by M. S. Parker
“Supervised visitations might be the best for a while, until she’s gone through rehab and shown she no longer presents a danger.”
Paxton opened his mouth, then closed it. A moment later he blew out a sigh. “Yeah, fine. Okay.” He rubbed his hands over his face and when he lowered them, he slid his eyes my way. “We have to keep this quiet. If Brinke finds out too soon, she’ll…” He tilted his head back against the chair. “She won’t take it well, okay?”
“Is she likely to do something that could pose a danger to Carter or herself? You?” It was a standard question, one I never liked having to voice, but that didn’t explain the unusual cold feeling I got in my belly at the thought of something happening to this man or his daughter.
“She won’t take it well.” Paxton got up to pace and ended up by the window, staring outside. “She’d never set out to do something that would hurt herself, our daughter, or even me, I don’t think. But she’s reckless and doesn’t think things through. When she gets mad, she gets a little stupid.”
“Very well.” I tightened my grip on the pen, staring hard at the paper until my brain settled. Then, after scratching out a few more notes, I looked up at him. “Keeping it quiet isn’t an issue. It’s fairly standard.”
I placed the notepad on the coffee table and stood. Sitting still wasn't doing my nerves any favors. Moving over to my desk, I took a sip from my water bottle and then glanced over at him.
Heat suffused my face when I realized he’d been staring at me – specifically, he’d been staring at my ass.
My heart started to pound hard and fast and I found myself oddly frozen, uncertain how to react. Slowly, his gaze slid up to meet my face. Before our eyes connected, I turned back to my desk and put the water down. My hand was shaking and some of it splashed out, but I ignored it.
“Let me explain what we’re going to do and how things work, as well as my fee.” Forcing a note of professional distance into my voice, I strode back to the couch and sat down, once more taking up the notepad as though it was some sort of barrier.
Generally, talking about money annoyed people, even though they knew they'd have to pay for my services, but Paxton didn’t so much as blink an eye. My fees weren’t on the outrageous end anyway, and there was no doubt he could afford it.
“Since custody is coming into play, specifically regarding the welfare of your daughter, we'll need a private investigator as well. The best ones come with a higher dollar tag.”
“Get the best, and make sure they know to keep things quiet, even if they want a bonus for extra discretion.” He’d gone back to staring outside. “I don’t want to run the risk of her realizing what’s going on. The cost doesn’t matter.”
“Very well.” I hated to do it, but I needed to make sure it was clear. “You do understand you’re responsible for those costs, not the firm.”
His lips quirked as he shot a look at me. “I assumed as much. Money isn’t an issue, Leslie.”
The sound of my name on his lips sent me straight back into my dream, and I found myself hearing his words, let me watch you make yourself come, Leslie…
“Understood. I just like to get that matter out of the way up front. While I imagine your…financial situation is different from most of my clients, I’ve had a number of people who are…unhappy with the bill in the end, regardless of their financial situation.” I said all of this to my notepad instead of looking at him, because my body was undergoing a sensory overload, thanks to the memory of that very intense, very wicked dream. I needed a new pair of panties now – and a new brain. I couldn’t believe I was taking him on as a client. There were a million different ways I’d love to take him, and at least one way I shouldn’t. But I was going to be stupid.
Because I wasn't sure I trusted anyone else with it. Maybe if my friends were still practicing divorce law, but I wasn't even sure I would've passed him off then.
“What else do you need to get out of the way?”
Stop being a coward. Putting the notebook down, I looked up and met Paxton’s eyes. “Well, not to be a nag or anything…” I managed an easy enough smile. “But again…it’s finances. I’ll need to take a look at your current finances, and I need your okay to do that.”
His eyebrows drew down low over his eyes, but after a moment, he nodded. “You’ve got my okay to do whatever you need to do, as long as you’re discreet about it.”
“Discretion is part of the job, Mr. Gorham.”
“Paxton.” He said it with an air of authority as though he expected nothing but compliance. He didn't seem to be one of those rich people who thought they were entitled to the world, but there was no doubt in my mind that he didn't have a problem getting what he wanted most of the time.
Arching a brow at him, I inclined my head. Calling him by his first name wasn’t going to help me keep some much-needed distance between us, especially not when I was still reliving my dream, and the way my name sounded on his lips. But I wasn't going to get into an argument over it, either. I'd just try to avoid it altogether.
“There’s some paperwork I need you to sign. If you can give me a moment…”
I stepped out, using the time to compose myself, and when I came back in, he was standing in front of the window again, staring outside. He seemed oddly mesmerized by the rush of the city.
When I closed the door, he turned back, watching me. I sat back down and flipped open the file, tapping at the pages with a pen. “I just need your signature on the pages indicated. A few places, you just need to initial. I also have the information for the retainer. I don’t think we discussed it.”
He came back over and my heart skipped a few beats when he sat down next to me instead of in the chair. His nearness could explain my sudden issue with drawing air into my lungs, probably even why my fingers seemed to have trouble holding the pen.
“How can you take payment? I don’t carry a checkbook.”
Turning my head, I found him just a few inches away.
Kisses. Your hands on me. You can work it off…
The words sprang to mind.
