Читать книгу The Notorious Mrs. Wright - Fay Robinson - Страница 12

EMMA FLEW UP THE STAIRS to change out of her slacks and into something more casual. Her heart pounded. Nervousness churned inside her stomach.

Like a football player who’d just scored a touch-down, she did a little bowlegged dance in front of the full-length mirror in her dressing room, then laughed out loud at her own craziness. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light hearted, so excited about anything.

Dating hadn’t been part of her life. She couldn’t even remember a time lately when she’d been affected by a man, had felt a raw, physical awareness of one as she did with Whitaker Lewis. Even being in the same room with him had made her restless and achy, reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in…well, too long.

Nothing could come of this afternoon, but she wanted to go through with it nonetheless. For once, although it was only for a few hours, she longed to be a normal woman and pretend she really was “beautiful” like he’d said. Only one other man had ever called her that, and he’d been a liar.

She was lonely. Admitting it was easy. What harm was there in spending a few hours with someone to erase that loneliness temporarily, even if he was a stranger? None that she could see.

Feeling comfortable with him—that wasn’t so easy. Behind the protection of a disguise she could be sexy with men and say whatever was on her mind. Not so when she was herself, especially when she was attracted to someone.

She sucked in a breath and fortified her resolve.

“You can do this,” she told her image in the mirror.

Now, if she could only believe it.

Hastily she shed her dressy slacks and blouse. She pulled on a pair of white shorts and slipped into a matching top and tennis shoes. Her cell phone went into her pocket in case the restaurant needed to get in touch with her.

Excitement made her want to squeal like a teenager, but thirty-eight-year-old women didn’t squeal, especially thirty-eight-year-old women pretending to be forty-five.

Oh, God, would her age matter to him? When she was twenty and about to give birth to an illegitimate child, borrowing the identity of her twenty-seven-year-old friend had seemed practical. She’d wanted to appear more mature. The ruse had helped keep Tom safe. But now she hated that people thought she was older.

She pushed away her silly insecurities. Whitaker Lewis was taking her on a boat ride, nothing more. Worrying about what he might or might not think of her was ridiculous.

He waited in her office. When Emma walked in, he repeated how glad he was that she’d decided to come. He also took a covert look at her legs and appeared to like what he saw. Her opinion of him went up another two hundred percent.

“Ready, Mr. Lewis?”

“Only if you call me Whit.”

“All right…Whit.” The nickname fit him. “I’m Susan.”

The marina was half a block away, just past the bridge to the island. The boat held about fifty people on two decks. Whit gave her the choice of where to sit, so she chose a table on the upper deck, where they could see better. Once on the water, there’d be a breeze to keep them cool.

Rumblings of thunder told her they could expect the usual afternoon shower, but for now the clouds were to the west and not over them.

The chairs quickly filled with parents and children. The engine started, the boat backed out of the slip and they were on their way.

“Have you taken this trip before?” he asked her.

“No, and I really have been wanting to. I don’t know much firsthand about the city, only what I’ve read or been told.”

“Where did you move from?”

“Mmm…Nevada.”

“Is that where you were born?”

Emma hesitated. Years of hiding out had made her wary of strangers, but the wariness was as much habit as necessity. She had no reason to worry about Patrick finding her now. He’d died years ago. And thankfully, he’d never discovered she’d had a child.

Legal ramifications existed, of course, if anyone realized she wasn’t Susan, but in eighteen years no one had come looking for the dead friend whose identity Emma had borrowed. And from what Susan had told her, no one had cared enough to look for her.

Like Emma, Susan had run away from an impossible situation at home. But unlike Emma, she’d been unable to resist the lure of drugs and prostitution. She’d died of an overdose.

Emma’s foremost concern was Tom. She wasn’t sure what he might do if he learned she’d taken over someone’s life. He must also never learn about his father. He’d never forgive her for the lies.

“I’m sorry,” Whit said in the extending silence. “Am I being too nosy? I’d like to get to know you better, but I don’t want to pry into your private life.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m not used to anyone being interested enough to ask, is all.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’re very attractive.”

“Thank you.”

She liked the way he was looking at her, as if he wanted to gobble her up, but it also made her very, very nervous. How to handle being gobbled wasn’t within her area of expertise.

He was a toucher, too, and that heightened her sexual awareness of him, and her awareness of her own body. Climbing the steps, he’d put a steadying grip on her elbow. Crossing the busy street, he’d held her hand. She’d never known that elbows and hands could be erogenous zones.

Each contact had sent an electrical current racing through her nervous system. Right now that current pulsed between her legs.

Lord! She tried to redirect her focus away from what his nearness was doing to her, but the pull—female to male—overpowered logical thought.

