Читать книгу Easy Loving - Sheryl Lynn - Страница 8

While hurrying across the parking lot, Easy Martel spotted his sister emerging from her Mustang. He lifted his gaze to the heavens and whispered, “Yes.” Dumb luck, his favorite ally, came through for him again.

“Trish!” he shouted and waved her toward his Chevy. She said something to the man who accompanied her. Easy urged them both to hurry. He flung his equipment bag into the back seat of his car. He slid behind the steering wheel.

Trish opened the passenger door and peered suspiciously inside. “What—?”

“Get in, get in. Your timing is perfect. I need your help. Hurry.” He glanced at his watch and prayed the traffic lights were with him. “Come on, Trish! I’m running out of time.”

She told her friend to get in the back. She sat in the front passenger seat. Easy gunned the engine and squealed out of the parking lot.

“Are you crazy?” Trish fumbled with her seat belt. “Don’t bother answering. You are crazy. What are we doing?”

“Going to the airport.” He looked over his shoulder at the stranger. The man was around forty, slim, with thinning blond hair and bulging eyes. Not one of Trish’s boyfriends, Easy surmised. She had a weakness for the tall, dark and stupid type.

“Wait a minute! I’m not helping you.” Trish emphasized the words by clamping her arms over her bosom and jutting her chin. “The last time I helped, that guy sicced a dog on me and chased me with a pipe wrench. He almost killed me!”

Trish was thirteen months younger than he, but they looked so much alike with their dark hair and eyes, people often mistook them for twins. Like him, she had an adventurous streak seven miles wide. He flashed his most winning smile. “I promise, no dogs, no pipe wrenches. I need to shoot some video. My client tipped me off. She’s positive her husband is taking his girlfriend on a business trip.”

Trish pulled a face. “You are so sleazy!”

“Me? This dirtbag tells his wife that he has to go on an emergency trip. Ha! He set it up so she can’t interrupt his fun.” He met the stranger’s reflection in the rearview. “Hi, I’m Easy Martel, the sleazy private eye.”

The man used a handkerchief to mop at his brow. “Uh, John Tupper.” He nervously eyed the passing scenery while Easy raced down Fountain Boulevard.

Trish twisted on the seat. “John, this is my brother. Easy, John works with me at the insurance company. He’s an adjuster. I told him you can help him.”

The majority of Easy’s business dealt with insurance fraud. In the past six years he’d become an expert at ferreting out cheats who faked injuries or lied about stolen property. He kept his eyes on the road, alert for any lurking cops who might object to his speeding. “What you got?” He stomped on the gas to beat a yellow light. “Fake back injury? Phony burglary?”

Trish yelped and clutched the dashboard. “Slow down!”

He turned onto Powers and checked the time again. The dirtbag’s plane departed in thirty-nine minutes. Easy hoped to catch him playing preboarding kissy face with his honey. He goosed the speed up to sixty-five.

“Uh, actually, it’s personal, Mr. Martel,” John said. He held on to the back of Trish’s seat with both hands.

“Call me Easy, John. We’re all family here.”

Trish enjoyed tagging along when he needed an extra pair of hands, and she was as good, and sometimes better than him when it came to research. Some aspects of his job repelled her, though. A hopeless romantic when it came to family matters, she’d never recommend him for a child custody case or a cheating spouse.

“How personal are we talking?”

“His sister was murdered,” Trish said. “The police say it’s an accident, but it’s not.”

Easy changed lanes to pass a semi. To his left he noted an airliner banking for final approach toward the Colorado Springs airport. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, I don’t stick my nose in capital cases. Only TV private eyes get involved in murders.”

She huffed her exasperation. “You have to hear what’s going on. You can help him, Easy, I know you can. You have to.”

He reached the airport entrance in record time. Concentrating on driving, praying for a parking spot in the usually overcrowded lot, he waved his sister into silence. He’d been after this slimeball for two weeks. His client knew her husband was cheating. Wives always knew. She wanted proof, something to shove in his face, but the dirtbag knew his wife knew and was being very careful. The spur-of-the-moment “business” trip proved it.

So as not to get hung up at the security checkpoint, he began emptying his pockets. He tossed coins, pens, a penlight, a Swiss Army knife, a pair of handcuffs, a ring of master keys and his cell phone on the floor at Trish’s feet. She grimaced at the clattering collection.

“If you don’t chase killers, why bother carrying handcuffs?”

“My girlfriends like them.”

