She smiled. "That's right. We met in Boston, but there's—we're just friends, George."
"He's just the kind of guy I've always pictured you getting mixed up with. He's the reckless type, you know. But I don't have anything on him."
"George, Richard St. Charles has nothing whatsoever to do with this mess."
He shook his head in despair. "Sher, Sher, you're good at skirting the truth, but you're terrible at lying. Always have been. If you need my help, you know my number. Okay?"
"Thanks, George."
"And this St. Charles character—if I were betting, I'd say he's all right. But I don't like to bet on things like that, you know?"
She nodded. "I understand."
"Good." And he left.
With a frustrating feeling of helplessness and that strange indefinable loneliness, Sheridan watched the police car pull out of its illegal parking space, wondering what she was going to do now. Her choices were limited, but clearly she couldn't remain inactive. In an effort to concentrate and blot out the mess around her and the questions it presented, she closed her eyes and bit down hard on her lower lip. Think… you've got to think, Sheridan!
Inexplicably, images of Richard St. Charles flashed before her. Images of a man who was strong, capable, understanding. Not images of a man who would ransack her father's office. That man simply and without a doubt was not Richard.
The thugs from earlier today? A whole new set of thugs? Who?
Her eyes flew open at the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside the office.
7
They were moving rapidly. Richard? No. He always seemed to tread silently in his rubber-soled shoes.
She edged alongside the door, ready to pounce when it was thrown open. For the first time since she had landed in San Francisco, she felt prepared to handle whatever was dished out to her. Enough, she thought solemnly, was enough.
"Sheridan, it's me. Open up."
She relaxed her posture at the unmistakable sound of Richard's voice and opened the door. "Well," she said, "hello."
And then without any warning to herself or him she fell against his chest. He caught her up by the small of her back, holding her close as he surveyed the shambles of Lucy's office. He kicked the door shut. "Thought I saw the police," he murmured. "Sheridan… are you all right?"
She nodded and lifted her head off his chest. She would have extricated herself entirely from the embrace, except he still had hold of her. Of course, she knew dozens of ways to free herself. But she didn't feel trapped. She felt warm. Content. Not alone. She smiled at him. "I wasn't here when the damage was done," she said, surprised at the bitterness, even disappointment, in her voice. "I could have stopped them, found out what the devil kind of trouble J.B.'s gotten himself into this time… Damn, I can't stand this!"
"I know." He wasn't pitying or being superior, merely stating a bald fact. He rubbed the tense muscles in her lower back. "The time's passed for sitting back and waiting for J.B. to handle this affair on his own, hasn't it?"
Her eyes grew distant as she pictured her father, imagined what he would do if she were in his position: turn San Francisco upside down and inside out until he had her and some answers. "Yes," she said, "it has."
"Any idea who did this?"
"I'm betting D'Amours's men. Richard, he has to be behind all this somehow. That necklace opened some kind of can of worms for J.B. and D'Amours. A bigger can, I suspect, than J.B. intended. If he knew he was opening a can of worms at all." She groaned and threw up her arms; when they fell, they landed on Richard's outstretched strong forearms. "Dammit, I can't make any sense out of this. If the necklace is the problem, why search J.B.'s place? You're the one who has it."
Richard looked grim, his eyes shadowed. "Good point."
"Your boat… your house… they haven't been searched, have they?"
"No, not that I know of. From the looks of things here, I think there would be no question that J.B. doesn't have the necklace. Sheridan, maybe this is some kind of warning to him. Or us."
"Or maybe J.B. convinced them beforehand that he had the necklace, and they were looking for it, and—" She stopped herself, making two fists that had nowhere to land. "But why all the fuss over a five-hundred-dollar necklace?"
Richard smiled, not with levity, but with a tenderness Sheridan found reassuring. "We have all the right questions, don't we?"
She nodded. "Just none of the right answers."
"There's not much we can do now."
"No, there isn't," she said reluctantly. "I suppose I ought to clean up here. Lordy, what a mess."
