A distant look came over Leo’s face. “Ignoring Catalina’s legs isn’t easy, either.” He shook himself. “Sorry. That happens a lot lately. Carry on.”
“I’m using opaque glass so the words “Chase’s Place” will show up day or night.” Transparent glass, both textured and cut with bevelled edges, would frame the piece.
Taylor picked up a pair of cutters. “These look downright dangerous.”
Chase set down his beer, lowered his protective glasses, took the self-oiling glass cutters and, planting his feet shoulder-width apart, gave a demo. He scored a simple outline, and then, using his hands, applied enough pressure to snap the glass. Only it snapped and broke in the wrong place. Again.
Taylor lifted the beer to his lips. “Looks like fun.”
“It is,” Chase said. “In a two steps forward, one step back kind of way.”
Attention on the TV, Leo dropped back on the sheet-covered couch. “Game’s on.”
At the seventh-innings stretch, the two boys cracked open another beer while Chase opted for coffee; he could live on the stuff. In the kitchen, rinsing the pot, he mulled over the stained glass project. He’d always been a pedantic type. Nothing was ever good enough unless it was perfect, and to be perfect, a man needed to put his all into the task at hand.
Lately, however, more and more, he’d felt his feet dragging at the club. Laser target practice aside, renovating gave him the distraction he needed—particularly since finding Samantha Mayne in that locker room last week.
Chase was inhaling the aroma of freshly brewed beans, listening to his cousins in the next room debate the call on that last out, when his cell phone rang. He took the call from Tim Fielding of the San Francisco Police Department.
“I have that information,” Tim said down the line. “It’ll cost you a beer.”
“I’ll throw in a steak, too. Whatcha got?”
“Your contact is right on the money. That particular robbery was reported in the Tenderloin district ten years ago this month. A ring matching your description was the only item lifted.”
“A ruby surrounded by gold lips.”
“Kinky, if you ask me. My wife would refuse to wear something like that. My girlfriend? Well, now. She’s another matter.”
Chase grinned. All talk. Tim was the most devoted family man he’d ever met. “Name of the complainant?” he asked.
“A young woman, last name Mayne. The report says she was visibly shaken, but the detective didn’t discount an insurance job.”
“Which was for how much?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“I know the money was paid out so they must have bought the story.”
“My take? That area’s knee-deep in crime. Those girls were lucky they weren’t home when the perp broke in. No signs of forced entry, by the way. Doesn’t mean a lock wasn’t picked or window jimmied.”
Chase nodded. Child’s play.
He heard a creak as Tim Fielding leaned back in the chair his butt had been close friends with for fifteen years.
“So, buddy,” Tim went on, “sounds like you’re getting itchy feet. You thinking about getting back in the game?” He paused, lowered his voice. “What happened to your partner was a tough break. But you can’t blame yourself. You’ve got a natural talent where this kind of—”
“I’m just making some inquiries for a friend,” Chase cut in. He wouldn’t point out that his “natural talent” hadn’t helped Will Spencer that night a year ago.
“Okay. Sure.” Tim muttered under his breath, “That’s how it begins.”
“Suspects questioned?” Chase asked, ignoring that last comment. He was not getting back in the game. Not on a professional level at least.
“The woman’s boyfriend. The building super and some tenants. A couple of friends. A David Green, Charles Roberts—”
“Whoa. Hold up. That name…”
Silence echoed down the line. “Chase, Green is a common name.”
Chase shrugged, nodded. Kneejerk reaction. There were thousands of Greens in the phonebook.
After disconnecting, Chase poured a big, steaming mug. He dumped in three sugars and stirred all the while rolling the facts around in his head. From a police report perspective, Samantha Mayne’s story checked out. Now he wanted to know more. Only following this thing through would mean reuniting with a woman who was inquisitive and pushy and, let’s not forget, flat-out sexy. If he did delve deeper on her behalf, could they keep it professional? Getting involved that way with a client wasn’t wise.
At least until after the case was solved.
Sammy was standing in her condo’s living room, going over some lines for a daytime drama part she would kill to land, when she noticed the luxury sedan parked out front. Then she recognized the driver and her heart began to pound.
The acting role was for a twenty-five-year-old who, in this scene, was speaking with a male friend she secretly crushed on. The friend was moving to New York to follow his dreams. Swallowing her tears, Sammy’s character decides to be gracious and support her friend’s decision; she wouldn’t get in the way of his big plans by revealing her true feelings and, perhaps, sabotaging his decision.
Sammy had been wondering about execution of body language with regard to dialogue when she’d glanced out the window, spotted that car.
This couldn’t be coincidence.
She moved out onto the sidewalk, looked both ways, and then jogged across the street. As she knocked on the driver’s side window, Mr. Wild dragged the aviator sunglasses down to the tip of his aquiline nose and sent over a slanted smile. She rolled a finger in a tight circle: Wind down the window. When the glass had whirred down, she laid her forearms on the ledge and, bending at the hips, rested her chin on stacked fists.
“Are you tailing my ass, Mr. Wild?” she teased.