Dumb luck stayed with him; he found a parking spot in the first row. He grabbed his equipment bag. “We can talk inside. Hurry!” He took off at a run for the terminal with John and Trish right on his heels. Inside, he tore up the escalator. He paused at a monitor displaying departure times to find the gate he needed.

“What are you going to do?” Trish demanded breathlessly.

“Put you in the movies.” He clapped a hand on John’s bony shoulder and shoved him closer to Trish. He approved of the man’s gray suit and her soft blue dress. Nice, but not too dressy. “You two make a great-looking couple.”

Cringing away from Trish, John tugged at his jacket. “Uh, I’m married.”

“It’s only acting.”

They met up with a crowd at the security checkpoint, but fortunately airport security hadn’t limited entry to ticket holders only. Easy anxiously checked his watch while Trish peeled off her oversize earrings, necklace and an armful of bracelets before she stopped setting off the metal detector alarms.

“You wear too much junk,” Easy grumbled.

“I didn’t ask for a trip to the airport.” She trotted to keep up while she worked the earrings back into her ear-lobes.

He strode down the terminal, unzipping the bag as he went. He pulled out the video camera and turned it on. He double-checked the battery and blew minuscule pieces of lint off the lens. Everything operated perfectly.

At the gate his luck continued. Seated side by side in the waiting area, Dirtbag and his honey held hands. Even better, they faced the broad bank of windows; sun glare wouldn’t interfere with the taping. Easy huddled with Trish and John.

“Make like honeymooners.” He handed John the equipment bag. “It’s the guy over there in the checked suit sitting with the brunette. Move behind them so I can get them in the picture.”

John slung the equipment bag over his shoulder. “We don’t have to go to court or anything, do we?”

“Nope. You’re just innocent passersby.”

Trish groaned. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Hey, when you get married and your old man cheats on you, you’ll thank me when I catch him.”

Trish stiffened, arching her brows. “Any man I marry will never cheat”

“That’s right, because then I’ll have to kill him. Go on. Ham it up. Make me believe you’re in love.”

The taping went as smooth as creamy peanut butter. He even captured the dirtbag grinning at Trish’s and John’s antics. The brunette leaned over to give Dirtbag a big smooch on the lips.

He kept videotaping while the adulterous pair boarded the plane. Chuckling, he turned off the camera. “Thanks, Trish, John. I love it when a plan comes together.” He patted the camera, knowing he’d earned yet another month’s payment on his motorcycle. “I owe you lunch.”

“You owe me a lot more than that.” Trish grabbed his arm and steered him into a small cafeteria. “You have to listen to John. It’s really important.”

Forcing a sober expression he turned to his sister’s friend. “I don’t have access to the forensic tools the cops have. Besides, interfering with police investigations is a good way to end up in prison. I’m sorry, man, but I’m the wrong guy for the job.”

Trish urged the men to sit at a small table. “Shut up and listen, Easy. It’s a lot more personal than you think. Remember Catherine St. Clair? She’s back in town.” She swished away to fetch coffee.

Easy gawked at his sister’s back. Catherine…his Catherine? Never Cat or Cathy or Cee-cee or Cate—Easy had nicknamed her Tinker Bell. Even after twelve years the sound of her name turned his insides hot and cold while an odd sensation ruffled below his diaphragm.

He knew she’d moved to Arizona. Years ago, he’d traced her address and phone number—he kept them locked away in a file cabinet. Sometimes the urge to call her or appear on her doorstep grew so strong it drove him a little bit crazy. Only the still-tender shreds of his broken heart kept him from following through.

Annoyed at the way old emotions sneaked up on him, Easy cleared his throat. “How do you know Catherine?”

“I don’t,” John said. “I know the man she’s dating. His name is Jeffrey Livman. He was my sister’s husband, the man she loved. He murdered her.” He smoothed a hand over the side of his fine hair and dragged in a long, shaky breath. His voice firmed up, seething with well-nourished rage. “Jeffrey didn’t wait a full month after Roberta died before he began dating Miss St. Clair.”

Trish returned with a red plastic tray holding three cups of coffee. “I freaked when John showed me the pictures he took of Catherine with Jeffrey. I haven’t seen her since high school when you guys broke up and she moved away.”

His Catherine…“You said the cops don’t think it’s murder. What am I supposed to do?”

“You better figure out something,” Trish said. “John and I are convinced Jeffrey is going to marry Catherine so he can murder her, too.”

“WILL YOU MARRY ME, Catherine?”

Catherine St. Clair nearly choked on a spoonful of raspberry sorbet. Momentarily frightened by the sensation of her throat filled with shards of crystalline ice, she swallowed hard and followed it with a gulp of water.