What had he asked? Oh, about her birthplace.

“I’m, uh, from Virginia originally, but I’ve lived different places over the years.”

“And how did you wind up in Saint Augustine?”

“Abby’s responsible for that. We worked together as waitresses a few years ago in a horrible place. The management was crooked. The food was awful. Only two good things came out of that job—becoming friends with Abby and hearing her talk about her hometown. I fell in love with the city sight unseen.”

“So you moved here?”

“Not right away. The opportunity to own my own place only came open for me last year. I wanted to locate somewhere with a moderate climate and thriving tourist trade, but I also wanted a safe, family-oriented community for my son, and preferably something near the ocean, since he loves the water. So, I thought…here’s your chance to live in the town of your dreams. I called Abby and asked if she’d like to help me run a business.”

“She’s your partner?”

“Legally, no, but we’re inching toward that. For now she oversees the catering and she’s fabulous at it. She works with the local bridal consultants and party planners to give customers an event they’ll remember all their lives—costumes, props, scenery, the works. You pick a theme and we can do it. We can dress the staff, dress the customer, dress the guests. We use live centerpieces instead of ice sculptures, too, which is unique.”

“Like what?”

“Oh…models dressed as mermaids reclining on a half shell in the middle of a seafood buffet—that sort of thing. No one else around here goes to that extreme.”

“So these aren’t specific characters like you do in the restaurant?”

“Some are. Some aren’t. It depends on what the customer requests. People love themed parties, especially brides. We can whip up anything, given enough time. I have a whole third floor packed with props and costumes.”

“What are some of the weddings you’ve done?”

“Well, we haven’t done too many yet because we only opened six months ago and weddings take a lot of advance planning, but we’ve done several mystery parties. Those are great fun.” She thought about what else. “Oh, and we did a Gone With The Wind anniversary celebration for an older couple. The hosts dressed as Scarlett and Rhett, and we had a replica of the front porch of Tara. They gave an elegant ball with an orchestra and period dancing and all the guests came in costumes.”

“Not exactly my kind of party.”

“Too cutesy?”

“Yeah. No offense.”

“None taken. My son said the same thing, that it sounded like a ‘chick party’ to him.” They both laughed. “But that’s usual for this kind of event. The woman plans it and the man goes along with it because he loves her.”

“Makes sense.”

“The guests did have fun at that one, though. We got a lot of referrals from it.”

“What kooky ones have you done?”

“Mmm, in October a couple plans to be married in one of the local haunted houses. They want me to dress them as Herman and Lily Munster.”

He grimaced. “That’s way too weird for me.”

“Me, too. It doesn’t fit in with the elegant atmosphere I maintain for the restaurant, but for private parties I try to be more flexible. Besides, it should be fun getting them ready. I haven’t done monsters before. We get a lot of calls for parties with ghost themes, since the city is known for its haunted buildings, but monsters aren’t my specialty.”

“Can you do it?”

“Oh, sure. No problem.”

“Where did you learn your craft?”

“The costumes and makeup?”

“Yes. Where did you study that?”

“I’ve picked up things here and there. I haven’t been to any kind of school, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re really good for someone who’s not trained.”

She shrugged. “I suppose it’s all that experience playing dress-up as a child.” She realized her unintended pun and almost choked.

“What about your family?” he asked. “Are they still in Virginia?”

“My stepfather, yes. He raised me after my mother died.”

“You’re close?”

“Not much anymore. I visit him a couple of times a year.”

They passed a sandbar where big, brown pelicans sunned themselves.

“Oh, look!” she called out. “How pretty.”

The boat was fully under way now, and the captain had begun his monologue. The star-shaped Spanish fort, or castillo, on the left bank had once helped protect the town from invaders. Whit took photos of the birds and then the fort, moving from one side rail to the other for a better view.

Emma watched, as entertained by him as by the trip. He seemed to find everything interesting and asked a million questions.

She was having fun. She’d started to worry about the storm, though. Lightning zigzagged over the town. The rain fell in a wide, blue sheet in the distance, but was much closer than before.

They made a circle of the bay, then went up toward the island’s lighthouse, painted like a barber pole and topped with a red housing. Whit pointed his camera at the structure. “Great lighthouse.”

“Isn’t it? Abby and I have done a few parties there.”

“Wish we were closer so I could see it better.”

“You have to be on foot to get right up to it. There’s a little park around it.”

“Too bad the boat doesn’t go nearer to shore. The scenery here’s pretty, though.” With the viewfinder still to his eye, he turned the camera toward her and snapped a photo. “Very, very pretty.”

“Why did you do that?”

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.”