I returned to the property site and searched by owner name for him. Nothing. That told me his property was listed under a trust because I knew he lived in my neighborhood. According to the covenants, in order to be on the homeowners’ association board, you had to own and live in a property in the neighborhood.
I knew which house was Carlson’s, but I didn’t know the exact address, so I searched by street name and just picked a house number. I chose map view and discovered I was only two houses off, so I clicked on Carlson’s lot. Two thousand three hundred square feet, pool, fireplace, enclosed patio, and fence on a half-acre lot. Twenty-five years old. He’d only purchased the house six months ago, which seemed a little odd. Though this had been a very nice neighborhood once upon a time, it wasn’t one I’d expect a bank president to move into now.
I perused his information. The owner was listed as Carlson Family Trust but the mailing address, which wasn’t a post office box, was somewhere else. I leaned forward to take a harder look. It was an address in Island Hill.
My heart started to beat a little faster. I searched the property site again, only this time for the Hill address. Quite a different property it was. Seven thousand square feet, four fireplaces, pool and pool deck, screened porch, and patio on a half-acre lot. I went to Google Earth and zoomed in to study the property. I couldn’t see much except the roof, the pool, the paved driveway, and the landscaping but wow, not bad at all. While I was there I looked around at the other houses on the Hill, wondering what it would be like to come home to that every day. It occurred to me to look for Bryan’s house on the property appraiser site and so I did, but it wasn’t under Rossi, and I didn’t have the patience to click on every lot on the island trying to figure out which one was his.
The question was, did scumbag Carlson live in the house in my neighborhood or in the house on the Hill? I never saw him around here, except when he was visiting me. Before I started working in my yard, I’d ridden my bicycle every night and I’d not once seen a sign of life at his address. There was always the possibility that someone else in his family lived at the Hill address, that the properties were just bound up in the same trust, but why did I never see Mr. Carlson around here?
If his legal residence wasn’t in my neighborhood, he couldn’t remain president of the board. I didn’t know if the material I’d uncovered could help me, just as I didn’t know if the information about the woodpeckers could help either, but I was damned sure going to find out. At the very least I could dump some trouble back on Carlson’s doorstep, and that possibility made me feel oh-so-much better.
*****
While I was fixing a tuna salad sandwich, I had an epiphany. Sheila knew a private investigator. He’d gotten the dirt on both of Sheila’s husbands for her, enabling her to get fantastic divorce settlements that had included the homes. Homes that evidently had belonged to the men before they met Sheila.
Sheila had returned from up north the week before without her husband, or at least I hadn’t seen him. Because he traveled all the time, I’d never even met the man. That was probably the reason she was still married to him. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that crap.
I saw Sheila almost every day, though, when she click-clacked down the driveway in her high-heeled sandals to pick up her mail.
I rang her doorbell, and she opened the door dressed in her usual fare—shorts, halter top, and sandals. She motioned me inside while she took a drag off a cigarette attached to a jeweled cigarette holder.
Two minutes later I was at her kitchen table with a cup of coffee I didn’t really want but which I took because I didn’t wish to appear rude. I examined her décor as I told her about my idea. She was into flamingos, it seemed. They were on the wallpaper, the dish towels, the art work, and the cookie jar. All in shades of pink and green. It would take me about fifteen minutes to start puking over this décor. I planned to be out in ten.
“What do you mean, you want my investigator to find out where Carlson lives? Doesn’t he live on Benton?”
“That’s the thing. He owns the house, but I’ve never seen him there. He also owns a house in Island Hill. Why would he live here when he can live there?”
“Why do you care?” Sheila frowned at me, or at least tried to frown, but the only wrinkles that showed up were above the outside corners of her brows. She obviously didn’t mind paying for Botox. I guess if you cultivate husbands who give you everything you want, Botox is just one more line item.
“I care because he’s making my life a living hell, trying to boot me out of here because I’m not following the rules, and if this isn’t his main residence, he isn’t either. Following the rules. That means he doesn’t have the right to tell me what to do.”
