by Nancy Warren
“Thanks.” He handed her both and she put them in the hall closet, wishing Matthew would hurry up. She had plenty of social graces and ease, but there was something criminal and unnerving about the man behind her.
“I thought we’d start outside,” she said, leading the way down the hall into the kitchen. “It’s such a nice evening.”
“Sounds good to me. It was nice of you to invite me. The kitchen smells great.”
Well, at least he had manners, and a rather delightful Javier Bardem inflection to his tone.
She settled him on a patio chair at the table out back. “I can offer you wine, beer, or a margarita.”
He sent her a white-toothed grin that suddenly lightened his face and made him seem much less sinister. “I’ll try your margarita. But I’m a tough judge.”
“Oh, dear. I’ve never made them before. I got the recipe off the Internet.”
He looked seriously worried. “Did you use a mix?”
“Of course not. I never use mixes.”
“Let me see.” He rose and followed her into the kitchen. Pored over the recipe she’d printed off her computer.
She had the ingredients assembled on the counter alongside the recipe and after he put the printout down, he picked up the bottle of tequila and nodded his approval. “You buy good tequila.”
“I wasn’t sure. I just bought the most expensive kind they had in the shop.”
His dark eyes gleamed. “That’s how you pick stuff? By price?”
“No. Not always. But it’s not a bad method. You said yourself that it’s good tequila.”
He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, washed two of the limes, and said, “You want one?”
“Thank you. I was thinking of making a pitcher of them.”
She wasn’t a bit surprised when he shook his head. “Margaritas should always be made fresh.”
She chuckled. “I am officially putting you in charge of the cocktails.” He was clearly one of those take-charge men, good in the kitchen and, she suspected, in bed. There was strong sensuality in him and, she guessed, he was the kind who’d take charge of a woman’s pleasure before worrying about his own. She highly approved.
While he squeezed limes and she skewered huge bay shrimp, she said, “So, how do you know Matthew?”
“Through work.”
“Real estate?”
“No. Before that. We were on the force together.” There was a slight pause. “He’s a good cop,” he said, with a trace of sadness.
“So, you’re a police officer?”
He grinned that charming smile once more. “Surprises a lot of people.”
“What branch are you in?”
“I do a little of this and that,” he said evasively. And she nodded, thinking, undercover. How exciting.
By the time Matthew and Brittany arrived half an hour later, she and Rafe were fast friends. She would have thought they’d have nothing to talk about, but he was in his way a foreigner too. He could relate the things he’d found strange about Austin and Texas and she could tell her stories.
“At least you can get Mexican food here.” She’d passed many a Mexican restaurant. “I have yet to find a place that serves a decent cup of tea. Or a scone with proper Devonshire cream.”
He grimaced. “Tex-Mex? Don’t get me started.”
Then Matthew strode into view, with that sweet-looking blonde beside him. Chloe rose. “Hello.” She walked forward. “You must be Brittany. I’m Chloe.”
“Hi, sorry we’re late. We got held up at a fabric store.”
There was a choking sound from Rafe. “Come again?”
“Nothing,” Matthew said hastily. “I was helping Brittany with some things.”
Chloe wondered what on earth Matthew had been doing in a fabric store, but at least that explained the tight look around his mouth and the pinched skin edging his eyes. He looked irritable, hot, and bored. But he held a tray of thick steaks, so at least he’d remembered those.
Brittany simply looked confused. Poor dear. She was holding a pie in her hands, which she handed over. Chloe beamed at her. “Pie. How clever of you.”
Once Rafe had made two more of his super-excellent margaritas, there was a slight pause.
She turned to Brittany. “Why don’t we let the men do whatever men do, out here with the barbecue. Perhaps you could help me in the kitchen.”
“Sure.”
In fact, Chloe had already done most everything, but she wanted some time alone with Matthew’s girlfriend. Matthew sent a worried glance her way, but she ignored him.
Brittany seemed like a nice woman. There had to be someone who would suit her better than Matthew. In fact, there must be dozens.
She glanced briefly at Rafe, obviously single, but one look at the scruffy bad boy and the blond cheerleader type had her shaking her head. As much as she believed in opposites attracting, one could only go so far.
In the kitchen, Brittany went immediately to the book, Perfect Love, Perfect Communication, which Chloe had left on the counter. “Oh, you have this? How is it? I’ve heard it’s wonderful. I have to get it.” She glanced shyly at Chloe. “I think it might be good for Matthew and me.”
The thought of Matthew being forced to listen to that twaddle almost made her feel sorry for him. “I haven’t finished reading it, but I have to say it seems a bit rule-bound for my taste.”
“I kind of like the idea of rules in life, don’t you?”
“God, no. The only rule I follow is never to buy anything you have to line up for or order in advance. Otherwise, I prefer to wing it.”
Chloe was dying to tell the other woman that it wasn’t the rules that were her problem.
It was the man.
Chapter 11
In spite of the odd collection of personalities and the fact that they all knew each other and Chloe didn’t know any of them, she still managed to be the life of the party. It was her talent. One of many.
