Wishing she hadn't gotten the conversation off to such a personal start, Sheridan ordered a glass of white wine from the cocktail waitress who appeared at her side. She had hoped her appearance would convince St. Charles that the episode on the landing in her apartment building had been a fluke. Purposely she had put on conservative khaki twill pants and a periwinkle-blue cotton sweater. Her only concession to "cool" was to push up her sleeves to her elbows. She wore no jewelry and only a touch of plum lipstick.
"You don't know better," she told him. "You don't know me at all."
He shrugged and said, as if this explained her, "You're J.B. Weaver's daughter."
"So?"
"All day I've been trying to reconcile the image I had of J.B.'s daughter with the reality of the dark-haired lady in the gray suit. You had me confused for a while— even tempted to feel sorry for you. But no more."
For no reason she could understand, she bristled. "You have me figured out, is that it?"
"Let's put it this way: I know I don't have to feel sorry for you."
She would have liked to have heard what else he knew about her, but the conversation had already evolved into something far too personal for her taste. Besides, she was irked because she wasn't even remotely close to having him figured out. She didn't know a damned thing about Richard St. Charles except that he was everything she had learned to be wary of: roguishly good-looking, physical, intelligent, potentially dangerous. Despite her expertise at self-defense and her own crafty intelligence, Sheridan wouldn't want to bump heads in the night with Richard St. Charles.
"Is it hot in here?" he asked nonchalantly. "You look a bit pink."
She wasn't about to explain her inept metaphor. Her wine arrived and she took a sip, smiled innocently and changed the subject. "Thank you for agreeing to see me, St. Charles—"
"Richard, please."
That would never do. "I'm worried about my father," she proceeded. "As you no doubt have guessed by now, I haven't the slightest idea what you want with him. I don't know if you're a good guy or a bad guy or something in between, but I do know that I love my father and, for my own peace of mind, need to know that he's all right." She lowered her eyes, avoiding his warm, probing gaze. "I can't offer you anything in return for information."
"Yes, you can offer something in return," he said. "Plenty, in fact. But I'm not that kind of man, and you're not that kind of woman."
She looked up sharply and much too quickly—before Richard could do something about the heat in his eyes and the sensual intensity that exuded from his every muscle. If he had wanted to do something about those things. The bald fact that he wanted her was there, impossible to miss. She could feel herself responding, wanting him just as much, just as badly. He smiled, reading her look, and calmly sipped his drink, saying nothing. Nothing needed to be said.
Sheridan cleared her throat. "You're not a thug or a hit man, then, are you?"
He laughed. "No, hardly. Is that what you thought?"
"Fleetingly. You never know with J.B. Before I was convinced that you were a poker buddy of his and a fellow P.I. and that he'd gotten you to play along with him on some kind of scheme to get me back to San Francisco. My father tries to be understanding and supportive and all the things modem fathers of independent women are supposed to be, but he's not convinced I belong out here in Boston."
"Do you?"
"That's neither here nor there. This isn't one of J.B.'s harebrained schemes, is it?"
He shook his head, serious. "At least it doesn't concern you, although it could very well be harebrained. Your father and I met about a week ago on Vincent D'Amours's yacht."
The warmth she had begun to feel for Richard St. Charles vanished even more quickly than it had appeared. Vincent D'Amours. Her eyes narrowed. She appraised St. Charles across the small table. "You know Vinnie D'Amours?" she asked carefully.
"Not until a week ago, no. I was invited as a substitute in one of his poker games."
Sheridan nodded, but without understanding completely. Vincent D'Amours was a wealthy entrepreneur who often straddled the legal fence in his various import and export enterprises. He was also a compulsive gambler, a very good one, and the games on his yacht were legendary. Automatically, by virtue of D'Amours's reputation and her own keen mind, Sheridan suspected anyone who was invited to play poker with the likes of Vinnie.
"You said J.B. was there?"
"There were four of us…"
"You mean my father was playing poker with Vinnie D'Amours?"
St. Charles leveled a look at her. "That's precisely what I mean. That strikes you as unusual?"
