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“Gina’s my sister. Was my sister,” she corrected herself. The pain was obvious. “She’s been gone for ten months. Wait.” Agitated, blinking back tears that were threatening to overwhelm her, Carla dug into the purse she kept under her desk. “Here, here’s her picture.” She shoved her wallet at him and showed him a photograph of herself and her sister standing in front of an old house. A beat later he realized that it was the Victorian-looking house he’d gone to yesterday. “That’s Gina.” She indicated the slender young woman on the right.
“Who took this picture?”
“Gloria. We went to visit her aunt on her seventieth birthday.”
The resemblance between the woman in the photograph and the one he’d met yesterday was unmistakable. They could have been the same person. Folding the wallet closed, he handed it back to Carla.
“Ms. Wassel,” he began as gently as he could, “I have to ask—”
Carla cut him off. She couldn’t bear to hear the words. “I was driving the car when the camper side-swiped us. Gina was killed instantly.” Her breathing was ragged as she spoke. “It was Gloria who helped me through that, who let me sleep on her sofa and kept me sane.” Without looking, she dropped the wallet back into her purse. “If she hadn’t been around, I probably would have killed myself.” Her eyes held his for a moment. “If Gloria’s in some sort of danger, you’ve got to find her.”
Ben had a feeling he already had.
There were huge, gaping holes in the puzzle he found himself working. “You have access to all sorts of information here, don’t you?”
Carla’s expression told him she wasn’t sure where he was going with this, or what she should answer. “Depending on your level of clearance, yes.”
“Such as social security numbers.”
She laughed nervously, still uncertain. “Well, of course. We’re a social security office.”
“Does that mean social security numbers that are no longer in use?” This would have been the perfect place for Gloria to forge a new identity.
“Yes.” The single word emerged slowly.
He had a feeling he was on the right track. “Ms. Wassel, I know this might sound rather strange to you, but would you be able to give me your sister’s social security number?”
“Yes, but I already told you, Gina’s dead.” Carla began to access a program for him, then stopped and looked at him. “You think Gloria’s using Gina’s social security number.”
“Yes.”
It didn’t make any sense. “But why?”
To hide from Stephen McNair until he agreed to her terms. But he couldn’t tell the woman that. She wouldn’t give him the social security number he needed, and right now, he didn’t know if Savannah had access to inactive files.
“I won’t be able to answer any questions until I have all the facts,” he told her.
Confusion furrowed her brow as she looked at the keys, undecided. “If Gloria’s in some sort of trouble, maybe I shouldn’t be helping you.”
His voice was quiet and authoritative. “If Gloria’s in some sort of trouble, I might be the only one who can help her.”
Carla sat looking at him for a long moment, then began typing.
The electronic doors opened and closed.
The chill that ran up her back was immediate, drenching her with an icy wave. Though she was in one of the aisles, her eyes darted toward the front.
How long before that reaction would leave her? Before she could hear the doors opening and not be compelled to look, holding her breath and praying. It wasn’t natural to feel this way, as if she were doomed to cross and recross a tightrope stretched over a bottomless pit with slippery shoes.
He wouldn’t track her here, she insisted silently. He didn’t know enough about her to know about this place. And even if he did and was still looking for her, she wasn’t really here. Not the way he knew her.
She was safe.
The breath she’d been holding escaped as recognition came. Gina’s mouth curved. The man who had gotten between her and that pushy jerk the day before yesterday had returned.
What was he was doing back? When she’d left, he’d asked her to point Jon out, or rather, the store manager. That meant Jon and the stranger didn’t know each other, so it wasn’t personal. Jon hadn’t mentioned anything to her, but then, he’d been in a real rush to leave after taking that call from his brother.
He told her he had to take some time off and left her in charge, just like that.
Funny how you could work with someone for so long and not know anything about him. She’d spent all four college years working in the store, and in all that time, Jon had never mentioned even having a family. He’d been closemouthed as far as things like that went.
Pot calling the kettle black. She certainly wasn’t in a position to throw rocks right now, she mused. Jon didn’t know all that much about her, either. Nor had he asked anything, not even when she’d suddenly appeared out of the blue three weeks ago, asking for her old job back. All he’d said was sure, then added an addendum: If she needed him, he was around. To prove it, he’d gotten her in contact with a friend of his who was trying to sublet his condo. She had a job and a home within one day, thanks to Jon. He was one in a million.
He hadn’t even made any comment about her changed appearance when she came in the first day. Just asked her what name she wanted to go under. Nothing more.
Gina suspected that World War Three could probably break out right in front of the bookstore and as long as it didn’t intrude within the doors, Jon would remain oblivious to it.
Lucky for her.
Pushing the book she was holding back into its space, she walked up to the man who had just entered and smiled at him. “I see you’re back. Come to see if I needed rescuing again?”
