The Weekend Wife

by Toni Blake

  The Weekend Wife

  Toni Blake

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Look for these other classic Toni Blake reissues

  Also by Toni Blake

  To Joni Lang,

  my friend, fellow writer and frequent partner in crime, who once shoved a couple of Harlequin Temptation novels into my hand and said, “You should try writing romance.”

  Chapter One

  “I need a woman.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “I don’t need a woman for that.” Max Tate cast a dry look at Frank Marsallis. Then he took a sip of the scotch Frank had just shoved into his hand. “If I want that, I can get it. I need a partner for a job.”

  Frank lifted one stubby finger in the air as he gave a somber nod. “Ah—I should’ve known you weren’t here just to crash my party.”

  Standing in Frank’s lavish entryway, Max took an absent look across the expansive space his one-time mentor called a living room. Stylish-looking people stood in clusters drinking trendy cocktails as a slow, bluesy tune cascaded from speakers hidden in the vaulted ceiling. Not really his scene, or at least not by choice. All things considered, he’d rather be having a beer at a neighborhood bar. Especially considering the way he looked at the moment. “Crashing parties isn’t my style, Frank. Anyway, the job starts tomorrow.”

  Frank stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, his gaze landing on his fellow P.I. “Nothing like waiting ’til the last minute, Max.”

  But he didn’t have time to deal with Frank’s annoyance. “Look, I’ve been busy with a job that went longer than planned. Can you help me or not?”

  “One question first. Why do you look like you’ve been living in a trash can?”

  “Like I said, I’ve been busy. I just came from doing a little undercover work.” Undercover assignments were his specialty.

  “As what?”

  “A garbage man.” He slanted Frank a look of warning. “And no cracks please—I don’t have time for your wit right now. I need to know if you can get me the woman.”

  “All right, all right,” Frank said, offering an exaggerated sigh. “What are the parameters?”

  “She needs to be quick-thinking,” Max told him, glad to get down to business. “And she has to have good instincts. She should also be a decent actress.”

  “Anything else?”

  Max snapped his fingers. He’d almost forgotten the most important part. “Yeah. She has to be drop-dead gorgeous.”

  Frank shook his graying head—either in irritation or judgment, Max couldn’t tell—then returned to the matter at hand. “So why do you need a good actress?”

  “She’s going to pretend to be my wife.”

  “And why does she have to be gorgeous?”

  “Same reason.”

  Frank cast him yet another cutting look, but this time Max turned a sly grin toward his friend. “Actually, the job calls for it, Frank, in a big way. The guy I’m trying to nail only goes after extremely hot women.”

  Frank took the last sip of his drink and lowered his glass to a nearby table. “So she’ll be bait.”

  Max knew Frank didn’t like the sound of that, but it was often the nature of the business for women who chose this line of work. “Something like that. That’s where the quick-thinking and good instincts come in. Besides, I’ll be there the whole time—either out in the open or in hiding, keeping an eye on things.”

  Max waited impatiently as Frank sighed again, scanning the room. If Frank couldn’t come through for him on this, he was sunk. In between stints of playing garbage man, he’d spent the last two weeks drawing Carlo Coletti into this scheme, and he’d made it clear to Carlo that not only was he loaded, but that he had a beautiful wife to shower his riches on. Without one, the whole case would flop. And Frank was the only guy in town he trusted enough to borrow another P.I. from. He knew from experience that Frank hired only the best.

  Frank’s head suddenly darted around to face him. “I thought you were quitting.” It sounded suspiciously like an accusation.

  Max tilted his head derisively. “Not quitting, Frank. Stepping back. Growing the business. Bringing in some new blood.”

  “Quitting,” Frank repeated.

  Well, so what if he was? He’d been up to his ears in this business for fifteen years—since he was twenty years old, for God’s sake. He’d had his own firm for the last three of those years, and now he finally had the money to hire enough good people that he could get out of the field himself. He liked the work and was damn good at it, but he’d fallen into it accidentally all those years ago and had now decided to see what it was like to have a job where he didn’t risk his life every single day. So he planned to manage the P.I.s he’d soon hire, be the brains behind the operation and let someone else be the brawn—and the garbage men—for a change.

  “Anyway,” Max said, “I just finished up the garbage gig, so this next one is my last case. Worth a tidy fee if I can pull it off. But like I said, I need a woman. Do you have one for me?”

  Frank gestured across the room. “See the brunette in the blue dress?”

  Did he ever. She stood with her back to them, talking with another woman as they studied an impressionist print that hung above Frank’s fireplace. She had legs that went on forever, silky hair that fell in waves past her shoulders, and a nice shape inside that dress to back it all up.

  Even without seeing her face, Max knew she was a beauty—just what he was looking for. So he didn’t hesitate—he looked at Frank and winked. “I’ll take her.”

  “Okay, Kimberly—this is the place. Number 11. Go on in and introduce yourself. I’ll park the car and join you in a minute.”