Jeffrey patted between her shoulder blades. “Did I startle you? I’m sorry.”

She dabbed at her lips with a napkin and cast him a look askance. “Don’t make jokes when I have my mouth full.”

“I’m serious. I love you and want you to be my wife. We’re the perfect couple, honey. Together we’ll conquer the world.”

She searched for any hint of laughter in his pale blue eyes. He was serious.

She shifted on the seat and glanced nervously around the restaurant. She and Jeffrey dined often at the Grape and Olive, and always took the back corner booth. The few other diners didn’t pay her and Jeffrey any attention. “I’m flattered, but we barely know each other.”

He shook a finger at her. “You said we were soul mates.”

“I meant because of the house.” Five months ago she’d hired Jeffrey, a real-estate broker, to help her find a house to buy. He’d found the perfect property for her—a charming raised rancher, with fixer-upper potential, on ten acres in Black Forest—as if he’d magically conjured her dream into reality. Since it had been a cash sale, she’d closed quickly on the deal. To celebrate, Jeffrey had taken her to dinner. They’d been dating ever since.

She admired his energy and assertiveness. He liked being in control of any situation. In small doses his domineering personality suited her, acting as a foil for her withdrawing nature. He loved the outdoors as much as she. He was brilliant when it came to finances, so she often sought his advice about investments. They had fun together.

But marriage?

“I love you, Catherine, truly, madly, deeply. And—” He reached inside his jacket and brought out a velvetcovered box. “I am more serious about you than I’ve ever been about anything, or anyone, in my entire life.” He opened the box. Jewels glittered in the candlelight.

An elaborate gold setting contained a large blue sapphire nestled inside a double circle of diamonds. Her breath caught in her throat. She clutched her hands into fists, wanting to touch the ring, but not daring.

“I had this custom-made to match your eyes.” He inched the box closer to her, urging her to touch it. “Please, darling, do me the honor of being my wife.”

Gus Neci, the restaurant owner, approached the corner booth. Catherine sat in stunned silence while Jeffrey leaned forward, his handsome face alit with eager anticipation.

“Everything is well, yes?” Gus asked. He wheeled a small cart next to the table. Atop a white linen cloth, a silver ice bucket chilled a bottle of champagne. Two slender flutes gleamed in the candlelight. A bouquet of red roses, wrapped in silvery paper, rested next to the ice bucket.

Flustered, she shoved another spoonful of sorbet in her mouth. Jeffrey had obviously planned the proposal down to the smallest detail. Annoyance tightened her forehead and chest. He had no right to spring this kind of surprise on her. “Everything is fine, Gus, thank you.”

Neither man reacted to her icy tone. Jeffrey displayed the ring for Gus’s admiration. With a grand flourish, Gus presented Catherine with the roses. She forced herself to accept them. She managed a gracious smile, but inside she seethed. While Gus opened the champagne, she whispered, “I haven’t said yes, Jeffrey.”

“You can’t say no.” He pulled the ring from the box and reached for her left hand.

She twisted on the seat and fussed with the roses. Jeffrey managed to snag her pinkie finger. In the midst of the ridiculous tug-and-pull match that ensued, Gus set the champagne flutes on the table.

“A toast to the happy couple! May you live happily ever after.”

Catherine snatched her hand free. She struck a champagne flute and set it flying. She lifted a stricken gaze to the restaurant owner. “I’m so sorry!”

Gus snapped his fingers for the busboy. “You must be shivering with joy. Such a handsome couple you are. Both so blond and all-American. You are every person’s dream, yes?” He whipped a napkin from his back pocket and began mopping up the spilled champagne.

Jeffrey offered his champagne to her. “We’re like Romeo and Juliet.”

“They died,” she said darkly. Not only was Jeffrey the only friend she’d made since moving back to Colorado, he was the first man she’d met in years with whom she felt comfortable. If she refused to marry him, he might break off the relationship altogether.

“I have to go home,” she announced and tossed the napkin on the table. “Gus, the fettuccine was superb and do tell the chef the sorbet is excellent. Thank you.”

“Catherine, wait—”

“I’m sorry, I have an early morning appointment. I’ll call you, okay?” She grabbed her purse and scooted out of the booth. Her gauze skirt tangled around her thighs and for a moment she feared falling flat on her face.

Jeffrey’s pale eyes turned flinty in the flickering candlelight. “The champagne. It’s Dom Pérignon—”

“I can’t drink and drive.” She swiped at her skirt, knowing she made an ass of herself, but unable to help it.

