Читать книгу One Stubborn Texan - Kara Lennox - Страница 5

“Stranger’s coming,” Bert Klausen announced from his perch by the front window of the Linhart General Store. Bert, former owner of the store and now firmly retired, spent most of his winter days in a rocking chair warming himself by the wood-burning stove, staring out the window and munching on dill pickles. No one came or went in Linhart, Texas, without Bert’s knowing.

Russ Klein added an extra scoop of coffee grounds to the pot he was making. Maybe it was a customer.

“It’s a female, and quite a looker, too. She drives a beemer,” Bert announced between crunches on his pickle. “A white one.”

“BMW, huh?” Russ ambled to the front of the store, pretending to straighten the camping gear as he went. He stepped over Nero, the bloodhound asleep on the floor, and opened the stove to poke at the burning logs with a stick. That time waster complete, he closed the grate and peered out the window; a cold drizzle made everything outside look gray and depressing. He couldn’t miss the snazzy white car parked across the street, but the driver was nowhere to be seen.

“Went inside the post office,” Bert said, answering Russ’s unasked question.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Maybe she’ll come in here when she gets done there,” Bert mused hopefully. The wilderness outfitting business wasn’t exactly brisk this time of year, not like spring and summer, when tourists and college kids streamed in by the dozens to stock up on food, beer and camping supplies. Breaks in the winter monotony were scarce.

“Maybe,” Russ agreed with practiced indifference, though his gaze never left the white car. He wondered what other excuse he could find to linger at the front of the store. A stranger in town on a cold, gray weekday was cause for curiosity. A female stranger in an expensive sports car was hard to resist. Russ was a sucker for flashy city women and he knew it. He never learned, not even after Deirdre.

The door to the post office swung open and she emerged, looking like a bird of paradise hatching in a sparrow’s nest. Sonny Fouts, coming out of the hardware store, paused to stare at her, but she didn’t seem to notice as she strode up the sidewalk, her briefcase swinging at her side, a cell phone glued to her face as she carried on an animated conversation.

Russ sucked in his breath as he surveyed her from the ground up, starting with the pair of dark green high-heeled boots with a row of fringe that swung to and fro with each bouncy step. Her snug black skirt skimmed over trim hips and stopped well above the knees, revealing sleek, slender legs. Above the skirt she wore a short suede jacket bearing an abundance of snaps and more streamers of fringe. Her hair tumbled in luxuriant black waves from beneath a beret.

Most people in Linhart wore hats—straw cowboy hats in the summer, felt in the winter, and gimme caps from the feed store. But not berets. Way too French for a town founded by German immigrants. Way too citified.

“Oo-ey, she’s somethin’ else, eh?” Bert said with his usual candor. “Kinda on the skinny side, maybe. Uh-oh, look out, she’s headin’ this way.”

Bert quickly picked up a three-day-old newspaper and pretended absorption in it. Russ walked casually to the back of the store to check on the coffee, facing away from the door as if the lady didn’t interest him much. It was a lie, of course. Her type always interested him.

Russ resisted the urge to turn around when the jingling doorbell announced the arrival of a customer. He heard the rustling of Bert’s newspaper and the halfhearted thumping of Nero’s tail against the wooden plank flooring.

“Help you, missy?” Bert asked politely. “Bert Klausen, at your service.”

The woman dropped her cell phone into her purse. “Hello, Bert.” The voice was honey-smooth, confident. “Yes, I’m sure you can help me. I was told I could find Russ Klein here.”

Something inside Russ jumped at the realization that this bird of paradise was looking for him. He turned around, schooling his features. “I’m Russ Klein.”

She smiled a hello, and he forgot any rational greeting he might have summoned. Lord, what a smile. What a face. She made him think of an impish angel in dress-up clothes as she came toward him with her arm extended. Her hand was cool and delicate when he shook it, the long nails painted a pumpkin color. He didn’t squeeze too hard for fear he’d break something.

“What can I do for you?” he asked when he’d recovered enough of his wits to speak. Bert watched from the corner of his eye, pretending renewed interest in the newspaper.

“My name is Sydney Baines,” she answered in an accent just shy of exotic.