Despite her protestations Richard insisted on helping. They pitched in together, beginning with the kitchen and working their way toward Lucy's office. They didn't try to sort out any of the mess, just got things up off the floor and somewhat back into shape. "Lucy has her routines for getting stuff back in order," Sheridan said. "She's used to this."
"And are you?"
"I've seen messes like this before here, but never without having an inkling as to why."
He smiled. "You've been away too long."
"Yeah, I suppose…" She caught herself. "No, dammit, this is part of why I left!"
"Sheridan, try as we might, we can't deny where we've been and where we're from. Roots and all that. Like it or not, this is your world."
She shoved a cushion back onto a chair. "Not anymore."
Afterward Sheridan politely thanked Richard for his help. "At least I won't feel like I'm sleeping in the city dump," she said cheerfully, her mind trying to fight off her feelings, the ache that only appeared when Richard was near. The twistings and turnings within her that had nothing to do with her ulcer and everything to do with him. His self-evident maleness. The palpable sensuality that emanated from every inch of that tall solid body. Her mind failed at fighting off anything about him, which meant she had to get him out of there as quickly as possible. She walked over to the door and opened it. "Thanks for everything."
"Sheridan," he said, sauntering over to her, "I'm not leaving here without you."
She remained calm. "And why not?"
"Because anything could happen tonight, and I want to be here."
"Richard," she said smoothly, "I don't need your protection."
He, too, remained calm, but she could see the effort in the tensed muscles of his arms and the darkness of his eyes. "I'm not offering you protection. I'm offering you friendship. Companionship. If you're afraid of anything more, go into your father's office, toss me out a blanket and lock the door."
His mouth twisted into an ironic smile. "Just look at it this way: if someone decides to pay you another visit, he'll get to stomp on me first." He moved closer. "Of course, it would make more sense for you to come and stay at my place."
Panic seized her. It was happening too fast, everything—the questions, the promises, the possibilities, the realities. Two days ago she was a contented, dutiful financial analyst with a problematic father. Who was she today? "I can't…"
Richard didn't push her. She could sense the control in him, but suddenly his eyes danced, and he grinned. "No linguine on the floor at my house," he pointed out, the teasing note in his voice diffusing her panic.
She was grateful. "True."
"And I have a guest room. Several, in fact. You can have your pick."
"Richard…" She sighed, kissed her finger and placed it on his lips. "You're perfect."
"I have been taught," he said, "all the rules of chivalry and sublimation." He laughed, offering his arm. "Come along. I believe the meter's run out on my white horse."
8
The scent of roses wafted in on a cool breeze through the open window, tickling Sheridan's nose as she rolled over in the big comfortable bed and snuggled up in the silk sheets and down pillows.
One eye opened and then the other, and all at once she was sitting bolt upright. It was 5:00A.M., and she wasn't in the English country house of her dream. This was a dank San Francisco dawn, and she,
Sheridan Weaver, could be her rational self again. She had to be. With the objectivity of a private investigator and the precision of a financial analyst, she considered her situation, where she was and what she was getting herself into.
She had to get out of here. Fast. Last night she had been panicky and shocked after finding J.B.'s place in a shambles, as well as disgusted with her inability to deal with her father's mysterious behavior. Richard had been there. Solid, attractive, confident. She had appreciated his control and his general, if reluctant, decency because last night she could have been persuaded not to spend the night in a quiet lovely guest room.
She would have gone to bed with him, no questions asked, none answered.
Which was not the way to find J.B. Not the way to get this business over with and herself back to Boston. Not the way to avoid emotional complications.
Richard St. Charles and Sheridan Weaver… No, it simply couldn't be. She sprang out of bed and dressed in sleek pants and a cool cotton shirt. In Boston it would be eight o'clock. She would be drinking her second cup of coffee, reading the morning paper and listening to classical music on public radio. In a half hour she'd walk through the Public Gardens and the Common to work. She didn't have rosebushes outside her window or silk sheets, but it was a nice, fulfilling life. She made her own schedule and lived according to her own means. It was a life she didn't want to give up or jeopardize. Anything between her and Richard would be tempestuous, thrilling, but ultimately temporary. Even friendship. It had to be that way. He was that kind of man and lived that kind of life. She decided to leave him a note.
