by Meg Tilly
“I’m sorry. The agency made a mistake. I requested a male.” His voice was flat. Dismissive. As if life were always that easy. As if he were choosing between a pair of shoes. He started to shut the door. She should have let him, the chauvinist pig. No one in their right mind would want to work for this dickhead. But instead of letting logic have its way, anger had her jamming her body into the doorway. Making it impossible for him to close the door, unless he was prepared to knock her off her feet. “Well, too bad.” She reached out and snagged her suitcase in case the madman decided to pitch it into the flora and fauna. “You got me.”
“It’s not up for discussion. This is a bachelor’s residence. I’m not going to pussyfoot around my own home to avoid offending your ‘womanly sensibilities.’ Furthermore”—he slid his gaze down her body and then back up again, the expression on his face one of distaste, as if he’d found her lacking—“quite honestly, I don’t need the distraction.”
Sarah’s hand itched to fly out and smack that condescending look off his face.
“Hey, Mick?” A redheaded woman poked her head out of a doorway down the hall. “You enjoy your dip?”
A platinum-blonde head appeared over the redhead’s shoulder. “You’re all wet, and we’re lonely.” The blonde made a moue with her mouth.
“Look, Mr. Talford,” Sarah said, using the tone of someone speaking to a not-very-bright five-year-old. “There’s Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Female, from the looks of it.” She smiled at him brightly. “So, that makes mincemeat of your paltry objection to anyone of the female persuasion gracing these hallowed halls.”
The weary air of boredom vanished from his face. His gaze narrowed at the challenge in her voice. She thought she saw a flash of something in his eyes, maybe laughter? Too fleeting to know, because it was gone and he was leaping into the air, his head thrown back as he roared, teeth bared, causing Sarah to jump slightly. What the hell? Who does that? she thought, more than a little annoyed that he had managed to startle her. But apparently, he wasn’t finished with his little display. When Talford’s feet hit the ground, he started pounding them on the floor as if he were a Samoan readying himself for battle. His fists thumped hard against his bare chest, as if it were a drum. The man was still roaring. Of course. She rolled her eyes and kept a slightly bored expression pasted on her face. Although, with his wild mane of wet hair, he did look rather impressive in a messed-up way. Sort of like a lion daring the sun to rise. His penis thwacking from side to side.
Sarah felt an unexpected urge to laugh bubbling up, but she stuffed it down. Didn’t want him to think she was condoning this type of disreputable behavior. She had a feeling he was hoping she would shriek in maidenly vapors and scamper to her car as if the demons of hell were snapping at her heels. The two women’s heads in the doorway had vanished fast enough.
“Yeah. I get it,” Sarah said, keeping her voice dry as unbuttered toast. “You’ve got a penis. Eek.” She threw up her hands, then dropped them, and leaned in as if divulging a confidential secret. “Hate to break it to you, buddy, but so does forty-nine point two percent of the population.”
Instead of getting pissed off at her smart mouth, the contrary man grinned at her as if she had pleased him mightily. Laughter sparkled like flecks of gold in his amber eyes. Jerk. She straightened and took a firm grip on the handle of her suitcase. “Now, if you would please direct me to my room, it would be much appreciated.”
6
“I’m sorry. Her face doesn’t ring a bell.” The woman, Zelia Thompson-Conaghan, gathered the photos of Sarah that he had given her, slipped them into the eight-by-ten manila envelope, and handed the packet back to him. “Wish I could be more help.” It was only then that she looked at him. The expression on her face was pleasant, but she didn’t fool him. Not one bit.
“That’s interesting,” Kevin Hawkins replied, keeping a tight rein on his temper, because unfortunately, the woman’s husband, Gabriel Conaghan, had chosen to sit in on the interview. The man was a very well-known crime fiction author and had friends in high places. It wouldn’t be wise to piss him off. “You see, the nurse I interviewed at the hospital was certain that the woman you knew as Mary Browning—who was in your employ for several years—was the exact same woman in these pictures.” He removed the photo he’d taken of Sarah on the beach, smiling at the camera, back when they were happy, back before he knew she was a lying, two-faced bitch.