“Whether he’s breaking the rules or not has nothing to do with you or me. Sure, they could kick him off the board, but that won’t help you if you’re breaking the rules.”
“It might. They only have three people on the board. Without Carlson, there’s only two. If I could get one of those two on my side, I could get a reprieve until I can get that swamp cleaned up. I can’t get the work done in the next ten days. I can’t even borrow the money and settle on a company to do the work in that short of a time. I need an extension.”
“You won’t be able to afford my PI either. He requires a thousand-dollar retainer.”
“A thousand dollars! That’s ludicrous!”
My epiphany hadn’t been much help. Everything always came down to money. I’d had another thought though. I could do my own investigation. It wasn’t as if I had to plant a bug on Carlson or anything. I just needed to know if he was in residence at his house on the island, because I was pretty sure he wasn’t in residence here.
I had a good idea how to find out too, and it made my heart go pitter-pat. Bryan Rossi was part of the idea. Bryan lived on the island.
Chapter 26
I decided to show up at Bryan’s office unexpectedly. I didn’t think he would embarrass me by refusing to see me. I’d just waltz in and ask his secretary if I could have five minutes of his time to discuss something personal.
I zipped across town to the medical building that held such fond memories for me and was heartened to see that the hurricanes had not been kind to it. Then I noticed the sign that had previously said, “We’re moving,” now said, “We’ve moved.” Crap.
The good news was I didn’t have to write down the address because I knew exactly where it was. His new office was next to the hospital, less than five minutes from my house.
I drove back the same way I’d come until I neared the modern facility that now housed forty doctors. I had to park in Timbuktu since all the convenient spaces in the gigantic parking lot that wrapped around three sides of the five-story bronzed glass and steel building were taken.
This gave me a moment’s pause. If his waiting room was just as packed, I’d have to cut in front of what could be scores of women. But heck, I only needed five minutes. Well, five minutes to ask for his help and twenty-five to charm him beforehand.
By the time I had schlepped through the humidity and heat to the entrance, my hair and make-up had wilted. I reminded myself that the times he’d seen me previously, I had looked worse, so really, this would be a treat for him. Still, in the elevator on the way to his fourth-floor office, I fluffed up my hair and whipped out my compact to touch up my lipstick. After all, he was a young, rich, good-looking doctor.
The elevator doors slid open, and I hung a right. I yanked open the door to his office and strolled in as though I belonged there. All heads swiveled in my direction. It was a bunch of heads too. His office was every bit as full as Dr. Forester’s had been, and I could swear the same women were sitting in his chairs.
Well, maybe not. On closer inspection, these women looked like super models with an occasional high society type mixed in for variety. They were all long hair, long lashes, and long legs. But they were cousins at least to the other set of women because they too had never been taught tha
t it was rude to stare.
I suddenly felt short, fat, and ugly, not to mention under-jeweled, under-accessorized, and under-dressed. Not under-dressed in the sense that I didn’t have on enough clothing because some of these women—or should I say girls—would have been considered half-naked on the street. But what little clothing they wore had come straight from a couturier or high-priced boutique.
I refused to double-check my appearance, mostly because I was afraid if I looked down, sweat might drip off my face. None of the women sitting in the office had ever sweated a day in their lives, of that I was sure.
I was too embarrassed to announce in front of nosy ears that I was there for personal reasons. I suspected that every other woman in the room was there for personal reasons too, but they’d probably had the foresight to make an appointment so as not to appear desperate. It seemed a better idea to sit for a while, and after some of the women cleared out, talk to the receptionist then.
There was only one empty seat in the room. As I turned toward it, the long-legged blonde sitting in the adjacent chair slid a Louis Vuitton satchel onto it, the one that cost about a thousand bucks. She gave me a cool stare, daring me to do something about it. I decided to pass since her stilettos were sharp enough to skewer me.
