you."
"I was raised right. Thank Marlene."
"That should do it for now. I've got to go."
"Hold it, those are your rules. Now here are mine: Take this number." He pressed a card into her hand. "That's my cell. You call me when you leave for home. If you're not coming straight home for any reason, you let me know that, too."
"All right." She slipped the card into her pocket.
"You call that number if anything happens, anything that bothers you. I don't care how minor it seems, I want to hear about it."
"So, if I get one of those calls from a telemarketer, I let you know."
"I'm serious, Laine."
"All right, all right. Anything else? I'm running very late."
"If you hear from your father, you tell me. You tell me, Laine," he repeated when he saw her face. "Divided loyalties aren't going to do him any good."
"I won't help you put him in prison. I won't do that, Max."
"I'm not a cop. I don't put people in prison. All I want is to recover the gems, collect my fee. And keep us all healthy while I'm at it."
"You promise me you won't turn him in, no matter what, and I'll promise to tell you if I hear from him."
"Done." He held out a hand, shook hers. Then gave it a yank so she'd tumble into his arms. "Now kiss me goodbye."
"All right."
She took a good grip on his hips, rose on her toes and met his mouth with hers. She took it slow, rocking into him, changing the angle to tease, using her teeth to challenge. She felt his hands tunnel through her hair, fingers tangling. When the heat rose inside her, when she felt it pumping off him, she slid her hands around, gave his butt a squeeze.
Her own pulse was tripping, but she enjoyed the sensation of being in control and turned her head so her lips were close to his ear.
"That oughta hold me," she whispered, then drew away.
"Now I'll kiss you goodbye."
She laughed and slapped a hand on his chest. "I don't think so. Mark your place, then you can kiss me hello. I should be home by seven."
"I'll be here."
He went out with her, followed her into town and peeled off to go to his hotel.
He stopped by the desk to ask the clerk to make up his bill for checkout.
She scanned his face. "Oh, Mr. Gannon, are you all right? Were you in an accident?"
"It was pretty much on purpose, but I'm fine, thanks. I'll be back down in a few minutes."
He got in the elevator. He'd already decided to work on his notes and reports once he'd set up at Laine's. Might as well make himself comfortable. A man who traveled as often as he did knew how to pack quickly and with the least amount of fuss. He swung the strap of his garment bag over one shoulder, the strap of his laptop case over the other, and was walking out of the room fifteen minutes after he'd walked in.
Back at the desk, he glanced over his bill, signed the credit slip.
"I hope you enjoyed your stay."
"I did." He made a note of her name tag. "One thing before I head out, Marti." Bending, he pulled a file out of his laptop case, flipped through for the photos of Jack O'Hara, William Young and Alex Crew. He laid them faceup on the desk. "Have you seen any of these men?"
"Oh." She blinked at him
. "Why?"
"Because I'm looking for them." To this he added a thousand-watt smile. "How about it?"
"Oh," she repeated, but this time she looked down at the photos. "I don't think so. Sorry."
"That's okay. Anybody in the back? Maybe they could come out for a minute, take a look?"
"Sure, I guess. Mike's here. If you'll just wait a minute."
He ran the same routine with the second clerk, minus the flirtatious smile, and garnered the same results.
After stowing his bags in the trunk of his car, he made the rounds. First stop, he took the photos to Vince, waited while copies were made. Then he hit the other hotels, motels, B and B's within a ten-mile radius.
Three hours later, the most tangible thing he had to show for his efforts was a raging headache. He popped four extra-strength ibuprofen like candy, then got a take-out sandwich at a sub shop.
Back at Laine's he generously split the cold cut sub with a grateful Henry and hoped that would be their little secret. With the headache down to an ugly throb he decided to spend the rest of the day unpacking, setting up some sort of work space and reviewing his notes.
He spent about ten seconds debating where to put his clothes. The lady had said she wanted him in bed, so it was only fair his clothes be handy.
He opened her closet, poked through the clothes. Imagined her in some of them, imagined her out of all of them. He noted that she apparently shared his mother's odd devotion to shoes.
After another short debate, he concluded that he was entitled to reasonable drawer space. Because rearranging her underwear made him feel like a pervert, he made a stack of his own in a drawer with a colorful army of neatly folded sweaters and shirts.
With Henry clipping after him, he surveyed Laine's home office, then her sitting room, then the guest room. The fancy little writing desk in the guest room wouldn't have been his first choice, but it was the best space available.
He set up. He typed up his notes, a progress report, read them both over and did some editing. He checked his e-mail, his voice mail, and answered what needed answering.
Then he sat at the pretty little desk, stared up at the ceiling and let theories ramble through his mind.
He knows where you are now.
So, who was he? Her father. If Willy knew where Laine was, odds were so did Big Jack. But from what Laine had said, Jack had kept tabs on her off and on all along. So the phrase didn't work. He knows where you are now. The arrow in Max's mind pointed to Alex Crew.
There was no violence in O'Hara's history, but there was in Crew's. O'Hara didn't look good for the two taps to the back of the diamond merchant's head. And no reason, going by that history, for Willy to run scared of his old pal Jack O'Hara.
More likely, much more likely, he'd run from the third man, the man Max was convinced was Alex Crew. And following that, Crew was in the Gap.
But that didn't tell Max where Willy had put the stones.
He'd wanted to get them to Laine. Why in the hell would Willy, or her father, want to put Laine in front of a man like Crew?
He batted it around in his head, getting nowhere. Uncomfortable in the desk chair, he moved to stretch out on the bed. He closed his eyes, told himself a nap would refresh his brain.
And dropped into sleep like a stone.
9.
It was his turn to wake with a blanket tucked around him. As was his habit, he came out of sleep the same way he went into it. Fast and complete.
