Читать книгу Every Move You Make - Tori Carrington, Tori Carrington - Страница 8

WELL, THINGS CERTAINLY WORKED differently down here, didn’t they?

In the two days since Zach Letterman had traded Indianapolis, Indiana, for first San Antonio, then Midland, Texas, that was his most remarkable discovery. Things worked differently in the Lone Star State. Sure, he’d expected some differences—the sweltering summer heat, the manner of speaking, the types of food. But he’d been unprepared for the generosity of character, the easygoing nature that each Texan he’d so far encountered had displayed as proudly as he wore his custom-made suits. The most remarkable people so far being his cousins Lily Bishop and Dylan Garrett.

From the moment he’d contacted Lily and Dylan a month ago with his proposal, they’d treated him like part of the family. It hadn’t mattered that he’d never seen them before. They’d accepted him as easily as if they’d had countless snowball fights in the backyard when they were kids. He glanced out the window at the Texas landscape, thinking maybe snowballs wouldn’t have been an option. Playing cowboys and Indians probably would fit better.

The infant in his arms wriggled. Zach gazed down at the bundle as if surprised to find he still held her. She was all pink and new and weighed next to nothing in his arms. He’d never held an infant before. Somehow he hadn’t expected them to be so…light.

Zach carefully put the now sleeping infant back in her carrier then wiped at a spot of drool on the front of his suit.

“How soon can you start?” Jennifer Madison asked. “Oh! I can’t believe I left Denton Gawlick on hold. Give me a minute.”

“I have all the time in the world.”

And he did. Zach crossed his arms over his chest as he watched Jennifer pick the phone receiver back up and punch at one of the red blinking lights. After ten years of grueling, twenty-hour days spent building up his tool and die company in Indianapolis, Indiana, he’d taken a good long look at his life and the way he was living it and decided it was time to make some changes. But it had taken his grandmother’s death six months ago to compel him to implement those changes.

Of course, becoming a private investigator hadn’t even been on the list of possibilities. He’d debated entering the Peace Corps, starting a charity to fight world hunger, traveling the world with little more than the clothes on his back, leaving his credit cards and tremendous cash resources at home. But losing his last, closest living relative, the woman who had raised him after his father disappeared and his mother died, had had a tremendous effect on him he was still trying to sort through. It had ignited in him a longing for family connections he no longer had. Stories Nana had told him as a kid sitting in front of the fireplace with her had come back to him, and he’d realized he’d absorbed every word and could probably recite them even now. And it had been the stories of his Texas relatives that had captured his imagination the most. And so had Trueblood, Texas, the town that had been named after his great-aunt Isabella Trueblood.

With Nana’s death, he’d felt adrift, in need of more than just the changes he’d wanted to make to his life that would send him in a direction toward a more fulfilling career. He’d needed to connect with someone. His family.

So he’d hired a local detective agency and found out that his cousins Lily Bishop and Dylan Garrett had continued on with the family legacy laid out by Isabella Trueblood by opening their own agency, Finders Keepers, a detective agency dedicated to reuniting family members and lost loves. The rightness of their pursuit, and how it tied into what he knew about Great-Aunt Isabella Trueblood, had his mind start clicking in directions he would never have considered before. And within two months of receiving the background report on his Texas relatives, he’d made contact and offered up a business proposal.

But meeting Lily and Dylan in the flesh had been less business-oriented and much more personal than he could have ever imagined. And fruitful in so many ways. After spending a day with them and their blossoming families, he’d gone into Finders Keepers and was immediately hooked. After hearing their many success stories, he’d known down to the bone that his decision was the right one. That he was doing the right thing. The only problem was that everyone in Trueblood knew who he was. There weren’t all that many true Truebloods left without creating a fuss in the small town. And that’s when Lily came up with the idea of sending him to Jennifer Madison to learn the ropes incognito, the only ones knowing his true identity being Jennifer and her husband, Ryan. He would become a private investigator. Just as he’d worked from the bottom rung of the ladder up in his tool and die business, he would learn the art of private investigating in the same way.

And here he was, gazing at pretty Jennifer Madison, waiting for the next step of his life to begin.

Jennifer Madison was more than merely pretty; she was stunning in ways Zach couldn’t begin to count. Lily had spoken highly of the young woman, and Zach could see why. Anyone would have been overwhelmed by the busyness of the office he’d seen so far. But Jennifer seemed to be managing, although barely. And the little one dozing next to her desk was a gem. Whoever Jennifer’s husband was, he was one lucky guy.

Jennifer gave a deep sigh of relief, pulling Zach’s gaze and attention back to her. “Mr. Gawlick. Good, good, you’re still there. I’m sorry to have kept you on hold for so long…” She smiled. “Yes, of course, I understand that you want a spot person from our agency involved with your case.” She eyed Zach. “In fact, I’m looking at just the person for the job as we speak.”

