“I’m interviewing Jared for an article.” Margo retrieved her notepad and pencil, as if she needed proof. Ridiculous.
“Sorry for interrupting.” Raquel’s apology came through gritted teeth and was clearly not genuine. However, at least she’d unclenched her fists.
“Interview, huh?” Steph’s eyes twinkled, and she waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Raquel needed a ride to the office, and I remembered I need to borrow your purple dress, so…” She shrugged, still smiling.
Margo would never hear the end of this one.
“I’ll get the dress.”
“I’ll help you.”
Margo hurried into the bedroom she’d shared with Nick, which augmented her guilt. She hadn’t kissed a man since his death, and the first one had to be the one who would have hurt him the most.
Steph came in behind her and put her hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you dare feel bad about kissing that sexy hunk of man. It’s about time you—”
“Don’t, Steph.” Margo drew a shaky breath, reeling in her emotions. She turned and faced her sister. “There’s—a lot more to this, and I can’t go into it with you right now.”
“Oooookay.” Steph gave her a quick hug, then flung open Margo’s closet. “I’m starting to wonder about Raquel.”
“Starting to?” Margo shook her head. “She’s very strange.”
Steph retrieved the purple dress in question and draped it over her shoulder. “She was the one who mentioned we were passing right by your place.”
“How…” Margo paused to contemplate that. “She probably saw my address at the office or something. Or maybe from the police station last night.”
“Maybe.”
Why didn’t it seem that simple to Margo? Because Raquel had shown an inordinately strong interest in her. That made it personal.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Steph tilted her head, her expression contemplative. “I’m sure she’ll take no for an answer.”
Margo would’ve bought her sister’s sincerity, if not for the gleam in Steph’s eye as she grabbed the doorknob.
“You’re rotten,” she muttered to her sister’s retreating back.
“I love you, too, sis.” Steph giggled all the way back to the den.
Raquel and Jared were still in neutral corners. At least that was something.
“C’mon, Raquel, let’s give these two some privacy.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Raquel said, her murderous gaze still on Jared. “After all, Margo is still in mourning.”
Steph coughed and grabbed Raquel by the elbow. “Hon, Nick was a really cool guy, but it’s been two years. Life goes on.”
Raquel paused at the door and faced Margo. The glower she’d directed at Jared was gone. Now the expression in the redhead’s mascara’d eyes could only be described as sad. Rejected? Get a grip, Margo.
“I see you kept the painting,” Raquel said quietly as she shifted her gaze from Margo to the painting in the entryway.
Before Margo could ask the woman how she knew about the painting Nick had purchased while on their honeymoon, Steph had dragged Raquel Eastwood out the front door.
“That was…interesting,” Jared said.
“More than you can possibly imagine.” Margo turned slowly to find that he looked as bewildered as she felt. “Yes, interesting is one way of putting it.” Crazy would’ve been more accurate. Had Raquel been here before? Ridiculous. After giving herself a mental shake, she grabbed her notebook and pencil again. “Now, where were we?”
Jared touched her shoulder, gently turning her to face him. “Don’t you remember?” He took a step nearer, his warmth closing the short distance between them as he cupped her face in both hands and brushed his lips across hers.
Her knees quaked, and her heart pressed upward against her throat. She still wanted this man with the same intensity she had in college. He had the ability to reduce her to little more than crazed hormones with no effort at all. Problem was he seemed hell-bent on exerting a lot of effort.
She was in serious trouble.
“Jared…” A simple whisper shouldn’t have ignited the flame in his eyes she saw now. He obviously knew her resistance to his charms was practically nonexistent. “I…we can’t do this.”
“Oh, I definitely can.” He exhaled very slowly, resting his forehead against hers. “But I’m a gentleman. Remember?”
“Yes.” Margo swallowed hard, and wished more than a little that Jared Carson would forget he was a gentleman, and that she could stop feeling as if she were betraying her dead husband. “Back to our interview.”
