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Distant yet close. Seductive yet standoffish.
He didn’t think he’d ever met a woman who gave off more conflicting signals.
“Because,” she finally said, “I have something for him.”
He forgot what he’d asked her. Or why he was here, the day of the week, the current president of the United States. Oh, right, he’d asked why she wanted to see Braxton. Whoever that was.
A corner of her mouth lifted slightly, as though amused by his caginess. Although he preferred to think it was inspired by his overwhelming manliness. Anyway, it was a nice mouth. Soft, curvy lips. Their color so light and ripe, he could almost taste their raspberry sweetness.
He realized he was smiling back.
“So,” she said, her voice turning husky, “do you know where I can find Braxton?”
Oh, now she’d done it.
He’d always been a sucker for women’s smoky, raspy voices, and she’d just given it to him twofold. She was a young Lauren Bacall. Cool, unflappable, smooth. And he was Sam Spade, private eye, ready and willing to help the damsel in distress.
Ka-boom.
He straightened, laughing as he realized what he’d just fallen for.
“Oh, you’re good,” he said, giving his head a shake. “The hot blonde strolling in here, bringing trouble into my life. That pantsuit fooled me at first. Who’s your stylist? Hillary Clinton? That uptight schoolmarm bun, whoa, we’re talking foxy...like Frau Farbissina in the Austin Powers movies. But I have a thing for blondes, which they probably told you. And that husky, smoky voice. Wow. Tie me up and make me write bad checks all night long, baby.”
He laughed. She didn’t.
“So,” he said, turning down the dial on his frivolity, “who put you up to this? Drake?”
A sly half smile played on her lips. “Right, it was Drake. He told me Braxton would be sitting at this desk at nine.”
“Yeah, I open up most mornings.”
She placed a manila envelope on the desk. “Then this is for you, Braxton Morgan. Have a nice day.”
Neatly printed on the envelope were the words To Braxton Morgan, personal and confidential and Dmitri Romanov in the top left corner. The papers from Dmitri. And the check. Smoky-husky was his associate?
When he looked up, the blonde was walking away. No goodbye. Just a silky-smooth exit, like a trail of smoke from Lauren Bacall’s cigarette.
Was that how the clichéd private-eye story ended? After the hot blonde walked into the detective agency and exchanged a few words with the P.I., who of course fell hard for her, she walked back out? Just like that?
Not in this movie.
Braxton grabbed his phone and headed after her.
* * *
HEADING TO HER CAR in the Morgan-LeRoy Investigations lot, Frances shivered as a chilly breeze flittered past. Two hours ago, the skies had been deceptively blue and the sun so bright she’d tossed her sunglasses into her purse. Now clouds were moving in, obliterating the sun, casting the world in a surreal, hazy light.
Footsteps slapped behind her.
“Hey, Babe!”
She looked around. The only other person nearby was a guy in a cap with earflaps and pom-poms ambling down the sidewalk, so “Babe” had to mean her.
She turned back to Braxton, who was walking briskly toward her. Hadn’t bothered to put on a jacket or coat, so he had to feel the cold, but he seemed oblivious to it. Flashed her a smile and waved as though out for a stroll on a balmy spring day.
He was tall, a little over six feet, she guessed. That tucked-in fitted shirt emphasized his V shape—from the width of his shoulders down to his toned chest that tapered to a flat, lean waist. Although he wore his trousers stylishly loose, the material seemed to skim his muscled thighs as he walked.
A sensual awareness prickled over her skin.
Back in the Morgan-LeRoy office, she’d found him to be cute in a goofy kind of way, but he’d also been sitting down, so she didn’t get an overall impression. Plus she’d been juggling other thoughts—trying to get a fix if this was Braxton, as she wanted to hand over the envelope to the right person, thinking about her brunch meeting today with her boss.
Her thoughts scattered as Braxton stopped in front of her. He blew out a breath and grinned—an infectious, sheepish smile that filled his whole face. Standing this close, inches apart really, she got the full force of his gray eyes, really more of a light gray-blue that reminded her of early-morning skies.
“I said some dumb stuff back there.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry.”
