"How much did you win, Sheridan?"
"Oh, it's not how much. A few thousand, anyway. It's just that… well, if you must know, one of the players was cheating, and I couldn't let that pass, so I said something, which gave Vinnie an excuse to turn his bouncers loose on me and toss me out. Of course, that was a mistake. I shook them off, collected my winnings and left."
About halfway through her admission, Richard had started to laugh.
"It was not funny!"
"You must have been one smug lady after that."
"Just for that," she said, "you get to go through his files."
Richard banged the bottom drawer of the desk shut and stood up. "There's nothing here, Sheridan. You know there isn't. This is a waste of time."
She plopped down on J.B.'s chair and put her feet up on his desk. Her penny loafers were getting scuffed. "In detecting," she said loftily, "one always has to go through the motions. A sometimes dull and fruitless task."
He glared down at her. "You're going through the motions to buy time. For what, I wonder."
An astute individual, Sheridan thought. He was looking down at her, studying her with half-closed eyes, and she could feel no irritation, no urge to run. She was tired, disheveled, a little dazed from the long flight, and she needed a bath, clean clothes, exercise. Surely, she thought, Richard sees nothing in me at the moment. Surely he's only interested in J.B. and his hundred thousand dollars.
"Buying time?" she scoffed. "For what? I don't have time to waste, Richard. You're getting entirely too suspicious."
"The Weaver family seems to have that effect on people."
He sat on the edge of the desk, his lean hip settling not two inches from her scuffed toes. She imagined taking her penny loafers and cotton socks off and running her bare toes along his hip.
"Egad," she mumbled.
"Hmm?"
"Nothing. If I'm buying time, Richard, it's to decide what to do about you." That, she thought, was a reasonable facsimile of the truth.
"You have no control over me."
She ignored the rough-edged quiet of his voice and removed her feet from the desk. "Nor you over me."
"It would seem logical, however, to pool our resources and work together."
"No, it wouldn't. It would seem logical for you to go back to doing whatever it is you do and letting me or J.B. get in touch with you when we've got this mess straightened out. There's no point in your wasting any more time on this. You can trust me. When I find J.B., I'll let you know,"
"No."
Sheridan sighed. So much for that option. If he had been willing to resume his normal routine—assuming he had one—presumably he couldn't have gone traipsing after J.B and gotten himself and her into trouble. She could then have transferred her energy to the problem of locating her father herself. She would take one more shot at convincing St. Charles.
"Listen to me. Obviously—" She picked up one of J.B.'s stubby pencils. He never kept them sharpened. She remembered coming in every morning and compulsively sharpening every pencil in sight. No wonder he missed her. She began again. "Obviously I can't go back to Boston right away. The fact remains that J.B. isn't acting like J.B., and I have to find out why. Which doesn't mean you do."
"What you do is your decision," Richard said. "But if you stay, I'm not going to fade into the background."
"Not that you could if you tried." She grinned up at him, hiding her instant mortification at her impulsive words. "Forget I said that. So what do we do now?"
"I've been honest with you and told you everything I know about this situation. I suggest you do the same with me."
"What do you think I know that you don't know?"
"You tell me."
"A suspicious mind, to be sure. You know, you could hire me to find J.B."
"Hire you to—" He sprang to his feet. "The hell I will! You can find J.B. on your own damned time."
"With you as an adversary, a pest or a comrade?"
He stared at her. "You're on J.B.'s side."
"Of course. He's my father."
"I was hoping there wouldn't have to be sides." His tone was quietly accusing, not hurt.
"Maybe there won't have to be." She chewed on her thumbnail. "I wonder what would have happened if you hadn't been so idiotic and naive as to have lent J.B. the hundred thousand."
Richard didn't raise his voice, but it was deadly just the same. "I am neither idiotic nor naive."
She arched a brow at him. "Then how come J.B. has your hundred thousand dollars and you have his fake necklace?"