Two booths away, a slim blond woman wearing a tailored suit stood up and stared. Catherine recognized the title company closer who had processed the paperwork for Catherine’s house purchase. Jeffrey claimed he and the woman were good friends, but at the closing the woman had seemed uncomfortable and not friendly in the least. At the moment, she appeared horrified.

Noreen, Catherine finally remembered. Her cheeks burned, but she forced a smile. “Well, hello, again. Noreen?”

Noreen shifted her stare to Jeffrey. “I thought I recognized your voice, Jeff. Did I hear right? You guys are engaged?” A sickly smile thinned her lips. She lowered her gaze to the cart holding the champagne. Her voice rose an octave. “You’re going to get married?”

Jeffrey had said “good friends,” but Noreen’s reaction clearly showed they’d been closer than mere friends. Catherine had never asked Jeffrey about his past relationships—she’d never cared. All she cared about at the moment was escape.

“Nice seeing you again, Noreen. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have…” Her ability to continue the lie ran out of steam. “Goodbye, Gus.” She fled the restaurant.

Jeffrey caught up to her in the parking lot while she unlocked the door of her Blazer. “Darling, what’s the matter?”

“You know I’m not comfortable with public scenes. How could you do that to me? I’m so embarrassed.” She stared miserably at the toes of her woven sandals. “I’m sorry, I need some time to be alone. To think.”

He opened the car door for her and reached past her to place the bouquet of roses on the passenger seat. “You do love me,” he said. “I know it, you know it.” He pressed the ring box into her hand. She resisted, but he persisted until she closed her fingers around the box. “We can’t fight fate, darling.”

The velvet box seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. “I can’t—we don’t—you don’t know me!”

He stepped back and hung his head, his sheepish smile painted gold by the parking lot lights. “I’m a fast learner. I’ll never do anything to embarrass you again.” He pulled his fingers across his lips in a zippering motion. “I won’t pressure you either. I won’t say a word about it. All I ask is that you take the ring and think about how much I love you.”

Somewhat soothed, she nodded dumbly. He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world. I’ll devote my life to making you smile. Think about it.” He gave her room to slide behind the steering wheel. “I love you.”

She wished she could say, “I love you,” back at him. Except she could not say what she did not mean. Until she trusted him enough to tell him the truth about herself, she could not love him. Unless she loved him, she could not tell him. She hoped he returned to the restaurant and shared the champagne with Noreen. They could rekindle their romance, and Catherine wouldn’t have to deal with Jeffrey anymore.

Ambiguous emotions wore on her during the long drive home.

At home she set the ring box on the fireplace mantel in her studio. She tried to forget it. It was like trying to forget a sore tooth. She refused to open the box, refused to try on the ring—Mrs. Jeffrey Livman.

She didn’t sleep well that night.

“WOULD MARRIAGE BE SO BAD?” she asked Oscar and Bent, the greyhounds, when the three of them took their morning run. Up and down the hilly red graveled road she jogged, trying to regulate her breathing in the thin high-country air. The greyhounds focused straight ahead, their long legs springing in graceful motion.

The dogs liked Jeffrey. Or at least, they tolerated him with the same regal aloofness with which they tolerated most visitors. She frowned at their knobby, bobbing heads. If the greyhounds judged character, they kept it strictly to themselves.

Later, when her agent called from New York, Catherine asked, “Margaret, what do you think about marriage?”

“I think it’s a hell of an expensive way for a man to get his laundry done.”

A grin tugged Catherine’s lips. “I forgot. You’re a cynic. Never mind.”

“Does this have to do with that car salesman you’re dating?”

“He’s a real-estate broker, and yes.” She fixed her gaze on the ring box and sighed. “He asked me to marry him.”

“Cars, real estate, it’s all the same. Forget it.”

“He gave me a ring. You ought to see it, it’s beautiful. A sapphire.”

“Keep the jewelry, dump the man. I need your full attention right now, sweetie.”

“Lots of artists are married. In fact, all the ones I know are. So are the writers and the editors and the art directors.” Catherine laughed. “Considering that my work is for children, don’t you think having a few of my own would be a plus?”

Margaret groaned loudly. “Babies and diapers and nannies and preschools—don’t do this to me! You are about to become very, very hot. Tabor Publishing is now talking a twenty-book series.”

Catherine sobered; her hand tightened on the telephone. Her stomach suddenly felt very heavy. “Twenty?” The word emerged in a squeak. “I thought they wanted three?”

“Doc Halladay loves your work. He’s renegotiating the book series. He’s convinced it’ll be as big, maybe bigger than his television show. He’s full of crap, of course, nothing is bigger than TV, but these books are going to sell millions.”