  Kimberly Brandt stepped out of Frank’s vintage mint-condition 1977 gold Cadillac into the lightly falling rain. She slammed the door, blotting out the sounds of B.B. King inside and hurried up the front steps of the stylish condo where Frank’s friend lived.

  Ringing the doorbell, she realized she didn’t even know the guy’s name. All she knew was that Frank had volunteered her to be the fellow P.I.’s wife for a few days—which sounded possibly complicated, but interesting, too. She’d done plenty of undercover work, but since joining Frank’s agency, she usually worked alone. This might be a challenging change. Perhaps even fun. And good training for cases that required a team approach.

  She rang the doorbell again and pulled the thin, beaded shawl she wore tighter around her shoulders as the rain began to seep in. Come on, buddy—answer the door.

  Frank had also told her she was going to be used as bait for a thief who liked to seduce his victims before robbing them. That part wouldn’t be so fun. But she could handle it. She’d gotten skilled at her job over the past few years.

  “Damn it,” she murmured, pressing the doorbell down once more, holding it for a few seconds this time. She could be a perfectly tough chick when necessary, but she didn’t enjoy standing out in the rain for no good reason. If she didn’t get inside soon, her linen dress would just be one big wad of wrinkles.

  She glanced up and down the rain-slick sidewalk, irritated. Where was Frank? Was this guy even home? According to Frank, he’d headed home to clean up after an und
ercover operation, but where was he? If it was such an emergency to meet tonight, why wasn’t he opening his door and welcoming her with open arms?

  On impulse, she reached down and twisted the knob.

  And it opened.

  More surprised than she’d expected, she let go and watched the door ease to a stop at about the halfway point. She’d only tried the knob for the hell of it—she hadn’t thought it would actually get her inside. What a bozo, not even keeping his door locked.

  Well. What now?

  “Hello?” she called, leaning through the doorway. No answer. But there were lights on. And music playing low but potent. Old-school Pearl Jam.

  She tried again. “Hello? I’m here with Frank Marsallis, and I’m getting soaked out here,” she said, projecting her voice as she tentatively placed one foot over the threshold. “And so I’m coming inside now.”

  And then she was in, standing in the entryway of a dimly lit living room, suddenly assaulted with a troubling thought. God, please let this be the right condo.

  “Julie, is that you?” a deep male voice asked from somewhere unseen.

  Julie? Hardly. Maybe this was the wrong condo. “Um, no—not Julie,” she answered. “I’m here with Frank Marsallis.”

  But she’d barely uttered the last sentence when a man turned the corner a few feet away—wearing nothing but a green towel around his waist. The first thing she noticed was that he had a great body, lean but slightly muscular, which was her favorite kind. The second thing she noticed was that he was…Max!

  Max, who she hadn’t seen since the Carpenter case. Max, who was just as excruciatingly handsome as ever.

  Their eyes met and held. And Kimberly’s heart pounded with all the conflicting memories of him that raced through her brain. It took a lot of effort, but she finally forced her mouth to close. Then she swallowed, hard.

  “Oh no,” Max said, shaking his head. “Oh-h-ho no. This can’t be. It can’t. Please tell me you’re not the woman Frank sent me.” He was laughing now, but not in a happy way—more like a delirious, he-couldn’t-believe-his-rotten-luck kind of way.

  Which made her feel lousy. But didn’t surprise her. She might have loved the guy once, but that didn’t mean she was any happier to see him than he was to see her. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “This is my worst nightmare,” he muttered.

  Oh, so it was going to be like this, huh? She glared at him. “You’re not exactly my first choice of a partner, either. Or my second. Or my tenth.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You’re complaining about working with me? I don’t believe this!”

  “Well, believe it. When did you get back into town, anyway?”

  “About six months ago.”

  She narrowed her gaze and tilted her head. “And here I thought I’d never have to see you again. What on earth brought you back?”

  He returned her condescending tone. “There aren’t enough good P.I. firms in this town. And I figured enough time had passed since you ruined my reputation that I could come back and open up shop here.”

  She sucked in her breath at the accusation. How dare he! “Ruined? Ruined? One little incident and you blame me for—”

  “All right, what the hell’s going on in here?” The booming voice forced them both to shift their gazes to Frank, who stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and soaking wet. “I could hear you two all the way out on the street. And Max—what are you doing parading around in a towel?”

  “Frank, you’ve gotta get me another woman.”

  “What’s wrong with this one?” Frank motioned to Kimberly with outstretched hands.

  “This one has a habit of tipping off my suspects.”

  “What?” Frank blurted. “She’s a good P.I., Max. And the only suitable one I’ve got at the moment. She’ll have to do.”

  “She,” Kimberly injected, planting her fists on her hips, “is not a cut of meat on a slab, gentlemen. She’s standing right here, so maybe you could quit addressing her in the third person.”

  Max looked at her. “You just did the same thing yourself.”

  She rolled her eyes. “For effect. See how annoying it sounds?”

  “I still don’t know why you’re not wearing any clothes,” Frank pointed out.

