by Nancy Warren
“Look, I’m just—”
“Isn’t a thousand dollars rather a lot to pay a prostitute?”
He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction he’d taken the conversation. Maybe he should have thought of other reasons a person might have cash dropped off in the middle of the night. “Depends on the service.”
“I see. If I were paying one thousand dollars for sex, I’d want it gift-wrapped in a Tiffany’s box.”
“Well…” He cleared his throat. “It’s uh, usually the men who pay.”
“And what would you pay a thousand dollars for?” she asked him.
He glanced up and for some damn reason, heat shot through him. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, or the thought of that alluring little body naked and wrapped around him, but lust sucker-punched him. “I never pay for sex,” he managed to snap.
“I see.”
Then he pushed the envelope toward her. “Quit yankin’ my chain, Chloe. What kind of business are you in where clients pay cash and you keep the weirdest damned hours of any businessperson I ever knew.”
“I didn’t realize you were monitoring my movements.”
How did she do this? That cool, snooty, my country has princesses and yours doesn’t voice infuriated and aroused him at the same time. It wasn’t Brittany he should be hiding from, it was his neighbor.
“What kind of business, is all I’m asking.”
She tilted her head so that she was looking sideways and up at him. “I run a private detective agency,” she said.
He didn’t laugh, but it was a close run thing. “Do you now?”
“Certainly. Women make excellent detectives. They know how to be subtle,” she said with a tiny smile that showed off even white teeth and managed to insinuate that he was about as subtle as a charging bull.
He thought about asking for her business card, but then her obvious lie would be out in the open, and he didn’t want to end the most interesting conversation he’d had in weeks. “Do you have any specialties?”
“Specialties?”
“Areas of private investigation that you specialize in.”
“Oh, I see. No. I run a full-service agency.”
He was about to ask another question when she forestalled him.
“Shall we go and get the cake off your front porch to have with our coffee? I think your girlfriend has left.”
Shit. Brittany. He was going to have to do something about her, and he had no idea what. “Her name’s Brittany. We had a fight.”
“Her fault? So she’s bringing you a peace offering.”
He shook his head. “My fault. I was an asshole.”
“Oh, dear. Poor Brittany. Is she one of those doormat women who are sorry even when a fight is not their fault?”
“No. Brittany believes in talking things out. She brought the whatever-it-was to be civilized. But I already know it’s my fault and I need to apologize.”
“I see.”
“We’re probably going to get married, Brittany and me,” he heard himself say, but the words came out stiff and arthritic, which was pretty much how his whole body felt when he contemplated his future. However, marriage was what everyone expected: his family, his friends, Brittany.
“Which is why you’re hiding from her at first light instead of apologizing and getting on with things.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Oh, please don’t think I’m critical. It’s the sort of thing I do myself when I’m engaged.”
He was momentarily diverted from his own troubles. “You’d have hidden in my house if your boyfriend drove by?”
She looked at him, but he thought she was really looking back over her own behavior. “No,” she said. “I think, in your shoes, I’d have kissed you long and hard in your own doorway in full view of my fiancé.”
Clearly, he wasn’t the only one on the block with commitment problems. And the picture she’d put in his head definitely wasn’t helping. “Why?”
“Years of expensive therapy haven’t helped me understand my own behavior.” She put her head to one side as though that would help her sift through her thoughts. “I think I want a man to want me enough to fight for me.”
“And do they?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No. They are always terribly brave and noble, or pretend they don’t notice whatever dreadful thing I’ve done, until eventually we have a flaming great row and it’s over.”
He got up and walked toward her. “You’ve been in England too long. Here in Texas, we do things differently.” He imagine how he’d feel if Chloe were his and he found her making out with some other guy. Brave and noble were not the first words that sprang to mind.
“Good.” She seemed pleased by the notion of fights springing up over her. What a head case.
“No man wants his woman making out with another guy.”
She shrugged. “I like drama.”
Suddenly he found himself grinning. “Must be a drawback in the PI business.”
She had a way of looking at a man that was both mischievous and tempting. “That remains to be seen.”
He took his empty coffee mug to the sink. She sure kept the place neat. The sink shone and the counters were spotless.
“Matthew?”
“Mmm?”
“What about you?”
“I think drama’s for the movies.”
God, even her laugh was sexy. It was light and flirtatious, like a flower scent you’d smell once and never forget. “I meant for your job. You said you were an ex-cop.”
“I’m in real estate now.”
“In what capacity?”
He shrugged. “This and that. I buy places. Fix them up, then sell them or rent them. I bought this place when the neighbors moved to Houston. I refinished the hardwood floors, painted, did some work on the kitchen and bathrooms. I try to pick stable tenants who will fit in with the neighborhood.” His sarcasm wasn’t particularly subtle.
He didn’t turn around, but it didn’t matter. She asked anyway. “Why aren’t you a cop anymore?”
He turned. “Long story. I’ve got stuff to do and you’ve got a business to run. I’ll see you around.”