I didn’t appear to have any other option, so I headed for the window. I was five feet away when the young woman on the other side of the glass jumped to her feet. She was a couple of inches taller than me, slim but curvy, with long auburn hair and a smattering of freckles across her peaches and cream complexion. Her hazel eyes were warm and her smile was beaming.
“Ms. Jansen, how wonderful to meet you! I’m Hanna, Dr. Rossi’s secretary. I can’t believe you’re here! I hope you liked the sandals; I recognized the brand right away.” She stopped for a moment, blushing, then went on. “I’ll just let Dr. Rossi know you’re here. He’ll be so delighted. Why don’t you come on through that door?”
She pointed to the door at my left, and I murmured some polite thanks. I made a show of tossing my hair, mostly so I could throw a boastful look over my shoulder at the women who weren’t fortunate enough to share my good fortune. It backfired since I don’t have a lot of hair, and what I had was stuck to my sweaty head.
A few seconds later I was standing inside the inner sanctuary and Hanna was back, still beaming. I thanked her for her part in the sandal replacement, and she blushed again.
“Dr. Rossi will see you now,” she said. “He’s in the last room on the right. And if you wouldn’t mind, I have a copy of Dark Scoundrel that I’d love to have autographed before you leave. It’s my all-time favorite romance.”
I thought about pretending I didn’t hear so she could speak up and repeat her praise a little louder for the benefit of my bitchy non-friends, but why be petty? Instead I gave her a beatific smile and told her in an overloud voice that I’d be delighted to autograph her copy of my book.
I sashayed down the hall to the room on the right and sauntered on in. The door closed behind me, making me whip around to see why.
Oh my God. I had forgotten how drop-dead gorgeous he was. He’d been standing behind the door when I came in and now was lounging against it as though determined not to let me out. He didn’t have to worry. I wasn’t going anywhere.
His body was mostly covered up by his doctor’s coat, but I hardly noticed. His thick dark hair curled back from his face, and his gray eyes were almost as dark as his hair. He pushed away from the door with a grin, and I almost fainted with the pleasure of seeing that sexy, dimpled smile spread across his face.
I took a half-step toward him, smiling myself, and then I was in his arms, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to tip my head up and open my lips to his kiss. And what a kiss. I tingled from my lips to my toes and back up again. He pulled me closer, and I breathed in the scent of him. Soap and aftershave and Bryan.
“I knew you’d come crawling back,” he murmured against my lips, but it didn’t sound the least bit smug. It sounded happy, and for a few seconds I forgot why I was there. Oh yeah. Right. I was there to ask for his help spying on someone so I could save my house, so I didn’t have to be rescued by Prince Charming.
The question was, how did I segue from kissing to that? Honesty was the best policy, wasn’t it? Probably not in this case, but I wasn’t suave enough to know what the best policy was.
“Um,” I began, and then he nuzzled my neck, which made it impossible to remember my next words. My head lolled back to give him better access until I had the thought that my neck probably tasted like sweat. Ugh. Poor Bryan. Starting tomorrow, I was carrying baby wipes around with me, and elevator rides would consist of fluffing my hair, checking my face, and wiping my sweaty neck. Just in case.
“Um,” I began again. “I didn’t actually come here to kiss you. It never even occurred to me that I could walk in here and kiss you …or that you would kiss me. Not that I don’t like it because I do. I do like it. I really do like it. I like it a lot.” I was starting to slobber now, so I decided to straighten myself up. “I mean, I came here to ask for your help.”
His lips stopped moving. I felt a keen disappointment somewhere south of the border.
He angled his head around until he was looking me in the eye. “You’re not hiding a snake, are you?”
“No.” I smiled at the recollection of him catching the ring-necked snake in my living room. Then I smiled again at the recollection of his butt as he’d turned around to carry the snake out the door. Then that area south of the border started to heat up again, and I forgot what I was smiling about.
I was almost a puddle, especially now that I could really feel him against me. If someone didn’t walk through that door, I might start ripping off my clothes. Or his.