  “I was in the shower,” Max said. “And she came in without knocking. Which might be one thing if I were an elusive suspect, but—”

  “I rang the bell three times!”

  Yet he ignored her and looked back to Frank, eyes pleading. “Come on, Frank. Get me somebody else. Anybody else.”

  “I told you, there is nobody else. I only have two other women who fit the bill, and they’re already in the middle of other cases.” Frank took a step toward Max. “Look, Kimberly will do a good job for you—she’s never let me down.”

  Max eyed her critically and she knew he was remembering it again—the Carpenter case. And she wanted to cringe, but instead she just kept scowling at him. She was a much better P.I. than he’d ever given her credit for and she wouldn’t let herself be cowed into guilt or submission by his accusing look.

  “Never let you down, huh?” Max said, sounding as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

  “No,” Frank said pointedly. “Now how do you two know each other, anyway?”

  Max held his gaze on her. “We used to work together.”

  She didn’t look away. “But then we got fired.”

  “Both of us,” Max reiterated. “Because she tipped off an embezzler that we were onto her.”

  “An incident which I’ve never had the opportunity to give my version of.”

  But he was shaking his head and she could see that he still wasn’t interested in her side of the story, even three years later, so she’d be damned if she was going to waste her time trying to make him listen. “Look, do you want me for the job or not, Tate?”

  He sighed, muttering beneath his breath, “Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.”

  “Believe me, this is hardly my dream scenario either. But I’m a professional and I can handle it. If you can’t, say so, and I’ll happily be on my way.”

  She waited for his answer, her heart in her throat. She didn’t know why. Or maybe she did. It was more than a little surprising to her, but maybe she really wanted this now, suddenly—the chance to work with him again, the chance to clear her name with him. Maybe she wanted to show the pompous, arrogant jerk just how good she was, once and for all. She’d never thought she’d have the opportunity to do that, and suddenly, here it was, laid out before her on a proverbial silver platter.

  Still, he said nothing, and she wasn’t about to beg, or even let him know she had anything to gain by this at all.

  So after waiting for what she decided was a reasonable length of time, she turned to leave. Working with him would only be torture anyway. “Come on, Frank. Let’s go back to your party. Maybe there are still some hors d’oeuvres left.”

  “Wait.” The voice came from Max. And made her chest tighten in some combination of victory and nervousness. The old adage came back to her: Be careful what you wish for.

  Nonetheless, she smiled inside at the idea of making him crumble by threatening to leave. It was good to see him squirm a little—and though most people might not consider this squirming, she knew it was as close as Max would ever come. She slowly turned back and looked up at him. “Yes?”

  His words sounded almost wracked with pain. “All right. Stick around and I’ll…brief you about the case.”

  Her heartbeat sped up again, but she didn’t smile in favor of looking regally triumphant. “Go back to the party, Frank,” she told her boss. “I can handle things from here.”

  “Sure you two won’t claw each other’s eyes out as soon as I walk out the door?”

  She slanted a look in Max’s direction. “A tempting notion, but I’ll try to resist.”

  Frank still looked hesitant. And she couldn’t blame him—for all he knew, they would kill each other. But then he s
ilently departed, pulling the door shut behind him and closing out the gentle sounds of falling rain that had become more audible since she and Max had stopped yelling.

  So now they were alone. And everything was quiet, except for the low murmur of music from the stereo, which Max walked over to and turned off, immersing them in a total and intense sort of stillness.

  He looked back at her, still standing in the foyer, and their gazes held once more. She wished she could read his eyes, but she’d never gotten very good at it. Still, looking into them reminded her of something she hadn’t expected, something that caught her totally off guard—it reminded her of how much she’d loved those eyes once upon a time. They were a warm, wrap-around-you shade of brown. And at times, she recalled, they were more than warm—they were hot. Sometimes very hot. Like when the two of them were sweating and moaning in a glorious symphony of sex.

  Uh-oh—she hadn’t meant to start thinking about that stuff. She shifted her weight from one stiletto heel to the other and glanced toward the floor.

  “Come in and sit down and I’ll, uh…go put some clothes on,” he said.

  “Good idea.” In fact, it was the best idea she’d heard since walking into Max Tate’s condo. Because the sight of his body had obviously started rekindling some old fires inside her and that wasn’t good.

  For one thing, they were enemies and she refused to let herself be attracted to him after the way things had ended between them. And for another, they were about to be partners in a potentially dangerous case that would require all her concentration. So she promised herself that she simply wouldn’t think about the sexual aspect of what they’d once shared. She’d blot it right out of her mind. It was the only sensible way to handle the situation.

  And now that she had that little misunderstanding with herself all cleared up, she could think about this case and what suddenly made it so important to her on a personal level—proving to Max Tate that she was a good P.I.

  After he’d gone, she moved more deeply into the room, settling on a big leather sofa in the spacious, high-ceilinged room, ready to get geared up for working with him. But then she looked around and saw…his life. His life without her.