Zach raised a brow.

“I understand the urgency. Yes. No. Very good, Mr. Gawlick. My associate should be there shortly.”

She replaced the receiver and smiled at Zach.

He cleared his throat. “I take it you were talking about me?”

“Uh-huh.” Jennifer reached down and tucked a blanket around the infant’s tiny body. “Mr. Denton Gawlick, of the Odessa Gawlicks. He and his wife are renewing their wedding vows in a week. Only the dress Mrs. Gawlick was hoping to wear, well, it’s been languishing somewhere in lost airline baggage hell for the past week.”

Zach rubbed his chin and grinned. “The case of the missing wedding dress?” Definitely not Mickey Spillane material. Then again, it had its possibilities.

Jennifer laughed and tilted her head to look at him closely. “You’re not licensed yet, right?”

Zach narrowed his gaze, hoping she wouldn’t use his lack of experience as a reason to change her mind. “Right. I’m not just wet behind the ears, I’m soaked.”

She opened a drawer and fingered through files before taking one out and handing it to him. “Then this should be a great case to break you in with.” He must have registered the surprise on his face because she said, “Don’t worry. It wasn’t all that long ago that I was an accountant. You have Lily’s highest recommendation, so you have my complete trust.”

Zach eyed her, still not sure how to take this new way of operating. He didn’t think he’d be half as generous if their positions were reversed. Referral or not, he’d have checked the applicant’s references, asked a ton of questions, and still would have been hesitant to trust the candidate.

Things really did work differently down here.

He swallowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Madison. I’ll make sure your trust isn’t misplaced.”

“It’s Jennifer,” she said as if by rote, then paused while going through some papers and looked at him. “Are you staying in town?”

“Actually, I haven’t checked into my hotel yet.”

“Good. Because right after meeting the client, you’ll have to head down to Houston and Clayborn Investigations. You see, I already farmed the case out to another agency to look into the dress down there since the flight the bag was scheduled to be on was bound for Hobby. But Mr. Gawlick wants someone from our agency to be hands-on, and so long as he’s paying for it…”

“We’re there.”

Her smile widened. “Yes. We’re there.”

Zach couldn’t help but grin back at her even as he mentally prepared a list of questions. What groundwork had been laid down on the case already? Was there any advice on how to handle Mr. Gawlick? How should he document his expenses? Was there some sort of ID he should use? But before he could ask a single question, the phone started ringing, the baby started crying, and the few quiet moments they had just experienced vanished into a chaotic never-never land.

“Call if you need anything,” Jennifer said as she propped the phone between chin and shoulder then reached for the wailing infant.

“Right.” Zach hesitated. He supposed he’d have to find answers to his own questions, which, when you thought about it, was what being a private investigator was all about, right? He started toward the door, nodding at Jennifer’s light wave as she adeptly handled both the caller and the baby. He stepped outside the office and into the warm Texas sun, then squinted at the file in his hands. His first case.

His first case.

He turned his face up to the sun and grinned.

THIS WAS THE LAST CASE she was going to take on from another agency.

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Mariah Clayborn said into the telephone. “I look forward to meeting your associate…” What had Jennifer Madison, the P.I. from Midland, said his name was?

“Zach Letterman,” Jennifer said.

“Yes. Zach. Got it.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. She opened her mouth to end the call.

“Is everything all right?” Jennifer cut her off at the pass.

Mariah pushed back her thick dark hair then slumped in her chair. Was her emotional state so apparent that a woman she didn’t even know except via a couple phone calls could tell something was wrong?

“Everything’s fine.” Mariah forced a smile, even though Jennifer couldn’t see it. “Thanks for asking.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll give you a call once Zach and I retrieve the piece of luggage with your client’s dress in it.”

“Good. Good.”

After exchanging goodbyes, Mariah sat pole straight in her chair, her hand still on the receiver that rested in the cradle.

Oh, she supposed just a short time ago everything had been fine, just as she’d proclaimed. She’d been a woman in charge of her own life, with her own agenda, well down the road to convincing herself that she didn’t need a man after her latest breakup.

Then this morning she’d come in to find a section of the office roof had finally given way under the most recent Texas deluge—surely the saying “when it rained, it poured” originated in Texas. Of course it wouldn’t be just any section, but a stretch just above her desk, soaking piles of paperwork and the brand-new chair she’d finally given in to and splurged on a week ago.

But that wasn’t what made today so bad. No. That reason had come while she was cleaning up the mess and her phone rang. She’d snatched it up to find on the line her least favorite person from Hoffland, the small town about forty miles southwest in which she was raised—gossipy Miss Twila Seidwick.