Catherine didn’t doubt it. Doc Halladay, the Science Brain, had taken the media world by storm. With a winning smile, a magician’s shtick and a gift for making the complicated sound easy, he’d won a bigger preadolescent audience than Barney the dinosaur and Sesame Street combined.

“If we put this together, this could make your career and set you up for life. You could end up being the hottest children’s book illustrator of the century. Of two centuries! You’ll win a Caldecott.”

“Twenty books?”

“After Doc Halladay saw those mock-ups you did using photographs of him along with paintings, he flipped. As far as he’s concerned, you’re the second coming of Michelangelo.”

“How much money are they talking?”

“A cool million. Of course, that’s a five-year commitment, and we’re still squabbling about royalties, but it’s a very nice package.”

Catherine had to take several deep breaths to calm her fluttering belly.

“The contract proposal needs a Rosetta stone to decipher it. I’m overnighting you an outline of the terms and payouts. It looks complicated because it is complicated, but try not to be intimidated. I’ll have the whole thing vetted by an attorney before anything gets signed.”

Catherine loved her work, which combined her two great passions—art and science. In college, believing there was no future in fine art, she’d earned a biology degree with the goal of going to veterinary school. Then a friend had asked her to illustrate a children’s story she was trying to sell. The publisher had rejected the story, but asked Catherine if she’d submit more illustrations. Her career had been born.

After dozens of projects, she still loathed contract negotiations. She didn’t understand the fine print. The money terms were convoluted with the publisher paying out in bits and pieces based upon schedules apparently created by a necromancer scrying moon signs in springwater.

“They’re asking impossible deadlines, too,” Margaret said.

“I can do impossible. I live for impossible.”

“I know, sweetie. So don’t do something stupid like get married and run off to Tahiti to paint flowers on black velvet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Margaret ended the conversation with details about the contract. Catherine tried very hard to keep her excitement under control. Contract negotiations could fall apart at any stage, and nothing was certain until everyone signed the paperwork.

After she hung up, she clasped her hands and danced around the studio. “Doc Halladay loves my work,” she sang. “I’ll be famous—”

Oscar and Bent lifted their narrow heads and looked toward the front of the house. Greyhounds, Catherine had discovered, were the perfect house pets. They were tidy, quiet, dignified and loved to lounge around on the furniture. They rarely barked. She’d set up an old sofa for them in her studio where they spent their days with their long legs sprawled, luxuriating in comfort.

“Is somebody coming?” she asked. “Normal dogs bark, you know.”

She heard an engine, throaty, powerful, unmistakable—a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. The noise increased, approaching the house up the long, curved driveway through the pine trees. Wondering who in the world she knew who owned a Harley, she stepped out onto the deck. She blinked in the bright sunshine. Oscar and Bent joined her. They stretched their long bodies and yawned mightily.

The motorcycle appeared, a modern-day destrier of sleek black shine and glittering chrome. The rider wore a black, full-face helmet. He guided the motorcycle around potholes and ruts in the wide, but ill-maintained driveway. The bike’s rear tire dropped and bounced in a pothole, and Catherine winced. Having the driveway graded and paved was her next home-improvement project.

The rider wheeled the bike around the circular drive to park before the deck. He was a big man, his suntanned arms roped with muscle. She glanced at the dogs, now flanking her feet. They weighed eighty pounds apiece and could run down a rabbit without breathing hard, but protect her?

The rider cut off the engine. The sudden silence heightened her awareness about her seclusion, with the pine forest shielding her from the road and neighbors. She watched the man dismount. With his back to her he worked off the helmet. His hair, thick and sooty black, gleamed with bluish lights. Despite her nervousness, her artist’s eye delighted in his powerful shoulders and the sinewy curves of his back.

He turned around.

He smiled and his dark eyes glittered like obsidian.

“Hello, Tink,” he said. “Long time, no see.”

Her brain froze. All sensations centered square in her chest where emotions long buried burst from their shell. For years she’d wondered what she would say to Easy Martel if she ever ran into him. She’d wondered what she would do, how she would act, what she might feel.

He was bigger than she remembered, his youthful slenderness grown into lean, broad-shouldered maturity. Once smooth olive cheeks now sported a definite beard shadow. He wore his black hair short rather than letting it hang shaggily down his neck. The smile remained the same, however, wry yet warm, completely focused, while those dark, dark eyes melded into hers.

Heart melting. Soul searing.

“Don’t you remember me?” he asked. “It’s me, Easy—”

She whipped about, raced into the house, slammed and locked the door.