Margo sat in a chair across the room from Jared this time, and he took the couch. Alone. Better this way. Really.
“I can’t tell you much about the life of an exotic dancer, since I’m really not one.” He held his hands palms up.
“Looks like a duck…”
“Cute.”
“I thought so.” She scribbled down a few comments.
“What are you writing? I haven’t said anything yet.”
“Just that the subject seems ashamed of his chosen profession. Embarrassed.”
“You can say that again.”
“Once will suffice.” Warmed to her subject, Margo scribbled more notes.
“Just a thought…”
She looked up, trying to ignore how delicious he looked sitting on her couch. “What?”
“Aren’t you doing the real dancers a disservice?”
“How?”
“By putting my embarrassment in the article. Maybe some of these guys like this job.”
“Oh.” What had she been thinking? Very unprofessional—and very unlike her. “You’re right. I can’t do it this way. I’ll have to go back to the Studfinder and—”
“No.” Jared stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Please?”
“Don’t want me to see you wiggle up there again?” She grinned but could tell he was serious. “Jared, I have a job to do here.”
“Tell me what you want to know from the other dancers, and I’ll ask them.”
She studied his expression, the worry in his intensely blue eyes, and almost surrendered. “Look, as you pointed out, I’ve already almost blown this assignment.” She stood, tossing her notepad onto the coffee table. “If I’m going to write this story, I’m going to do it right. That means interviewing a real dancer. Lakeview only has one Studfinder.”
He rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. “The real Margo Knutsen has returned.”
Stunned, she waited for him to meet her gaze again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes softened. “I didn’t mean to insult you, but you haven’t exactly been yourself.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Except for when I kissed you.”
Her cheeks flamed, and she cleared her throat. “I…well…It’s been hard. Losing Nick and all.”
“I know.” He sighed and walked around the coffee table. “Come here.”
Margo hesitated, but she saw compassion in his eyes instead of lust. Between two beats of her heart, she found her head nestled beneath Jared’s chin and his strong arms wrapped comfortably around her shoulders. He made no attempt to kiss her this time.
And that made her want him even more.
“I don’t believe this.” Nick kicked off his high heels and put his feet on his desk. Who cared if the hem of his skirt slid all the way up to the crotch of his—God save him—panty hose? To make things even worse, this really had been his desk, once upon a time.
“Séamus, I just want to know one thing.”
“What is it this time, Nicholas?”
“Were you a sadist when you were still alive?”
“I know you don’t mean that. You’re just upset.”
“Noooooo. What was your first clue?” Nick raked his slut-red fingernails through his hair. “I told you I’d find her someone else.”
“Jared is Margo’s destiny. It’s not your place to—”
“
Not my place?” Nick stood, wishing he had pockets to ram his fists into. Wishing his punching bag was still hanging in the corner. He’d draw Séamus’s face on it and take out his frustrations.
“How thoughtful.”
Nick scowled up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes, resignation coiling through him with all the ease of a rattlesnake. Margo’s destiny, my ass. He clenched his fists, struggling against the urge to put his fist through the wall.
“Do you have any idea how it felt to—” He bit back what threatened to become a sob. Nick Riley didn’t blubber, but as Raquel…
“It’s hard, Nick. I knew it would be.”
“But you sent me here anyway, knowing he was the one?”
“Remember, this order came from higher up the chain of command.”
Nick barked a derisive laugh. “So God really is that cruel?”
“You have to figure it all out for yourself, Nick. Have you ever really loved anyone but yourself?”
“That’s bull. I loved Margo. I married her, didn’t I?”
“But you didn’t love her the way a man loves the woman he’s meant to spend his life with. Did you?”
“I…hell.” He punched his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Just hell.”
“I think you’re starting to see the truth, though you don’t like it now.”
“Now? You think I’ll ever like seeing Jared Carson manhandle my wife?”
