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Storm’s eyes narrowed. “So the young lady has already been to see you.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Mike was hardly paying attention.
He still couldn’t fathom the connection. Sara and Storm? It was like trying to imagine an angel chatting with the devil over a friendly cup of tea.
“You know Sara Holyfield?” he demanded in utter disbelief.
Storm merely raised his brows. “Let’s just say I know of her.”
“You surprise me, Storm. I thought hardheaded businessmen like you confined your money dealings to this world. What’ve you been trying to do, find a way to take it with you?”
When Storm’s brow furrowed in confusion, Mike took a keen pleasure in needling him. “Looks like your sources are holding out on you. Didn’t they tell you? Sara’s a selfprofessed psychic. Some kind of a medium.” Mike dropped his voice to an exaggerated spooky hush. “The lady deals in ghosts, Storm.”
For a moment Storm looked taken aback, then irritated. “That particular aspect of Miss Holyfield’s life doesn’t interest me. It’s her reason for calling upon you that concerns me. She came to ask you to take on a missing-persons case, didn’t she? To search for a man named...John Patrick.”
“What if she did? What’s it to you?”
“Simply this.” Storm’s reply was soft and chilling. “I don’t want him found.”
Mike stared at him, astonished. As though he feared he had been too brusque, Storm hurried on. “I don’t know what induced this Miss Holyfield to meddle in this affair, but I assure you she has gotten in over her head.”
So she had, if Sara was inadvertently doing something to trample on the mighty Storm’s toes. Oh, angel, what have you stumbled into here? Mike wondered. Though he maintained his nonchalant pose, all his detecting instincts went on full alert.
“If you know something that would be to my client’s benefit, I think you’d better tell me, Storm,” Mike said, shoving to the back of his mind the fact that he had thrown Sara out of his office and told her to go get herself a good shrink.
“All your client needs to know is that her quest to find John Patrick should be dropped. You should advise her to do so, and if she refuses to listen, you’d do well to back off from this case yourself, Mr. Parker.”
“Is that some kind of a threat, Storm?”
“Consider it an offer. I would be prepared to triple your usual rates if you could persuade Miss Holyfield to abandon this foolish search.”
“And what makes you think you can buy me like a cheap suit?”
Storm’s insolent green eyes raked over Mike, from his scuffed sneakers to his T-shirt “Because, my dear Mr. Parker, I could probably calculate your entire net worth to the nearest penny. And I fear the sum would likely be in pennies.”
Mike had been told that he was worth nothing in far more blunt ways but none had ever stung worse than Storm’s elegant way of expressing it.
He told Storm what to do with himself in a short but pithy terms and reached for the door handle, only to curse in frustration. He’d forgotten he was virtually a prisoner in Storm’s little luxury-bound den on wheels.
“I’m sorry if my lack of tact offends you, Mr. Parker. Despite your dislike of me, I bear you no ill will,” Storm said, adopting a more conciliatory tone. “I admire your talents and feel they are completely wasted trying to run some two-bit detective agency. I told you that years ago when I first tried to hire you to run security for my casino.”
“Well, maybe you should have spent more time trying to tempt me and less time tempting my wife,” Mike snarled. “I wasn’t interested in working for you then, Storm. And I’m not now. So I suggest you unlock this damned door before I find my own way out of here, like smashing that fancy little computer of yours through one of the windows.”
His angry gaze collided with Storm’s and held for a moment. Then Storm’s heavy lids drifted down, veiling his eyes. Reaching to his side, he depressed a button and the door lock clicked open.
Mike shoved the door open and thrust himself out of the car, but before he even had time to straighten, Storm’s silky voice echoed from the cavernous recesses of the limo.
“Parker, one last word of caution. You’d be wise to forget about taking on this case.”