He trailed his finger along her face in the photograph, across her throat, which he’d occasionally wrap his hands around, to remind her who was in charge, to watch the fear rise in her eyes. Sometimes he’d leave it at that, back off with a laugh. But when the occasion warranted more extreme measures, he would tighten his grip around her long, slender throat tighter and tighter until she lost consciousness.
He turned the photo to face the owner of Art Expressions Gallery. He purposefully held the photo a little too close to Zelia Thompson-Conaghan, moving his energy into her force field, causing her to take a half step back.
“I’m sorry,” the woman repeated firmly, crossing her arms, chin lifting defiantly. “I can see how at first glance someone could make that mistake, but the woman in this photo has sleek, straight blond hair. My employee had frizzy, light brown.” Something in the woman’s tone had caused her husband to cross the room and stand beside her. “You mentioned this woman you are seeking—”
“My wife.”
“Yes. Your wife. She had beautiful blue eyes. I’m sorry to be the bearer of disappointing news, but Mary’s eyes were brown.”
“Brown?”
She nodded. “Yes, a nondescript brown really. Nothing special. You mentioned your wife was five eight? Even in heels, Mary was shorter than me. I doubt she was more than five three, five four tops.”
Stupid bitch. Clearly it was time to lean a little harder. “Then why”—he thrust his face into hers—“did you state in the missing person report you filed with the Solace Island Police that she was five seven to five eight and her eyes were blue?”
“Back off, asshole.” Gabriel Conaghan was in front of the gallery owner now, grim, determined. So much for not pissing him off. Oh well, in for a penny.
Kevin knocked the man’s hand from his chest. “You mean Lieutenant of the New York Police Department, 19th precinct.” His eyes were now locked with the man’s, but he could hear the woman’s sharp intake of breath. “And I would suggest you don’t lay hands on me again or I will have you arrested for assaulting a police officer so fast you won’t know what hit you.” He paused for a second to make sure his point was taken. “Now,” he said, shifting his weight to his left leg so the woman was back in his line of vision. He was pleased to see that her body had stiffened and the color had drained from her face. “Why don’t we start again?”
7
“I did it!” Sarah said, disengaging her disgruntled cat from his carrier and giving him a celebratory hug. “I brazened my way past that madman director and got us a place to stay. And, oh my, what a place. Can you believe this?” She turned Charlie’s body so he was facing outward and could take in the glorious accommodations of their residence above the garage. “It’s not just a room, Charlie. It’s an entire apartment. See, we’ve got a little living room slash dining room area, and through here a cozy kitchen looking out over the garden. Now, I bet you’re thinking that’s it, but you’d be wrong, my furry friend. It just could be that that conniving little ingrate, Jade, unwittingly did us a favor, because behind door number one is . . . this lovely large bedroom with en suite!” She couldn’t help but do a couple of happy dance steps. “You know, this Mick guy could be Beelzebub, Charlie, so what? I’m not scared. Been harassed by the best. Hell, that madman on Solace Island could give the devil himself a few lessons, and my ex was certainly no walk in the park.” She snuggled Charlie in close, giving him a gentle scratch behind the ears. “You’ve never met Kevin.” She suppressed a shiver. “Let’
s keep it that way.”
She longed to sink onto the bed, stretch out, see if it was as comfortable as it looked, with its plump abundance of fluffy pillows and soft duvet. An afternoon nap would be divine.
Ah well. The daydream was almost as satisfying as actually getting to indulge.
“However,” she told Charlie, “just because I have to work, there’s no reason you can’t enjoy the creature comforts in my stead.” She plopped her cat on the gorgeous duvet. He glared at her indignantly, stalked to the side of the bed, leaped down, and strode out the bedroom door, tail lashing.
“Okay, you aren’t sleepy. That’s your prerogative.” She followed him into the living room, where he was winding his body around the fabric grocery bag that contained the last of his food. Tight finances had forced Sarah to switch to dry kibble while they were on the road. Charlie was not pleased. Had refused food for the first two days, but finally hunger had gotten the best of him.
