And here he was, standing in front of a door with what sounded like a very large dog behind it threatening to come out and have him for brekkie, and he still wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing here. A previously unhelpful woman at a bookstore had suddenly become at least somewhat informative, and it had gotten Geoff this far, which was the best he’d managed all week.
He raised his hand to knock, but the dog was evidently the occupant's doorbell. Before Geoff's knuckles could even graze the wood, the door opened and his uncertainty became total bewilderment.
The woman who stood there, holding back the Australian shepherd who clearly wanted to eat him, could have been Bess, had she aged twenty-five or so years. The same size, the same stance, the same mane of turbulent auburn hair, the second pair of truly turquoise eyes he’d ever seen in his life.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he began, fumbling for words, his whole balance gone wonky. “But if you’re... uhm... Denise... uhm...”
“I am. And you’re the Aussie who’s sworn to grace our fair city until he finds Bess Carson,” she said with a grin. “I suppose you know you’re the talk of our whole writing community. So much persistence, so much... well, persistence. You’d best come in, Geoffrey Barrett, and have some coffee. You sure look as though you need caffeine badly. Sydney, leave him alone,” she said to the dog, and turned away to let Geoff follow her into the house.
“I wondered how long it would take you to get to me,” she said, after putting two mugs, a coffee pot, and some chocolate doughnuts between them at the kitchen table. “Although I can’t see why. I don’t know Bess all that well, and I certainly have no idea where she is.”
“That makes two of us,” he said, wishing her dog would stop sniffling at his crotch. “I’m beginning to wonder if I know her at all, and I'm sure as hell not making any progress at finding her. Running around like a blue-arsed fly is all I've accomplished so far, and to be honest I’m getting too frustrated for words.”
“Here, have some chocolate.” She extended the plate of doughnuts. “I've always found chocolate to be a great cure for the unhappiness caused by the failure of one's hopes, desires, dreams and expectations.”
“Now you sound like a romance author, not a mystery author. Look, I’m working with what I’ve got, Denise, which happens at the moment to be nothing at all. Talk about spinning your wheels! Half my problem is that I’m a stranger in a strange land. I don’t know the local rules, no bloke will give me the time of day once I mention why I’m here, and most of the time I don’t even understand the language. Then, at long last, this bookstore owner suggested I talk to you. Buggered if I know what she’s up to, since a few days ago she wouldn’t tell me a damned thing. But, well, here I am.”
“So it’s getting near quitting time?”
Denise's voice was soft, but the question held inferences he couldn’t ignore. Geoff met her gaze with a blistering glare. “I never learned to spell that word,” he said. “So no, I’m not going to quit. I’m not ever going to quit, even it gets to where all I can do is sit down in front of the biggest bookstore in town and stay there until Bess appears. My next step is to take out full-page ads in all your bloody newspapers. By the way, if you don’t mind me getting personal, you and Bess—”
“Look alike, bar a couple dozen years,” she finished for him. “And no, I'm not her mother. Bess Carson and I aren't related, but we've exchanged emails and crossed paths at book-signings and conferences, where, naturally, everybody always does a double-take.” A second grin lit up her face. “But I do know the local scene, and since you’re a dinkie-die Tasmanian, I suppose I can’t refuse to help you, lest my co-author on your fair island go cranky with me.”
“Co-author? Bloody hell! You're... Calliope, on NincLink!”
“Too right, mate. I named myself for a protagonist in one of my books. And please, call me Deni; I prefer it, actually.”
“I saw your collaboration post. That's when I first devised my scheme...” Geoff paused to fake a cough, thinking he'd sound like nothing less than a randy bugger if he admitted his collaboration with Bess had originally been a ruse.
Whereupon something flashed across those amazing Bess-like eyes. Just a flicker, hardly anything really, and yet Geoff somehow knew there was more than a writing collaboration going on between this splendid, mature redhead and his unknown colleague in Tasmania. Much more, and it was all too close to home for him not to catch the nuances.
