Authors: EC Sheedy
She let that go. They had to talk about Phylly sometime, but now wasn’t the time. April had barely slept since Cornie arrived on her Portland doorstep with the news of Phylly’s disappearance, and right now, she was too tired to scale the wall of resentment Joe had built around his mother. All she wanted was for him to lay off the tease and innuendo. Not only could she do without it, it had a false ring to it, as though he were playing the part of the idiot wolf-man purely to irritate her. No man who was serious about seduction would be so blatantly obvious—or stupid.
She was absolutely sure Joe Worth was not stupid.
And I’m mad as hell at myself for finding him attractive and amusing in spite of my better judgment.
Not that it mattered what she felt. Joe was wasting what little charm he had, because other than finding Phylly—priority one—all April wanted to do was get back to Portland and start her theater internship. She’d waited over a year for Blanche Reevis to accept her, and Rusty had given her six months of leave to study under her. April had a lot of hard work ahead of her, exciting work, and there was no room in her plan for a fast-talking, silver-eyed bodyguard—who hated his mother.
Her mother.
“I think you should give serious consideration to my Mirage idea,” Joe said, sitting on the sofa and spreading his arms along its back. “It’d be a lot more comfortable than this.” He patted a sofa cushion.
She tilted her head then shook it. “You don’t even like me and you want to take me to bed. Why is that?” It wasn’t the first time since leaving Seattle she’d wondered if she’d made a mistake, having him come along. Cornie wanted it, yes, but it wasn’t as though they’d bonded as siblings. They were like a pair of alley cats fighting over the last sardine. “Well, are you going to answer me?”
“I was thinking?”
“Hard for you, is it?”
He grinned. She hated to admit it, but she enjoyed the humor in his eyes. She liked men who didn’t take themselves too . . . seriously. Then again there were those who used humor and a quick wit as a shield to keep you out. Any other time, she might’ve made the attempt to learn which kind of man he was. Or at least figure out how he managed to irritate and attract her at the same time.
“You weren’t thinking,” she said, giving him a straight look. “You were studying my ass.”
“Guilty. And those legs of yours go right up to it. Amazing, how that works.”
With no answer to that, she shook her head.
“And who said I didn’t like you. I don’t even know you”—he got up from the despised sofa—“except that you don’t like peanuts, white bread, or mushy tomatoes.”
“I thought you were asleep.” What he’d described was the excuse for lunch they’d bought for the plane earlier today—twenty dollars’ worth of awful. “But you’re right, you don’t know me. Not enough to either like or dislike me.” She crossed her arms. “Which means you have . . . issues. About me”—she jerked her head to where Cornie had left them for the kitchen—“and maybe about her.”
Joe had taken to wandering the room, touching, lifting, turning, and studying the knickknacks and cheap prints on the walls. God knows he had lots to look at; Phylly’s place was basically secondhand, junk-sale chic. The woman loved stuff. His back was to her when he said, “Real men don’t have issues.”
“No, but boys do. Boys who wonder why a mother takes in a stray—like me—and keeps her, but gives up her own son.”
When he turned to look at her, there was nothing of the boy about him. He was all towering, glowering male, with an expression so hard and uncompromising, she almost took a step back. Almost. He closed the short distance separating them and stopped directly in front of her. “You know what I think?” His low voice was soft, at odds with the darkness in his eyes.
“Not a clue, but by the look on your face, I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.”
He was too close . . .
April forked her fingers in her hair, shoved it behind her ear.
“That I am.” He reached out his hand, touched her hair, and brought back the strands she’d put behind her ear. Smoothing them down over the swell of her breast, he leaned forward. “I think you should mind your damn business and leave those issues you’re so concerned about to Phyllis and me.” He picked up a few strands of hair, twirled them between his thumb and forefinger and watched his own play as though fascinated. “Until now, I’d have said, your legs were your best feature. Now”—he took in a heavy breath—“I’m not so sure. You have great hair. Long. Heavy. The kind that sweeps across a man’s chest during sex. Or lower if he’s really lucky.” He lifted some strands to his nose, breathed her in. “Smells like honey and roses.” He put his face to her ear, his breath a warm storm across her cheek, her neck. “And you smell like . . . Paris.”