"A damned good question."
"Did J.B. look relieved when you offered to put up the hundred thousand?"
"To be perfectly honest, I don't know. He and D'Amours are hard to read during a game. I would have thought yes, but who knows? If he'd won the hand, none of us would have been the wiser."
"But he lost." Sheridan nodded, thinking. "I wonder if that was a surprise… or if he wanted to lose."
Richard made no comment.
"Maybe he wanted to stiff Vinnie, not you. If Vinnie had let him bet the necklace and won the hand, he'd be the one annoyed with J.B., not you. What about Vinnie? Had he shown any interest in the necklace?"
"None, and I offered the loan before he said whether or not he would accept the necklace as a bet."
Sheridan shook her head and shuddered, trying to fathom what it had been like for J.B. to lose a hundred thousand dollars of someone else's money. And all for a bogus necklace. "I wish I knew what he's gotten himself into."
"Maybe this isn't as complicated as you're making it out to be. It's possible, Sheridan, that your father has decided to leave the investigative business and return to professional gambling. The stakes are high, so he found himself an excellent copy of a tempting necklace, got himself into a respectable game and took his chances. He figured D'Amours would accept the necklace as a bet and he, J.B., would win the hand."
"No. He wouldn't take that chance."
"Then Vinnie owed J.B. a favor, and when J.B. said he wanted to make a comeback as a gambler and needed some ready cash, Vinnie offered me up as the sacrificial lamb."
Sheridan considered the possibility. "No, J.B. wouldn't go to someone like Vinnie to pay off a favor, even if Vinnie owed him. Besides, how could they have known you would have put up the money?"
"They're pros, Sheridan," Richard said darkly. "They'd know. I acted impulsively, but perhaps not un-predictably. And who can say what would have happened if I hadn't put up the money when I did? Maybe they would have suggested something."
"It's hard to believe… No, I don't believe it. J.B. isn't ready to give up investigating."
Richard shrugged. "Perhaps."
"I admit it was a blow when I left, but not that big a blow. Anyway, he would have told me. We have a lot of options, don't we?"
"I'm glad you said we," he murmured.
"Don't get your hopes up."
She rose and stood beside him, unafraid but strangely exhilarated. Richard had a strong, healthy ego; she didn't have to coddle it. "You know, it would be easier just to put you in the hospital for a few days. I could straighten this mess out and—"
"Don't try it." He snatched her by the elbows and held her close, daring her to act. "I'd have you arrested for assault and battery, and I'd sue you for everything you own."
She smiled cockily. "Think what you could do with my twelve kinds of vinegar."
"You don't know it, sweetheart, but you're playing with fire."
His mouth descended to hers, grazing her lips, tantalizing. It was a brief, breathtaking kiss, and even if she had wanted to, Sheridan couldn't have knocked him flat. She could barely remain standing herself. He was everything she found intoxicating in a man—steady, virile, intrepid, black-eyed and solid. And everything she feared. He was a part of the life she had left.
He straightened but held on to her elbows. Very methodically, very distractingly, he massaged the flesh of her inner arms with his thumbs. "Not
hing's simple anymore, is it?"
"I'm not sure anything ever was. Have you ever tried mocha-chip ice cream?"
He laughed. "Let's go."
Ten minutes later they were exploring the nooks and crannies of Russian Hill, eating ice-cream cones. Sheridan felt good walking beside Richard St. Charles. He was tall, strong and agile, and he didn't start wheezing and complaining after climbing one hill. His dark hair glinted in the San Francisco sun. And he liked mocha-chip ice cream.
"I love Russian Hill," she said. "If I ever moved back to San Francisco, I'd live here."
"You would?"
"Mmm. I like the scale of it. You can find just about everything up here, it's close to everything. Charming, but not cutesy. I can see myself in a little pastel place on a side street with geraniums in window boxes and a sun deck out back."
"What would it take to get you to move back?"