“Ah,” he said, borrowing Ida's favorite certification. “Not you, too?” And had to laugh with the irony of it all, the coincidence of it all, as Deni blushed. Then the two of them lost it completely, and seconds later were blind with their laughter, bent double with it. Sydney the Australian shepherd showed her disgust by leaving the room.
When they had recovered sufficiently to resume the discussion, now with a sudden bond created by the coincidence of their circumstances, Denise raised the issue of using emails or the Internet to contact Bess.
“I've tried that almost daily, Deni. She won’t answer my emails. I can’t realistically expect her to access my website, and the messages I’ve left on hers aren’t working. Honest, I’m at my wits’ end. There has to be something to do that’s more positive than what I’ve tried so far.”
Denise shook her tousled auburn curls. “I don't know where she's hiding out, Geoff. I'd tell you if I did, I swear. She hasn't posted on NincLink, where all this idiocy started, yours and mine, but she's posted on a few other author loops. So my suggestion is to find a computer expert who can trace the source.”
“I've tried that, too.” Geoff rose to his feet, aware that his face was now a mask of despair. “Thanks for the doughnuts and coff—”
“I'll bet you haven't tried my ex-husband. Ordinarily, I wouldn't send my worst enemy...” She shrugged.
“Is this a last straw?”
“Yes, but it's a viable straw, and I know for a fact that he's home. We've been arguing... by phone... over Sydney... my dog. He wants her. I'm fairly certain it's just a ploy to hurt me, but I stupidly forgot to list Sydney in the divorce decree and...” Denise's voice trailed off as she gave Geoff a second shrug.
For some strange reason, her story didn't ring true, Geoff thought. Maybe because she sounded as if she was making it up as she went along. Or maybe he was imagining things, emotionally drained by the laughter that, for his part, had teetered on the brink of hysteria. Or maybe he couldn't decipher the truth if it bit him in the bum. Bess and Ida would certainly agree with that.
He watched Denise write down an address, then add a crude map, and fervently hoped her ex-husband was a successful last straw. Because Geoffrey Barrett, prosperous businessman and author, was not only running out of straws, but needles in haystacks as well.
Crossing the threshold, he restrained himself from drop-kicking Denise's bloody dog over the fence as it forcibly hammered at his crotch with a cold, wet nose. Australian shepherd? It looked more like a feral, unshorn sheep.
“Where are you and your...co-author getting together, Deni?” he asked. “Tasmania? Here?”
“Tasmania. I leave next month. And believe me, Geoff, I wish you luck with Bess. Maybe we can all get together Down Under.”
“Ripper plan,” he said, giving her an impulsive hug.
Inside, Denise watched through the window as Barrett's car blasted like a rocket from her driveway. Then she turned to her phone.
“He’s on his way,” she said when the machine picked up at the other end. “And I hope to hell you know what you’re doing, Mouse, because he really is a nice guy. I hated lying to him, and wouldn't have lied, except that we're playing by your ratty rules and I didn't think you'd tell him where Bess was unless I did. I told him that you were my ex-husband. And trust me, you prankish, perfidious, unprincipled piece of Rodentia! Your 'Lucifer' is okay, and he's also so in love with Bess, he’ll strangle you if you mess around with him.”
~~~
Geoff’s last-straw euphoria had dissipat
ed by the time he found the obscure address Deni had provided, and the person who answered the door did little to make him feel better. The face of a gnome, complete with wispy, almost-white hair, topped the body of a professional athlete, aging perhaps, but successfully fighting it. As Geoff was led through a veritable labyrinth of passages in what had once been a downtown warehouse, he could almost visualize the man ahead lumbering forward in full gridiron gear. It was no surprise to reach the nerve center of the guru’s operation and find a Denver Broncos jacket hanging up near the door and a profusion of football trophies lining what wall space wasn’t taken up with computer gear.
Just what I need, a bloody ex-jock, Geoff thought, and his heart sank.
“Deni phoned, so I think I know what you want,” the guru said in a surprisingly soft voice, almost as if he was trying to disguise it. “One other thing I did think of, though. Have you considered hacking into her website? Hacking in is easy as pie. Getting out is only marginally more difficult. Might be worth a try. You want to locate this lady pretty bad, huh?”