“Widow. And what I think isn’t important, but you will come to accept what must be. And perhaps you shouldn’t carry your father’s secret to your grave either. Maybe it’s time to learn something about sacrifice.”
Nick dropped his gaze to the floor, scowling at the runner in the toe of his hose. A soggy tear landed on it, as if to punctuate this entire sordid mess.
“If I accept what you call destiny”—he drew a shaky breath and forced the words—“that means I also have to accept that Margo was never really…mine.”
Only silence answered him, but he knew. His rivalry with Jared Carson and his marriage to Margo were the reasons he hadn’t made it all the way into Heaven. He was dead, dammit. Margo wasn’t. His mission was to see her happy for the rest of her life. But why the hell did that have to make Jared happy for the rest of his life, too?
Sacrifice… Nick pulled a sheet of stationery from the drawer and scribbled a short note—words he’d buried deep and sworn he would never reveal. Even so, one of the things he’d regretted after his death was taking this knowledge with him, instead of leaving it here for those it affected.
He stared down at the written words, reached for the sheet, fully intending to rip it to shreds. Sacrifice. Truth. Instead of tearing it, he swallowed hard and drew a deep breath. The date he wrote at the top of the page was from the week before his death, two years ago. He signed Nick at the bottom.
Seeing his real name in his own hand again gave him pause. He’d made so many mistakes—had so many regrets. Maybe Séamus had a few points. Maybe. This one was easier than Margo. He folded the sheet and sealed it in an envelope. Very neatly, he wrote a name across the front and slid it to the back of his top desk drawer. Someone would find it when Raquel was gone and think it had been missed after Nick’s death.
The receptionist’s voice scratched over the intercom. “Henry Millman on one, Ms. Eastwood.”
“What does that son of a bitch want?”
“Are we having PMS?” the old woman asked, her voice dripping sarcasm.
“Eat sh—” Nick clenched his teeth, rather than complete that remark. “I dunno. Maybe. Fine, thanks. I’ll take the call.”
Nick blew his nose, dabbed the tears from his eyes, grabbed the phone, and punched line one. After he reiterated his refusal to accept the owner of the Studfinder as a client, Nick hung up the receiver. That snake made the need for sexual harassment laws way too frigging personal.
Someone knocked and simultaneously opened Nick’s office door. Mrs. Brown, the firm’s loyal receptionist, who’d adored Margo and hated Nick in his natural life, entered with a small brown paper bag. The little, gray-haired woman pulled a gigantic chocolate bar from the bag and slapped it into Nick’s hand.
“I ran downstairs to the drugstore. This first, to sweeten your mood,” she said. “We’ve never had a female attorney in the office, and I’m, well, beyond all this.”
Nick blinked, staring at the bar and back to Mrs. Brown. “But…” She’d never given him chocolate.
The woman made an annoying tsking sound with her tongue and removed two more items. “Evening primrose for your PMS.” She slapped the pill bottle down on the desk and removed two small boxes—one of tampons and one of maxi pads. “And these for later.”
Nick sputtered, unable to contemplate the horror of what she’d just proposed. He stared at the diagram on the side of the tampon box. No way. Not even Séamus would…
“You’ll feel better soon,” Mrs. Brown said. “Take the primrose. Start now.” She opened the bottle, then pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket. “And a phone message from Steph Knutsen.” Mrs. Brown moved to the office door.
“Wait.” Nick sniffled and tore open the chocolate. “Thank you. I think.”
“You don’t know it yet, but you already did, dear.”
Dear? He shifted the glob of soothing chocolate to one side of his mouth. “I did?”
“Steph included me in her invitation.” Mrs. Brown flashed a wicked grin and left the room.
Nick grabbed the phone message and simultaneously bit off another chunk of chocolate. Maybe there really was some truth to that serotonin business. He felt better already.
Raquel, meet us at the Studfinder around seven. Margo’s on assignment and we may need our attorney. Bring Mrs. Brown. A smiley face was drawn at the end.