Oh, hell. The woman had left several messages over the past few days, identifying herself as a private eye and claiming she had an “urgent matter” she wanted to discuss. Russ had ignored the calls, thinking it was a scam. What legitimate business could a P.I. have with him? He lived an uncomplicated life.

She extracted a black wallet from her green suede purse and snapped it open so that he could examine her credentials.

Russ studied the ID: Sydney Baines, Licensed Private Investigator, New York City. Now her accent and her mode of dress made more sense. And the fancy car.

“You came all the way from New York to find me?”

“I tried calling, but my messages went unreturned,” she said, not a hint of censure in her voice. “It’s very important that I talk to you.”

“Want some coffee?” he asked, putting off whatever business she had with him. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like what she’d come to say. Was some long-lost acquaintance of his mother’s hoping to get a handout? They’d be mighty disappointed. The quarter-million dollars—his mother’s divorce settlement from twenty years ago—was long gone.

Sydney smiled reassuringly. “I’d love some coffee.” Then she lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “Is there someplace private we can talk?” She gave a tiny nod toward Bert, who continued to scrutinize the old paper as if it contained the world’s secrets.

“I can take a hint,” Bert said. “I’ll just unpack those new camp stoves that came in earlier.” With that Bert shrugged into a threadbare jacket and ambled toward the back of the store, disappearing into the storage room.

“Have a seat by the stove.” Russ nodded toward the cozy sitting area Bert had just vacated, figuring he might as well get this conversation over with. “I’ll bring the coffee. Cream? Sugar?”

“Cream, please.” Sydney made her way toward the two wooden chairs by the potbellied stove.

Russ kept a wary eye on her as he rummaged around for two clean cups. She was on her phone again, talking and nodding as she slipped her arms out of her jacket, revealing a silky green blouse that draped over lush, round breasts. She gazed at the wide array of camping gear. Because the store was small, Russ utilized every nook and cranny to display backpacks, sleeping bags, tents and all manner of gadgets. He hung kayaks, canoes and bicycles from the ceiling.

Finally she concluded her call, sliding the phone into a jacket pocket. “This is quite a place you have,” she commented. “You could buy just about anything—” Her voice broke off. “Oh, a dog.”

“He’s not for sale,” Russ said. But when he turned back toward Sydney with the coffee in hand, she wasn’t smiling. In fact, the supremely confident expression she’d worn earlier had fled and she was sitting stiff as a pine plank in her chair as Nero sniffed enthusiastically at her boots.

Russ brought the coffee over. “Nero, go lie down.”

The old dog looked at Russ with a surprised expression, then ambled over to his customary place by the stove and settled down with a huff. But he continued to watch Sydney with almost as much interest as Russ felt.

“Are you afraid of dogs?” Russ asked, handing Sydney a cup of coffee with cream. “’Cause old Nero here is about as vicious as a butterfly.”

“I’m not exactly afraid of dogs, I’m just not a dog person,” she said decisively, her enormous melted-chocolate eyes still fixed on the bloodhound. She was probably hoping Russ would send Nero outside, but Russ wasn’t about to submit the arthritic old dog to the chilly, damp weather when he didn’t have to. Not even for a pretty stranger.

Despite her denial, Russ knew the woman’s aversion to Nero was more than a simple preference. She was afraid. Probably afraid of bugs and snakes, too, and he was sure her dainty little hands had never baited a fishhook with a nice, fat, slimy earthworm.

Her cell phone rang, playing a snippet of something jazzy. She checked the caller ID but didn’t answer, choosing instead to turn her attention back to Russ.

He sat close enough to her that he could detect her surprising, spring-morning scent. He’d expected a woman like her to be wearing something stronger, one of those expensive designer perfumes that grabbed you by the throat.

Deirdre’s perfume had been that way. And why was he thinking about her all a sudden? Just because Sydney was obviously a sophisticated urban woman was no reason to compare the two. Deirdre was ancient history. Sydney was here and now, and he was more than curious about her reasons for seeking him out so persistently.