“Try anything you think might work, please. I don’t care how long it takes or how much it costs. There’s only one thing that matters here, and that’s finding Bess Carson and somehow arranging for me to talk to her. I’ll do it on the courthouse steps in the middle of a blizzard, if that’s what it takes, but I’m not leaving Colorado Springs until I find her.”
“Suits me. Funny you should end up at Deni’s house. I mean, it must have been a last resort...”
He let the comment run out on its own accord, but Geoff had the distinct feeling this aging athlete was playing with him, like a cat plays with a...mouse. Then, incongruously, Geoff remembered a long-ago list-serve comment Denise had once written, something about how her soon-to-be-ex-husband bore a striking resemblance to Icabod Crane. Either there's been a lot of good tucker shoveled into this bloke since then, or...
“Until you asked, I was wondering too,” he said, and could actually feel his eyes harden along with his voice. “But now, I’m beginning to wonder if I wasn’t directed toward Deni. I suppose you wouldn't know anything about that.”
“Me? No way. One thing I stay out of as much as possible is other people’s business.” Turning toward his equipment, the guru chortled. “This is going to take a while, Barrett. Do you want to hang around? Or would you rather go back to the Broadmoor and wait until I get in touch with you?”
I didn't tell Denise...Deni...I was staying at the Broadmoor Hotel! Suspicions confirmed, Geoff had to think for a moment before he found the control to reply, and even when he did, it was an effort to keep his voice neutral.
“I could go get us some beer,” he said, then threw caution to the wind. “Or do mice drink beer? On the other hand, I reckon a bit of Ratsac might be appropriate, except they tell me the FBI and the IRS and the Marines, for all I know, have already tried that. And why the hell did Deni tell me you were her ex?”
The broad muscular shoulders tensed before Mouse turned to him with a gargoyle’s grin. “Bess said you weren’t no dummy, Lucifer. I guess I should’ve listened better. By the way, Deni nearly bit my head off. You should hear what she called me. I aimed you at her and made her fib. Deni said it was a rat's maze, and she's right, but I had to make certain of you, myself. For Bess's sake. She's been hurt, and hurt bad, and I love her very much.” He held out one huge paw and nearly crushed Geoff’s more slender fingers as they shook hands.
Then Mouse leaned back in his chair, observing Geoff through eyes that belied his innocent appearance. “Okay,” he said with another gargoyle grin. “So I’m a gamer and the best hacker in the western U.S. of A. And you’re mad as hell and ready to take me apart. Fair enough. But it’s over now, Lucifer, or at least my part is. If you unclench your fists and settle down a bit, I’m going to draw you a map. And then, if you promise to forget where you were as soon as you leave here, we can let the path of true love smooth itself out again. Deal?”
Geoff met Mouse's hard-eyed gaze, and found himself liking this strange man, regardless of his quirky use of what must be a phenomenal intelligence. “No beer laced with Ratsac, Mouse? No satisfaction? You sure know how to spoil a bloke’s fun.”
“I think you’ll have all the fun you can handle in about an hour.” Then, surprisingly, the strangely ugly face softened to become appealingly human. “I wish I’d met you in person earlier, Geoff. I probably wouldn’t have made you suffer. Not that I’m apologizing or anything.”
“No more Lucifer?”
“I'll leave that up to Bess. Although Deni says Lucifer sounds intriguing.”
Geoff shook the enormous paw again. “Thanks, mate, and you can be sure Bess’ll thank you too.”
“Yeah, well, just don’t invite me to the wedding. I don’t do weddings. But you have my permission to name your first child after me.”
“Mouse?”
“What's wrong with Mouse?”
“Nothing. I like it. Mouse Barrett. Works for a boy or girl.”
With yet another grin, the athlete-turned-electronic-guru zeroed in on his computers, leaving Geoff to find his own way out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bess stared at the accusatory screen. She almost wished her computer could acknowledge disgruntled facial expressions with: “You've got angst” – the same way her ISP announced: “You've got mail.”
