Captivated

by Carla Neggers

  Under the table his knee rubbed against hers. She snatched her leg away, but caught his amused half smile as he sipped his coffee. Damn the man, she thought and looked to J.B. for help. J.B. shrugged. He, too, was at a loss.

  Richard set his mug down. "J.B., how close are you to finding out what that necklace means to Vincent D'Amours? It is D'Amours you've been chasing after— or running from—isn't it?"

  "J.B. never discusses cases with nonclients," Sheridan said.

  "Girl," J.B. grumbled, "when I want your help, I'll ask for it. How I stood all those years with you as my partner…" He turned his attention back to Richard. "The answer to your question is 'not close.' Look, if I explain, will you two drop this? Go to Tahiti or something and let me figure this out?"

  "Maybe," Richard said. Sheridan made no comment.

  "All right. Twenty-five years ago I was a professional gambler. So was D'Amours, only he always had more money than I did and took gambling far too seriously. It was never any fun for him—he's compulsive, probably needs help. Anyway, we were in a big game. The biggest damned game of my life. He put up a fancy necklace instead of cash, and I fell for the trick." J.B. sipped his coffee. "Like you did the other night, St. Charles."

  "Perhaps I shouldn't feel like such a fool, then," he said mildly.

  "Hell, no, you should feel like a jackass. I sure as hell did. And I was mad. God, I was mad. But there wasn't a whole hell of a lot I could do about it. And then my wife died, and I had a pesky toddler on my hands, and there just wasn't any more time to get even. I tossed the thing into some corner and got on with my life."

  "How come I never saw the necklace?" Sheridan asked.

  "Because I never showed it to you. It's not the kind of mistake a person likes to advertise, you know? Anyway, when you left town, I started to think about finally getting even with Vinnie. I got myself into one of his games and won enough to make the evening worthwhile before I put up the necklace. I knew I was losing the hand and figured Vinnie must have known, too. So what was he going to say: 'Hey, J.B., you can't bet that… thing, it's a fake!' I'd say, 'Yeah, you oughtta know, you , cheat!' And he'd be stuck explaining to his hotshot poker friends. I figured he'd keep quiet, and he did. Except that your fearless St. Charles here offered me a hundred grand for the damned thing. How could I refuse?" He glared at Richard. "Didn't you know I was losing?"

  "Poker is not my forte," Richard replied without embarrassment.

  J.B. measured him with a look. "No, I guess not."

  Sheridan, however, was more interested in facts. "So what did Vinnie do?"

  "Collected his hundred grand, what do you think he did? By rights he should've been laughing up his sleeve at me—and St. Charles. Stiffed me twice in twenty-five years and stiffed one of the richest damned men in the city. Vinnie's kind of night, you know?"

  "Instead," Richard said pensively, "Vinnie offered to buy the necklace back from me for a hundred thousand."

  }.B. nodded, his weathered face grim. "Yeah. That's when I knew I'd hit a nerve."

  Sheridan frowned. "Wait a minute. Wait just a minute! D'Amours offered to buy the necklace from you, Richard?"

  "Yes, didn't I tell you?"

  "No, you didn't tell me!"

  Sheridan felt her blood pressure rising and her ulcer gnawing through her stomach. She gritted her teeth against the onslaught of pain and anger. "Damn it, Richard, if you'd told me, I'd have known D'Amours was behind this! And you, J.B. How can you possibly justify not telling me all this before? Dammit, I'm supposed to keep an eye on a millionaire as well as find my father, but does anyone fill me in on trivial little details like Vincent D'Amours's offering a hundred thousand dollars for a necklace he knows is a fake?"

  J.B. groaned, disgusted. "What the hell's going on? Sher, I haven't told you a thing! How could I leave something out?"

  "She's irritated with me, J.B.," Richard said, his voice unwavering.

  That didn't assuage J.B. "Oh, for God's sake, what's this going to be? A council of war or a lovers' quarrel? Here, you two fight it out. Swifty and I got work to do."

  "Do you need the necklace?" Richard asked.

  "Why, you offering to give it to me?"