Sheridan sagged, wishing she had held on to her self-control. She was getting rusty; a year ago she never would have given St. Charles a lead like that. "My father isn't in Vinnie's league."
"Financially, perhaps not, but he plays a hell of a poker game."
She said nothing.
"At the time, however, I assumed your father was in the same financial league as the rest of us."
The rest of us? Sheridan twitched uncomfortably in her chair. If Richard even approached D'Amours's financial bracket, his net worth had to be in the millions. As the man says, she thought, we all have our ruses. His millions might be as dubiously gotten as Vinnie's.
She sat motionless in her chair, watching him. Who are you, Richard St. Charles? She found herself very much wanting to know.
"To continue with my tale," Richard said, "toward the end of the evening, J.B. brought out a diamond necklace. He was short of cash and wanted to bet it. I was in a trusting mood—too much to drink, I suppose, and a natural inclination toward J.B. and a disinclination toward D'Amours, to whom he was losing and losing badly. If the necklace were real, it had to be worth around a quarter of a million. I offered to loan your father a hundred thousand dollars with the necklace as collateral."
"And he agreed?"
"Of course. It was all he needed."
Sheridan managed not to choke on her wine. "A hundred—ouch."
"Yes, ouch. He lost the hand to D'Amours, and I ended up with the necklace."
"Uh-oh. You couldn't possibly have believed—where would a private investigator get a necklace worth a quarter million?"
"If I had known he was a private investigator, naturally I would have wondered the same thing. But I didn't know. Neither your father nor D'Amours deigned to tell me."
"And the necklace turned out to be a fake," Sheridan surmised, shaking her head. How could her father have done such a thing?
"Yes. I had it appraised—not for a quarter million, but for five hundred dollars."
"Egad." She swallowed hard, the impact of what St. Charles had said sinking in. "Then my father stiffed you for a hundred thousand dollars, didn't he?"
Richard smiled nastily over the rim of his glass. "Give or take five hundred dollars. You catch on quickly."
"Oh, J.B., J.B."
"Obviously, when I looked up J.B. in the phone book and found out he was a private investigator, I realized I'd been taken. I decided to pay him a visit—"
"And Lucy gave you the line about his being in Boston visiting his daughter," Sheridan finished.
"Mmm, yes." He polished off the last of his drink. "I decided to find out what said daughter might know— as it turns out, nothing."
Sheridan nodded grimly, not certain she wouldn't have been wiser to have remained in a blissful state of ignorance. This was not the kind of news she wanted to hear from San Francisco.
"Has your father done this sort of thing before?" Richard asked.
"He's told people he wants to avoid that he's visiting me in Boston, yes. But passing off a bogus necklace in a high-stakes poker game—" She shook her head. "No, that's not like J.B. at all. He plays poker for fun, not profit. As far as I know, he hasn't played poker with D'Amours in years. Do you know if he was invited or just homed in on the game?"
"He seemed welcome. D'Amours has his share of bodyguards, Sheridan. I can't imagine anyone bei
ng permitted to stay against D'Amours's wishes. I gather he and J.B. didn't meet for the first time that night."
"Unfortunately, no, although I'd hardly call them friends. Before he made his fortune, D'Amours was a professional gambler. So was my father. My mother died when I was three, which was when J.B. quit gambling. He didn't think that was a proper career for a single parent with a young daughter, so he switched to investigating."
Richard smiled. "And he taught you all the ropes."
"Yes, of both his careers." She laughed herself, remembering. "J.B. taught me to play poker when I was four. It was just a game to me. Anyway, he's steered clear of Vinnie since. I understand Vinnie dropped gambling about the same time J.B. got his license. I guess he invested some of his winnings, but he was always better off than J.B., at least financially. I can't believe Vinnie actually let J.B. into one of his games."
"It's possible D'Amours was tired of playing amateurs such as me and was intrigued by the possibility of playing opposite J.B. Weaver again."
"But J.B. gave up gambling—except as entertainment, a reason for him and his buddies to get together Thursday nights."