His flustered boyishness—like a teenage boy worried about what to say to the girl—took her by surprise. Where’d the cocky, in-your-face guy go? The one who blurted that line about tying him up and making him write bad checks all night?
Sudden heat crawled up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. Shouldn’t have thought about that.
“Must say,” she said casually, willing the heat to subside as she looked over at an old pickup, its suspension squeaking, lumber along Graces Avenue, “I’ve never been compared to Frau Farbissina before.”
“I thought someone was punking me—didn’t know you were really here on business.”
As she turned to face him, a gust of wind blew his soapy, masculine scent toward her. She held back a shiver, not from the cold this time.
“Don’t worry about it.” She meant it. Whatever had been going on back there in the office didn’t make sense, but it was a small issue in a world of big ones.
“I don’t deserve to get off the hook so easily,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble she felt all the way down to her toes.
“No, you don’t,” she agreed, trying not to smile.
They’d only met a few minutes ago, but she felt the rhythm, the current between them, as though they’d done this dozens of times. Playing, teasing each other. Doubted any woman could resist his charm.
Braxton had what her mom would have called “matinee-idol good looks.” Illegally handsome and exuberantly male. Plus he exuded an unlabored, playful sexiness that if left unbridled could gallop into full-on killer charisma. She imagined he had to hold the reins tight, practice some self-imposed restraint, try to wheel it out on special occasions only.
She glanced at the old Volvo, the only other car in the small lot. Had to be his. Why did a charismatic, good-looking guy with a sharp sense of style drive a rusting, bald-tired car?
“Piece of junk,” he muttered, following her line of vision.
Everything within her froze.
She stared at a patch of peeling paint on the hood, a rusted dent on its side. Braxton couldn’t see her imperfections, but if he did, would they be standing here, playing mental footsie?
She doubted it.
After all, he looked like the perfect male—classic good looks, sculpted bod, designer clothes. Maybe it wasn’t fair to assume he’d seek the same perfection in life—be it a woman, car, house, whatever—but considering how he looked down on that poor Volvo, maybe he would.
“You should fix up your car,” she said quietly, “then you’ll like it better.”
Pulling the key fob from her pocket, she headed to her Benz. Breezes whipped past, chilling whatever warmth she’d felt.
“Hey, did I say something wrong?” he said, following her.
Her heels clicked across the asphalt. She punched a button and the door locks on the Benz clicked open.
“I’ll get it,” he said, bounding ahead.
He looked so gallant opening the driver’s door for her, those sparkling gray eyes seeking her approval, but she didn’t want to play this game anymore because it was destined for a happy-never-more ending. He was the matinee-idol prince and she was the frog princess.
And no way that prince would ever want to kiss this frog princess.
Deliberately avoiding his gaze, she started to get into the car when their bodies bumped and she stumbled.
He grabbed her by the elbow, steadying her.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
She could feel his eyes wanting to connect with hers, but she couldn’t go there again. They’d experienced a few frivolous moments, and now it was time to get back to reality.
“I have a meeting,” she said evenly, lowering herself into the driver’s seat.
“What’s your na—”
The rest of his question was cut off as she closed the door with a sharp clack.
CHAPTER FOUR
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Frances took a seat at the table, immaculately set with linen, crystal and a bottle of champagne—Taittinger, no less—chilling in an ice-filled silver bucket. The lights were moody low, the classical music softly romantic.
Her boss, Charlie Eden, was dapper in a charcoal Ralph Lauren suit that complemented his silvering hair. He looked at her with shining, attentive eyes from across the table.
She and Charlie had sometimes ordered cocktails during these meetings, but champagne on ice? This was a first. Made her uncomfortable. Did he think this was some kind of date?
She flashed on several women at the Vanderbilt Insurance office who’d run over their own grandmothers to be in Frances’s shoes right now. In the company kitchen, they’d whisper breathlessly about his Porsche 911 and how its custom paint job matched its baby-blue cockpit, his Tuscan-style home on a golf course, his European vacations.