She grinned up at him. "The vice presidency of Bank of America."
"From what I've seen of you, I would say that's not too farfetched."
"Are you kidding? With J.B. around? He's raked up dirt on half the businesspeople in town, so I can't imagine who'd hire me. Anyway, how could I ever get any work done and secure any kind of reputation with him pestering me to join him in his nefarious schemes? No, it's impossible. If I'm to advance in a business career, I'd better stay on the East Coast."
"A moment ago you were talking like a private investigator. Now you sound like a businesswoman." He paused, peering down at her. "Which are you?"
"Some days, both. Some days, neither. And some days I just don't know."
He smiled. "Like today?"
"Like today."
They started down the steps of the crooked part of Lombard Street, past the gardens and brick curves. Standing in the warm breeze with Richard alongside her, Sheridan could scarcely imagine her life in Boston. It was a life of routines, challenges and order, a life she enjoyed. But could she go back to it? She shook off the thought; she had to. She didn't belong in San Francisco. She couldn't stay. She'd made up her mind about that once before, and she wasn't going to change it.
Yet even as she had looked up and seen him standing in her cubby, she had sensed that Richard St. Charles's eruption into her life had changed everything. There was a pull between them that made choices not nonexistent, but complicated, difficult, possibly even frightening. She would have to be cautious.
"How 'bout you?" she said, more lightheartedly than she felt. "Where do you live?"
He glanced down at her; his ice-cream cone was long gone. "Russian Hill."
She laughed at her own gaffe. "Well, I guess I'd better watch what I say in the company of a local, lest I sound too plebeian. Do you have a house or an apartment?"
"A house."
"But of course. And does it have geraniums in the window boxes?"
"It doesn't have window boxes. But it could."
She bit into her cone. "A sun deck?"
"Yes, and an overgrown courtyard."
"Do you like living in the city?"
"When I'm here."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'm not here all the time."
"Where are you when you're not here?"
"Are you researching me?"
"Suspicious, suspicious."
He walked down two steps before resuming. "I want to know if you're planning to use what I tell you against me."
"Of course not—unless you're the one who conned J.B."
"Don't be ridiculous." As usual he didn't raise his voice, but he didn't have to. He could make his point with a gesture, a phrase. His movements and his words were economical and effective. "Obviously J.B. is your motive for asking these questions."
"You're determined to be difficult, aren't you?" They were walking side by side, almost at the bottom of the hill by now. Tourists were walking up, taking pictures and pointing.
"I'm determined to get at the truth, to make you see what's happening between us. Sheridan, J.B. is not your only reason for remaining in San Francisco. I am, too. We are. I know we've only known each other a matter of hours, but destiny's at work, don't you think?"
She tried to get ahead of him, but he stayed beside her, matching her stride for stride. "Aren't things complicated enough already?" she demanded.
He smiled, as if something in her voice, her words, her face, had told him what he wanted to know. He seemed satisfied. "Would you like to take notes?"
"I have a good memory."
"I'm thirty-five. I have one sister, five years older, who lives in Seattle. My parents are retired and live in Hawaii. I grew up in Southern California, San Diego and La Jolla and attended Stanford University. I have degrees, a bachelor's and a master's, in history."
"History?"
"American history."
"Will wonders never cease."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know, but not history. Did you get rich before or after Stanford?"
He laughed. "Your P.I. roots are showing, Sher. I'm what you might call of independent means. I inherited a little here, invested a little there—the usual route. I no longer work when I have to, but when I want to. I have an office in town and a very loyal capable staff who look after my interests and their own."
"How much are you worth?"
"What possible bearing could that have on anything?"
"I'm interested."
"You're nosy."
They reached the bottom of Lombard, and Sheridan popped the last of her ice-cream cone into her mouth. Her hands were sticky. "Most private investigators are."
"But you're a financial analyst."
"Right. Keep reminding me, okay?"