"Maybe he's decided to go back to gambling now that you're grown up and off on your own."
"That's all I need."
"Sheridan, listen, I don't want all this to hurt you." His voice was surprisingly gentle, the roughness nearly gone, and Sheridan looked up, intrigued and a little nervous. He was stirring up her settled regulated existence. She wasn't sure she liked that. He smiled, the dim light glinting in his eyes. "Your colleagues don't know about J.B., do they?"
"No, I saw no reason to tell them."
"It's hard enough for anyone to get ahead in business these days, and if you're just starting out, this affair could hurt you. Look, I certainly don't need St. Charles the Sap added to my reputation, anyway. I'll do what I can to keep your father's misdeed from coming back to haunt you—and me."
She realized she was squeezing the stem of her wineglass so hard her knuckles had turned white. Slowly, so that Richard wouldn't notice, she pried her fingers open, put the glass on the table and placed both hands in her lap. Her heart was pounding. "Then you think my father conned you?"
"That's obvious, isn't it?"
"But you said D'Amours won the hand!"
"And you said he and J.B. go way back."
Sheridan groaned. "Not as friends!"
"As partners, cohorts, fellow gamblers—I don't care what. They know the game of poker, and they were there together that night. And I was the loser, Sheridan. I don't know the game as well as they do, but I don't mind taking risks. What's more, I can afford to." He smiled nastily. "The perfect mark."
"Which obviously annoys the hell out of you. But I happen to think you're being ridiculous—illogical, at best. You're seeing a conspiracy where there simply isn't one. J.B. wouldn't cross the street with Vinnie if he could help it, and I'm sure Vinnie feels the same. I don't know why he invited J.B. to play that night. But they didn't con you, St. Charles. How could they know you'd be dumb enough to put up the hundred thousand?"
He looked at her coldly. "I don't have to be nice."
"I haven't noticed you trying especially hard. Look, you were the unfortunate victim of two pros. You lost, St. Charles. Go home and forget it. You have no one to blame but yourself for being suckered into putting up money for a fake necklace. I'm sorry you lost your money, okay?" She grabbed her bag, tore a few dollars out of her wallet, slapped them on the table and stood up. "If J.B.'s avoiding you, I can understand why. But I'm willing to bet he's just off on a case and doesn't want to be bothered. Thanks for the information, but you made a trip cross-country for nothing."
"I'll be the judge of that," he said in a cool measured voice that went straight to the base of her spine. "And I'll decide whether or not to pursue this business with J.B. But if he were my father, I would want to know where he is and why he bet a fake necklace in a poker game with Vincent D'Amours."
"He should be glad you're not his son."
"Sheridan—"
She whipped around. "Don't," she warned in a low voice. "No more. I'm finished. Don't follow me, don't talk to me. I wouldn't want to hurt you."
To her astonishment he settled back in his chair and grinned. Grinned! His eyes lit up, and he looked roguish and decent and amiable and disconcertingly sensual, all at the same time. She found herself wanting to sit back down, talk, laugh. She stared mutely while he gave her a mocking bow and said, "See you around, fair lady."
Disarmed, she stalked off.
By the time she had stormed back into her apartment, she knew she couldn't possibly leave J.B. to the vengeance and ire of Richard St. Charles without warning him. But to warn him she had to find him, and to find him she had to go to San Francisco.
She made a reservation for a flight first thing in the morning, packed enough clothes for a few days and had herself a proper drink, Scotch.
This time J.B. needed her help. St. Charles was cool, determined and capable, and even Jorgensen Beaumont Weaver at his best couldn't handle a man like that alone.
She put on her nightgown and finished her Scotch in bed. "And I can?" she asked herself.
Her mind flashed up a picture of him there in her cubby. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, laconic, quietly confident. Watching her. When she imagined the flat stomach beneath the black shirt, an ache spread through her, and she sighed heavily, swallowing the last of her drink. She was tired, that was all. Tired and worried and confused. But the ache remained, warming her, and she fell asleep dreaming of his tanned firm skin and his long easy stride.