She pulled back, her stomach fluttery and untrustworthy. He was still holding her hair when their eyes met. “You’re trying to change the subject,” she said.
“Actually, I’m making a pass. I must be slipping if you didn’t pick up on that.” He let go of her hair and smiled, all trace of his earlier irritation gone. The man was definitely in charge of his emotions.
And far too sure of himself. “Save your clumsy passes for someone who’s interested, because I’m not.”
“I think you are.” He bent his head, lifted her chin and— She was sure he’d have kissed her if she hadn’t jumped back like a frightened hare, while he grinned like a painted mask. He was playing with her, deliberately trying to antagonize her. Well, it wasn’t going to work. “Has it occurred to you, we don’t have time for—”
“Sex? There’s always time for sex.”
She shook her head. “You’re crazy.”
“But in a good way, don’t you think?”
She opened her mouth, but her jumbled thoughts wouldn’t let her form words. “I think . . .”
The phone rang, or rather the “Happy Birthday” song played; Phylly’s idea of fun.
Thank God . . .
She took a step back, shot Joe Worth what she hoped was a sobering gaze. She’d had guys coming on to her for as long as it was legal—and before, but she’d generally felt as though there was something honest behind it, however misplaced. They either wanted sex or some kind of connection. But Joe Worth struck her as the kind of man who didn’t want anything except one-upmanship. She didn’t like it— freaking butterflies in the stomach aside.
“You going to answer that or do you have to wait until the candles are lit.”
“This conversation isn’t over.” A lame attempt at the last word and she knew it. He arched a brow and went back to his in-depth study of Phylly and Cornie’s many acquired artifacts. She found the phone under a scarf and last month’s copy of Elle. She picked up the phone. It was Leanne, Rusty’s cousin and her assistant at Hot and High, returning the call April placed when they’d arrived at Phylly’s apartment.
“Leanne, hi, I—” She’d didn’t get to finish.
And she couldn’t grasp what she was hearing.
April again thrust her hair behind her ear, and holding it back, she sat heavily on the unlovely sofa. “My God. When?” She listened hard, nodding, tears filling her eyes when she lifted them to Joe. She raised her hand against his questioning gaze, shook her head.
He watched her silently, hands on hips.
April closed her eyes, listened intently, not wanting to miss a word, while her heart sank in her chest. “When will we know? . . . How is she now? . . . Good. Yes, I know she’s tough, but—tell me everything.” Finally, she nodded. “Good idea. I’ll call the hospital. Thanks, Leanne, and God, I’m so sorry.”
April clicked off the phone and sat like carved marble on the sofa. She couldn’t think, couldn’t process . . .
Joe took the phone from her hand, set it on the side table. “What’s going on?”
“That was Leanne from Hot and High, where Phylly and I work. She says—” She swallowed so hard it hurt her throat.
Cornie came into the room carrying two bottles of water. She stopped abruptly when her gaze met April’s. “What? You look like a zombie.”
“It’s about Rusty.”
“Who’s Rusty?” Joe asked.
“She’s my mom’s boss,” Cornie said.
“And mine,” April added. “And our best friend.”
“Geez, April, what happened?” Cornie asked.
April’s eyes started to water, and she took a second or two to settle herself down. “Rusty’s in the hospital, Cornie.”
“Oh, my God.” She put a fist to her mouth. “Was she in a car accident? What?”
Taking a breath, April said, “She was shot. Last night at work.”
“Shot. Like with a gun?”
April could only nod. “The cleaning people found her. Shortly after ten last night.” She stood, started to pace.
“Jeez . . . “Cornie sat on the other end of the sofa, clutching the bottles of water to her chest as if they were pillows. The condensation dampened her Tee. “But she’ll be okay, right?”
“Leanne said she was shot twice, that she lost a lot of blood,” April said. “She had two surgeries during the night. They’re hopeful, but they don’t really know, yet. She hasn’t regained consciousness.”
Cornie’s eyes were wide. “Does this have anything to do with Mom? Do you think?”
“I’m not sure what to think, except—” Joe was going to get his wish for a better bed, because no way was she having Cornie stay here. She looked at Joe. “Book us those rooms, would you? But not at the Mirage. We’ll go downtown, the Sandstone.”
If Joe had any questions, he let them lie. “Done.” He took out his cell.
