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In rapid succession, he took several more shots.
Exasperated, she held her hands in front of her face. “Whit, would you stop it, please?”
“Okay, sorry.” He put down the camera. “I only wanted to show the men in Michigan what they’re missing.”
“I’m sure they have women in Michigan.”
“Not like you.”
She rolled her eyes at his outrageousness. “Are you flirting with me?”
Before he could answer, thunder boomed overhead. Rain began to pelt them as if a heavenly hand had opened a faucet. Everyone on the top deck squealed and scrambled for the cover of the lower one.
“Come on,” he called out, ushering her down the narrow metal steps. They were among the last people to exit, and all the seats were taken. People crowded between the tables. Whit and Emma could barely get inside.
“Here,” Whit said, pulling her against the back wall. He shifted his hanging camera to his side to keep it from digging into her. His muscular arm came to rest above her head.
Very conscious of his impressive chest, Emma felt intoxicated. The man’s body was made of steel. He smelled good, too. Fresh, like the rain. Little droplets still clung to his long eyelashes. Goodness! Even soggy he looked great.
Bending down, he whispered playfully, “The answer is yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’m flirting with you.”
“Oh.” She stifled a grin. “I’m glad we cleared that up.”
“Me, too.”
“By the way,” she whispered back, feeling very at ease with this man and a bit playful herself. “Your…um…crotch is vibrating.”
“That’s my phone. It’s letting me know I have a message.”
“Ah, and here I thought you were just excited about being close to me.”
He chuckled low. “Well, that, too.”
EVERY WORD THAT CAME OUT of her mouth was probably a lie, but it was such a pretty mouth that Whit had almost convinced himself not to care.
His first priority was to his client, getting what he needed to prove the lady either was or wasn’t Emma Webster, but he found himself forgetting that when he looked at her. She had eyes the color of fine aged whiskey and a perfect little body that, at the moment, was so close he could feel the wrinkles on her shirt.
He wasn’t sure who was emanating all the heat—him or her—but they were in danger of setting the boat on fire.
Needing a distraction, he got his phone out of his pocket and punched in an encrypted password. The call a moment ago had come from his assistant, Deborah. The message on the small display said: Morrow is hinky.
Ah, hell. Hinky was Deborah’s slang for fishy. Apparently something about Allen Morrow of California hadn’t checked out.
He dialed Deborah’s cell phone. “It’s me,” he told her when she answered.
“Can you talk?”
“Having a wonderful time. Thanks for asking.”
She chuckled. “Apparently not. Why don’t I give you the highlights?”
“That’ll do.”
“I talked to one of my contacts in the D.A.’s office in Los Angeles and she’s never heard of an Allen Morrow or an upcoming case involving a cop killing. He’s bogus. The phone number where you reached to him last night is a nonworking one this morning. I had someone check out the location. Vacant office. A guy rented it for a week and paid cash. This joker went to a lot of trouble to talk to you, Whit. Any idea why?”
“I’m thinking.”
The firm had its share of phony calls every month—convicts posing as legitimate clients, stalkers trying to locate victims in hiding, nuts wanting information for one reason or another. More than once he’d had people try to hire him to track down the home address of a movie star or musician. They were convinced the star would become as enamored of them as they were of the star….
Whit always had his staff investigate their respective clients before they agreed to take a case. While it was impossible to be completely certain about anyone through a cursory background check, his prerequisites for acceptance were simple: clients had to be reasonably sane, able to afford the hourly fee of four hundred dollars, not desirous of causing damage to another’s life and they had to be telling the truth.
He personally had three cases going at the moment in addition to this one—two witness traces for a defense attorney and a missing heir for a multimillion dollar estate. Morrow had obviously been hoping to get information on one of those. But which one? And what info?
The last one most likely, because it carried a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar finder’s fee. Morrow could be another P.I. trying to beat him out of the money.
Whit couldn’t think of anything he’d told him, though. In fact, Morrow had done most of the talking; he’d offered information instead of soliciting it. He’d been polite, open, professional. Nothing the man had said or wanted had raised the “hinky radar,” as Deborah called it.
“At the moment, I don’t have a clue,” he told her.
“Goldblum case, do you think?”
“That’s the most probable, but I don’t want to make assumptions and miss anything.”
“Then let me follow up and see what else I can find out.”
“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Deborah.”
He signed off and returned the phone to his pocket.
“Problems?” Susan asked.
“No, nothing major. The office manager needing advice on some claims.”
“Ah, I thought maybe it was one of your sisters missing you.”
“I’ve only been gone a few days.”
“I’d miss you after a few days.” She turned red. “If I was your sister I’d miss you. If I was close to you and I was your sister and you went away for a week. Oh, you know what I mean.”
He chuckled. She was even lovelier when she got flustered.
She moved to get more comfortable in the cramped space, and he groaned inwardly as damp fabric slid against damp fabric. Lord! he deserved a medal for good behavior. He’d had a hell of a time keeping his hands to himself today.