At first she’d been more than a little irritated that the woman was calling her at work. Then she’d been afraid that something had happened to her widowed father and Twila was calling with the news.

Thankfully her father was fine. Twila had been calling to gloat over the fact that Mariah’s third ex-boyfriend in two years had just gotten engaged within a week of breaking up with her.

Merely thinking about it made her brain go numb.

Normally Mariah would have said good riddance, and maybe even called up and offered her condolences to the blushing bride-to-be. But all three? Not one, not two, but all three of her ex-boyfriends had dumped her then become engaged within a week of breaking up with her.

It was enough to give a girl a complex.

She could see her headstone now. She inspired men to want to get married. Just not to her.

She leaned back in her chair, cringing when the sound of the plastic bag under her rear end mixed with the squishy sound of the water that still soaked the pad of her chair. Her brand-new chair. The chair she’d dropped two hundred dollars on because, well, she’d liked it. And now it was ruined.

“Good morning, Mar. My, don’t you look pretty today.”

Mariah made a face at her cousin as he came in the front door. For all intents and purposes, George was a pretty good guy. He had inherited the trademark Clayborn dark hair and pleasing features, but where they looked good on him, they made her look…well, tom-boyish. She glanced at her watch. But the biggest difference between them lay in that she didn’t know when to stop working, and her slightly younger cousin didn’t know when to start. “You always tell me that,” she murmured, glancing down at her old, faded jeans and T-shirt, then pushing at her thick hair again.

“And you never believe me.”

“Yes, well, you’re two hours late. Again.”

George took the rebuke with his usual grinning charm as he made his way to the back where she’d put out the usual morning donuts and had made coffee.

Mariah sighed and returned to trying to make some sort of sense out of her ruined desktop. And if she could figure out what was going on her life at the same time, well, so much the better.

Of course, it was only par for the course that George wouldn’t even have noticed that the roof had caved in. She tried to remember a time when her cousin wasn’t so careless, but came up with a blank. It probably explained why her Uncle Bubba, George’s father, had left the P.I. agency of Clayborn Investigations to her when he finally kicked the proverbial bucket last year. Of course, the inheritance had been attached with the stipulation that George always have a job there so long as he wanted one and that he be paid a living wage, as well as be entitled to a percentage of the net income.

Not that Mariah would have fired her cousin. He was as much a fixture around the office as the coffeemaker. She only wished he was as productive as the machine. He made juggling her life between the office and the ranch a bit of a challenge. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t carry his own weight; it was that the weight he did try to carry on occasion she ended up having to take on herself. Especially now that her uncle was no longer there to help carry the load.

George leaned against his own squeaky-clean desk across from hers, took a bite of a sprinkle-covered donut, then chased it down with coffee from his Oilers mug. “Heard Justin is getting married.”

Mariah stared at him, wishing at that one moment that she could fire him. “Boy, news sure does travel fast.”

She pulled her garbage can out from under the desk and scooped into it the paperwork she couldn’t salvage.

“That’s the way it usually is with news. Bad news. Good news.” He finished off his donut. “Which category do you suppose this falls under?”

“Good news,” she said. “Definitely good news.”

Because it meant that she wouldn’t be marrying Justin Johnson, also known as J.J.

Bad news because it meant that by the time she returned to the ranch by the end of the day, everyone and his brother in Oklahoma would have heard the news and be calling to commiserate.

“J.J. is a good man.”

“J.J. is a jerk.”

George grinned. “Well, then there’s that.”

“An awfully big ‘that,’ don’t you think?”

George shrugged and rounded his desk to sit down. He immediately leaned back in his chair and crossed his cowboy boots on the desktop. “I don’t know. He wasn’t so bad.” He shook his head. “You know, we all thought for sure this would be it for you—you’d finally take that long walk down the aisle.”

Instead prissy Miss Heather Walker would be taking the walk.

Mariah stared at the opposite wall, not really registering the outdated dark paneling or the oil paintings of ranch scenes hung on it. Instead she thought about the girl who couldn’t have been much out of high school, who wore pretty flowered dresses to church and whose only pair of jeans rode low, low on her boyish hips and were usually worn with clingy, belly-baring knit tops. She glanced down at her own regular uniform of classic Levi’s and old T-shirt, clothing that varied only in the winter when she wore a denim shirt over them, and her scuffed brown cowboy boots, then pushed her hair back from her face again.

There had been a time not so long ago when she’d felt very comfortable in her own clothing, even in a place where the state motto seemed to be The Higher The Hair, The Closer To God. Wearing what she had on had allowed her membership into the exclusive all boys’ club. It had permitted her to ride the range with her father and the ranch hands, and had, in essence, made her one of the guys. And, oh, how she’d always liked that. Barbie dolls had really never done it for her. Give her an ornery filly that needed breaking in any day and miles and miles of Texas earth, and she was a happy woman.