Sydney pulled off her beret and hung it on the back of the chair. A wavy strand of her hair fell across her cheek, and Russ felt the illogical urge to smooth it back from her face. Before he could do something foolish, though, she tucked the hair behind her ear.

Taking a sip of coffee, Sydney pulled her scattered thoughts together. She really wasn’t comfortable around dogs, especially big dogs like this one. They were dirty and smelly and noisy. She wondered how the health department would feel about one in a general store. But that wasn’t her problem.

Edward Russell Klein was her problem. Or maybe the answer to her prayers.

She studied him silently. He was about the right age, thirty-two. She hadn’t expected him to be quite so gorgeous, however. Even in a plaid flannel shirt and worn, soft-looking jeans that molded to his backside, he could put any of the Gucci-wearing men she knew in New York to shame. Being a wilderness outfitter must work the muscles, she mused, because he had firm, taut ones in all the right places.

She liked his hair—thick, wavy, a bit long, light brown and streaked by the sun. She couldn’t exactly see him visiting a salon for highlights.

Sydney’s face grew warm as she realized she’d been staring at him rather rudely.

“Is something wrong with the coffee?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“You did say cream, right?”

“Oh.” She took another sip, wondering at her lack of composure. “It’s very good, thank you.” He was probably used to women staring. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t stare?

He took a long sip of his own coffee. “Well?” he said, sounding more bemused than impatient. He gazed at her, waiting. His eyes were a vibrant sky-blue, deep and unfathomable.

Wrap your mind around your business, Syd. “The firm I work for, Baines & Baines,” she began, “specializes in matching up unclaimed property with the rightful owners. I believe I’ve found a small sum of money that might very well belong to you.”

“Small, huh? Do you always travel all the way from New York for small sums of money?”

“Actually, I was visiting an aunt in Austin,” Sydney said smoothly even as she upped her respect for Russ Klein’s intelligence. He wasn’t some country bumpkin she could easily dazzle. “But I thought I could take care of this while I’m here. If you could answer a few simple questions, we might be able to settle this matter and you could have a check in your hands very soon.”

“What’s in it for you?” Russ asked. His tone wasn’t exactly confrontational, but neither was it warm and friendly.

“Baines & Baines works strictly on a commission basis, which means you won’t owe us any money until we recover funds for you. If you’re the person I’m looking for, you simply sign a contract authorizing me to claim the funds on your behalf and entitling the agency to a percentage of anything we recover.”

“How big a percentage?” Russ asked suspiciously.

“Ten percent. It’s actually quite low. Most other P.I.’s in this business charge far more.” In this case, Sydney had deliberately decided on a low commission, not wanting to take the chance of another investigator undercutting her.

Not that any other heir-finders were on Russ’s trail. She’d happened, quite by accident, onto the information that had led her here. A very different case had taken her to Las Vegas, where she’d been checking into the legality of a certain contested marriage that had taken place in a wedding chapel now known to have performed numerous fraudulent weddings. She’d nearly fainted when she’d stumbled across Sammy Oberlin’s name. For years, investigators had been trying to track down Sammy’s mysterious son, known only as Russell. But only Sydney had the lead—the name of Sammy’s first “wife,” Winnie, never legally married to him, who may very well have borne him a son.

The trail had led to Texas.

Russ made no comment. He simply studied her every bit as frankly as she’d done him. Her face felt warm, but maybe it was simply being too close to the stove. It wasn’t as if she’d never received attention from a handsome man before—though not lately. For the past few months, trying to take care of her father’s agency, as well as her own business, she’d barely had time to brush her teeth, much less nurture a social life.

Finally Russ spoke. “As far as I know, I haven’t misplaced any money.”

“That’s the thing,” she hurried to explain. “Most of my clients don’t realize they’re due some money. Sometimes it’s a bank account that’s been forgotten or a utility deposit. But most often, I search for missing heirs. Sometimes when people die with no will or an old or bad will, it’s a real chore to locate the heirs.”

“Are you saying someone died and left me some money?” He didn’t look as pleased by that possibility as most people were.

Sydney didn’t answer his question. Instead she said, “It’s not prudent for me to reveal too many details until we have an agreement.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re afraid I’ll cut you out.”