Having totally ignored her email and focused on the book she'd begun before her Tasmania visit, she had rescued her heroine from the ravening Apaches. Or rather her hero…who looked and sounded and was too much like Geoffrey Barrett…had. Within shouting distance of finishing the historical romance, she couldn’t, didn't, or didn't want to.
She had tried. Lord knows, she'd tried. But her climactic love scenes were provincial, boorish, not loving in any way she could discern. They'd been written, revised, scanned for spelling errors, and discarded. So had a dozen other more-or-less traditionally happy endings, most of which made her want to gag.
Happy endings! Hah! What a lot of old cobblers, as Geoff would say.
“No, no, no!” she cried, then buried her head in her hands. She would not think about Geoff. It was killing her.
And yet she couldn't help herself. He was here in her hero, in her life. She saw him everywhere. When she ate her “brekkie” cereal. When she took a shower. Especially when she strolled through the park and watched dogs of all breeds fetch air-borne Frisbees.
Her favorite Barbra Streisand CD was issuing forth “Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf,” so at first the rapping at the sliding patio door didn’t register. Even when it did, Bess didn’t look up, knowing her eyes would be blotchy, her face tear-stained.
Then she did look up, and fairly flew out of her swivel chair to stand just inside the door, hand on the latch, unable to make her fingers work.
Through the glass, Geoff's eyes caressed her, one dark brow raised in the slightly quizzical gesture she had always associated with his pirate persona.
Bess felt like a statue. She couldn’t speak, didn’t trust herself to move, and her heart thundered so loudly she couldn't hear his words, even though she was aware that his mouth formed words.
With an effort, she managed to shake her tousled curls, as if that would somehow restore the balance between her heart's clamor and her ears' sudden deafness, and, surprisingly, it did.
“Bloody oath, Bess, but you’ve led me a merry chase,” he was saying. “Are you going to let me in, or do I stand out here until I get covered by the next blizzard? Look, I’m not the Big Bad Wolf. And even if I were, I'm completely out of huffs and puffs. I won't eat you, love. I simply want to talk to you.”
“You are,” she said, finding her lost voice. “Talking, I mean.”
He shrugged. “Don’t try my patience too much, Miss Carson. A week in this city, pleasant as it may be for ignorant Yankees, is already more than enough for a poor, innocent, Tasmanian country boy. So please, Bess, open the door.”
As if they belonged to someone else, she
watched her fingers move, then stood aside as he strolled indoors, calm as could be. Turning off the CD player, he wandered over to stand next to her computer, his gaze flickering across the screen.
“How did you find me?” she asked, joining him at the computer, wishing she could skitter a chair across plywood because, while her toes seemed substantial enough, her legs felt like spaghetti.
He glanced at the picture window. “This place has a wondrous view of the mountains, my little possum.”
“Don't try my patience too much, Mr. Barrett,” she retorted, amazed at how steady her voice sounded. “How did you find me?”
He reached down, picked up her computer mouse, and casually stroked the small manual device with his lean, mobile fingers.
Bess got the message. “I’ll kill that little piece of vermin,” she said. “He promised—”
“I hardly think ‘little’ is the right word.” Geoff grinned. “Your mouse is a damned big one. I’m glad I didn’t have to get physical with him in order to break his silence.”
“What did you do, instead? Bribe him?” She was angry, now. Angry with herself for letting Geoff inside, angry with Mouse for betraying her, and angry with Geoff because he looked too much like the hero in her unfinished book.
“I appealed to his sense of romance.” Geoff placed the mouse on a mouse pad, then turned to face Bess, whose arms were folded across the front of her Denver Broncos sweatshirt. “Now, all I have to figure out is how to appeal to yours.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Like you don’t have the most beautiful auburn hair in the world, even when it’s three days off from a comb? Speaking of which, what the hell is the story on this Deni Dietz woman?”
“Denise Dietz? The mystery author? When did you meet Deni?
“This morning, just before I saw Mouse.”
“You saw Mouse? You actually saw Mouse?”
“Of course. That's how I know he's not little. You'd better sit down, Bess. You look as if you're about to fall over.”
Finding Bess Page 25