  "I simply asked a question."

  "I think you might be in danger so long as you have it," J.B. said. "Let's leave it at that."

  "But you don't need it to conclude your investigation?"

  "No. From the looks of my office, I'm guessing Vinnie thinks I've got it back—part of my plan. So it won't help if you decide to take him up on his offer to buy the necklace."

  "I won't."

  "How come you didn't in the first place?"

  Richard gave J.B. a nasty tight-lipped smile. "At the time I thought it was worth a quarter million, not five hundred dollars."

  J.B. turned to Sheridan. "There, you see? If I'd been on the level, if I'd been betting on the real thing in that game, I'd be out a hundred and fifty grand. It would have been worth a quarter million, and St. Charles would have gotten it for a mere hundred thousand. St. Charles, you got yourself a bargain. I should be mad at you."

  "Your logic is incomparable," Richard said. "If this affair ends without my being reimbursed—"

  "Reimbursed!" J.B. howled. "Sher, did you hear that? Listen, Mr. Hotshot, you got suckered. All you can do is be mad as hell. You can't get a cent off me. I knew that twenty-five years ago when I won the damned thing off Vinnie. I should've been more careful then, you should've been more careful now. That's the breaks, St. Charles. Chalk it up to experience."

  Sheridan, who was getting used to Richard, wasn't amazed that he showed no emotion. He chose not to even comment on J.B.'s less than politic remarks. "In any event," he said calmly, "D'Amours hasn't repeated his offer. Should he, I won't accept—at least for the next two days. Sheridan and I will give you that long to solve this in your own way."

  "Generous of you," J.B. said sarcastically.

  Richard simply looked at him. "Meet us in your office at noon on Friday."

  "What about you?"

  "Sheridan and I will enjoy San Francisco and leave you to your own devices, unless you contact us for help. I can't see the four of us chasing down D'Amours together, can you?"

  "If you've got the necklace, you could be in danger." J.B. was serious now.

  Richard smiled. "But I'll have Sheridan. Together I think we can handle Vincent D'Amours."

  Swifty muttered something about the two of them being able to take on a pen of mad bulls, and J.B. nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose. What if I don't show on Friday?"

  "We'll assume D'Amours has gotten to you and act accordingly, probably beginning with a call to the police."

  J.B. grimaced. "Friday, then." He flipped a few dollars on the table. "Here, kid, I'll buy you breakfast." He patted Sheridan on the cheek and stood up. "Wait till I get outta here before you start bouncing him off the walls, okay? Come on, Swifty."

  While they were on their way out, Guido delivered a silent Richard St. Charles his breakfast while his taciturn companion debated which wall to bounce him off first. He buttered his toast. "I suppose you're angry with me for making a decision without consulting you."

  She glared at him. "That's just for starters."

  He smiled without mirth. "Imagine my anger at discovering an empty bed in my guest room and that idiotic note. I was willing to be in on this together, to work with you, but you chose to sneak around behind my back. Fine. I can be just as obstinate as you, sweet Sheridan. J.B. gets his two days, and you and I are going to present ourselves as a team."

  "Is that an order?"

  "It is what will happen."

  "By the decree of a man used to getting his own way." She pushed her chair back. "I hope D'Amours comes after the necklace and takes you with it. Damn you, St. Charles, no one makes decisions for me! I am not an extension of you or J.B. or anyone. Goodbye."

  He set down his butter knife. "Fair play's turnabout, Sheridan. But I've had my revenge. Now you know how it fe
els when someone you care about doesn't involve you in an important decision."

  "Who says I care about you?"

  "Sheridan, you're a stubborn, arrogant, impulsive woman, but I think I'll fall in love with you anyway. If you walk away now, it won't change anything. I am not easily deterred."

  Slowly she turned, feeling warm, less alone and not at all angry. "So I've discovered."

  She flagged Guido down and had her third cup of coffee.

  9

  "What you have to understand," Sheridan told Richard that evening over a rich dessert at a popular Union Street cafe, "is that all my life it's been J.B. and me. We've always been a team."