“I’ve never been noted for my wisdom. Have a nice day, Mr. Storm.” Mike slammed the door closed and stalked off down the sidewalk without looking back. He charged upstream through a pack of stupid tourists who didn’t seem to know that if they wanted to find the boardwalk, they had to head toward the ocean, not away from it.
Crossing against the light, Mike was nearly grazed by a honking taxi and its cursing driver, but he continued blindly on for several more blocks before he managed to cool down.
When he finally paused to draw breath, he was more irritated with himself than Storm. Irritated that even after all this time, he’d still let the guy get to him.
“What a morning,” he muttered. First the queen of the gypsies and now the casino king, the two of them bizarrely connected by a ghost and a missing chump named John Patrick. It was like stumbling into the plot of an old mystery movie after you’d missed the whole first reel.
But it wasn’t his mystery, Mike reminded himself. Then why had he allowed Storm to believe he’d taken on Sara as a client? The answer was simple. For the first time since he’d met the guy, the smooth-polished Mr. Storm had actually seemed capable of breaking into a sweat like any ordinary Joe. Whether he was alive or dead, this John Patrick person obviously posed some sort of threat to Storm, which meant he had something to hide—a fact that didn’t surprise Mike at all.
Nobody pulled down the kind of millions and deals that Storm had and did it completely honestly. That was a bitter truth Mike had learned long ago from watching the antics of his own father. The only difference between Storm and Mike’s old man, was that Storm appeared to be the better gambler.
But maybe his luck was about to run out. Mike’s mouth set into a grim line. He’d owed Storm one for a very long time, and not just because of that business with Darcy. Even more because Mike had an innate dislike of all cheats and con men. And behind that Ivy League manner and prominent Philadelphia family background, Mike had always had a gut feeling that Xavier Storm would prove to be the biggest fraud of all.
The more he thought about it, the more nosing around into this Patrick business began to appeal to Mike.
Are you sure that’s what’s appealing to you? his inner voice tormented. Or the excuse to see a certain big-eyed, curly-haired angel of a blonde again?
“No way!” Mike blurted out so loud that he startled several teenagers passing by. But despite his denial, he was once again overpowered by that feeling of Sara melting in his arms.
He was quick to shut it down with a vehement shake of his head. Despite the sizzling kiss they’d shared, he didn’t want to be anywhere near a woman who read tea leaves, who might want to try reading him. If he decided to go looking for John Patrick, he’d do it on his own, Mike resolved. “I can do just fine without the psychic services of Miss Sara Holyfield.”
Long after Mike Parker had slammed his way out of the back seat, the black limo continued to idle at the curbside. His shoulders slumped, Xavier Storm leaned forward, bracing his head upon his hands in a display of weariness he never allowed anyone else to see.
Waiting for some instructions from his employer, Storm’s driver eventually became concerned and lowered the tinted glass himself. Twisting around in his seat, Mr. George glanced anxiously back at Storm. “You okay, boss? You get that business with Parker all taken care of?”
With a long sigh, Storm straightened. “No, I handled the situation rather badly. I fear I overplayed my hand, Mr. George.”
A mistake Xavier Storm rarely made, but his usual icy calm had been badly shaken ever since he’d stumbled across the advertisement in the papers and realized that someone was looking for John Patrick. Why? After all these years? When he’d recovered from his initial shock, he initiated a few careful inquiries after the person who’d placed the ad, only to discover the situation had already grown worse.
Only yesterday morning, Miss Holyfield had cheerfully informed the newspaper she was discontinuing her ad in favor of a more direct approach. She was off to Atlantic City to hire herself a famous investigator, Mr. Michael Parker.
Storm’s mouth twitched into a grim smile that held little humor. “Of all the detectives in New Jersey, why did that foolish girl have to drag Parker into this?” he murmured.
“I dunno, boss.” Mr. George’s deep-set eyes darkened with concern. “But what are you going to do? If Parker and the Holyfield girl succeed in finding the truth about John Patrick...” the chauffeur trailed off.
