The Charm Offensive

by Cari Lynn Webb

  He intended to find that on his boat. “Maybe you need to find some balance with respect to your fund-raiser. Not shoot for the stars on the first one, but build it up each year.”

  “I don’t have that kind of time.”

  He didn’t have that kind of time, either. The more time he spent with Sophie, the less balanced he became. She seemed to make him lose his footing and forget his purpose. But they weren’t friends trading confidences. She was a potential suspect and he had to stop forgetting that. He stopped outside the Pampered Pooch. “I’m going to check your security camera from a remote location and then I’ll be back with the laptop.”

  She reached for the door handle and grinned. “A remote location as in your office.”

  The teasing lilt in her voice curled through him, squeezing around some of those somber places deep inside. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a conversation that was more easy banter and kidding and less demanding with expectations and consequences. “Maybe.”

  She climbed out and then leaned into the truck. “It’s okay to admit it out loud.”

  “Admit what?”

  “You’re going to miss your office.” She shut the door and walked to the Pampered Pooch.

  At this rate, he was going to miss more than his office. He waited until Sophie stepped inside before pulling away from the curb and his own stupidity.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SOPHIE YANKED OPEN the door to the Pampered Pooch. Normalcy reigned inside and once that door swung shut behind her, surely she’d return to her usual self. The self that didn’t spill her history or tease good-looking men. Had she really been trying to steal Brad’s laughter for herself? As if she’d wanted to be included in the amusement happening in his mother’s exclusive dining room.

  She didn’t have time for light, playful moments. Weaving down the aisles on her way to the back, she straightened the canned cat food, tossed several cat toys back into their bins and returned her focus. She’d wasted the entire car ride talking to Brad instead of texting her dad or making a list of potential sponsors to approach. But she still had the afternoon free.

  Across the aisle, she sorted dog beds, piling them neatly on the shelf while she piled items onto her to-do list, items that didn’t include Brad. Things like litter boxes and a Plan B in case her father failed again. Worry bulged like the fluffy filling against the worn seam of a well-loved dog toy.

  Checking the time on her phone, she tossed it on the counter and grabbed the litter-box scooper and small garbage can. Ella would return from her cake-tasting adventure with Ruthie and Matt in a little over an hour. That gave Sophie sixty minutes to help the two foster families coming for supplies, search for her father and sponsors, and pull herself together. Sixty minutes to stuff the worry, panic and desperation so deep inside her she’d struggle to find them again. And Ella wouldn’t sense anything more than business as usual.

  As for Plan B: an inventory of the antique furniture in the attic she could sell quickly. She’d conquer that once Ella retreated to her room for homework.

  Brad infiltrated her thoughts at the last cat kennel. She’d almost managed ten minutes without a Brad interruption. She dropped the cat litter in the outside trash already full with the Pampered Pooch bags ruined by the basement flood. The basement should’ve been an ideal storage place for the paper bags. But nothing had been ideal lately. Except Brad’s willingness to help her, despite the fact that he’d seen Sophie at her less than ideal. Dog food hardly seemed like a fair return. One of Grandmother Callahan’s favorite insights whispered through her: the only real helping hand you’ll ever find is the one attached to your arm.

  Sophie needed to figure out what she had that Brad wanted.

  A bark and long whine cut in, yanking Sophie back to her to-do list. She ushered her foster dogs into the yard and watched the trio chase one another around, wishing she could share in their excitement. But desperation gnawed at her and dread pricked like a thousand flea bites. She might’ve only chased her tail the last few days, but she hadn’t collapsed in exhaustion yet.

  She still possessed one potential lead in the search for her father. A weak lead, but a lead, nonetheless. If she hadn’t kept her distance from her father, she might not have lacked the information about where to look for him now. She couldn’t go to the police. He hadn’t actually stolen the money, since he’d been listed as joint owner on the savings account. He wasn’t even an official missing person since she’d spoken to him the night before. If her last lead failed, she’d consider hiring a PI. Problem was she didn’t know any, except for Brad. Asking Brad for recommendations might force her to confess even more secrets. She shoved hiring a PI down to Plan F.

