Within Striking Distance

by Ingrid Weaver

  She rose to her feet gracefully. Still smiling, she stepped toward him, bringing herself into his personal space. She was close enough for him to catch her scent. Gardenias. Lush, soft and feminine. And definitely not childlike.

  His nostrils flared, but otherwise he remained motionless. Even though he knew that his brain had to be addled from hunger, it looked for all the world as if she were about to put her arms around him.

  Her eyes widened, just as they had when he’d taken her hand, only they weren’t touching each other this time. Not yet, anyway. But all he needed to do was lean toward her…

  She stepped back fast, narrowly missing the front wheels of a baby carriage that a woman was pushing along the sidewalk. She apologized for the near collision, placed her sun hat on her head and continued to back away. Her cheeks reddened. “Uh, thanks again, Mr. McMasters.”

  Keep it casual, he told himself. She couldn’t really have meant to hug him, could she? As a rule, gorgeous thirty-one-year-old women didn’t go around throwing themselves at middle-aged men they had just met. At high noon in a public park. His blood sugar must be tanking. He lifted his free hand to his forehead in a two-fingered salute. “Miss Peters.”

  She turned and crossed the park. Her yellow hat, pink blouse and flowered skirt flashed in the sunshine like a parting smile. Once she reached the street, she headed for the row of parked cars in front of the building that housed his office. She didn’t look back as she folded her tall frame into a red compact, for which Jake was grateful. He didn’t want her to notice that he was still standing in the same spot where she’d left him and watching her like some pathetic, abandoned dog.

  “Man, you need that burger,” he muttered, turning away. He crossed the road and headed for the diner on the corner. Barely halfway there, he stopped dead and looked behind him. He thought he’d caught a glimpse of Becky Peters in the window of the clothing store he’d just passed.

  That was impossible. He’d watched her get into a car on the next block. He retraced his steps anyway, needing to prove to himself he wasn’t going insane.

  No one was in the window, not even mannequins. The space was filled with glossy, life-size posters that hung like banners from the ceiling of the display space. The posters were all the same. They advertised jeans. And in the center of each one, a woman posed half turned away, with her hands on her hips and her long, honey-streaked hair flowing past her shoulders. Her eyes were the smoky blue of a summer horizon, and they sparkled in an eager—and familiar—smile. It was Becky Peters, all glammed up and more striking than ever.

  Some detective he was. He passed this window at least four times a day but he’d never really looked at it. He had no idea how long the posters had been up, but even if they’d been hung this morning, they provided a logical explanation for the feeling of recognition that had been teasing him.

  Now it made sense. Becky was a model. She had the height for it. She also had the slender figure and the perfect, symmetrical features that a camera would love. She’d be a natural. This was why he’d thought he’d met her before. He’d probably seen her face in countless ads. Nothing strange or mysterious about that.

  All right, then. As for the rest of his reaction to her, well, he’d remedy that with a side order of fries.

  BECKY GROPED in her bag for her keys as she reached the veranda. Light sparkled through the ground-floor windows of the white clapboard Victorian, along with the strains of something classical from her landlady’s piano. Mrs. Krazowski must be in a good mood today, if the lively tempo was anything to go by. Great. That made two of them. Smiling, Becky took her time as she climbed the stairs to her apartment, enjoying the way the music mellowed as it bounced off the woodwork. She loved this old house. It had character, just like her landlady. Without missing a beat, the music switched from classical to boogie-woogie. Seconds later, it was accompanied by the faint sound of a ringing phone.

  Becky unlocked her apartment door and rushed inside to grab her phone from the hall table before the answering machine could click on. “Hello?”

  “Hi. You seem out of breath.”

  At the sound of Tara Dalton’s voice, Becky felt a prick of disappointment. Which immediately made her feel guilty. Tara had been her best friend for most of her life, and she always loved to talk to her. Besides, Jake McMasters had said he would get back to her in a few days, not a few hours, so she should have known it wouldn’t be him.

  Now, if only she could get her pulse back down to normal. She dropped her bag and closed the door. “I just got home.”

  “Out of breath and late. Is it too much to hope you were on a date?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really? You’ve been holding out on me. Who were you with?”

  “I meant yes, it’s too much to hope. The shoot ran late, that’s all. The designer samples were only in size 0 and 2, so they kept me waiting while they scrambled around for a size 6. They had to courier one in.”

  Tara laughed. “And did you get the usual lectures about needing to lose weight?”

  “Ooo, darling,” Becky said, dropping into an imitation of the art director who’d been at the shoot, “if only you could get rid of another four inches from your hips, you’d be perfect.” She snorted. “More likely I’d be in a hospital.”

  “That’s one weird business you’re in. I don’t know how anyone could find fault with your figure.”

  Becky considered her looks a lucky accident of genetics, so she had never felt vain about them. “Thanks. At least it pays the bills.” She perched on the arm of the couch and slipped off her shoes. The wood floor was refreshingly cool beneath her feet. It was another one of the reasons she loved this old building. “I’d worked with the photographer before, though, so he was fine about the delay. We’re still on for the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series race on Sunday, right?”