“Your tail will get creamed if you keep it stuck out there in the traffic.”
“Would that be an invitation to join you?”
He tried for a bland expression but she caught a sparkle in his eyes at the same time a sedan whizzed by and blew up her skirt. Growling, Chase leaned across and opened the vehicle’s passenger side door.
“For Christ’s sake, get in.”
A week had passed since her mishap at The Don. Chase Wild had made it clear that he didn’t want to see her again. He wanted nothing to do with her search for the stolen ring. But he had been curious. Obviously still was.
Sammy trotted around front and zipped inside. Eager, she rubbed her hands together. But before she got too excited, she wanted to be sure she had this right. Had he ultimately decided that he did want to help, just like Laycee had thought he would?
“Does this mean you’ve decided to work with me?” she asked.
“Let’s see if we can establish some ground rules first.”
She sat back. “Sounds good.”
“You speak to no one else about this,” he said, “unless, or until, I okay it. No police, or insurance companies, or Garfield. Check?”
“Check.”
“You keep your mouth shut about what we’re doing. No flapping of gums with friends.”
“But I have a couple of—”
“No. Now say it.”
“I won’t tell my friends what we’re doing.” She turned to him more. “What are we doing exactly?”
His steely expression eased into a bone-melting grin. “We’re going to find some answers. See if we can piece this together.”
Sammy wanted to punch the air. She felt so psyched, she could have kissed him. Kissed him really, really hard.
“You and me.” She beamed. “Like a team?”
“I guess. In a Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson sort of way.”
“So, I’m the apprentice. The sidekick.”
She’d gone for a part like that in a low budget flick once. She’d got so into the head of the character, she felt as if she still owned it. There was a huge psychological slant to detective work which she thought her character ha
d got right. The director had said she’d shown real potential.
“You can be my sidekick as long as you do precisely what you’re told,” Chase Wild said, sounding stern.
But his body language—the way he leaned toward her—tipped his hand. She could tell. He was psyched, too.
“When do we approach Garfield?”
“I have some research to do,” he said, “before we think about going anywhere near him.”
“What kind of research?”
“Records of similar crimes around that time for starters.”
“How are we going to get records like that?”
He winked. “I have some pretty hot connections.”
She almost licked her lips. I just bet you do.
Chase felt his eyes bug out.
Was that a dance pole?
Yep. Definitely. The kind next-to-naked women wearing six-inch heels swirled around in establishments that catered to certain men’s needs. Establishments vastly different from The Don.
When he had entered Sammy’s condo a moment ago, he’d made mental notes: small, neat and, given her vocation as an actress, partly predictable. Overlapping movie posters littered the walls. Several stacks of DVDs towered beside an LCD. But the pole?
Was it for fitness—a hobby—or to practice for a dancing gig on the side? Either way, it’d be hard to say no to a demo.
“I was going over a part,” Samantha explained, sweeping a bundle of pages up off the coffee table, “when I glanced out the window and spotted a suspicious looking Caucasian parked outside.”
Pushing aside that image of her body arched, a shapely leg hooked around that pole, he sauntered over. “I meant to be obvious, by the way.”
Her look said, That’s good coz you were.
An old-fashioned desk stood against the far wall. The timber was dark and had an old-world smell about it. In another time, it might have taken pride of place in some big banker’s office. Reminded him a little of the one he’d left behind at his old job, not that he’d ever used it much.
Samantha dropped the script on the desktop before she leaned back against its ledge. He liked her mussed hairdo—sexy. Wild. She might have just jumped out of a late-model convertible after a high-speed chase.
“Anyone ever mention that you’re a darker version of Ryan Gosling?”
He cocked a dubious brow. “All the time.”
“I can see you playing a hard-nosed detective, a toothpick hanging between your teeth while you interview some mysterious femme fatale.”
Assuming the role, she hitched a shoulder up under her chin and sent over a seductive pout.
His own lips twitched. “Needs work.”
“We have time.” She pushed off the desk. “Who knows? You might end up seeing me as an asset.”
Chase set his hands low on his belt. He didn’t like the glimmer in those starry green eyes. Or, more correctly, he liked it too much. He’d be clear.
“This—what I’m doing here for you—it’s a one time only thing. This is strictly short-term.”
Her brows knitted. “Why?”
“Because I have a full-time job at the club and—”
“I mean why’d you give away the P.I. bodyguard gig?”
That took him aback. He narrowed his eyes at her. “I ask the questions, remember?”
“Sorry. Except…I’m curious. I’ve known you five minutes, but it blazes out like a neon sign. You are so suited to this Sam Spade stuff.”
“Why don’t you leave the assumptions to me,” he said.
But he wasn’t upset. Samantha wasn’t rude so much as sharp. He understood the urge to enquire, dig deeper. He’d known that same curiosity all his life.
“I have a pot on,” she said, heading off. “Can I tempt you?”
Focusing on the legs streaming beneath that flouncy, bouncy skirt, he followed. “Always.”