He’d taken measure of her as he’d walked in and still wondered if there was some sort of mistake. But it was too much of a coincidence for him to shrug off. What he needed was to find a way to find out her social security number. That might be more difficult than he’d anticipated if the store manager had agreed to pay her off the books.
“Oh, you strike me as someone who can take care of herself. If I hadn’t intervened yesterday, you probably would have decked him.”
He had a dimple, she realized. And a sense of humor. She found that an extremely sexy trait. “My boxing gloves are in the shop,” she said wryly. “Jon’s not here if you came to see him.”
“Jon?”
“The store manager.” Obviously the name meant nothing to him. “I’m sorry, I’m just taking a stab at why you’re here.”
He wondered what she would say if he answered her truthfully. If he told her that he was looking for Gloria Prescott and the little boy she’d abducted. Probably nothing. At close quarters, the woman looked cool enough to be able to pull it off. If she was Gloria.
“To do some research, actually.”
Savannah had managed to access Gloria Prescott’s transcript at the University of San Francisco for him. He’d discovered that while her degree was in the field of studio arts, specifically sculpting, she’d minored in American history. He’d guessed that the preponderance of courses on Native Americans meant her interest lay there. The drive up from Bedford had given him ample time to come up with a scenario.
He looked around. “Do you have a Native American section? I’m working on a project and I’m kind of stuck. I need all the input I can get.”
Ben saw interest enter her eyes. “Native American? What kind of a project is it?”
He pretended to hesitate. “You’d probably laugh.”
That made her smile. “No, I wouldn’t, try me.”
He’d chosen his story carefully. “It’s a screenplay—you probably hear that all the time. Everybody and his brother is writing one, or knows someone who’s writing one.”
Her smile was nothing short of encouraging. If this was Gloria, he could easily see why McNair had lost his head. Whether she was blonde or brunette, there was something about the woman’s smile that got to a man, made him want to puff up his chest and do something extraordinary to make her take notice.
“I don’t,” she told him.
He caught her off guard by putting out his hand. “Ben Underwood. Now you know me, so you know someone who’s writing one.”
The smile turned into a soft laugh that wafted around him like the first breeze of spring, full of promise at what was to be.
“All right, Ben Underwood, what’s your screenplay about?”
“The Battle of Wounded Knee.” Other than Custer’s last stand at Little Big Horn, it was the only Indian battle that he was vaguely aware of.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, holding back a laugh.
“You’re not going to believe this, but I minored in Native American studies at UCSF.”
“You’re kidding.” He looked properly impressed. “Damn, but this is my lucky day. Maybe you can help fill in the gaps for me.”
“Maybe,” she echoed, her mouth curving.
He did his best not to notice how inviting that looked.
Chapter 4
So far, so good, Ben thought, returning her smile. He’d managed to establish a beachhead, however small. But he was a long way from winning the battle yet.
What he needed was to gain her trust so he could get to the bottom of what was going on. As of right now, he still wasn’t a hundred percent certain that he had the right woman. All he had to go on was the slightly out-of-focus photograph McNair had given him and a likeness of Gloria Prescott that Savannah had lifted from the DMV records she’d accessed. The only similarity between that and the woman he was looking at was they looked to be approximately the same age.
Ben summoned what latent acting talents he had and infused his voice with what he hoped was the right amount of enthusiasm. One of his best friends was a would-be screenwriter. Ben did his best to imitate the way he’d heard Nick talk when he was going on about his project of the moment.
“You know, this is almost like fate, meeting you.”
He touched her shoulder lightly as he spoke, initiating contact, but making certain that it couldn’t be misconstrued as anything remotely sexual. If the other day was any indication, she probably had more than her share of that, but he’d noted that the slightest bit of physical contact between people instantly brought them to a more familiar plane. He did his best to walk the fine line.
“Listen, I’ve got an idea.” Ben dropped his hand, as if suddenly aware of what he was doing. He saw a hint of a smile on Gina’s face and congratulated himself on his instincts. “I know you’re working right now, but maybe we could grab a bite to eat later when you knock off and—”
Having displayed what he thought was just the right amount of eagerness, he stopped, as if realizing how his words had to sound to her.
“I know you’re probably thinking that this is a come-on, but it’s really not. I really do need your help. I want to be accurate about this and I’m willing to pay you for your time.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Not much, I’m afraid—unless you’re willing to take percentage points in my script.”
Though she was trying to maintain her distance, Gina had to admit that this eager screenwriter did sound cute, stumbling over his words. She hoped he was better on paper. But she did appreciate that he realized she might be getting the wrong impression about his offer. Not many men would have picked up on that.
From the look of him, Ben Underwood seemed like the last word in manliness. Someone Aunt Sugar would have referred to as “a man’s man—and a lady’s heart-throb.” Yet he was unapologetically sensitive to her feelings. After what she’d been through, he seemed more like a figment of her imagination than a real person.
Still, she had to turn him down.