Her appetizers were spectacular, and as the evening progressed, she found everyone loosening up, especially Matthew.
Over steaks—and she had to give her neighbor credit, the man could cook a steak to perfection—and salads, talk turned to when he and Rafe had worked together. Matthew was kidding his former partner about the mess he always left in the squad car and how nobody would ever work at his desk because it was such a disaster, when Chloe had her brilliant idea.
Bright lights, like those on Broadway, lit up inside her head.
Messy, disorganized, and dressed like a gang member, Rafe, who was also intelligent, fiercely committed to justice, and attractive in an entirely unusual way, might just appeal to Deborah of the rules of engagement, rules of marriage, rules of love, engage in weekly therapy sessions with your loved one, rule book.
At least, it was worth a shot.
But how would she convince him that he was exactly the man to inspire Deborah to throw her rule book away and embrace all the messiness of life?
Once dinner was done, Matthew and Brittany got up to leave. “Thank you so much for a wonderful dinner,” Brittany said.
“You’re welcome. I enjoyed meeting you.” And she had. She knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Brittany and Matthew were never going to make each other happy.
Of course, that was a pro bono case and right now she had to focus on the one paying her. Rafe rose to leave at the same time and she stopped him, saying, “I wonder if you could stay behind, Rafe. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”
Matthew flicked her a glance that was full of surprise and hostility. She blinked, then realized he was condemning her for what he obviously thought was a ploy to get his ex-partner into bed. She raised her brows at him and then shot a rather significant glance at the woman waiting patiently by his side.
Matthew’s jaw clenched and with a curt, “’Night,” he was gone, shutting the door behind him with unnecessary violence.
Rafe didn’t say a word, simply looked at Chloe. His expression was
, if anything, carefully expressionless.
She laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t want to seduce you.”
He sat back down. “I’m sorry to hear that, but it will save me a pounding from my buddy there.”
“Matthew’s a fool,” she said.
“Seemed to spend more of the evening with his eyes on you than on that gal he’s set to marry.”
“Oh, he’s not going to marry that sweet girl. It would be a disaster.”
Rafe’s eyes stayed steady on hers. She could see the cop in him now. “Matt tell you that?”
“Of course not. He doesn’t know it himself yet.” She took a deep breath, knowing she was going to have to tread carefully. “But I didn’t ask you to stay to talk about Matthew.” She twiddled with one of her earrings. “Rafe, I want you to do me a favor.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I run a rather unusual business.”
“Yeah. Matthew seemed pretty bent out of shape by something you were doing.”
“Matthew gets bent out of shape by pretty much everything I do,” she said.
He didn’t argue and she wondered how much Matthew had said about her. “Tell me about this business of yours.”
“You have to promise not to tell Matthew anything about it.”
“I can’t promise anything if you’re operating outside the law.”
She giggled. “Oh, dear. Is that what he thinks? Poor Matthew. No, of course I’m not a lawbreaker. I am the owner of The Breakup Artist.”
“You’re a makeup artist?”
“No. Breakup. People pay me to end unsatisfactory relationships.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. I’m not. You’d be surprised how many people want to end an affair and have no idea how to do it. I help them.”
“What do you do? Deliver dead roses and slap faces?”
“Please. I have standards. Mainly, I try to end things in a way that’s the least painful for all involved.”
“What’s wrong with these people that they can’t do their own breaking up?”
“Oh, a multitude of reasons. Don’t want to hurt their partner, don’t want to do the dirty work. They’ve moved on and simply can’t be bothered. Sometimes they try to get the other person to break up with them.”
He sent her an odd look, then glanced down at his hands. “You do this work alone?”
“I do have one employee,” she said with a hint of pride. “Stephanie, my receptionist. She starts on Monday.”
His glance shot up to meet hers, sharp and slightly alarming. “Stephanie. I know a Stephanie who works at a bank.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence? My Stephanie works at a bank. But I offered her a job and she accepted.”
“When was this?”
He seemed to be taking an awful lot of interest in things that had nothing to do with him. “I doubt it’s the same person.”
“Yeah, probably.” He shifted. “So, what’s the favor?”
Suddenly, she wasn’t so certain she wanted to ask him for this favor. And yet, he was perfect and if he said no, she’d be no worse off than she was now.
“I know this will seem odd, but I need someone very much like you, someone disorganized and chaotic, but also intelligent and attractive. I want you to make an appointment with a psychotherapist and get her to fall in love with you.”
It seemed as though Rafe sat there and stared at her without moving a muscle for ten minutes. Of course, it was probably no more than thirty seconds, but they were among the longest seconds of her life.
“How am I going to get some woman I don’t even know to fall in love with me?”
“I suspect, for all your scruffiness, you don’t have much trouble in that department,” she said sharply.
She was rewarded with one of his lightning grins, the ones that she’d hazarded her assumption on. “What would be in it for me?”