He checked his watch and winced when he saw he'd been under for a solid two hours. But it was still shy of seven, and he'd expected to be up and around before Laine got back.
He rolled out of bed, popped a couple more pills for the lingering headache, then headed down to find her.
He was several paces from the kitchen when the scent reached out, hooked seductive fingers in his senses and drew him the rest of the way.
And wasn't she the prettiest damn thing, he thought, standing there in her neat shirt and pants with a dishcloth hooked in the waistband while she stirred something that simmered in a pan on the stove. She was using a long-handled wooden spoon, keeping rhythm with it, and her hips, to the tune that bounced out of a mini CD player on the counter.
He recognized Marshall Tucker and figured they'd mesh well enough in the music area.
The dog was sprawled on the floor, gnawing at a hank of rope that had seen considerable action already from the look of it. There were cheerful yellow daffodils in a speckled blue vase on the table. An array of fresh vegetables were grouped beside a butcher-block cutting board on the counter.
He'd never been much on homey scenes—or so he'd believed. But this one hit him right in the center. A man, he decided, could walk into this for the next forty or fifty years and feel just fine about it.
Henry gave two thumps of his tail then rose to prance over and knock the mangled rope against Max's thigh.
Tapping the spoon on the side of the pot, Laine turned and looked at him. "Have a nice nap?"
"I did, but waking up's even better." To placate Henry, he reached down to give the rope a tug, and found himself engaged in a spirited tug-of-war.
"Now you've done it. He can keep that up for days."
Max wrenched the rope free, gave it a long, low toss down the hallway. Scrambling over tile then hardwood, Henry set out in mad pursuit. "You're home earlier than I expected."
She watched him walk to her, her eyebrows raising as he maneuvered her around until her back was against the counter. He laid a hand on either side, caging her, then leaned in and went to work on her mouth.
She started to anchor her hands on his hips, but they went limp on her. Instead she went into slow dissolve, her body shimmering under the lazy assault. Her pulse went thick; her brain sputtered. By the time she managed to open her eyes, he was leaning back and grinning at her.
"Hello, Laine."
"Hello, Max."
Still watching her, he reached down to give the rope Henry had cheerfully returned another tug. "Something smells really good." He leaned down to sniff at her neck. "Besides you."
"I thought we'd have some chicken with fettuccine in a light cream sauce."
He glanced toward the pot, and the creamy simmering sauce. "You're not toying with me, are you?"
"Why, yes, I am, but not about that. There's a bottle of pinot noir chilling in the fridge. Why don't you open it, pour us a glass."
"I can do that." He backed up, went another round with Henry, won the rope and tossed it again. "You're actually cooking," he said as he retrieved the wine.
"I like to cook now and then. Since it's just me most of the time, I don't bother to fuss very much. This is a nice change."
"Glad I could help." He took the corkscrew she offered, studied the little silver pig mounted on the top. "You do collect them."
"Just one of those things." She set two amber-toned wineglasses on the counter. It pleased her to see the way he switched between sommelier duties and playing with the dog. To give him a break, she squatted down to get a tin from a base cabinet.
"Henry! Want a treat!"
The dog deserted the rope instantly to go into a crazed display of leaping, trembling, barking. Max could have sworn he saw tears of desperation in the dog's eyes as Laine held up a Milk-Bone biscuit.
"Only good dogs get treats," she said primly, and Henry plopped his butt on the floor and shuddered with the effort of control. When she gave the biscuit a toss, Henry nipped it out of the air the way a veteran right fielder snags a pop-up. He raced away with it like a thief.
"What, you lace them with coke?"
"His name is Henry, and he's a Milk-Bone addict. That'll keep him busy for five minutes." She pulled out a skillet. "I need to sautй the chicken."
"Sautй the chicken." He moaned it. "Oh boy."
"You really are easy."
"That doesn't insult me." He waited while she got a package of chicken breasts from the refrigerator and began slicing them into strips. "Can you talk and do t
hat?"
"I can. I'm very skilled."
"Cool. So, how was business?"
She picked up the wine he'd set beside her, sipped. "Do you want to know how things went today in the world of retail, or if I saw anything suspicious?"
"Both."
"We did very well today, as it happens. I sold a very nice Sheraton sideboard, among other things. It didn't appear that anything in the shop, or my office, or the storeroom was disturbed—except for a little blood on the floor in the back room, which I assume is yours." She drizzled oil in the skillet, then glanced at him. "How's your head?"
"Better."
"Good. And I saw no suspicious characters other than Mrs. Franquist, who comes in once or twice a month to crab about my prices. So how was your day?"
"Busy, until naptime." He filled her in while she lay the chicken strips in the heated oil, then started prepping the salad.
"I guess there are a lot of days like that, where you go around asking a lot of questions and not really getting any answers."
"A no is still an answer."
"I suppose it is. Why does a nice boy from Savannah go to New York to be a private detective?"
"First he decides to be a cop because he likes figuring things out and making them right. At least as right as they can be made. But it's not a good fit. He doesn't play well with others."
She smiled a little as she went back to the salad. "Doesn't he?"
"Not so much. And all those rules, they start itching. Like a collar that's too tight. He figures out what he really likes to do is look under rocks, but he likes to pick the rocks. To do that, you've got to go private. To do that and live well . . . I like living well, by the way."
"Naturally." She poured some wine in with the chicken, lowered the heat, covered the pan.
"So to live well, you've got to be good at picking those rocks, and finding people who live even better than you to pay you to poke at all the nasty business going on under them." He snitched a chunk of carrot to snack on. "Southern boy moves north, Yankees a lot of time figure he moves slow, thinks slow, acts slow."
She glanced up from whisking salad dressing ingredients together in a small stainless steel bowl. "Their mistakes."