In the kitchen, he accepted a full cup and wandered over to straighten a listing timber photo frame hung on the wall. Decked out in some kind of costume, the girl in the picture was accepting a bunch of flowers on stage. Brown hair cascaded around slender shoulders all the way past her waist. She was at least a head shorter than the rest of the kids. The smile was bright and just as infectious as it was today.
Lifting his cup, he took a sip. And another. Whoa. This coffee was good.
“End of year drama performance,” she explained, pouring herself a cup. “Heard of Shakespeare?”
He set a palm on his chest. “To be or not to be.”
She grinned. “Needs work.” After splashing cream into her cup, she joined him. “We performed Twelfth Night. I played a female who dresses up as a male.”
“So, the fetish goes back a ways.”
When she didn’t answer, he glanced across—and looked harder. He must be seeing things. Was that remorse glistening in her eyes?
“Last week,” she began, “guess I lost my head a little. I didn’t know what to do next. I’m sorry I broke into your club.”
He grinned. “You’re sorry you got caught.”
“Are you sorry you caught me?”
No. Or, not yet.
Still the answer stuck in his throat because suddenly she was standing too close. A few inches more and her chest would be brushing his shirt. Her floral scent was playing tricks with his oxygen levels, too. And her lips looked almost too plump, in a completely natural, annoyingly kissable way.
He wasn’t here to get into her pants. Still, he was attracted to this woman, and maybe more than he’d first thought, which was saying something.
Dragging himself back, Chase moved to stand over by the counter. They needed to talk about the case.
“Ten years ago, before or after the break-in,” he said, “do you remember anyone asking questions, hanging around, acting in a suspicious manner?”
“That dialogue is so authentic,” she murmured like she was filing it away for future reference. She followed him across. “I remember the police asked us that same question. There wasn’t anything.”
“Even something small that, looking back, didn’t fit quite right.”
“I wasn’t functioning too well at the time. It hadn’t been long since…”
Her gaze drifted to the end of the counter and another photo, a family shot this time—a woman and two teenage girls. He remembered: Samantha’s mom had passed away not long before that theft.
He softened his tone. “Have you spoken to your sister about seeing that ring on the net?”
Sammy nodded. “Being the oldest, Ann felt responsible back then. But she’s married now. Has a great life. She doesn’t want to dwell on the past. You know, drag up painful memories.”
“You two have a good relationship?”
“Sure. But we’re different. She likes jazz and Tolstoy. I’m into rap and vampires. True not Diaries. When I was a kid, she seemed to have all the right answers to all the hard questions.” Sammy raised her coffee, sipped and then asked, “Do you have sisters? Brothers?”
Looking around the room, he replied automatically. “Not brothers, exactly. Cousins. Taylor and Leo.”
“Do you know a light came to your eyes when you said their names?”
He studied her grin. Was she serious?
She went on. “I pictured you looking back and smiling at all the stuff you’d done together.”
“I guess actresses have vivid imaginations.”
“It’s just...I feel like that sometimes when I look back. And I bet you’re the oldest, too.” Her eyes laughed. “The bossy one.”
“I’m not so bossy.” More...instructional.
“Do you still see each other?”
“We hang out when we can.”
“For a beer,” she surmised. “At the baseball?”
Running a hand through his hair, Chase coughed out a laugh. “Did you pay someone to sneak a look at my file?” That was his deal.
“Show me a guy who doesn’t drink beer. And, seriously, who’s not a Giants fan?”
> “You like baseball?”
“Sure. Can’t remember the last game I went to though.”
He could imagine her enjoying a hot dog while rooting for Buster to slam a home run. Taylor and Leo would like her, too. She had a natural spark, a definite zing that made a guy want to gravitate and get involved—to a point where Chase felt the words sitting right there on the tip of his tongue.
Wanna go catch a game with me sometime?
Which wasn’t what this meeting was about. They were meant to be digging deeper, trying to discover what and who was behind that theft a decade ago.
He set his cup down on the counter.
“You weren’t seeing anyone at the time?” he asked.
“I was seeing a boy. Nothing serious.”
“How serious can you get at fifteen?”
“Ever heard of Romeo and Juliet?”
He grinned. Smartass. “I’m familiar with it, yes.”
“Juliet was just shy of her fourteenth birthday. Teenage love can be as strong as any.” She nudged her chin at him. “You must have had a girl hanging off your every word in high school. Kicking her heels and punching her pom-poms every time you scored a touchdown.”
“Taylor was the football jock. I was into—” Pulling himself up, Chase thrust back his shoulders. “We need to focus, Samantha.”
“Sammy,” she said. “Friends call me Sammy.”
He got back on track—again. “So, you were seeing a boy.”
“Actually, a couple of boys.”
Two? “Only two?”
She nodded.
“Did they ever come over to your apartment?” he asked.
“Once or twice.”
“Did either of them know about the ring?”
“None of my friends knew.” She hesitated. “Except Fay.”
His antennae quivered. “Did you show Fay the ring? Was she ever in any kind of trouble at home? With the police?”
“I mentioned the ring to her once. I explained its history, how it had been handed down from a French court. I don’t think she believed me. And no. Fay was a good girl, like me.”
Wild About The Bodyguard Page 3