“I can’t tonight, I’ve got to close up.” She was surprised at the regret she felt. Gina chalked it up to loneliness. “But I think I can manage tomorrow night after work, if that’s all right.” She could see he looked disappointed. “Unless you’re in a hurry.”
Ben noticed one of the other clerks looking their way and turned just slightly so that his body blocked her view of the other man. He didn’t want her getting distracted while he made his pitch.
“I am—I’m getting close to my deadline.” He paused, thinking that it was a lucky thing he’d decided to get a motel room close by. “But tomorrow night will be great,” he added genially.
Intrigued, she cocked her head. “Deadline?”
The shrug was self-deprecating, with just enough boyishness thrown in to captivate her. Mischievous as a boy, he’d spent his childhood pleading his case to a tough audience. Looking sincere had become an art form. Dominican nuns ordinarily brooked no nonsense.
“I gave myself a deadline. If I didn’t make it as a screenwriter within five years, I was going to stop fooling myself and go into the family business. I’ve got six months left.”
She surprised him by whistling softly. His eyes lingered on her puckered lips.
“That’s cutting it pretty close.” She moved to the right, out of the way of a customer who was browsing through the section where they were standing. Perforce, she moved closer to Ben. “What’s the family business?”
He silently apologized to Nick, whose life he was plagiarizing. “Furniture-making.”
Gina studied him. She could definitely see this handsome stranger doing that. Wearing a leather apron over worn jeans and a checkered work shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. Goggles perched atop his thick, black hair, the smell of freshly sawed wood about him. You’re getting carried away, she warned herself. “Are you any good at it?”
Humor glinted in his eyes as he laughed, thinking of Nick. Every time Nick attempted to make something, it was inevitably reduced to a pile of splinters and wood chips. He had no idea why Nick’s father was so adamant about his joining the business.
“I would be if the family had a sideline making and selling toothpicks. My creativity lies in other directions, but if I can’t make a go of it, my father insists I come into the business. Maybe as a sales rep.”
He made it sound like a life sentence with no possibility of parole. She found herself warming to him. “We’ll see what we can do. I’m not free tonight,” she repeated, “but I can point you toward an excellent book to get you started.”
“Sounds great.”
She led him to the American history section. One of the shelves was labeled Native American Studies. Eight years ago, it had been her personal baby, the one section she’d convinced Jon to set up. Now that she was back, she intended to keep on top of it religiously, making sure any new, relevant books were ordered while old standards were kept in stock.
She noticed two books were out of alphabetical order. Switching them to the right place, Gina selected one title and handed it to him. “This should be very helpful.”
“Thanks.” He nodded toward the small table that was off to the side. There were several throughout the store, besides the ones at the coffee shop in the center of the store. “Mind if I…?”
Reading sections of a book before you bought it had become an accepted custom. “Help yourself. That’s why the tables and chairs are here.”
Ben made himself comfortable and opened the book to the first page. This was going to be slower going than he would have liked, he thought, but he felt he had no option. He needed something more to go on than just a glaring coincidence before he brought McNair in or the police down on the bookstore clerk. What if, by some strange twist of fate, he was wrong? Truth had been known to be stranger than fiction.
And if he was right, if this woman was Gloria Prescott and she was impersonating a dead woman, he needed to find out where she was keeping Andrew. His proceeding cautiously could mean the difference between life or death.
Mixed into all this was the question that was beginning to hound him. How could someone whom everyone he’d spoken with so far thought was a saint, have done something so heinous as to kidnap a child, no matter what her motive? If this woman with the winning smile and the killer figure was Gloria Prescott, she was either a consummate actress who had managed to fool her co-workers, her friend and her aunt, or something just wasn’t right.
Any way he looked at it, he had a puzzle whose pieces weren’t fitting together.
With a sigh, Ben lowered his eyes to his book and returned to playing his role.
Darkness pressed its face against the bookstore’s large bay windows, peering in forlornly. It was a few minutes shy of nine o’clock, and except for Gina, he was the last one in the store. He’d spent the last few hours watching her interact with people, trying to form an opinion. Trying, also, to be objective and not swayed by the fact that she moved with the grace of a spring breeze, or that when she smiled or laughed, everyone around her seemed to light up. Him included.
He’d also wound up reading the book she had recommended. Even though his mind wasn’t really on it, he had to admit that parts of it had managed to catch his attention and seep in. Maybe he’d mention the subject matter to Nick when he got home. Most success stories began as accidents. Who knew, this might be Nick’s long-awaited accident.
Glancing at his watch, he verified the time. Nine. That meant she’d be closing up and going home soon. Maybe he could change her mind about tonight. The sooner he gained her confidence, the sooner he could get to the bottom of this.
He rose to his feet, feeling stiff. He’d stayed in one position too long. The wound he had gotten when he was shot in the line of duty, protecting his partner, whispered its presence along his body. He rotated his shoulders, trying to work out the discomfort.
Gina was at the register. Ben made his way over to her and placed the book on the counter between them, then took out his wallet.