Looking at Cornie, April said, “Pack your stuff, kiddo.”
Cornie frowned. “We just got here.”
“And now we’re leaving. We’re going to see Tommy. He’ll know more about what happened.” And April was suddenly very sure they’d be safer away from this place.
“You
do
think what happened is about Mom.” Cornie’s face went stubborn—and pale. “It could have been just been like vandals or something?”
Joe, who was on the phone, raised a brow, waited for her answer with as much interest as Cornie.
April figured it was more like the mysterious
someone
who’d been looking for Phylly, and after what happened to Rusty, she saw no point in keeping Cornie in the dark. If information was power, Cornie needed the protection. “If it was vandals or a random robbery, the police sure don’t think so,” she said. “They said whoever was in Rusty’s office was looking for something specific, that nothing was stolen, wrecked or broken—except her computer. They said it looked as though it had been kicked in. But that the search of the office appeared ‘methodical and professional.’ Their words.”
Cornie went paler.
“I honestly don’t know if any of this has anything to do with Phylly—not for sure anyway.” She paced a few steps, her knees feeling like warm toffee. “But I think it’s smart to
act
as though it does until we know different.”
And even smarter not to be sitting ducks in Phylly’s apartment if whoever shot Rusty decides to show up.
“She’s right.” Joe shoved his phone in his pocket. “We’re set. I’ve got a suite at the Sandstone.”
“Why?” Cornie asked. “Why can’t we stay here?”
“We will”—Joe’s tone was brusque—“for the next hour. We’re going through everything in this place, then we’re out of here.” He looked at Cornie. “You check your mother’s room again, see if anything’s missing—” When it looked like she was going to backtalk him, he held up his hand. “Later for the teen crap, okay?” He shifted his gaze to April. “You check the closets, any storage areas—and wherever the hell else the woman might keep stuff.”
“When did God put you in charge?” Cornie blurted.
April would have asked the same question—if they had more time. But his instructions made sense, so she decided to let his machismo tactics pass.
For the moment.
He ignored Cornie and walked back to where he’d been nosing around the room earlier. “But before you get started, do either one of you know anything about this?” He took a picture, maybe eight by ten, off the wall, held it out for them to see.
“That’s been there forever,” Cornie said. “I think some guy gave it to Mom. She likes it, says it’s peaceful.”
April took the picture from Joe’s hand. Although it had hung on Phylly’s wall for longer than she could remember, she’d never paid much attention to it. Now, she studied it closely. It was a watercolor of a beach. Not a sunny California beach, but a gray misty one that seemed to go on forever; the beach was bordered by tall trees—maybe fir or cedar—but the scene was anything but peaceful. The trees were bent back from a fierce wind, and waves the height of houses were rolling in from the ocean. It was titled, appropriately enough,
Storm Watch.
“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” she said. “And I don’t remember Phylly ever saying anything about it.”
She handed the picture back to Joe, who was all business now, as if the last ten minutes, and his earlier quasi effort at seduction, had never happened. “You’re sure?”
She nodded. “But Cornie’s right,” she added. “Phylly’s had the picture for years. What about it?” She was puzzled.
Staring at it, he said, “Maybe nothing . . . but you said Phyllis went to Canada, right?” He studied the picture again. “This looks a lot like a place my partner and I went fishing a few years back. I could be wrong, but I’m betting this is a picture of somewhere along the British Columbia coast. Its extreme west coast.”
Chapter 8
Giselle was in the shower when Q found her. Behind the clear glass panels, water sluiced over her nakedness, a warm river of water that pinked her pale skin and blurred her curves. She had her face turned up to the water’s rushing source, eyes closed, like a child facing the sun. She ran her hands through her long dark hair and held it behind her head, her arms wings above her shoulders.
Q let his eyes roam over her slowly, knowing her body, lush and toned, was his for the taking. Any time. Any way.
His body, already hard and aching with need, demanded that taking now, but he ignored its clamor. Setting his primal urges aside, he chose instead the trial of waiting, to best savor his latest possession.
Giselle’s breasts—large, as he preferred his breasts— were accented by a twenty-two inch waist, her buttocks were firm, smooth from oiled massage, and her legs were slender with ankles in perfect proportion to the curve of her calves.