“Oh, my God.” Nick Riley was going to watch male strippers. Revulsion slithered through him, until he remembered that Jared Carson was a main attraction.
He broke off another chunk of chocolate, liking the idea of watching old Jar-O humiliate himself. If only Jared Carson knew who Raquel really was, that could make it all the more satisfying.
“Get serious.” He dropped the unopened boxes into the wastebasket and looked at the digital clock on his desk. It was too early to call it a day, but he didn’t have any appointments. Besides, he didn’t feel like himself. Well, even less than usual since his new appearance. Maybe Mrs. Brown was right about the PMS.
Heaven forbid.
He almost laughed. “I know what I’m gonna do to lift my spirits.” He’d have Raquel’s long red hair cropped off into something more manageable. And get rid of these manicured claws, too. The more he contemplated it, the more he liked the idea.
He pulled a pair of fingernail clippers from his desk drawer—right where he’d always kept them—and rendered Raquel’s red nails into nice, neat stubs. He’d have to ask Mrs. Brown what women used to remove this gunk.
Then he went into the bathroom and scrubbed off the makeup. When he looked in the mirror again, he noticed something for the first time since this journey into never-never land.
Raquel had Nick’s eyes. Behind all that eyeliner and mascara, he hadn’t noticed. Maybe if he’d actually washed it off at night like the instructions said, he would’ve realized sooner.
“I’ll be damned.” Maybe the eyes really were windows to the soul. Séamus might have changed Nick’s body, but he hadn’t changed his eyes or his handwriting. Even Mrs. Brown had commented how much Raquel’s handwriting resembled Nick’s. Knowing that part of him was still here made him feel better than he had since his arrival back on Earth.
Well, for a few moments he felt better. After using the facilities, he marched back into his office and retrieved the box of maxi pads from the wastebasket. He slammed the bathroom door behind him, tore open the box and read the directions.
“Thanks a lot, Séamus.”
7
Jared had a hunch, and he didn’t like hunches. He liked facts. Hard evidence.
A
local big shot named Henry Millman owned the Studfinder, along with at least a dozen other small businesses in the county. In the two weeks since Jared had started this assignment, tonight was the first time Millman had put in an appearance. Why tonight? And had last night’s futile drug raid been timed accordingly?
The rotund, cigar-smoking owner strutted through the dressing room about half an hour before showtime. He made a few ribald comments about entertaining women, not giving any dancer more than a cursory nod, except one.
Millman directed a glare of suspicion that shot right through Jared. He’d seen that look before. The asshole knew something—or at least suspected it.
Jared forced himself to return to the task of closing all the Velcro tabs on his costume, ignoring his sweaty palms and the alarm bouncing through his brain.
Something big was going down tonight. He felt it. Smelled it.
And Margo would be in the audience.
“Damn.”
“What’s up?” the dancer with the locker next to Jared’s asked. His Tarzan performance opened every night. “Tough day?”
Jared searched his gray matter for Tarzan’s real name, and came up blank. “I was just noticing the fat guy.” He slid a glance toward Millman, who was now deep in conversation with his emcee. At least he wasn’t watching Jared anymore. “He’s the owner. Right?”
“Yep. That’s the big man himself.” Tarzan tucked something that looked like a rolled sock into his G-string. “Padding the fantasies.”
Jared managed a chuckle and patted himself on the back for not cringing. “I was just curious. Haven’t seen him here before.”
“Oh, he comes in around the first of every month.” Tarzan pulled his loincloth on and fastened the Velcro. “He never watches the show, though—spends all his time back here doing something in the office.”
“Hmm. Seems like he could hire somebody to do his payroll.” Jared lifted a shoulder, feigning disinterest. “Tightwad, eh?”
Tarzan rubbed oil across his shaved chest. “I figure the Studfinder is a tax shelter or something.”
Or something. Jared had to find a way to get into that office. Tonight. “Anybody ever meet him here?”
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