  “Well, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling.”

  Becky heard the answer in Tara’s change of tone. Tara and Becky, along with their friend, Dr. Nicole Foster, were track buddies. It didn’t matter whether it was a race or a practice, they had been hanging out together for years. But Nicole was going to be on duty at the track infield care center this weekend, and now it sounded as if Tara was backing out, too. “Uh-oh.”

  “No, I’m not bailing. Adam and I are going up to New Hampshire together and we’d like you to come with us.”

  “That’s sweet of you to ask, but you don’t need a third wheel.”

  “Then I’ll tell him I’ll meet him at the track later.”

  “Don’t you dare. If I am ever lucky enough to be as much in love with a man as you are with Adam Sanford, I wouldn’t want to waste a minute without him.”

  “Becky…”

  “I might be late anyway.” Her gaze went to the shelf of plants near her window. One of the ferns needed repotting. “I have a ton of stuff to get caught up on this weekend.” She carried her phone back to the door and dug through the bag that she’d dropped. “And no offense, but I’d rather watch the race with your parents than with the owner of Sanford Racing. He wouldn’t appreciate me rooting for Cargill-Grosso.”

  Tara laughed. “Adam wouldn’t mind.”

  Becky grabbed a bottle of water from her bag, unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow. “Tara, I’m your friend, and I’m trying to let you off the hook so you can concentrate on the man you love. Take the gift, okay?”

  “Thanks, Becky. You are a good friend. I’ll ask Adam to get garage passes for you and my parents, okay? It’ll make me feel less guilty.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Oh, if you don’t want one—”

  “Are you nuts? Of course I do. But I’m still not going to root for Sanford.”

  Tara chuckled. “Speaking of Cargill-Grosso, there’s another reason I called. I heard you contacted Jake McMasters.”

  Her pulse gave an odd bump at the sound of Jake’s name. It was the same kind of bump she’d felt when she’d heard the phone ringing. S
he took another gulp of water. “Yes, I met him this afternoon. How did you know?”

  “He called me to verify who you were.”

  “That makes sense. I mentioned your name. He probably would want to know if I was on the level before he started investigating my adoption.”

  “Wow. So it’s not just us. He thinks you could be Gina, too. That must have made you happy.”

  Happy? Sure, she was so happy that she’d almost hugged him. Becky returned to the couch and curled into one corner.

  “Becky? Is something wrong?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me what he looks like?”

  “What? I did.”

  “You told me he’s tall and walks with a cane.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You could have warned me that he’s like a cross between George Clooney and Harrison Ford.”

  “Jake McMasters, private investigator?” Incredulity made Tara’s voice rise. “Are we talking about the same man? He doesn’t look anything like either of them.”

  Becky put down her water bottle and picked up a throw cushion to hug against her chest. She called up a mental image of Jake, which was easy to do since his face had been popping into her mind since she’d left him.

  Tara was right. Jake didn’t resemble either movie star. His face was lean and his jaw was square, but he could never be called leading-man handsome. By most standards, he wasn’t good-looking at all. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken at least once. A few faint traces of what had likely been teenage acne pitted the skin in the hollows of his cheeks. His hairline had receded at the corners of his forehead, and he apparently preferred to style his hair with his fingers rather than a comb.

  Yet his gaze was steady and direct, something she didn’t often see when she met a man for the first time. She’d had the feeling that he’d been trying to look past her outward appearance. Though he hadn’t smiled, she had noticed laugh lines around his light blue eyes and the hint of a dimple at one corner of his mouth. Becky knew all too well how arbitrary a standard beauty could be. She had worked beside some of the most beautiful people in the world and had become immune to their effect years ago. She’d learned that pretty wrappings didn’t necessarily mean the contents of the package were any good.

  “It’s not his features I meant,” she said finally. “It’s the impression he gives.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “He’s like the characters those guys play. Strong. Solid and trustworthy. A man who isn’t perfect but who does the right thing anyway.”

  “That must have been some meeting.”

  Becky could feel warmth seep into her cheeks. How could she explain the connection she’d felt to Jake when she didn’t understand it herself? She hugged the pillow more tightly. “He appeared to take me seriously, which is a good start.”

  “I’m glad. I know how much finding your birth family means to you.”

  “I just hope he can learn something.”

  “He struck me as very competent. Dean and Patsy trust him, and not just because he’s family.”

  “Do you mean he’s a Grosso?”

  “No, he’s related to Patsy’s side of the family. A distant cousin or something.”

  A cousin? Becky nibbled her lower lip. If she did turn out to be Gina Grosso, then Jake would be a blood relative. “How distant?”

  “Very. Why?”

  “I got this odd feeling when I met him, as if we had a connection. Do you think it could be because we’re related?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose anything’s possible.”

  Anything? Becky hoped that was true. It had seemed like such a long shot when she’d first considered the possibility that she might be Gina. Now that she’d taken the leap and had approached Jake, the idea was becoming more real.

  That must be the reason she was feeling this low-level excitement whenever she thought of him. From the day Becky had learned she wasn’t born to Floyd and Lizzy Peters, she had always dreamed of finding out who she really was. It was only natural that she’d be impressed by the man who could make her dream come true.