Richard: I have to handle this on my own. If you need me, leave a message with Lucille. Thanks.
Sheridan slunk out his front door, plucking a rose as she left.
She arrived at J.B.'s just before six, having enjoyed her quiet walk through the early-morning fog. She remembered the old days when she and her father would have breakfast together at their special coffee shop, and remembering made her feel as if she knew every nook and cranny in the city and half its population. This was her hometown as Boston never could be. She had grown up in San Francisco; she could be herself here.
Sheridan stopped these thoughts at once. What kind of seditious thinking was this? Absurd. She couldn't be herself here. That had been the whole point of leaving.
She took a long soothing shower and blamed Richard for her confusion and for the constant hypersensitivity of her skin. She had never been so aware of her body.
"Dammit," she muttered, toweling herself dry, "how am I supposed to concentrate on finding J.B.!"
As it turned out, she didn't have to. He was at the coffee shop and eating eggs and toast with Swifty Michaels. Sheridan plopped down on one of the chairs at the square table for four. "Well," she said sarcastically, "good morning."
J.B. glared at her. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Me? Me!" She turned to Swifty. "Do you believe this?"
Swifty shrugged. He was a short, wiry, intelligent man with iron-gray curly hair and few ambitions. He always looked the same, trouble or no trouble. Sheridan had known him forever.
"Well?" J.B. demanded.
"Are you two checking up on me?"
J.B. waved a hand, dismissing any accusation of overprotectiveness. He looked as refreshed and self-confident as always. "Sher, I know what you're like, and I know you're going to be sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."
"Like father, like daughter."
"Never mind the smart remarks, Sher. This is serious, I had to get some cash out of the safe and thought I'd check on you at the same time—only you weren't there. And the place was a wreck."
"You should have seen it before. I cleaned up."
"You weren't there when it happened?" J.B. snapped the question; Sheridan shook her head. "Then you're okay."
It wasn't a question, but Sheridan said, "Yes."
"You always could take care of yourself, Sher," Swifty said.
"Yeah, well, how come you two are here eating eggs if you thought I was in trouble?"
J.B. mopped up some yolk with a crust of toast. "I put two and two together, like always, and decided to give St. Charles a buzz."
"Oh, no."
"Yeah. I knew I was taking my life into my hands even conversing with the man over the phone, but I like to know where my daughter is—for my own peace of mind, you know. Anyway, St. Charles wasn't too thrilled to hear from me at 5:30A.M., or any other time, I imagine. But I managed to get out of him that you'd spent the night at his place."
"In his guest room," Sheridan added.
"Of course. I'm sure he loved that."
"I was keeping an eye on him."
J.B. raised both bushy eyebrows.
Guido, the proprietor of the coffee shop, served Sheridan a cup of coffee and took her order for eggs. She had the feeling she'd better start her day with a good breakfast. "At five-thirty I was walking from St. Charles's over here."
J.B. drank some coffee. "St. Charles doesn't know that."
"I skipped out on him."
"Skipped out on St. Charles?" Swifty shook his head. "Dumb move, kiddo."
"I wouldn't talk about dumb moves if I were either of you," Sheridan retorted.
"This," J.B. said, "is getting uglier and uglier."
Sheridan leaned forward impatiently. "The question is, what are we going to do about this mess you're in? J.B., I need facts."
"Not this time, kid. Why don't you head on back to Boston before you lose your job?"
"I've taken care of that, J.B. I had some personal days coming to me."
"You could take St. Charles with you…"
"J.B., you're not listening to me!"
He ignored her. "Makes sense to me. How 'bout you, Swifty?"
"Makes sense to me, J.B."