Yes, exactly. He’d figured out her game pretty quickly. “Mr. Klein, I deal in information and information has value. Surely you can see I wouldn’t have much of a business if I gave away information for free.”

He continued to scowl suspiciously at her. She hadn’t yet seen him smile.

“I provide a service,” she continued, trying to make him understand. “I reunite people with money and property they never even knew about. And for that, I charge a fee.”

Finally, his frown faded to something more like thoughtfulness. She released the breath she’d been holding. Maybe she’d gotten through.

“I don’t begrudge your right to make a living however you see fit,” he finally said. “But I don’t think I’m the person you’re looking for.”

“But you don’t even know who I’m looking for,” she pointed out. What was the deal with this guy, anyway?

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t want more money. I make a comfortable income and I have everything I need.”

For a moment, Sydney just stared. “You mean, you won’t even answer a few questions?” She’d never had anyone refuse to let her hook them up with their money, not unless they already had an idea of where the money was. Most considered the sudden appearance of an heir-finder a gift from on high.

“I’m a very private person. I don’t like people poking around in my personal life.”

“Just one question. Please. Is your mother’s name Winifred? Or anything similar?”

“My mother’s name is Vera.”

Sydney sagged. So he wasn’t the right one. “And your father? What’s his name?” she asked, just to be sure.

Russ’s expression became suddenly fierce. “I don’t have a father. My mother’s never been married.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so nosy, but do you at least know his name?”

He rubbed the tops of his thighs, looking out the window. She knew she’d made him very uncomfortable, but she had to be thorough.

“My mother slept with a lot of men,” he finally said.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. If Russ didn’t even know his father’s name, it was doubtful the father even knew of his existence. Damn, she’d been so sure she was on the right track. She had some other Russell Kleins to check out in neighboring towns, but this one had been her top candidate. He was the right age. Winnie’s son was most likely between thirty and thirty-three. If she couldn’t find him in this general area, she would have to widen her search to all of Texas—or the whole darn country, if it came to that. But that would take time and time was a luxury she didn’t have.

“I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing,” Russ said, and he seemed to relax slightly. “Could I buy you lunch? The Cherry Blossom Café across the street makes a mean chicken-fried steak, so at least you won’t leave Linhart hungry.”

She struggled to regain her equilibrium. “No, thanks,” she said brightly. “Do you know any other Russell Kleins, perhaps relations of yours? Or any Winifred Kleins?”

“This town is full of Kleins. You can’t hardly throw a rock without hitting one. But I don’t know any others with the names you mentioned.”

“Well, if you think of anyone, would you let me know? And maybe you could ask members of your family if they know. I’ll be staying at the Periwinkle Bed & Breakfast.”

“You’re staying here?” he asked, surprised.

“I’m going to spend some time going over documents in your courthouse—birth and death certificates, property records, that sort of thing. Not all records are available online. I’m also going to be tracking down a few more Kleins in neighboring towns.”

“You could still do with lunch.”

She couldn’t deny that the offer tempted her. But she was on a tight schedule. She couldn’t leave her father alone for more than a couple of days, not when he was in such a fragile mental state. Although his depression had lifted somewhat, he still had bad days when he needed her close by.

“I appreciate the offer,” she said. “Maybe another time.”

She stood and picked up her things, keeping an eye on the dog, who was still watching her with unnerving intensity. She thanked Russ Klein for his time and headed for the door, deciding quickly on a new strategy. “Oh, Mr. Klein?”

“You can call me Russ.”

“Russ, then. This sum of money we’re talking about. It might interest you to know that it runs into eight figures.”

Russ Klein’s jaw dropped and his eyebrows rose so high they almost met his hairline. Finally she’d gotten a reaction out of him.

“That’s ten million,” she supplied.

“I can count the zeroes. Ten million? Dollars? That’s what you call a small sum of money?”

“Call me if you have any ideas.” She hurried out of the store, resisting the temptation to stay and press the matter. Let him sit on that information and see how long he claimed he didn’t want or need more money. Maybe he wasn’t the Oberlin heir. But she had this nagging sensation he knew something and just wasn’t telling her.