  Richard was leaning back in his chair, as relaxed and casual as ever, but attentive. "But in order to establish your own identity, you had to break up the team. You earned your MBA and moved out to Boston."

  "J.B. encouraged me to go."

  "Because he thought it was something you needed to do."

  She nodded, picking at her chocolate cake. "No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't break away from him here. He's not an overprotective father—"

  "I should say not. He did leave you to contend with two thugs."

  "Oh, that." She shrugged dismissively. "No, J.B. has great faith in my professional skills, at least my investigative ones. I'm talking about being protective about my personal life. He has his opinions, of course, but he's never interfered with my choice of friends, neighborhood, entertainment."

  "Lovers?"

  His voice didn't change, but Sheridan could feel her body responding to him. She nodded. "Lovers, either. But they haven't been my chief preoccupation," she said, looking away. "I've often been too busy plunging myself headlong into the future, and it has never seemed to include a regular man, let alone marriage and settling down. I don't think J.B.'s ever minded that."

  "You're not exactly ancient, Sheridan."

  "Twenty-eight." She pulled her upper lip between her teeth and wondered why she was talking so openly about herself. She never had before, not with anyone, woman or man. Yet she couldn't stop herself. "My mother was twenty-eight when she died. It's peculiar being the same age she was then. I don't remember her at all. That's always seemed like some kind of betrayal to me, not remembering her. I've tried and tried, and I just can't. Sometimes I'll smell a perfume, something like that, and just get overwhelmed with emotion, sort of like spring fever, an odd mix of happy and sad. I don't know, it's probably just my imagination."

  Richard pushed the remains of his cheesecake aside and ran a finger around the rim of his mug of cappuccino. "How did she die?"

  "Car accident. I guess J.B. wondered if it might be connected to his profession, just gambling then. He checked it out, but it was just an accident. He's had women friends since then, but I don't think he'll ever remarry. And he's never put any pressure on me either way."

  "He sounds like an ideal father."

  "I suppose."

  She held her mug of mocha coffee in her hands and looked out across the crowded cafe. It was situated in a narrow building and decorated in a captivating mix of Victorian and clean contemporary, with the desserts and assorted goodies on display under glass. She wasn't watching Richard, but knew instinctively that he was watching her. All day they had stuck together, pretending it was a normal day and they were an average man and woman. By mutual agreement they didn't discuss the necklace or J.B.… or what would happen when the two days were up. Or even what would happen during the two days, beyond trying to cooperate and stay together. Instead they went shopping downtown for some clothes to further pad Sheridan's wardrobe, now that her stay in San Francisco continued to expand. She didn't know whether to blame Richard, San Francisco or herself, but she had gone straight to the bright cottons and fresh pastels, to clean lines with style and grace. Tonight she wore a turquoise skirt and top, with her hair hanging down and pulled off her face with two turquoise combs.

  "We're a family, J.B. and I. There's no getting around that. And we were tied together professionally for a long time. I worked for him on and off through college, then joined him full-time when I graduated. He's taught me everything about the business."

  "But you wanted out."

  "I don't know if I wanted out or just didn't want to be my father, to live the life he's lived. It's not a bad life, but I felt as if my choices had all been reduced." She paused, choosing her words carefully, not for Richard's sake, but for her own. "I don't like having people think I'm another J.B. Weaver. I don't want to be everything to him. I don't want to be him. So when I got the opportunity, I got out. I left him high and dry, Richard. He needs a partner, but he hasn't replaced me. He acts as if he's thirty-five still, and—and, dammit, he makes me so mad sometimes! I mean, why did he have to drag out that damned necklace and go after D'Amours? Hasn't he got enough to do?"

  "It seems your leaving town liberated him in a way, too, from a daughter he obviously adores."

  Sheridan scowled. "J.B.'s always done exactly as he pleases."

  "Then why do you feel so guilty?"

  "Because I'm not who he wants me to be! It wasn't easy to leave, but I have my own life now, and I'm not coming back here. I'm not going to get sucked up in his world again."

  "Even if you risk denying who you are?"