“Yes, all right. See you around,” she said, but she kept looking at him with a speculative expression that made him want to run.
Chapter 4
Chloe watched the long, tall Texan walk out her door as though he owned it. He did, of course, but she strongly suspected that lazy confidence went with him through every doorway. There was something decidedly appealing about a man who looked this good at such an ungodly hour of the morning.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she warned herself even as she moved to the window so she could watch him amble, slow as a sexy drawl, back to his own house. She did not have time for a love affair, particularly not a love affair with a man who was also her neighbor and her landlord. Two black marks that, naturally, only made him more appealing to her. Even though she knew it was the lure of the forbidden, she couldn’t stop herself from licking her lips.
Was it her imagination or was there the tiniest hitch in his step? Not quite a limp, but not a perfectly smooth gait either. Giorgio, her most recent former fiancé, had suffered a nasty skiing accident in the Italian Alps and after his knee surgery he’d walked that way when the weather was wet or he’d been overdoing his workouts. She doubted her Texan had suffered a skiing accident. Something to do with his work, no doubt. He’d certainly become huffy when she asked why he’d left the police force. She’d bet the two were related.
Interesting. Not her business, but that never stopped her.
He bent and picked up the coffee cake on his front porch, read the note, and turned to scan the empty street as though he were looking for the woman he’d hidden from earlier.
Chloe went back into the kitchen and added fresh coffee to her mug. It was clear from her brief glimpse of that sweet-looking girl with all that blond hair and the rather anxious look on her face that she was all wrong fo
r Matthew. That girl was a nurturer through and through. She’d be a nurse, or a nursery-school teacher.
She ran upstairs to shower and get ready for the day, much earlier than she’d planned. While the water rained down on her, a story began to form. She’d bet that Matthew had met Brittany when he was injured. Of course. He’d be hurting, wounded, and the nurturer in Brittany would respond. If he’d left the force because of that knee, he’d have been drawn to a giving woman like Brittany with her coffee cakes and let’s talk about it mentality. But now that he was back on his feet, he’d reverted to an independent man. And, since he was no doubt grateful to Brittany for being there when he needed her, he’d have no idea how to get out of a romance that was clearly hopeless.
Poor, dear man.
However, it was a good day. She had a thousand dollars in hand.
Once she had her makeup done and her underwear on, she went to her office.
She flipped on her laptop computer for the day’s schedule, which was empty but for a manicure at two p.m. that she’d booked because a businesswoman should always look well groomed.
Besides, no one knew better than Chloe, who’d spent a good portion of her life in salons of various kinds, that the salon was a hotbed of relationship goss. Men might tell the bartender their troubles, but women spilled their guts to their stylist, manicurist, or massage therapist. The world of beauty and personal pampering was a thriving market for her services.
She’d always thought of marketing as what Mummy’s housekeeper Martha did when she drove to town to do the food shopping, but now that Chloe was in business for herself, she was rapidly making the connection between marketing efforts and paying clients. If she wanted more of the latter, she was going to have to do more of the former. Since she did her marketing in person at places where she liked to spend time anyway, the activity hadn’t become a chore.
Chloe slipped on a black linen sundress, Miu Miu sandals—her green suede ones with the gold-tipped stiletto heels—a big straw bag that she’d decided was more approachable and chic than a briefcase, a bottle of water to drink, and an aerosol of Evian to keep her skin hydrated in the Texas heat.
Then she slipped on the Chanel sunglasses that always made her feel like Audrey Hepburn and headed off in her rental car, only having to be reminded once by the toot of a car horn that here in America, people drove on the opposite side of the road.
Her first destination for the day was the mall, that most American of institutions and one she loved to bits. Inside, it was cool with air conditioning and a double decker of delicious shops awaited. Sadly, she didn’t have the time or the money for shopping, but she allowed herself a few minutes of window browsing while she gave herself a pep talk. Today she would acquire three new clients, she decided, and make sure she handed out at least a dozen business cards and placed stacks of her brochures where those in unhappy relationships would be most likely to see them.
Her advert was in newspapers in San Antonio, Dallas, and Houston as well as the Austin paper. Her website was live. She had, as her brilliant marketing genius friend Anthony had decreed, three levels of marketing: print, Internet, and direct person-to-person selling. And she hoped like mad that it would pay off—and quickly. Before she ran out of money or got bored. Of the two fates, she dreaded the second most.
With a tiny sigh in the direction of Neiman Marcus, she headed for the food court, where she bought herself a cup of coffee, sat at one of the round plastic tables, and settled back to observe.
She took a survey of the morning coffee drinkers and sticky-bun eaters, some obviously fueling up for a morning’s shopping, some grabbing a quick snack on a work break, and some at leisure. She’d doubted there’d be any potential clients in a shopping center food court, but after spending a few minutes regarding a young couple talking earnestly, she moved closer, choosing a table where she had a clear view of the pair, was close enough to hear a bit of what was said, but not so close as to inhibit them or even worse, cause them to leave. Though, frankly, she doubted they’d have noticed if she posed herself naked at the next table, they were that wrapped up in their conversation.