Oh, yeah? Then where was all that happiness now?

Somewhere down the line, the rules had changed—rules she hadn’t even known existed but was seeing all too clearly now.

She grimaced then let loose a stream of inventive cuss words under her breath that left George chuckling. She glared at him and continued cleaning her desk.

Well, just who in the hell had gone and changed all the rules on her anyway? The ones that said that when she turned eighteen she would have to start acting like the Barbie dolls she’d never played with? That she’d miraculously know what to do with her hair, how to apply makeup and how to walk in a pair of heels? And just when, exactly, had meat and potatoes not been enough? Why had her father started mentioning on almost a daily basis all the exotic foods her mother used to make for him to eat—if you could count crepes as exotic? And why did he now talk about how delicate her mother had been?

Sure, Hallmark commercials made her blubber. But delicate was definitely not a word anyone would use to describe Mariah Clayborn, the only child of widower Hughie Clayborn and his late wife, Nadine. At five foot seven in stocking feet and with a solid build, she once took a great deal of pride in being able to better many of the boys. She could probably still get the better of them even now. But whenever a physical competition of any sort was mentioned with her as the opponent, the men merely grinned and held up their hands in a mock version of being gentlemen.

Gentlemen, her rear. She knew just how ungentlemanly all these guys could get. Had been privy to some of their more honest and graphic conversations on observations of the opposite sex. They might hold a door open for their latest lady of choice, light her cigarette and appear to bless the very ground she walked on, but it was all toward one end: getting that same “lady” into the back seat of their cars by night’s end.

Unfortunately she, herself, had seen a back seat more times than she cared to count. But never had it come after a nice dinner out or dancing. No. Her handful of experiences had usually taken place on the back nine of her father’s ranch after one of her boyfriends visited. And had lasted as long as the drive out, making her wonder just why so many girls were dying to get into the back seats of all those cars. Her? She didn’t get it at all. Aside from being vastly uncomfortable, she’d always been left feeling…well, as if she’d missed something.

Of course, she knew what she had missed, but even thinking the word “orgasm” made her flush.

The telephone rang and she started, nearly jumping straight out of her skin at being caught thinking what she had.

“Do you want me to get that?” George asked.

“You could have just answered it, you know,” she said, picking up the extension. She shot a look at George, who’d taken her jab in stride and simply turned the page in the magazine he was reading. “Clayborn Investigations.”

“You got your man, Mariah.”

She instantly sprang up and out of her chair. She didn’t need any more explanation than that. “Thanks, Joe.” She hung up the receiver, slid her revolver into her hip holster, then pocketed her cell phone.

George didn’t even look up from his magazine. “Word on Claude Ray?”

Mariah found cause for her first smile of the day. “Oh, yeah.”

“Need some help roping him in?”

“Oh, no.”

He turned a page. “Didn’t think so.”

Mariah headed for the door, her mood instantly lightening. She liked this part of the job. This is where she excelled. No matter what else was happening in her life, she always managed to get her man.

Her smile slipped.

Well, she always managed to get her man on the job, anyway. In her personal life…

She wasn’t going to go there now.

She opened the door and darted outside—and ran straight into someone. A tall someone, who made her feel absolutely puny. A hard, nice-smelling someone who instantly grabbed her arms to steady her, sending a jolt of warmth over her skin.

“Excuse me,” she said, finding her feet and stepping backward.

The man grinned, nearly sending her off balance all over again.

Whoa, cowboy.

“I think I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

Okay, he wasn’t a cowboy. His accent identified him as a Yankee. Mariah found herself tucking her hair behind her ears. And she never tucked her hair behind her ears.

She quickly fluffed her hair back out as if the move alone could erase the nervous gesture. Instead she probably came off looking even more nervous.

“So long as neither of us is seriously injured,” she said. “Pardon me again.”

She began to skirt around him, surprised she was capable of any movement at all.

“Mariah?”

Her blood sizzled through her veins at the sound of her name rolling off the stranger’s tongue. How did he know her name?

She turned slightly to face him.

“Are you Mariah Clayborn?” he asked.

“Um, yes. I am.”

He grinned that grin again. “I’m Zach Letterman. I believe you’re expecting me?”

Expecting him? In her dreams, maybe. Then his name sank in. Zach Letterman, Zach Letterman….

This was Zach Letterman? The P.I. Jennifer Madison had sent down to work with her? No, it couldn’t be. He didn’t look anything like a P.I. He looked more like he’d stepped straight from the pages of GQ. Not that she had ever read Gentlemen’s Quarterly, but she was familiar with the comparison. And if anyone looked like he deserved to be on the cover of a gentlemen’s magazine, it was this guy.

Whoa.