She regarded him for a moment, her head to one side, considering. This was, of course, the sticking point. “I’m assuming you’re single?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I could break up an unsatisfactory relationship for you at no charge.”
“I don’t have any of those.”
“Aren’t you lucky.” She stood in the hallway that Matthew had no doubt rebuilt in some clever fashion and wondered what would appeal to this man in front of her. “Well, of course, the sessions with the counselor will be free. She’s got an excellent reputation. Perhaps you have a problem you need help with?”
His gaze sharpened suddenly on her face. Oh, interesting. There was something. “I’m not into shrinks.”
“Really? I love therapists. It’s so lovely to be able to talk about oneself for hours without then feeling obliged to listen to the other person’s problems. I look on therapy as a day at the spa for my psyche. Perhaps you’ll learn something. Perhaps there’s some small behavior pattern you have that you might like to modify.”
Rafe had good manners and his abuela, who’d drummed them into him from the time he was old enough to sit at a table with the adults, would roll over in her grave if he gave in to his inclination to grab his stuff out of the front closet and walk out.
Besides, he knew that this was the woman Matt had wanted him to tail from the food court, and that she’d been seen with Stephanie right before he appeared on the scene, by which time she’d vanished and so he’d followed Stephanie instead.
He was curious.
And worried. What was up with Stephanie that she’d leave a safe job at the bank to run off and work for this British wing nut?
An awful sense of guilt crawled up his spine. He’d deliberately gone into the bank to warn her that he was keeping his eye on her. He was trying to protect her. He hadn’t wanted to scare her out of her nine-to-five routine, her livelihood, and her company pension plan.
Had he done that?
As much as he hated anything to do with shrinks, he’d sure like an excuse to keep an eye on Stephanie and it seemed pretty likely that his Stephanie and Chloe’s Stephanie were one and the same.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, walking purposefully to the front closet where she’d left his stuff.
She followed at a leisurely pace. “Thank you.” She handed him a business card. He read it and shook his head. “I never heard of anyone who made money off breaking people up.”
“What about divorce lawyers? They make a lot more money and cause a great deal more misery than I do. The thing you must remember, Rafe, is that a solid relationship is safe from anything I might do. By the time someone comes to me, the relationship is all but over. I merely ease the transition along and, if I do say so myself, make the breakup easier on the other party.”
“By tricking someone like a therapist to fall in love with a guy like me who’s only there to cause trouble?”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Honestly, think it through. If a woman who is ethical and obsessed with orderly rules of relationships begins to develop feelings for another man, she’s not going to go after him. She’s going to realize that there’s a problem in her primary relationship. I’ve thought it all through. She’ll never allow herself to get involved with a patient. You’re safe. All I want you to do is go along and perhaps share with her some of your disorderly attributes.”
“Like I said, I’ll think about it.” By this time he’d shrugged into his jacket and was halfway to her front door, his helmet swinging at his side.
He strode down the path to where he’d left his bike and rode off into the night. Even as he told himself not to be stupid, he passed the turn that would take him home and headed instead for the office.
He muttered a string of obscenities in Spanish even as he parked and headed into the precinct.
Because of the nature of his work, he was often there at odd hours, so nobody thought anything of him appearing at eleven o’clock at night to use the department computer and resources. He tried to convince himself he was doing the work he was paid for, and not using governm
ent property for personal reasons, but he didn’t try very hard.
Instead, he worked swiftly. He knew her first name was Stephanie and who her employer was and at which branch she was a teller. In a ridiculously short amount of time he had her full name, date of birth, home phone number, and address.
There’d been an engagement ring sparkling on her finger both times he’d seen her. Was it a live-in arrangement?
He figured he’d drive by her place, check to see if there were lights on, and take it from there.
Once more he headed off on his bike, this time riding to her address in south Austin where a string of blocklike apartments stretched like boxcars.
She was in the second building, apartment 318. He glanced at his watch. Eleven thirty. A lot of lights were shining in third-floor windows, but he had no idea which one was hers. Or whether she was alone.
He walked to the front of the building, contemplating ringing her apartment, when a couple walked out of the front doors, the guy holding the door open politely for him to enter. Of course, he should read the pair a lecture on safety and security, but instead, he muttered thanks and entered the building.
He never took an elevator if he could help it, so he found the staircase and jogged up a couple of flights of stairs that smelled of stale air and some kind of bug repellent.
The third-floor corridor was dimly lit, and the carpet needed replacing. The walls were scuffed, but the place was clean enough. It would run to transients, young people starting out like Stephanie, divorcees in transition, people new to the city. He found 318 and noted light under the door. He put his ear against it and heard voices. He was about to walk away when he realized the noise was from a TV.
Knowing it was crazy, he knocked on the door anyway.
There was a long pause and then a female voice said, without opening the door, “What do you want?”
At least somebody in this building knew the importance of security and safety precautions, he thought, even as it irritated him that she hadn’t opened the door. Maybe the boyfriend was there. He said, “Police business.” If the boyfriend was there he’d make up something. He hadn’t survived working undercover without being quick on his feet.