In the morning Sheridan called United Commercial from the airport, said she was feeling under the weather and wouldn't be in and, as she hung up, felt a surge of pure exhilaration.
She could handle Richard St. Charles. She was sure of it. To be truthful, she was looking forward to it.
3
Sheridan ate a late lunch with Lucille Stein in J.B.'s combination apartment-office two stories above Hyde Street in San Francisco. Lucy had picked up a couple of tuna fish sandwiches, and they sat in the small front room she used as an office, discussing events. Sheridan felt better just being around Lucy's ample figure, her stretch knit pants, her flowered polyester tops, her friendliness and her efficiency. Her hair had recently been touched up to its Marilyn Monroe shade of blond, and her eye makeup was as gaudy as ever. Lucy didn't believe in wearing lipstick to work, though, because it got on the envelopes when she licked them.
Within five minutes of bursting in, Sheridan had told her everything.
Now she was waving her pickle spear around. "Vinnie D'Amours, Richard St. Charles, a fake necklace— can you believe this? My father has finally gone nuts!"
"Now, now," Lucy consoled her.
"No, he has," Sheridan insisted. "Lucy, can you imagine owing a man like St. Charles a hundred thousand dollars? Well, can you?"
"Me, I don't owe a penny."
Sheridan could believe that. According to J.B., his secretary wasn't just frugal, she was cheap. It was a trait Sheridan had always admired in her.
"But you know what J.B. would say: if St. Charles was dumb enough to put up a hundred grand for a bogus necklace, it's his own tough luck."
"I don't think he's dumb," Sheridan said. "Impulsive maybe, but not dumb."
"Either that or rich enough that he can take that kind of gamble and not go hungry."
"Then why doesn't he just leave J.B. alone?"
"Would you?"
Sheridan sighed. "I don't like any of this. What in blazes has gotten into J.B.? I wish I could just think!"
She had had that long trip across the continent to think, but she hadn't been able to. She had filled the hours with second guesses and self-recriminations and, worst of all, disturbing thoughts about Richard St. Charles. Not about what he was going to do when he located her father or when he found out she'd gone to San Francisco, but about him and the altogether inappropriate attraction she felt for him. He w
as J.B.'s latest nemesis, and she knew nothing at all about him. Yet she kept trying to call up all the sensations that single brief touch of his finger on her stomach had aroused.
It was outrageous!
Finally she had decided her reaction to him was nothing but a throwback to the Neanderthals, primitive at best. Sheridan herself was not interested in primitive relationships—or primitive men. She wanted a relationship that involved, indeed welcomed, a meeting of minds as well as bodies. Sensitivity. Long talks, long walks. Shared ideals, shared goals. Sexual compatibility was important, but it wasn't the exclusive concern. She wanted more. Maybe she wanted too much.
Not that she thought she and St. Charles would be sexually compatible. Her daydreams hadn't advanced to that point!
But they had, and she knew it.
"How Neanderthal," she muttered.
Lucy chomped on a handful of potato chips. "What's that?"
"Oh, nothing."
She had to remember that: St. Charles was nothing. For the moment she couldn't permit herself to be distracted by absurd thoughts of romance, and nothing could be more absurd than the idea of having a lasting equal relationship with Richard St. Charles. Her single goal in coming to San Francisco was to find her father.
"I guess I'll have a look around, see if I can find any clues here," she said.
Lucy looked suspicious. She didn't like people prowling about her turf, J.B.'s daughter included. But these were unusual circumstances so she relented.
Sheridan took the second half of her sandwich and her pickle and started toward J.B.'s inner sanctum, but the ring of the telephone stopped her in midstride.
Lucy just stared at it.
"Aren't you going to answer it?" Sheridan asked impatiently.
"You know I never answer on the first ring." Lucy waved a hand. "Don't want to seem overeager."
"It could be J.B.!"
Finally, on the third ring, Lucy picked up the receiver and said calmly, "Weaver Investigations… Where the hell are you? Yeah, she's here. Worried sick, too." Lucy handed the phone across her ultraneat desk. "You must have ESP."
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