“The rain seems to be easing up,” he pointed out.
She craned her neck to peer out beyond the couple next to them. “Yes, it does. At least it won’t be so hot now. Oh, look, we’re coming up to the marina. Darn it, I guess the ride’s almost over.”
Thank God. He couldn’t take much more of this.
Someone bumped him from behind, pushing him even closer to her. She put her hand against his chest to keep from getting crushed. He looped his free arm around her back.
If they’d been in private and horizontal rather than in public and vertical, he’d be in big trouble right about now. Only sheer will kept his lower body from reacting to the intimate contact.
Oh, hell, he was going to do something crazy. He felt the question rising in his throat. Even though he didn’t want to ask it, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“How about when we dock we ride out to the lighthouse or to the beach?”
Damn, now he’d gone and done it. He wanted to kick himself.
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“We can have dinner later and you can check out your competition. We could even see a movie after, or go on one of those ghost tours.”
“That sounds wonderful, but I’ve never taken a whole night off before.”
“Then you’re due one. They can get along without you for a little longer, can’t they?”
Whit was walking a fine line. Spending more time with her meant additional opportunities to get information. But it also meant increasing difficulty in retaining his objectivity, already on shaky ground. But a few more hours together probably wouldn’t hurt…maybe.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “At least help me shop for presents for my nieces and nephews. Otherwise my sisters will be mad and they won’t spoil me anymore. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then come with me. And let me take you out to dinner. We’ll have a night on the town. Whatever you want to do.”
“All right, but I’ll need to call in and leave word for the manager. Do you think we’ll be back by midnight?”
“What happens at midnight? Do you lose a slipper and turn into Rodney Dangerfield?”
“Maybe,” she said with a giggle.
Lord, it was a sweet sound.
“Late date?” he asked.
That really got her tickled. “Yes, fifteen of them. But they don’t have to wait until the stroke of twelve to turn back into mice, unfortunately.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. I’m being silly. But I really do need to be back by then to make sure everything’s properly closed up.”
“Scout’s honor, I’ll have you home whenever you want.”
“We’re you ever a Boy Scout?”
“Not even close.”
CHAPTER FOUR
TOM WRIGHT loaded the microfilm reader with a roll carrying the April 17, 1984, edition of the Los Angeles Times and fumbled around trying to figure out how to work the machine. He didn’t like hiding what he was up to from his mom or lying about his whereabouts, but she got so freaked out when he asked questions about his dad that he’d decided he’d get his answers another way.
As he’d told her, the bike rental shop had wanted him to come in today and work four hours. But then he’d read an article in the newspaper about this place, a Family History Center they called it, where you could find out about your relatives. He’d asked his boss for the day off and told his friend Tony Parker what he was doing, in case he was late getting to Tony’s and his mom called.
Tom fiddled with the knobs. If he could figure this out, he might actually find something.
He asked one of the workers for help. She showed him how to fast-forward, focus on the pages and move them up and down. The name index didn’t list William Wright, but Tom hoped to find a news story on his father’s accident. The worker suggested he look ahead two weeks in case the navy had delayed reporting it.
He found nothing, not even an obituary.
“Are you certain the date of death is right?” the woman asked.
“Yes, ma’am. My mom gave it to me years ago, but I wrote it down.”
“Do you know what your father’s date of birth was or his social security number? A middle initial would be good, too.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t, but I might be able to get them.”
“That would help. Meanwhile, I know of a couple of databases we can check and some online sources. Let’s see what we can find.”
An hour later, they still hadn’t come up with anything. Tom’s disappointment grew.
“That’s odd,” the lady said. “I would’ve thought we’d at least find newspaper articles. Well, here’s what we’ll do.” She went and got a booklet and handed it to him. “In here you’ll find instructions for requesting your dad’s military records. Those may or may not have the details you want about his death, but they should give you something. One little tidbit often leads to another. Try to fill out as many of the spaces on the form as you can and indicate you want information under the Freedom of Information Act.”
“How much will that cost?”
“The search is free, but they’ll charge you a fee per page for photocopying. They’ll notify you of how much it is before they send the records, though.”
“How long will all this take?”
“Honestly, it can take months.”
“Months?” He slumped in the chair.
“I know that’s discouraging, but they get several million requests every year.”
Tom nodded. Whatever it took, he’d do it.
“Meanwhile, I suggest you talk with your mom and surviving members of your family to see what news clippings and documents they already have. That’s the best place to start with a genealogy project. What about your grandparents, your dad’s parents? Are they still alive?”
“No, ma’am. At least I don’t think so.”
“Did your dad have brothers or sisters?”
“Not that I know of. My mom’s never talked too much about her people or my dad’s. She told me once that her and my dad got married real young and their families didn’t like it too much. They stopped talking to each other. I never met my grandparents. I don’t even know their names.”