“If they succeed, Mr. George?” Storm’s face set in taut lines, his voice assuming its customary dangerous purr. “Well, we will simply have to make certain that they don’t.”
Three
Mike guided his lipstick red Mustang convertible down the shaded streets of Aurora Falls. It was definitely a one-fast-food-joint type of little burg with Yuppie pretensions. Even the quickie mart sported a blasted pink-and-white awning.
As he turned the corner onto a street that looked suspiciously like one he’d already been down, his radio speaker blared out the sound of the Eagles warning him to take it easy. Probably way too loud for Dullsville, so Mike leaned over and switched the cassette tape off.
He brushed aside a bead of sweat trickling down his brow. The afternoon sun baked down through the open top of the convertible, making Mike curse his choice of apparel—dress blue jeans, his best T-shirt topped off with a navy sports jacket. Mike Parker, P.I. in his professional mode. Ready, perhaps, to make a better impression on Miss Sara Holyfield.
No way! Mike scowled his denial, quick and sharp, that his spiffed-up appearance had anything to do with Sara.
Oh, yeah? a voice inside him taunted. And so who’s the close shave, the freshly trimmed hair and the liberal dose of Mr. Manly cologne supposed to be for? The ghost?
Mike was beginning to find his inner voice damned annoying, especially when it was right. Okay, maybe he had given a thought or two to Sara when he’d spent that extra five minutes in front of the mirror this morning. If he wanted the woman’s cooperation, he had a few fences to mend with her after the way he’d treated her yesterday. Making a pass at her, flinging out sarcastic insults, chucking her out of his office.
When he saw her again, he’d be lucky if she didn’t tell him to go to hell. If he hoped to get any information out of her regarding this Patrick business, then he was going to have to turn on a little charm, a pretty scarce commodity with him.
But first, he was going to have to find her. After Sara had left yesterday, he tossed all the information he’d taken down about her straight into the trash. And wouldn’t you know it? It would be the one day Rosa would creep into work and decide to make herself useful by tidying up his office. Sara’s address and phone number were now buried somewhere in a city Dumpster.
But it shouldn’t be too difficult for Mike to locate her in a small town like this, should it? After all, he was supposed to be a detective. Squeaking through on the yellow end of a traffic light, Mike whipped the Mustang onto what he presumed to be Aurora Fall’s main street.
Mostly because there was a sign that proclaimed helpfully Main Street. The wide boulevard planted with skinny striplings of trees and lined with a row of spanking new shops, tried desperately to convey an impression of old-moneyed charm. Like a gaggle of ladies wearing bonnets, almost every shop front was adorned with one of those prissy awnings, except for—
Mike slammed on the brakes, staring through his windshield • at the store set midway down the block. Instead of an awning, its doorway was overhung by a huge mechanical eye, winking open and closed, the Plasticine lashes drifting coyly up and down. Beneath this device dangled a sign announcing the store’s name in bright red letters. The Omniscent Eye. Then in small print, New Age Bookstore.
And Mike had been wondering how difficult it was going to be to find Sara Holyfield. As he studied the sign, a slow grin spread over his face. He didn’t realize he was holding up traffic until a horn blared loudly behind him.
“All right, all right,” Mike groused.
Easing his car into the nearest parking space, Mike got out, fed some change into the meter and then sauntered down the sidewalk for a closer inspection of Sara’s shop front. While the monster eye whirred merrily over his head, Mike couldn’t help chuckling to himself. He was able to imagine what a stir Sara’s advertising device must be creating with her nearest neighbors, a petite sizes boutique where Mike could see a snooty blonde working behind the counter, and on the other side an antique “emporium” complete with bay window. Mike liked Sara all the better for what must be her defiance of the local awning-and-swirly-sign dress code.
Ducking down, Mike paused to check his reflection in the shop glass, wetting his fingers and slicking down a stray cowlick of hair. Reaching for the handle, he pushed open the door.