  She washed her hands and wiped her palms on her jeans before pulling a business card for the Makeover Studio out from under the cash register.

  This was all she had. And she couldn’t even recall what number Charlene Raye was on her father’s list of girlfriends. She remembered her father had suggested Charlene Raye’s services to Sophie for some special Christmas evening at the opera, as if Sophie had the funds to attend the opera. And Tessa had continued as Charlene’s client, despite Sophie’s objections, up until the week before her sister had boarded her flight to India. Not even a novice gambler would agree to this bet, the odds so slim that the hairstylist had even seen her father lately, let alone knew where he might’ve gone.

  Sophie tapped the business card on the counter, her hope evaporating.

  Yesterday’s call to her father’s landlord had depleted her optimism and inflated her debt. Not only was her father several months behind on his rent, his landlord—and Sophie suspected one of her father’s former love interests—expected Sophie to cover the overdue costs, as if Sophie was to blame for her father’s laundry list of delinquencies.

  Now Sophie wondered what complaints Charlene Raye would air against her father. Although her father always preached about the importance of appearances, never approving of Sophie’s baseball hats and rubber band hair ties, maybe she’d catch a break here. Clean shaven, hair trimmed away from his ears, and plans were the staples of George’s existence.

  Sophie punched in the number for the Makeover Studio on her cell phone, not surprised when the voice mail answered on the second ring. It was late Sunday afternoon. The bells chimed on the door, disrupting Sophie’s simple message for Charlene Raye.

  An unfamiliar gentleman stepped inside. Sophie ended her call. “We’re not officially open.”

  The gentleman pointed down the dog-food aisle and smiled. “I only need a minute.”

  Sophie nodded. There was something off-putting about the man. His neat khakis and pin-striped white-and-blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to midforearm were standard-issue business casual for anyone working in the financial district. His dirty-blond hair with small traces of gray at the temples was tidy, his two-finger-wide goatee nicely trimmed. Even his nose had only the slightest bend, as if he’d tripped into a doorway rather than used weekly bar brawls as his exercise program. Without socks, his loafers couldn’t hide more than a butter knife.

  Still, Sophie glanced at the camera Brad had installed. Each blink of the red light reassured her that Brad might be watching on the other end.

  Her unwelcome customer dropped a fifty-pound bag of dog food on the counter. “You look like your father, Sophie Callahan.”

  The jolt of her instincts screaming I told you so made Sophie’s heart beat double time. She focused on the man’s scarred knuckles. His weren’t the hands of a number-crunching accountant, no matter how manicured his fingernails. She tried to keep her racing adrenaline from leaking into her voice. “You’re a friend of my father’s?”

  “Business associate.” He ran his palm over the list of all-natural dog-food ingredients. “He recommended your store for the best prices on pet supplies.”

&
nbsp; Sophie didn’t need her father recommending her shop to his business associates, or anyone for that matter. She watched the black titanium bracelet shift over the man’s wrist. Too many sleepless nights, she’d channel-surfed through infomercials lauding the benefits of the magnetic bracelets for energy, balance and pain. She wondered if the bracelet balanced him out while he delivered the pain. “We try to stay competitive in the market. It’s all about customer loyalty. Is this all, then?”

  “Not quite.” His fingers dug into the bag. “Since your father spoke so highly of you and all you’ve accomplished, I was hoping he might be here.”

  This was the last place her father would be. Sophie gripped the scanner as if she’d picked up one of her baseball bats instead. “I haven’t seen him in over two weeks.”

  He covered the bar code. “I need to speak to him.”

  He needed to get in line behind Sophie if he wanted to speak to her father. But first the man needed to get out of her store. “You aren’t the only one. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” Sophie tugged on the dog-food bag, but he pressed down, keeping it in place.