Sheridan gave Swifty a disgusted look. "When have you ever disagreed with J.B.? Listen, you two, I am not—repeat not—going back to Boston, with or without Richard, until you, J.B., are acting normal again. Is that clear? And you can never mind my relationship with Richard St. Charles. It's none of your damned business! Now. I want to know what kind of trouble you've been stirring up with that fake necklace."
"Don't we all?" J.B. said.
"Not me," Swifty said. "I'm just having breakfast."
"At six o'clock in the morning? Come on, Swifty, this is a little early for you. But you and J.B. go back to the beginning of time. What's he having you do? Steal the necklace back from Richard because Vinnie or somebody has the heat on him? Did it ever occur to you two I that you could just ask Richard for the necklace?"
J.B. sputtered into incredulous laughter.
"Sher," Swifty said gravely, "your pop stiffed St. Charles for a hundred grand. You think he's going to feel kindly toward J.B.?"
A shadow fell across their table, and they looked up at the white-shirted, gray-trousered, looming figure of Richard St. Charles. With his dark hair tousled and his jaw set hard, he looked as if he'd passed a bad night or, Sheridan amended, a bad early morning. She felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps she had acted precipitously.
"I don't think," he said in his deepest, most menacingly quiet voice, "that I feel kindly toward any of you at the moment."
Sheridan refused to meet his eyes and said to J.B. and Swifty, "He has this knack for sneaking up on people. It's his rubber-soled shoes."
J.B. and Swifty gave Sheridan the kind of look that told her she was expected to handle the situation, which meant handling Richard. She tried an innocent smile. "Hello, Richard, won't you join us for coffee?"
"Yes," he said, "I will."
"Good move, Sher," J.B. muttered.
Richard pulled out a chair and sat. Swifty made a move to leave, but one look from Richard kept him in his chair. Guido brought Sheridan her eggs and automatically turned over the mug in front of Richard and filled it with coffee. Then he refilled everyone else's mug. No one thanked him, but Sheridan knew Guido would understand. He had known the Weaver clan and their prope
nsity for tense situations for too long.
"Swifty," J.B. said, "I'd like you to meet Richard St. Charles. Richard, Swifty Michaels."
Richard smiled curtly at Swifty, and Swifty said, "I've won a lot of money on your horses."
"Legitimately?"
" 'Course."
"Richard, my father and Swifty are respectable gamblers. If you're going to insult them—" His eyes bored into her, stopping her in midsentence. She clamped her mouth shut, then started again. "What do you want?"
"Cooperation," he said with deadly calm. "Honesty."
"A hundred grand," J.B. muttered.
Richard gave him a look that would have melted the Bank of America building. J.B. just shrugged and drank his coffee. Sheridan attacked her eggs. "I know how this must look," she resumed, "my being here with Swifty and J.B. at this hour of the morning, but we didn't meet here. It's just a coincidence. I've told you everything I know about this business, Richard. Anything else you want to know, get from J.B." She swallowed a mouthful of coffee and stood up. "Good seeing you again, Swifty. Pop, stay in touch, okay? Richard."
She turned, but Richard clamped a hand onto her wrist. She glanced down at him. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said mildly.
"Sit, Sheridan."
"Beg, Sheridan," she mimicked, annoyed now. "No. I'm leaving."
"Sher, for God's sake," J.B. said, waving his fork, "sit down. The last time you busted up the place, Guido threatened to call in the law." He smiled ingratiatingly at Richard. "I think I overdid the self-defense lessons, you know? Me, I'm satisfied with an introductory lesson in karate. Sheridan? She goes for her damned black belt."
"She's a compulsive personality," Richard said.
"Yeah." J.B. glared at his daughter. "Will you sit?"
Sheridan flounced back down into her chair, and Richard released her. His grip had totally disarmed her and not because it had been a particularly effective hold. Under ordinary circumstances she could have broken loose in half a second and not smashed a single one of Guido's unimpressive dishes. But ordinary circumstances would have involved a man she didn't like and a grip that didn't prompt images of lovemaking.
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