  JAKE YAWNED, shut down his computer, then rocked back in his chair and propped his feet on his desk. The dentist and his patients next door had cleared out at dinnertime. The accountant across the hall had slammed her door two hours after that and clicked her high heels down the stairs. The cleaning crew had already come and gone, so aside from the lazy shush of the ceiling fan and the hum of the air conditioner in the window behind him, the building was quiet. Perfect time to sort through what he’d learned this week.

  Only, it hadn’t been much. More an absence of information, which in itself said a lot.

  Rebecca Peters didn’t have a record, unlike several of the previous Gina claimants. Not that he expected her to, although as a professional he shouldn’t have had any expectations one way or the other. It had been easy to trace her life, since she’d gone to school here in Charlotte. She had begun working as a model before she graduated high school. Catalogue work mostly, rather than high-fashion catwalk stuff. She lived alone. He didn’t know whether she was dating anyone.

  Not that the last fact should matter. Her love life wasn’t Jake’s concern. His gaze strayed to the magazine on the corner of his desk. The ad on the back cover was the same picture of Becky as the one on the clothing store posters. He couldn’t claim it had caught his eye as he’d gone past the newsstand, because all the magazines had been racked facing outward. No, he’d found it because he’d looked.

  It was useful to have a picture of someone he was investigating. He usually had to take one himself with a telephoto lens. Too bad the impact of the polished, posed, made-up Becky in the ad didn’t come close to the woman who had smiled at him in the park.

  He rubbed his face. More than four days had passed since they’d met and the impression she’d made on him hadn’t yet faded. He should stop staring at her picture, go home and get some sleep. But first, he needed to make a phone call. He cocked his wrist to check his watch, did some quick math to calculate the time difference with Australia, then pulled his feet off his desk and sat forward.

  He’d gone as far as he could with the background check. Apart from her father, Becky Peters had no living relatives from her adoptive family Jake could interview. He reached Floyd Peters’s cell phone on the fourth ring.

  Unlike his adoptive daughter, Peters didn’t sound open or friendly. His voice was curt as he confirmed who he was, each syllable bitten off as if he begrudged the breath it cost him.

  “Mr. Peters, my name is Jake McMasters. I’m calling you from Charlotte with respect to your daughter, Becky.”

  “Is she all right? Are you a doctor?”

  Jake paused. Peters’s tone had changed instantly from gruff to anxious. He cared about his daughter, that was plain.

  There were many approaches Jake could use to gain information. Unlike a cop, he didn’t have to worry about the means he employed, since he wasn’t concerned about building a court case. If he claimed to be a doctor and said it was a matter of life and death that Becky find a blood relative for a donor, he might be able to trick Peters into telling him who her birth parents were.

  But aside from being a despicable trick to play on any parent, that ruse would fall apart as soon as Jake got off the phone and Peters called his daughter. Once that happened, there would be no hope of getting any further cooperation from him, regardless of the means.

  Jake elected to go with honesty. “She’s fine. I’m not a doctor, I’m a private investigator.”

  “Oh? I can’t believe she’d be in any trouble. That’s not like Becky.”

  “No, she isn’t in trouble. On the contrary, she’s very pleased I’ve agreed to help her.”

  “Help her do what?”

  “You adopted Becky when she was an infant, isn’t that right?”

  There was a pause. In the background, Jake could hear the noise of an air wrench and the sharp, echoing thud of metal clunking onto me
tal. It sounded as if Peters was in a garage, which was to be expected. Becky had said he used to be a NASCAR mechanic.

  When Peters spoke, his voice had cooled once more. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “It’s important to her to trace her roots. I’m looking into her adoption.”

  “Can’t help you.”

  “Mr. Peters—”

  “No. I’m her father, and my late wife was her mother. We were the only real parents she had.”

  “I’ve handled searches like this before. I assure you there’s no need to be concerned. Your daughter’s feelings for you won’t change when she does learn who her biological parents were.”

  “There’s no reason to stir up the past.”

  “It’s Becky’s past, Mr. Peters. Doesn’t she have the right to know?”

  “There’s nothing to know.”

  “Apparently there were no official records of the adoption. You didn’t go through an established agency. Was it a private adoption?”

  “I already told her to let this go. She’s throwing away her money.”

  Jake had no intention of telling Peters that it was the Grossos who were paying his bill. If the Peters were in on Gina’s abduction, that was the surest way to make him clam up. Well, clam up worse.

  “Your daughter appears to be an intelligent woman and is fully aware of what she’s doing,” Jake said. “Her desire to know her genetic background could become important to her health in later years.” All right, he was hitting just a shade low of the belt, but it was the truth. “As a parent, don’t you want what’s best for her?”

  Another pause, this one longer than the first. “I love my daughter, Mr. McMasters, and the best thing for Becky is to leave this alone.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Peters. I’m being paid to learn the truth.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  Jake swallowed his impatience. He didn’t believe it would do any good to push Peters further. Not over the phone, anyway. It would be too easy for him to—