He took her sticky hand. "I'm worth more than a million and less than a hundred million. It varies from day to day."
"Fair's fair. I'm worth more than a thousand and less than a million. It varies from paycheck to paycheck. Now. Where was I? Oh, yes. If you're not on Russian Hill, where are you?"
"Sheridan…"
She removed her hand from his and wiped her fingers with a balled-up napkin, trying not to notice how warm her hand had felt in his. "Humor me."
He sighed. "I own a yacht and several smaller boats I keep in Sausalito, a cottage in Hawaii—"
"In my book, a cottage is four rooms or less."
"A house, then," he amended curtly. "You know, you could sound a little more intimidated by my vast wealth."
"Why should I? You weren't intimidated by my black belt in judo and karate."
"Fool that I am," he muttered.
"Go on."
"That's about it, except for Northwood."
"Not Northwood as in the horse farm?"
"Yes, Northwood as in the horse farm. As you obviously know, we breed and train racing thoroughbreds—my current passion." He grinned. "My most recent passion, I should say."
Sheridan looked away, trying to ignore his innuendo. They turned up Leavenworth, walking back toward J.B.'s office. What would it be like to be Richard St. Charles's current passion? "I'm being compared to a horse," she scoffed.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing. Northwood owns Savannah Sylvan, doesn't it?"
"Mmm."
"I remember when he won the Kentucky Derby. Such a beautiful horse. From what I've heard he commands enormous stud fees."
"He's not the only one."
She looked up sharply.
Richard laughed softly, moving close to her, and reclaimed her hand. "Darlin', I was speaking of my horses, not myself. If you're worried, I don't charge."
She cleared her throat, stiffened her spine and turned formal. "I didn't mean to imply—forgive me. I must learn to control my primitive thoughts."
"Do I look offended?"
She sighed. "Our relationship isn't going to develop normally, is it?"
"That's because it's special."
"Richard…" She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, but it didn't stay, and she gave up. "Is there anything else?"
/>
"About me? I should hope so."
"Anything pertinent?"
"I'm not married and never have been, and I believe nothing I own is worth as much as the people I care about."
A man of wealth, good looks, taste and sensitivity. It was all too much. "That's nice," she said quickly, "but it won't help me find J.B."
Richard exploded, "Damn that man for interfering again!"
She broke away from him, her hands going to her hips. "Don't you damn my father! If it weren't for him, we'd never have met—not that that would have given me any great problem. Damn you, Richard St. Charles, for making me forget why I'm here!"
"Because of J.B."
"Obviously! The more I know about you, the more chance I'll have of finding J.B."
"That's not true and you know it."
She was shrieking like a lunatic, and he was standing calmly, jaw set, lips hardly moving. She felt like flipping him, but that would violate everything she was and everything she had learned. Her skills were exclusively for self-defense, never to be used offensively. "Levelheaded men are exasperating," she said. "Dammit, St. Charles, you think my father's a thief. Why should I care if you've been married nine times?"
"Have you?"
She balled her hands into fists and lunged up the sidewalk. "Have I what?"
"Been married nine times."
"No! Dammit, no, I haven't been married nine times. I haven't been married once. I've never even been engaged. By God, I've never met a man I'd have!"
"Or who'd have you?"
"I threaten a lot of men."
"Most people are threatened by someone who's as self-assured as you are."
"I always thought it was my brains and brawn that threatened them."
He gave a small devastating smile. "Could be."
She laughed. "But you're not threatened?"
"Not at all, darlin', not at all."
"Well, maybe you should be."
"That would make it easier for you, wouldn't it?" He sighed audibly. "I was right, you know. Romancing you with J.B. and his damned necklace between us is going to be impossible."
Sheridan shook her head emphatically. "Wrong. If there were no J.B. and no necklace, we'd still be an impossible pair. Forget it, St. Charles. I admit there's an elemental appeal about you, but other than that… no, it's outrageous."
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