Out loud, I said calmly, “My assistant can run credit and debit cards. Or you can mail a check. I can’t begin work until…”
He shifted on the couch, and for one brief moment, he was even closer.
Then he held out a shiny, silver card. “Here. Put it on this. I’ll be leaving my studio number and cell number here too. If you need to call, use one of those numbers, and just leave your first name and the number. No message. I’ll get back to you. If you can, leave a cell number or something so if Brinke hears the message and calls back, she doesn’t get your assistant answering and find out that I’ve contacted a lawyer.”
“Yes. Of course.”
I grabbed his card and strode out of the room as quickly as I could.
If I stayed that close to him for even another thirty seconds, I probably would have done something stupid. Like reach up and scrape my nails down the scruffy stubble that darkened his jaw just the faintest.
Or kiss him.
Chapter Nine
Leslie
“I can tell you this…” The slender, scholarly man sitting across from my desk placed a file down on the surface and shook his head.
Stanley Kowalski didn't look like much, but he was the best private investigator I’d ever worked with. He wasn’t always in the price range my clientele could afford, but, fortunately, Paxton didn’t seem to have a price range, so I’d gone for the best.
“While I’m not yet done collecting information, the past two days have already netted enough material, that if this woman was raising my child, I’d do everything in my power to keep her away.”
“Has she harmed the girl?” I asked, flipping the file open. My insides twisted at the thought. I'd worked some pretty nasty divorces, including some where the parents squabbled over kids, but I'd never had to work one where neglect or abuse had been involved.
“No. Not directly.” Kowalski grimaced and leaned forw
ard, using a pen to tap somebody on the first picture. “However, she puts her in harm’s way. This here…she went out with her daughter and the girl’s nanny. While they were eating lunch, she got up to buy drugs from a known dealer. The dealer was fifteen feet away from her daughter.”
“A decent lawyer can argue that nothing happened.”
“Can’t argue with the evidence I got.” Kowalski’s serene smile had my eyebrows going up.
Intrigued, I flipped to the next picture and whistled sharply at the perfectly framed image of a bag being passed, then an envelope.
“How in the hell did you get a picture like this?” I asked, still gaping at it.
“I followed them into the bathroom. They never looked at me twice.”
Now my stunned surprise shifted to him. “If a man follows a woman into a bathroom, that usually catches attention, Mr. Kowalski.”
“I was dressed as a woman.” He sipped at his coffee. “A blind woman. I had a friend – a trusted one, confidentiality is guaranteed – acting as my escort. As I had a cane and shuffled around a bit, they were quite convinced I couldn’t see anything. They didn’t even wait until I went into a stall to finish. The camera on the outside of my bag caught every detail.”
“You’re a genius,” I said sincerely.
He gave a modest shrug and fixed his glasses. “I’m simply experienced, Ms. Calvin. Moving on…” He leaned forward and tapped the next picture. “At some point, she put the pills in her purse. I know this because when they left, I followed them. It was a simple matter of me shedding my skirt and losing the wig and cane. They were outside a toy store in Times Square when we saw this. It was very...troubling.”
He spread several images out and I had to look at them a few times before I pieced it together. “You were shooting video?” I asked quietly.
“Yes. I took the stills from the video. There’s a small unit of officers there at Times Square.”
“I know.” I studied the cute little kid Brinke had swept up to hug, wondered if she’d even noticed what her mom had done. If I hadn't seen the proof of it, I probably wouldn't have even believed it myself.
When the woman picked her child up, she’d been holding a small, silvery pouch in one hand. She’d transferred the pills into it, I’d bet anything on it. And when the nanny wasn’t looking, she’d tucked that pouch into her daughter’s backpack. There was a quick sidelong glance toward a cop standing a few feet away, his back to them. Then she took her daughter’s hand and led her right into the massive Toys R Us down on Times Square.
“She was using her daughter to carry the drugs.” I swallowed, feeling a little sick.
“Most cops won’t bother a child. She was definitely acting nervous. I could see it the moment she realized how many cops were there. She probably hasn’t gone down there much since she moved into the area. Maybe she’d even had a run-in with one of the cops before and was worried they'd recognize her.” Kowalski straightened the stills back into a tidy pile. “These images, while definitely damning, won’t be particularly useful on their own, but in just a few days, she’s already showed a…” He paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “She has a recklessness to her, perhaps an inability to think about how her actions affect those around her.”
“I’d say so.” I accepted the stack of images from Kowalski and tucked them neatly inside the folder. “Are these mine?”
“Of course. There are also duplicates of the photos and my initial report, in case the husband wants to be kept apprised.”
Personally, I didn't want to have to tell Paxton any of this. It knew it would kill him to know that the mother of his child was doing this, but I also knew that he needed to know how bad things had gotten. “Thank you, Mr. Kowalski. I appreciate the time you've put into this.”
We both rose, shaking hands over the table. “I expect I’ll have more than enough evidence within another few days, a week at most.”
“Thanks.”
Once I was alone, I went through the rest of the photos and the report. Then I did it a second time, letting my mind take in all the information.