As he entered the store, a symphony of chimes tinkled, but the noise was almost lost in the other sounds that swirled around him—watt speakers pouring forth the sounds of pattering rain, birdcalls and chittering monkeys. The illusion of having strayed into some kind of tropical rain forest was helped by the fact that plants littered the surface of counters, fronds and ferns everywhere, green waxy-looking leaves sprouting lush and exotic flowers.
Although small and cramped with merchandise, Sara’s shop seemed somehow cool and soothing after the bustle of summer traffic outside. The place smelled of books and some subtle fragrant incense. As the door eased softly shut behind him, Mike caught himself glancing around.
Shelves lined with texts promised to help him with everything, from thinking himself thin to channeling his past lives. Crowding the aisle were displays of tarot cards, herbal remedies, incense stacked like cinnamon sticks in glass jars, meditation tapes and CDs. Mike didn’t bother looking closer at those. Somehow he doubted he would find familiar musical groups tucked in among them.
Flicking one finger over a weird-looking goddess incense burner, Mike pulled a wry face. He supposed someone must buy this stuff considering some of the things his old man had been able to palm off on unsuspecting marks.
But thinking about his father was only sure to darken his day and Mike was in a reasonably good mood for once. He didn’t want to spoil it, so he was quick to shunt all thoughts of Robert Parker aside.
Edging cautiously past a stand filled with scented candles, he nearly bumped his head against some sort of circular rope hanging adorned with feathers, the sort of thing that could have been woven by a demented spider.
He was beginning to feel a little like the Alice kid who’d jumped down a manhole or something only to find herself alone in some kind of strange wonderland. The shop seemed deserted. But at the back of the store, he saw a doorway hung with a beaded curtain.
He headed for it and found the glass counter display of crystals and silver jewelry. An old-fashioned cash register that would make a satisfying ring when recording a sale sat on the well-polished surface.
Behind the counter, perched on a stool, her head bent over a book, was Sara. She didn’t even seem to have noticed that anybody had come into her shop. A customer could waltz in and rob her blind. But perhaps she didn’t have that kind of problem in a store like this. Maybe shoplifting spiritual doodads was considered bad karma.
Mike paused a moment to study Sara before making his presence known. She was just as beautiful and angelic as he’d remembered. Today she wore her hair pulled up high into a ponytail, ringlets falling down like a silken blond cascade, drawing attention to the delicate nape of her neck. Darkframed reading glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, magnifying the solemn intensity of her blue eyes, making her look at once sweet and sexy and...
And those were exactly the kind of thoughts that had gotten him into trouble with Sara Holyfield yesterday. Mike reined himself in sharply—he was here for business, strictly business. Find out exactly how much Sara knew about John Patrick and then get the hell out of this voodoo joint.
Mike took a step closer to the counter and cleared his throat.
“Yes? May I help you?” Sara asked, looking reluctantly up from her book with a bright smile. Her gaze collided with his and she froze. Her lovely smile faded and Mike was sorry to see it go. But he supposed he could hardly have expected any different.
“Mr. Parker,” she said after a painful pause. “What—what a surprise.”
Mike summoned up his most charming smile. “Yeah, I guess it is. I just happened to be passing through Aurora Falls and I noticed the shop and thought what the heck? I might as well look you up.”
“Really?” she asked politely, but doubt shadowed her porcelain-fine features. The woman was too nice to come right out and call him a liar, but Mike almost wished she would glare at him, shout, order him out of her store. Anything but barrage him with this sad and watchful silence.
After another of those awkward hesitations, she removed her glasses as though she liked him better out of focus. “After yesterday, I never expected to see you again.”
“Well,” Mike started to drawl, then stopped. No, breezy and casual clearly wasn’t going to work here. Time to revert to an enchantingly frank and sincere apology.
“Actually,” he said, straightening a little. “The truth is I wasn’t just passing by. I came here on purpose to find you. Ever since you left my office, I kept thinking that I’d been a little abrupt with you.”