  She glared at him, his half smile only adding to her irritation. "I am not denying who I am. Remember the woman you met at United Commercial? That's the real me. The bona fide, tried-and-true Sheridan Weaver."

  Her outburst had no visible effect on Richard. He laid calmly, "Then what I've been seeing here in San Francisco is a mirage."

  "That's as good a word as any. Yes, a mirage."

  He laughed softly. "I've never made love to a mirage, but yesterday—"

  "I thought we weren't going to discuss that."

  "You didn't look like a mirage," he went on relentlessly, "or feel like one… or taste like one."

  His tone, his words, his shadowy eyes, all combined to make her tingle from the roots of her hair to her toes. How could she pretend she didn't want him? It was no good telling herself this other Sheridan Weaver, this brash daredevil, was the one who wanted him. She had wanted him in Boston, too. "You're never alone when you're a schizophrenic," she muttered, then looked up at Richard. "You're not making this easier."

  His smile reached his eyes. "What am I not making easier? Being two people? No, I should hope I'm not making that any easier. Dividing yourself into a West Coast and an East Coast personality, a Before and an After Sheridan Weaver, is a lot of nonsense."

  "I knew I could count on you to be understanding."

  "Understanding, yes. But not sympathetic. Establishing a life apart from your father is one thing, but you're carrying it too far. You're afraid of me, of what's happening between us, because you're afraid of being yourself."

  "Richard, haven't you been listening? I'm afraid of not being myself!"

  "You select certain traits—such and such is this Sheridan Weaver, such and such is that Sheridan Weaver. Then you act accordingly, depending on which Sheridan Weaver you are trying to be." He leaned forward, no sympathy etched on the hard lines of his face. "Only every now and then you forget all your stupid rules, and we get to see the real Sheridan Weaver, the one who's the nutty, talented private investigator and the intelligent, methodical financial analyst. And that's the Sheridan Weaver that intrigues me. That's you, love. Try to deny it, and you'll fail."

  "You're so sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because I've been watching you."

  She twisted her mouth from one side to the other thoughtfully, wishing she had kept their conversation light and impersonal. Richard St. Charles was beginning to know her too well. He was beginning to see possibilities she wasn't sure she wanted to acknowledge: a Sheridan Weaver who was neither J.B.'s wild daughter nor a stodgy businesswoman, but both. She had never met anyone who could accept her as both.

  "It's an interesting idea," she said finally. "I'l
l give it some thought."

  "And in the meantime?"

  She grinned. "You'll have to keep watching, I guess."

  He leaned back and gave her a sly rakish look. "My pleasure."

  Without fanfare or discussion Sheridan decided to spend the night at Richard's house. By staying she knew she was tempting fate. Or more accurately, herself. Neither time nor distance nor willpower would lessen her attraction to him. Even if she left now—not just returning to J.B.'s place, but returning to Boston and leaving her father and Richard to their own devices—she knew she would still wake up nights, feeling the way she felt now. She had never been so aware of her senses and her emotions, how connected they were. Simply put, she was falling in love with Richard St. Charles.

  They stood in the hallway that night, not touching, in no hurry to go to their separate rooms. Sheridan could feel the certainty rising inside her; yes, she wanted to spend the night with him. Not just here in his house. But with him. In his room, in his bed.

  "Can you get through this, Sheridan?" he asked softly. "Another night not knowing where J.B. is? If it were my father—"

  "But it's not. J.B.'s a professional, Richard. He's been up against worse than Vincent D'Amours, but we don't really know what kind of pressure Vinnie's under. If he cracks, someone could end up getting hurt, and not just my father. I think you could be in danger, too, Richard."

  "And you."

  "I'm not worried about me. All I have to lose is my job, my father, you." She was deliberately flippant. "I guess I've grown kind of attached to you the past few days—you know, like a big brother."

  Maddeningly he said nothing. He didn't even smile. He merely watched her as she ran a hand self-consciously through her hair. "Believe it or not," she said, "I've said dumber things in my time. Well, I've been up since five o'clock, and I'm beat. I'll just…" Her voice trailed off.