In a few more days, I’d put in a call to Paxton.
I couldn’t decide if I was excited about the chance to talk to him, or dreading it, because while these things would be good for our case, none of them were really good news.
It took a total of four more days, including the weekend.
The final report was left with Haley while I was in court, arguing for more child support from one of the biggest deadbeat dads I’d ever dealt with. Fortunately for my client, Kowalski wasn’t the only good private investigator I knew. Jeannie Graham was also one of the best – and cheapest – and she had a personal loathing for deadbeat dads, so she’d gone to the wall on this job, digging up all kinds of dirt.
Thanks to her, I’d left court feeling like a champion.
My client had been teary-eyed and sniffling, hugging me multiple times while her ex sent me threatening looks. I ignored him, but in a day or so, I would gently remind my client to be careful. Men like that didn't lose easily or well.
But for now, I'd take the win.
Paging through the final few photographs, I blew out a breath and leaned back in my chair. I had what I needed. Once, not too long ago, Brinke had gone out with Carter, and while they were at a restaurant, she’d gotten up and left the little girl at the table by herself while she slipped outside into an alley. Kowalski had gotten time-stamped images of both the girl and the mother. Carter had been left alone for more than twenty minutes, long enough that the manager had eventually approached. Kowalski had been seated at a corner table, and had asked about the 'pretty girl sitting up front alone.' The manager assured him he was keeping an eye on her and would call the cops soon if her mother didn’t return.
He’d made sure to take note of the manager’s name, and I’d just called and gotten a statement from him myself. While he was reluctant to confirm the name of the patron – he had recognized who Brinke was – he was willing to admit that yes, a young minor had been alone in his place for an unusual length of time, especially considering her age.
Kowalski had noted that the child colored throughout the entire episode, making him think that she wasn’t unused to that sort of thing. And I had the proof to support it. There were other times where the child’s mother had failed to supervise, but most often, the nanny had been around to step in and take care of everything.
We had enough, though. Between the earlier report, the incident, the restaurant, and how much Kowalski had on Brinke away from the child, no judge in his or her right mind would see the woman as a fit guardian for the little girl. The very most Brinke could hope for was eventually getting joint custody after a long time of supervised visits.
I started to read through the report a third time when I abruptly snapped the manila folder shut and slapped it with my hand. “Quit stalling already,” I muttered, annoyed with myself. “Just call him.”
Before I could find another way to delay, I punched in a number I’d memorized within minutes of him giving it to me. The studio first. I figured I wouldn’t reach him there right away, and I’d have time to prepare myself.
Nobody answered. I just left a simple message, as requested.
This message is for Paxton. This is Leslie calling. If you can get back to me, I’d appreciate it. I gave him my cell number and disconnected, slumping back in the seat and staring up at the ceiling.
A light knock sounded at the door.
“Come in!”
Haley came in, carrying two cups of coffee. “I hear you kicked butt in court.”
“Grapevine news still travels fast.” I smiled at her and straightened, accepting the coffee gratefully.
“Think the bum will pay up this time?”
“If not, he’ll be in contempt, and he just might be looking at jail time. Since he got arrested for DUI, and that sentence was commuted to parole with community service, I don’t think he’ll want to risk it. If he’s found
in contempt…”
Haley made a twisting motion with her wrist, then mimed throwing away a key.
“Yep. But damn, you should have seen the looks he was giving us.”
Haley’s response was cut off by the sound of my phone. I looked down and immediately, my throat constricted. It was one of the two numbers I’d memorized. Paxton’s cell phone.
“Ah…I need to take this. If you’ll excuse me?”
Haley didn’t bat an eyelash.
As I answered the phone, she was closing the door behind her.
“Hello.”
“Leslie, this is Paxton Gorham.”
“Hello, Mr. Gorham.”
“You know, you called me Paxton when you left the message,” he said, sounding amused.
My face went red. Shit. He was right. I’d also called him Paxton in several extremely hot and dirty dreams that I had absolutely no intention of talking about. That didn’t mean I was going to call him Paxton to his face. “Yes, well, that aside, I believe it’s time we set up another meeting. I’ve gotten a report back from the private investigator I hired.”
A taut silence followed and then he spoke softly, all humor gone. “Already? It’s barely been a week.”
“I’m aware.”
A few more moments of quiet tension pulsed between us and then he blew out a breath. “Yeah, okay. Look, things are at a crucial point here at the studio. I’m working ten, twelve, fourteen-hour days right now. Brinke…hell, she oughta be, but she’s blowing us off so she might not even show up in this album at all. I can’t risk her waltzing in and me not being here, though – hey, I know lawyers don’t really work on holidays, but is there any way we could meet on the Fourth?”
“The Fourth?” Blankly, I stared at my desk calendar. It hit me a second later. “The Fourth of July?” Today was the first, so that'd be this Friday.
“Yeah. Brinke’s promised she’d take Carter to go see a Broadway play earlier in the day, then hit some sort of street festival before heading down to where a friend of mine lives on the river. I’m meeting them in the evening for fireworks, but she'll be busy all day, so I know she won’t show up here. I’ve got to get some work done – can you just meet me here?”