He released me with a rueful shake of his head. He knew that I knew exactly how he was feeling because I was feeling it too. Both ways.
“I have to remind myself that I have a waiting room full of women, some of whom might have contact dermatitis and really need my help.”
“Yeah, I think I saw Paris Hilton out there. She probably flew down because of some nasty rash.”
He just grinned.
There was nothing left to do but say it. “Okay, look. Here’s what I wanted to ask you.” I quickly explained about Mr. Carlson and asked Bryan if he could arrange for me to get on the island after dark so I could snoop around the house owned by Carlson’s trust to see if Carlson was, in fact, residing there.
“Why do I feel as though I’m aiding and abetting a criminal?” he asked.
“You shouldn’t because I won’t be doing anything illegal.” Unless you counted breaking and entering, or entering anyway. I didn’t know how to break, so I’d have to pray that if I needed to, I could sneak in. But Bryan didn’t have to know that. At least not yet.
He pulled me against his body, but leaned back to give me a searching look. I started to shiver but not because of the look. It was that aftershave. It made me want to do things.
“Why don’t I believe you?” he asked.
I snuggled up for another kiss, determined to make him believe, but he laughed and shook his head. “No, no, no,” he said. “My better sense tells me I’ll probably regret this, but it also tells me you’re going to do it with or without me. So, here’s the deal. If you promise not to go spying on your own, I’ll get you on the island in my car when I pick you up and bring you to my house for dinner. And you’ll have to let me tag along on your adventure so I can make sure you get back in one piece. But first, you’ll have to sit through dinner.”
Hell, it was a sacrifice, but someone had to do it.
Chapter 27
I was a nervous wreck. I’d spent four hours dressing and undressing and dressing again. I’d started by throwing everything on the bed or over furniture once I’d tried it on and dismissed it, but then, after having to dig through layers of clothing to find a piece that I wanted to try on with something else, I’d hung it all back up.
Now I had a closet full of half-wrinkled clothes and I was dressed in a rather short, slimming black skirt topped by a cap-sleeved, snugly-fitted white knit blouse with a wide scoop neck that stopped just short of showing my nipples. I slipped on some black and white tiger-print stilettos and stepped in front of the full-length mirror.
I looked like a slut on the make. Maybe I was, but I didn’t want to look it. I threw off those clothes and rummaged again.
One thing had me thinking. I couldn’t very well spy on Carlson in a short skirt and heels. What if I had to climb a fence? What if I had to run and hide? The clothes I’d need for a spy scenario would be dark and body concealing, not body revealing.
On the other hand, no way was I having dinner with one of the sexiest men I’d ever met dressed like a cat burglar. This might be my only chance to wow Bryan. I’d be stupid to pass up the possibility of a relationship with him in the future, after my house problem was sorted out. I might be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t usually one of them. I say usually because sometimes it is.
I put the slut clothes back on, including the stilettos. My legs were my best feature, and I needed all the help I could get. I practiced lounging against the wall to see how sexy a pose I could make. Then I went for the I’m an innocent virgin even though I’m dressed like a slut look, which consisted of cowering slightly and smiling tremulously while I gazed up through batting lashes.
Then I tried a sexy pirouette, tripped over my feet, and crashed into my hope chest, dispelling all hope of making a good impression. At least I’d avoided whacking myself on the face, if only by throwing out my arm, which got whacked instead. Mental note: no pirouetting in stilettos unless I wanted to look like a fool.
I rubbed my arm, the one already sporting a bruise from Richard’s death grip at the bank. It was always nice to re-injure a weak spot. I grabbed a tote bag and threw a pair of black spandex pants, a black tank top, black long-sleeved but lightweight jacket with a hood, and a pair of black running shoes and socks into it. I smudged some concealer on the arm bruise, applied a second coat of mascara, re-powdered my nose, and added a touch more pink-frosted lip gloss over the darker all-day-wear lipstick I’d painted on.
Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) Page 23