by Laura Kenner
“No problem. You want me to man the phones?”
Joanie shot her a look of gratitude. “Would you…please?” Sara followed Joanie to her desk in the outer office where the woman reached into the drawer and retrieved a small screwdriver. She held it aloft. “Sometimes the machine spits stuff out if you threaten it with dismantling.” She trotted toward the glass door leading to the hallway.
“But what about Raymond’s big secret?” Sara called out to her.
Joanie paused in the doorway. “I think he’s going to propose.”
The door swung shut and Sara stared at the retreating figure.
“But we’re already engaged.”
Joanie didn’t hear her and continued toward the exit stairs.
Orchids?
Sara returned to Raymond’s office, contemplating this unexpected side of his personality. Orchids were nice, but not necessarily her favorite flower. When she thought of orchids, she thought of junior proms, Mother’s Day and bridal bouquets.
Bridal bouquets?
Bridal?
It hit her. Raymond had been the one who espoused the concept of the long engagement and she couldn’t help but understand his sense of caution. Surely a divorce lawyer realized the wisdom of two people getting to know each other well before getting married. It was his chief complaint about the cases he handled; it was far simpler for two people to make a legal commitment than a moral one.
In support of his justified sense of hesitation, she’d never pressured him for a wedding date, preferring the more open-ended engagement for the same reasons he cited. But if Joanie’s instincts were right—and they usually were—changes were in store.
Maybe he wants to set a date….
Sara wandered blindly back into Raymond’s office, her thoughts lost in a maze of conjecture and flights of imagination. Thoughts of orchids became bridal bouquets. And bridal bouquets led her to thoughts of white gowns, a church full of people, a tableau of friends dressed to the nines watching her step down the aisle. An organ would blare out “The Wedding March,” church bells would chime.
Bells?
Sara glanced at the ringing telephone. After a moment’s hesitation, she punched the flashing button and stuttered past her usual “Blackwater Cafe” greeting to a more appropriate, “Raymond Bergeron, attorney-at-law. May I help you?”
“May I speak to him, please?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bergeron’s not in the office at the moment.” She scrambled in Raymond’s lap drawer, looking for a sticky pad and a pencil. Knowing his sense of organization, she realized all she probably had to do was look in the file drawer under ’P.’ However, the lap drawer yielded what she needed. “May I take a message?” she said in her best secretarial voice.
“Would you have him call…uh—just a moment” A second later, she heard a muffled sneeze on the other end of the phone. He came back on the line. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to sneeze in your ear.”
“You didn’t, sir. The name again?”
“That’s double U-B-R-I-G-G-S. He has the number.”
“I’ll ask him to return your call, Mr. Uubriggs.” She stood and stuck the note to the headrest of his chair, where it showed quite plainly. As she stepped back into the outer office, she spotted Joanie heading in her direction.
“That was quick. Did you avert disaster?”
“Yes, only because she’s a hopeless case.”
“What do you mean?”
“She forgot where the output tray was. When I arrived, there were thirty perfect collated sets sitting there and her original still sitting on the glass.”
Sara winced. “She’s that inexperienced?”
Joanie lifted one eyebrow. “She assured me she had other assets to offset her lack of secretarial skills. I was afraid to ask what they were.” Joanie made a grand gesture of looking around the office. “Anything exciting happen the three whole minutes while I was gone? Any wedding-gown deliveries? Have the champagne and cake arrived yet?”
“Hardly.” Sara led the way into the conference room where she raided its cabinets for two place settings. Joanie helped carry the pieces into Raymond’s office. “However, you’ll be glad to know that I can take a phone message with some accuracy. I left it on Raymond’s chair.”
Joanie raised her eyebrow again. “On his chair?”
Sara reached into her basket and drew out a tablecloth. With one practiced snap of her wrist, she spread it over his desk. “I didn’t want to lose the little piece of paper under all this. He has a funny name—sounds Swedish or something like that.” As she started pulling food containers out of the basket, Joanie examined the sticky note. Her sudden burst of laughter caught Sara by surprise.
Joanie pointed to the note, then to the container of cashew-chicken salad. “You’d better stick to cooking and leave the message taking to me.”
Sara craned over the secretary’s shoulder. “What did I do wrong? He said you had his number.”
“It’s nothing—just an easy mistake to make.” Joanie pointed to the name, “Mr. Uubriggs.” “It’s not double U-B-R-I-G-G-S.” She picked up the pencil and corrected the spelling. “It’s W. B….R-I-G-G-S. W. B. Riggs.”
Riggs? “Riggs?” she repeated for Joanie’s benefit. “W. B. Riggs as in Will Riggs?”
Joanie shot her a grin that could almost be described as lascivious. “You know him?”
Sara shrugged. “We’ve met” She eyed the note again, then broke away for a moment to slap Joanie’s hand away from a foil-wrapped package. “Those rolls will get cold if you unwrap them. Does Raymond know Will Riggs?”