She drew today’s newspaper out of her bag, propped it in front of her so she’d appear occupied if the intense couple should glance her way, and proceeded to watch human drama. Chloe had never understood the appeal of reality shows on telly—the ones that played out in life were always so much more entertaining.
The pair were both in their early twenties. He wore a department store suit and an unimaginative striped tie. He had brown hair and glasses—the kind of Clark Kent who, sadly, have no alter ego superpower. The young woman had long dark hair clipped back off her face, large dark eyes, and a full-lipped mouth. Her clothing suggested a lot more personality than her companion’s. She wore a soft, peasanty blouse in yellow and blue, a tight black skirt, and high-heeled sandals. A tattoo of a tiny dragon hovered over her ankle.
They were both leaning forward, so intent on each other that their coffees sat in front of them untouched.
“On a stakeout?” The male voice behind her startled her so much that she slopped coffee onto her newspaper. She turned to glare, having already recognized the voice of her very annoying neighbor.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
She sighed as he walked around in front of her. “You’re going to be one of those annoying men, aren’t you?”
“What annoying men?”
“The ones who follow me around and make fools of themselves.”
He looked a bit stunned. Well, no man liked to be told he was making a fool of himself, and normally she’d have been gentler about letting him down, but she had a schedule to keep.
“You actually think I’m following you because I’m—I’m—” He ran out of words, so she helped him out.
“Besotted?” She’d seen the male interest in his eyes when he looked at her, something that happened to her so often it only registered when she felt a return sizzle.
“I told you, I have a girlfriend. We’re probably getting married.”
“You barged into my house at an ungodly hour of the morning, hid from your girlfriend, and now you’re following me. What am I supposed to think?”
“Try this—that I didn’t believe your story this morning. I’m trying to figure out what you’re doing.”
She wasn’t entirely sure she believed him, but he didn’t really fit the profile of her usual lovesick admirer. Assuming he really did want to know what her business was, she could tell him, and then he’d go away. But somehow she knew he’d make fun of her and she wasn’t in the mood for mockery.
Besides, actions spoke much louder than words. She planned to use her actions like a bullhorn in his direction. That would wipe the smirk off his face.
He sat across from her without permission. She considered making an issue of it, but that would only draw attention, so, instead, she handed him a section of the paper and pretended to read her own.
The paper rustled as he spread out the pages. “Sports.” he said. “How sexist.” Remembering their earlier conversation in her kitchen, she found herself smiling.
She leaned toward him. “I’m having a quick coffee before work, that’s all.”
“Why are you watching those two?” He didn’t incline his head, he merely cut his eyes to the table she’d been observing. Damn.
“I like people watching,” she said.
“What’s so interesting about them? They’re talking about how great last night was and when they can do it again.”
She shook her head. “No. Their conversation has nothing to do with sex. They’re more emotional. That relationship’s on the rocks.”
“And they come to a shopping mall food court for a heart to heart?” He reached for her coffee without asking and took a sip. He grimaced. “Too much sugar.”
“Then get your own coffee,” she said, taking hers back.
“I’m blending in with your cover,�
�� he explained, sounding serious and looking anything but. “We’ll let those two and anyone else watching think we’re too busy talking about our great sex life to have any attention to spare.”
“We don’t have a great sex life,” she snapped, then immediately realized her mistake when she saw his smile dawn, slow and sexy.
“You don’t know that.” He didn’t say yet—couldn’t, of course, with Brittany busy making coffee cakes and planning a lavish wedding, no doubt with far too many frills. Still, the attraction was as undeniable as the heat waiting outside to slap her when she left the relative coolness of the air-conditioned shopping center.
Damn, damn, damn. She did not have time for this. Even as the thought passed through her mind, she found herself tingling with the thrill of attraction. He was so long and tall and sexy, so down to earth, and she was so tired of European playboys.
To avoid the issue of attraction, she ignored his provocation and answered his earlier question. “Those two are here because it’s convenient for them. Close to work for both.” She didn’t have to look back at the pair to visualize them in her mind and make a reasonable guess. “He’s an assistant manager at one of the shops in the mall and she’s… in the juniors clothing section at Penney’s.”
“You know them?”
“No. I’m guessing.”
He shook his head. “He’s a junior banker. She’s a florist.”
“A florist?”
He shrugged. “She likes color. Texture. I’m guessing flowers. And that is definitely a sex thing they’re talking about.”
She shook her head. “A breakup.”
“Twenty bucks says I’m right.”
“Twenty doesn’t sound very sure. Fifty.” Of course, she shouldn’t be gambling. She should be hoarding her resources until she got her company firmly up and running, but the thousand dollars had gone to her head. Besides, something about playing games with Matthew—any kind of games—was exciting.
“You’re on.”
Now they were both focused on the adjacent table, so they both witnessed the young man take a diamond ring out of his pocket and offer it to the girl.