She took out his bowls, got him water and a small handful of food. While he scarfed it down, she filled his litter box, placed it in the bathroom beside the pedestal sink. Then she washed her hands and face. As she was smoothing her hair, her burner phone pinged. She glanced at the screen. “The big boss man wants to see me,” she informed Charlie. “Wish me luck.” She slipped out the front door and locked it behind her.
In the last hour, a steady stream of people had spilled out of the main residence and tumbled into their cars. Based on the noise level, the almost manic laughter, and the unsteady gaits, many had no business being behind the wheel of a motor vehicle. Hopefully, there were designated drivers in their midst.
As she headed down the stairs at the side of the building, she noticed that the circular drive and the long driveway leading to the road was relatively empty now. When she had driven up earlier, it had been packed cheek to jowl with high-priced vehicles. As she stepped onto the driveway, a solitary holdout, a silver Jaguar convertible, roared to life. She recognized Mr. Talford’s playmates, the redhead and the blonde, who had both squeezed into the front passenger’s seat. They apparently had forgotten all about Talford. Seemed to be enamored with the diminutive, round-bellied, bald man behind the wheel. The car’s tires squealed as it tore down the drive, the breeze making the women’s hair flow behind them like in a cheesy shampoo commercial. The vehicle screeched to a halt a few moments later to wait for the automatic gates to swing open. Clearly the astronomical prices at the gas pump weren’t a concern for this trio. Once the gates were open, the car sped through and disappeared from sight.
Sarah crossed the circular drive, climbed the two low steps to stand once again at the front door. She closed her eyes, took a deep, calming breath, centering herself for what lay ahead.
“Come on in. Door’s unlocked,” Beelzebub’s voice crackled over the intercom speaker, making her jump. “Nervous much?” His disembodied voice sounded faintly amused. Sarah set her shoulders, glanced up, and saw the discreet camera overhead, trained on the doorstep. “Yep. That’s right. You’re on Candid Camera.” She was tempted to give him the finger but managed, just barely, to restrain herself.
8
After Mick had sent the last of the revelers on their way, he’d opened all the windows and the patio doors, windmilling his arms in an attempt to disperse the smell of booze, drugs, and most importantly, the suffocating cling of the working girls’ perfume. Didn’t matter what perfume they used. Vanilla. Floral. Musk. To him, all hookers smelled the same. Smelled of home and claustrophobia. Made him feel sweaty, as if he might suddenly wake and find himself trapped in that old life again.
The place had been called Frank’s Chicken Ranch. When Mick was six, his grandpa turned up his toes, and his grandma Flo renamed it the Desert Rose Ranch. She’d sprung for a giant disco ball and some new carpet in the parlor. Drove into town and went wild at Michaels. Bought a shitload of vases, a glue gun, bedazzled the hell out of them. Stuck the vases all over the place, stuffed full of various arrangements of plastic flowers and greenery. Then she typed a new menu of services, the new prices reflecting the “upgrade in decor.” Didn’t matter how many vases his grandma wanted to bedazzle, the place would always be a bunch of double-wide trailers hoisted up on a concrete foundation out in the middle of the dusty Nevada desert.
Mick’s mom, Judy, had been gone more often than not. But when times were tough, she’d come scratching on the back door, needing food and a place to stay. She wasn’t a hooker, per se, but she wasn’t averse to spreading her legs if money was low. She had no idea who Mick’s father was. Or if she did, she wasn’t talking.
Mick tugged his mind back to the present. It was a waste of time and energy to wallow in the past. Running around dirty-faced and barefoot among the tumbleweeds attempting to avoid rattlesnakes of both the reptilian and human kind, with a constant hunger residing in his belly. That was a distant memory. A dream. He was grown now. Mick Talford. Auteur filmmaker, a creative force to be reckoned with and rich beyond his wildest dreams. The mere act of sitting behind his mahogany desk in his wood-paneled study made him feel better, back in control. He was dressed. Thank God. Peterson and Co. had been flushed out of his abode. He would now be able to properly focus and send the mock Mennonite on her merry way. Once that was accomplished, he was going to take a long, hot shower, go to bed, and sink into deep, blessed slumber.