  “Your father and I have an unresolved financial matter.”

  His voice remained pleasant, almost kind, but a warning lingered. The man’s implied threat punched through her core and made her heart sprint around her chest. Her father was definitely in trouble and it was more than back rent he owed. But he’d promised to return her money. She had to believe he’d return her money, or her entire relationship with her father would’ve been an illusion. One more lie in an already distorted childhood. Sophie squeezed the scanner. “I have a business to run. You should pay or leave.”

  The bells chimed above the door, and her heart slowed like a dog trained to sit on command. One of her foster moms waved before she moved into the dog aisle. Not the person she wanted, but relief spilled through Sophie now that she had a witness.

  “On second thought, I’ll stick with the name brand from the box store across the bay. When you talk to your father, tell him to call Teddy Gordon.” He pulled a marker from the pencil holder and scratched a phone number in thick black ink across the dog-food bag. “Until next time, Ms. Callahan.”

  No next time. Not with this man. Not if Sophie could help it. His plastic smile stretched up, sparking into his gaze as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  But there was no way she could prevent another meeting. And they both knew it.

  He tipped his head toward Sophie’s new arrival before he walked out of the Pampered Pooch and hopefully out of Sophie’s world. The bells chimed at his exit, but the shudder inside Sophie remained stuck on repeat.

  “Let me get this out of the way.” Sophie pulled the dog-food bag off the counter and shrugged at her foster mom. “Apparently this food upset his dog’s stomach.”

  When in fact it was the man who had upset Sophie’s stomach.

  She moved into the back room and squeezed the heavy bag, trying to force the tremor out of every bone in her fingers. The queasy tumble of worry and fear increased as if she’d been dumped in the bay at night, the rough current trapping her under the surface.

  Since Ella had come home from her extended stay in the newborn intensive care unit, Sophie had been careful to keep her niece’s world separate from her father’s. Now his world had invaded the sanctuary Sophie had struggled so hard to build. She wanted to lock the doors and run upstairs to hide with Ella. But hiding had never been an option.

  She needed to revise her strategy. The part that included a quick influx of cash must jump to the forefront. But she’d also need to be prepared in case good old Teddy returned. For now she’d concentrate and take things one step at a time.

  The first step was to dump the dog-food bag.

  The second was to deal with her foster parent.

  She’d work out the next steps as she went.

  Sophie turned in a slow circle, searching for a spot to leave the food. Finding empty space in the kennel area was like finding dollar bills on a money tree. Finally she shoved the oversize bag behind the food bins she used for her foster dogs, making sure that the phone number faced the wall. Pressing her palm into her roiling stomach, she tried to channel some of her sister’s meditation tips. Nothing, not even the ten even, deep breaths or mind warps quieted the wave of nausea. Her regularly scheduled life waited.

  * * *

  BRAD CRADLED A candy dish against his chest and searched through the chocolate-peanut morsels for a blue one. He always ate one color at a time in reverse rainbow order, ending with red. Usually, by the time he reached the end of the rainbow, he’d found a solution to whatever dilemma he was contemplating. And the colorful candies brought the only point of interest to his otherwise monochrome office with chrome fixtures and deep walnut-stained shelves.

  He reminded himself to leave a thank-you note for the refill on his assistant’s desk. He popped a blue candy in his mouth and wondered what date for his maiden voyage Lydia had picked in the office betting pool. Clearly, Lydia suspected he’d be in this weekend, or she wouldn’t have bothered replenishing the candy dish. He popped two more candies in his mouth and considered looking on Lydia’s desk for the spreadsheet. But even he wasn’t certain what date he’d bet on to leave.

  Sophie’s laptop sat nearby. Security cameras filmed her outdoor play area, the kennels and her storefront. Last he’d checked, she was finally sitting down behind the counter after darting between the yard and the kennels, covering more miles in that small store than a triathlete. Perched on the stool, her shoulders had hunched forward, but her gaze stayed fixed on a business card she held. Her body might be exhausted, but her mind was active.