Joanie consoled herself with a stolen slice of carrot. “Sure. Raymond uses him all the time.”
“As what?”
“A private investigator. He’s our ’When in doubt, check them out’ investigator.”
Suddenly, Sara became aware of her surroundings: the sounds of the clock ticking on the opposite wall, the hum of Raymond’s computer, the hiss of air through the ventilating system. “‘When in doubt…’” she repeated. “You mean like looking into people’s backgrounds and making sure they don’t have a string of broken hearts or maybe a police record?”
Joanie nodded. “That and more. He tests what Raymond calls someone’s ’loyalty rating.’ You know, he talks to the female client about her fiance, then hires a sexy woman to give the guy the come-on. If he falls for it and tries to make the moves on the bait, then the client knows what type of jerk he is before they get married.”
“And I suppose—” Sara swallowed hard “—it can work the other way, right? This Mr. Riggs provides this service for…male clients, too?”
Joanie’s grin broadened. “Will hires a real studmuffin to give the woman the business. If she accepts the offer, then she’s busted. The cat’s out of the bag before the bag becomes community property.”
“He hires someone? He never…handles the case himself?”
Joanie perched on the edge of the desk. “Not that I’m aware of. Of course, it’s not for the lack of good looks. He’s a good-looking son of a gun, but not in a flashy way. But as far as I know, every time Raymond’s used his services, Will has hired someone to be the bait.”
A chill danced across the back of Sara’s shoulders. “And Raymond uses Mr. Riggs’s services frequently?”
Joanie laughed. “Sure. It’s part of what Raymond calls his continuing-education program for his recently divorced clients. So they don’t make the same mistake twice. If you ask me, it’s a mistake because he’s killing his repeat business. But Raymond says he still gets enough business from those clients who won’t listen to the truth and continue to make bad marriage decisions.”
The phone rang again and instead of disturbing the lunch preparations to get to the phone, Joanie skidded out the door to her desk and took the call there.
Sara stared at the little yellow square of paper sticking to the leather headrest
Surely Raymond wouldn’t have…
He coul
dn’t have suspected she would…
Did he trust her so little?
Her stomach began churning, her heart pounding. The blood rushed in her ears, almost obliterating the sounds of Raymond’s arrival in the outer office. She sensed his presence behind her one moment before he nibbled her ear.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
“Hi.” She didn’t turn around, for fear of exploding with questions.
He wrapped one arm around her waist, leaning forward to place his chin on her shoulder. “Hmmm…you smell nice. Almost as nice as these.” He reached around and held a bouquet of flowers in front of her.
She looked down at the collection of white orchids; they were arranged in a perfect bridal bouquet. Perfectly presumptuous, at the moment.
“Orchids don’t smell.” She made no move to take the flowers from him.
His hot breath scorched her neck. “They don’t dare try to outshine you, sweetheart.” He started kissing the spot below her ear, which usually made her forget her name, lose track of where she was, disregard everything but what desire demanded.
But this time, no wave of passion swelled up to blot out her control. She held up the yellow message slip where Raymond could see it. “Tell me about this.”
Raymond stopped long enough to look at the paper, slip it from her fingers and crumple it into a ball. “It’s nothing.” He started kissing her again.
Disappointment solidified into anger, she stiffened at his unwanted touch. “You sent him to test me Friday night, didn’t you?”
The bouquet of flowers lowered for a moment, then the kissing stopped.
“You set up the whole bogus Friday-night date,” she continued. “Stood me up on purpose, then sent in your slimy detective to see if he could entice me into a little extracurricular activity.”
“But you didn’t fall for him.”
She turned around, appalled at what sounded like a sense of pride in his voice. “And now you’re going to reward me for my faithfulness?” She batted away the bouquet. “This is supposed to make me forget that although I’ve never given you a single reason to distrust me, although I’ve never even looked at another man, you felt the need to test me? To try to trick me into infidelity?”
His look of shock melted quickly into a haughty anger. “I didn’t think you would sleep with the man.”
“Was I supposed to give him my phone number? Let him buy me a couple of drinks? Was I supposed to notice he was attentive, interesting, handsome, intelligent?”
Raymond drew a deep breath. “Evidently you did pay him some attention.”
“That’s beside the point.” She reached down and retrieved the crumpled note, holding it in the palm of her hand. “For three years, I’ve given you no reason to distrust me, but evidently you do.”
“But I don’t distrust—”
“It doesn’t matter, Raymond.” Searching for her purse, she snatched it from the credenza. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t trust me because I no longer trust you.”
“But…” He reached out, grabbing her arm in a too-tight grip.
She pinned him with her steeliest glare. “Don’t touch me.”
He slowly released her arm. “You’re making a mistake, Sara. I love you.” He glanced down at the flowers in his hand. “I want to marry you.”