“A little?” Sara’s lashes drifted down as she toyed with the binding of her book. “You accused me of being a charlatan and a lunatic. You slammed your office door in my face.”
Her words were very matter of fact, but beneath the calm, he caught the barest threading of hurt. He’d far rather she be ready to smash her crystal ball over his head.
She sat there with that quietly wistful expression, that sad, sad look in her eyes, until Mike squirmed, feeling like the kind of creep that goes around kicking helpless kittens and telling kids there isn’t a Santa Claus.
Dropping all pretense and slick moves, Mike stepped straight up to the counter and heaved a gusty sigh. “Look, Sara, I—I’m really sorry. I know I behaved like a total jerk. I guess I was—um—having a bad aura day. But give me another chance, okay?”
He bent down to peer coaxingly into her face. “My aura’s much better today. Wanna feel?”
“No, thank you,” she said. Her lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile, although she whipped her hands off the counter and safely out of his reach.
She risked a look up at him and he saw that the light was back in her eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, and to Mike it seemed as though the air in the shop suddenly changed, becoming closer, warmer, heavier with the weight of something. Auras, incense. Hell, he didn’t know what it was. He just found himself leaning closer, pulled in by the tug of her big blue eyes, overcome by the urge to kiss Sara full on the mouth.
Their lips were little more than a whisper apart when Sara blinked and took flight, scrambling off her stool like a startled butterfly. Taking a wary step back, she folded her hands, saying, “Well, it—it was very nice of you stop by.”
Mike jerked upright, wondering once again what the hell had come over him. Sara’s tone sounded nervous, but dismissive. He’d better get his act together and remember what he’d come here for. Time to lay all his cards on the table.
“Actually,” he confessed, “I didn’t come all the way to Aurora Falls just to apologize.”
“Oh? Then why are you here, Mr. Parker?”
“Not Mr. Parker,” he said with a trace of irritation. “I asked you to use my first name, remember?”
“Alright...Michael.”
Michael? Alarm bells should have been going off in his head. But somehow he liked the way she said it, as light and silvery as the little chimes that tinkled over her doorway. Then, too, he was distracted as she came out from behind the counter.
Flowed out would have been a more accurate description. She had to be one of the most graceful women he’d ever known, and he considered himself an expert on the wiggle and jiggle of the feminine form. His ex, Darcy, had moved with a blatantly sultry sway, very earthy, but Sara seemed to float on a cloud, enticing a man with thoughts of more heavenly pleasures.
A sundress of shimmering blue swirled to midcalf about her shapely legs, the silky pattern bespangled with little stars and half-moons as though Sara had draped her willowy form in a bit of heaven. The bodice was modest and sweet rather than plunging, but the effect was somehow even more tantalizing, thin spaghetti straps keeping the fabric tugged well up and over the gentle swell of her breasts.
Was she wearing a bra today? Mike caught himself wishing for a blaze of sunlight when the sound of Sara’s voice called his wayward male mind back to order.
“Michael?” she said in a tone that suggested she’d been forced to repeat herself. “Just why are you here, then?”
Why was he here? Mike wrenched his eyes from the curve of Sara’s breast. Why was he here? Oh, yeah.
He paced off a few steps, jingling the change in his pockets if for no other reason than to make sure he kept his hands to himself. “It just so happens,” he said, “that I unexpectedly cleared up some of the things I’d been working on, so now I have a little time available. I’ve reconsidered the case you brought me and decided I can take it after all.”
“Oh,” Sara said softly.
Oh? That was it. Just oh? Mike felt unreasonably piqued. He hadn’t expected her to fling herself at him in a fit of gratitude, but it wouldn’t have hurt her to show some enthusiasm. Maybe she hadn’t understood him, so he added, “What I mean is that I can help you find your missing dude. John Patrick, wasn’t it?”