He heard the front door open and shut, her footsteps, hesitant, in the hall. An unexpected feeling of anticipation coursed through him, a heightening of his senses. Weird. Must be lack of sleep muddling his thoughts.
“Mr. Talford?”
“In here,” he called, settling back into his chair. She appeared in the doorway. He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
She sat. The sunshine caused her to squint slightly behind the thick frames of her glasses and highlighted the smooth, creamy luminescence of her skin.
“Right,” he said briskly, pulling his focus back to the business at hand. “Remind me your name? I was a trifle preoccupied when you first showed up.”
There was a barely discernible hesitation before she opened her lush, unadorned lips. “Rachel Jones,” she said.
His bullshit detector pinged, but about what? The director in him was slightly intrigued, but he shoved it aside. The hesitation was likely caused by her memory of him standing in the doorway stark naked. If not, what did he care? His objective wasn’t to understand the inner workings of her mind. He wanted this woman to make the sensible decision and recuse herself from working for him with no pesky bleating about sexual discrimination. A simple “we were incompatible” verbal agreement would suffice. They would shake hands, and she’d trot back to the employment agency and find another job.
“So, you want to work for me. Why?” Mick had the sense he had seen her before. Was she a wannabe actress? Had she auditioned for him?
“I need the job.” The timbre of her voice surprised him. She gave off a cool, contained “look, but don’t touch vibe.” Prim. Classy. Her vocabulary and manner were that of an intellectual elite. And then there was that voice—husky, almost raw-sounding—that conjured forth images of hot sex, silk sheets, good whiskey, with a drizzle of honey. He hadn’t paid attention to her voice before, had been distracted. But now? He could bathe in it. Yeah, with that voice, that face and killer bod, she had to be an actress. Kudos to her. It was a pretty novel ploy to get his attention. Dressing up like a librarian, applying to be his assistant. “I don’t see what is so funny about my desire for work.” There was a bite to her voice. He could see her back stiffen.
“I didn’t say it was funny.”
“You laughed.”
“Barely.” Might as well call her on it. “You an actress?”
“God no,” she said with distain, as if he’d asked if she worked weekends walking the Strip. Huh. So, she wasn’t an actress. A reporter, perhaps. Trying to get the inside scoop? She was glarin
g at him, which somehow made him feel rather happy. She wasn’t the kowtowing sort. He wouldn’t get “Yes, Mr. Talford. No, Mr. Talford. Whatever you say, Mr. Talford” from her. Which had gotten pretty damned boring.
“A reporter, then. Who do you work for?”
“No. One. That’s why. I’m here,” she said pointedly.
He leaned back in his chair, looked at her for a long moment. “You can cut the bullshit,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m not buying it. I’ve seen you before.” He tapped his forefinger to his temple. “I’m absolute crap with names, but I never forget a face.”
She leaned forward, pretty little teeth bared, opened her mouth as if about to spit some insult out.
“Yes,” he drawled, hoping he could nudge whatever acidic comment was hovering on the precipice of her lips to tip over into his waiting hands. She was entertaining in a Meyer lemon way. He didn’t want to drink a cup of the juice, but biting into a wedge could be rather refreshing. However, he’d overplayed his hand, because instead of gracing him with some tart rejoinder, she snapped her mouth shut. Closed her eyes briefly. When she reopened them, all irritation had been erased from her face. Her fists had unclenched and were now resting peacefully in her lap. “You were about to say?” he inquired, hoping against hope.
* * *
* * *
Nice try, buddy boy, Sarah thought, but I’m not going to bite. “Not important.” She smiled blandly at him. “For the record, I’ve never met you.” Actually, never heard of you before this morning. So sorry if that hurts your delicate sensibilities, but there you have it. It pleased her to toss his phrase back at him, even if it was only in her mind. “I’m not an actress or a reporter looking for a scoop,” she continued, as if she possessed a placid, peaceful disposition. “The only thing I want from you is a paycheck. To be fairly compensated for the hours I put in. Now, if you would please tell me what my duties will be, I can get started.”