  He’d watched her for over a half hour before picking up the candy dish. If she’d been working a con, she wouldn’t have wasted her alone time tending to dirty litter boxes, cuddling kittens or throwing tennis balls to the dogs. The high-resolution digital security cameras would’ve revealed even the tiniest transgression.

  Ironic that Sophie was the one on film, every expression, every movement, every action recorded, and yet he felt fully exposed, as if those same cameras were peering into his soul and dismantling his secrets. But it wasn’t the cameras.

  He blamed his mother for his discontent and uncertainty about Sophie. Mayor Harrington should’ve recognized the con in Sophie’s fund-raiser; his mother should’ve exposed the pretender in Sophie Callahan. Instead, his mother had offered her personal box seats as a silent-auction donation and requested a table at the gala.

  Why couldn’t he just believe that Sophie might simply have a good cause and a desire to help? Why couldn’t he look at Sophie without connecting her to George’s dark deeds? He’d tracked her every move on the cameras, anticipating some sort of deception. But he’d only witnessed her meticulous attention to cleanliness, her endless devotion to the smallest detail of her store and her tender care with every animal. He suspected she’d put the same dedication into a relationship. But how long before she manipulated her partner’s loyalty for her own gain and twisted the ugly out of their love? That was a con at its most simplistic. The cracked candy shells pricked at his stomach as if in revolt; the chocolate hardened into a clump of self-disgust.

  He paced over to the large conference table and abandoned the candy dish to its usual place on a black woven place mat in the center of the tinted oval glass. Pulling his phone from his back pocket, he dialed Delta Craft. He’d never gain perspective if he stayed in the city.

  Movement at his doorway caught Brad’s attention. His brother leaned against the archway as if he’d been there for several minutes, observing Brad’s unusual behavior. He should’ve heard his brother when Drew had stepped off the elevator. His brother matched Brad’s height, but Drew was built like a linebacker and he’d never moved with stealth or lightness, even as a kid.

  Brad’s edges had softened, his ins
tincts dulled. The Freedom Seeker couldn’t be lowered into the bay soon enough.

  Drew marched across the office and grabbed the candy bowl. “Never known you to leave the blue ones in the dish.”

  “I’m learning to ration. I won’t have an endless supply on the boat.” Hopefully he also wouldn’t have such a narrow outlook.

  “Why wasn’t I invited to family day at the old homestead? At the very least, you could’ve hung around until Dad and I returned from the golf course.” Drew tossed candy into his mouth, one piece after the other like an automatic tennis-ball launcher stuck on rapid volley.

  “You could’ve invited me to the range.” Brad dropped into his office chair, ignoring the security camera feed on the open laptop.

  Drew swallowed and his hand stilled in the dish. His gaze zeroed in on Brad as if Brad was the sole cause of his hung jury. “You haven’t been to the golf range since high school.”

  His freshman year, his mother had signed up Brad for golf lessons, but he’d flirted with the lifeguards instead, refusing to morph into his mother’s version of a proper Harrington. “Maybe I’m ready to pick up a nine iron.”

  Drew sat in a chair, his gaze still fixed on Brad. “Sophie Callahan must like golf.”

  Brad shifted forward, but the flinch of his brother’s eyebrows indicated he’d already anticipated Brad’s response. Brad leaned back, stretching his voice into casual disinterest. “How do you know about Sophie?”

  “You brought a woman home to meet Mom during her bruncheon.” Drew elongated every syllable of bruncheon as if to better spotlight the evidence. Then he flung a candy into Brad’s forehead.

  There were over two dozen different ways Drew could’ve learned about Sophie and none of those ways included their own mother. Brad rubbed his forehead. “Never mind.”

  “What were you thinking, introducing Sophie to Mom?” Drew shoved the dish onto Brad’s desk.

  Brad squeezed his temples, wanting this questioning to end. “She needs help funding her dog ball.” Or funding her father.