What they liked was his money, of course, not his withering looks when displeased or his condescending tone when addressing someone he viewed as an imbecile, which seemed to be half of the earth’s population. It amazed her how some people, like Charlie’s office groupies, viewed the almighty dollar as if it were the most important attribute in a potential mate, rather than traits like kindness and devotion.
Or maybe Frances was more attuned to what money couldn’t buy based on her mom’s stories of her privileged, but painfully lonely, upbringing.
So here Frances sat in a luxurious restaurant, feeling awkward. Maybe she wouldn’t have thought twice about the decor and champagne on ice if her dad hadn’t been so insistent that Charlie had a thing for her.
Did he?
She’d never picked up on any signals from her boss, but then she’d always related to his professional role, not the man behind it.
Something about Charlie she’d always picked up on loud and clear, though. He wasn’t a gambler. His every action had a plan and a purpose. Nothing with him was ever simple or spontaneous.
Which meant his reasons for selecting this restaurant were more convoluted than his setting up a date. Eventually, he’d tell her what they were.
“Hope the bubbly wasn’t too expensive, Charlie,” she said, setting her smartphone on the table, “because I won’t be drinking any. Way too early for me.”
He flashed his Gordon Gekko smile. “It’s almost noon.”
“It’s a few minutes after ten.”
“Frances, as always, you are enmeshed in the minutiae. Observe, document, categorize.”
“If everybody saw the forest instead of the trees, nobody would know how to plant a seed.”
Charlie did a slight double take, but didn’t say anything as the waiter appeared at their table. He wore a white jacket with Chez Manny stitched in blue on the pocket and gave them a practiced smile. After setting a basket of “hand crafted” rolls and butter on the table, he gestured toward the champagne. She noticed initials inked on the inside of his ring finger, which made her wonder why people got tattoos with personal messages, as though anything in life were that permanent.
“Now that your guest is here, shall I pour the champagne?” he asked.
She held her hand over her glass. “No, thank you.”
The waiter bent his head in understanding and poured the bubbly into Charlie’s crystal flute.
Her boss had wanted to meet at this restaurant last night, too, but she’d canceled, explaining she felt drained after the odd undercover-cop escort and limo meeting.
She was glad she’d gone straight home last night, because her dad had been worrying himself sick since their aborted phone call. He’d also thought he’d failed her because although he’d left messages for Charlie, he didn’t know if Charlie had heard them, so her dad fretted about her possibly being behind bars with no one coming to her aid.
Wanting to ease her dad’s concerns, she’d glossed over what had happened during their dinner of Spam sandwiches and leftover Chinese food. Said the undercover cop had pulled her over for a broken taillight and let her go with a warning. That she would have called her dad after that but had been pulled into a last-minute meeting at a downtown coffee shop with a Vanderbilt client.
After dinner, she wrote an email to Charlie filling him in on all the details, including that she’d be conducting a delivery in the morning for the Russian, after which she could meet Charlie. He wrote back later that he’d be at Chez Manny by ten.
“Would you perhaps like a Baby Bellini, a nonalcoholic drink made with peach nectar and sparkling cider?” the waiter asked her.
She ordered one, plus an omelet. Charlie ordered the cedar-plank-roasted salmon special.
After the waiter left, Charlie lifted his glass of bubbly. “To my star investigator.”
“Hardly a star. All I did was talk to the Russian.”
He took a sip of champagne, set the glass back on the table. “But he trusted you enough to invite you into his inner sanctum, Frances, which is a coup. You’ve been an investigator long enough to understand the significance of that.”
She caught an edge of apprehension in his tone.
“Pass the bread?” she asked pleasantly, studying his face, wondering what was going on with him.
He held out the basket and she helped herself to a “hand crafted” roll. She spread some of the butter—which the waiter had mentioned was “lavender laced”—on the warm roll and took a bite, savoring its herb-infused, yeasty taste.
For several moments they said nothing, listening to a gentle violin played over other diners’ murmured conversations.
“I have good news and bad news,” he finally said, “or possibly good news and good news, depending on how successful you are in this case, Frances.”
“I’m not sure I like how this sounds,” she murmured.
“I shouldn’t call it bad news. More correctly, it is potentially good news for both of us.”