She stared at the white orchids, reminded once again of white wedding gowns, towering cakes with white frosting and tiny net bags of white rice. The mind’s eye discolored them to match her black mood. “You wanted to marry me only after you were sure I passed some sort of stupid loyalty test.”
The lingering warmth in his eyes faded. “But I haven’t spoken to Riggs, yet”
Sara pulled the tablecloth back to expose the phone. “Then you’d better call him.” She knew it was a cheap shot, but right now, only a low blow would suffice. She drew herself to her full height and gave him the most sinfully satisfied smile she could muster under the circumstances. “Call him, Raymond. You might be surprised at what he reports.”
Monday afternoon
HE CONTEMPLATED the smooth brown cylinder of glass that he rolled between his hands. Beads of condensation clung to his skin. Or were his palms sweating? He couldn’t tell. “What next?”
“We wait.”
“Wait? Are you nuts?” He gripped the beer bottle in one hand. “We need to do…something.”
“We don’t do anything. That’s rash. Until we understand how badly our position has been compromised, we simply hold back.”
The glass warmed beneath his white-knuckled grasp. “Hold back? You’ve got to be kidding.” Suddenly, the glass bottle cracked. He released an expletive and dropped the bottle, revealing a thin crimson slash that creased the palm of his hand.
“See what sort of damage wanton force can cause?” a silken voice purred in his ear. “You won’t do anything until I tell you to. If I tell you to. Understand?”
He watched the single drop of blood swell and spread.
He understood now.
Chapter Four
Monday, early afternoon
Will scanned the report given him by his operative team. It never ceased to amaze him how greedy people could become when they thought no one was watching. Under the guise of collecting boxes for an upcoming move, a stock clerk had systematically looted every division of an electronics warehouse, building what Will’s operative described as a ten-thousand-dollar computer system, one stolen component at a time.
Will leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. This type of case was the backbone of most private investigating agencies. As long as people were paid minimum wage but had maximum tastes, greed thrived and crime lingered in its wake. Lucky for the investigators, their only job was to discover the criminal, not to apprehend him, which made their job that much safer.
Safe.
That was Will’s byword, his mandate for himself as well as the people who worked for him. The best way to get yourself out of a dangerous situation was to never get into one in the first place.
He rubbed at the sudden telltale twinge above his temple.
Do as I say, not as I do.
Part of staying out of danger was remaining alert—another Riggs mandate, which he himself had painfully failed to remember. It had been a long time since he’d gotten so wrapped up in a woman—a subject—that he failed to see oncoming danger, like the speeding car. And he was paying for his misdirected attention with a beaut of a headache, not to mention a cut that looked as though it might leave a small scar on his chin as a souvenir. He dug into his lap drawer and found a small flat mirror, which he angled to get a better look at his injury. His imagination took off on its own, providing a far more satisfying ending to the case. Didn’t such a sacrifice deserve more than a chaste kiss of thanks?
He closed his eyes and imagined Sara tangled in his arms, her look of fear fading to something more powerful, more personal.
“I didn’t thank you for saving my life.” Same words as before, but this time with a totally different meaning. This time, her gaze would hold his longer, with gratitude mixed with something infinitely stronger. He would see challenge in her eyes—a challenge born…out of desire, perhaps?
He would allow himself to meet her gaze directly but make no effort to touch her. There were rules to this; rules that prevented him from responding to implied challenges. It was up to Sara; she had to make the first move.
“Will…” This time, there was no question in her tone. There were no unanswered questions between them. Her voice was a low, throaty purr. “Thank you.” She leaned forward and kissed him.
Ah…the kiss. Not the chaste little thing he’d called a kiss where she pressed her lips against his cheek for a split second, then disappeared from his life, leaving not as much as a glass slipper in her wake. Their kiss would be tender at first, even tentative. But inhibitions would fade under the heat of undeniable attraction.
He would respond. He couldn’t help but respond.
Simultaneous desire
would turn a simple gesture into a complex tangle of emotions. Gratitude would become seduction somewhere along the…
You’re dreaming, Will, he reminded himself. This is nothing more than fatigue leading your imagination astray.
He smiled. So what if it is?
It would be the type of kiss that would shake him to his core and make him forget everything. Under its influence, their roles in life would be reduced to the simplest common denominators: the hunter and the hunted.
But what of the hunt?
Will opened his eyes and dragged himself away from his unforgivable dream. Grow up, Riggs. She was his prey, all right, but the rules of the hunt were different in this case. And, he reminded himself, this is nothing more than a case.
Bergeron should be thrilled. After all, Will’s failure meant the lawyer’s success. Now the man could run off and marry the woman of his dreams.
Will drew in a sharp breath, remembering how he had regained his senses and found himself stretched out in the gutter with his arms wrapped around Sara Hardaway. Soft curves, fragrant hair, her heartbeat throbbing wildly against his chest.
But what if she’s the woman of my dreams, too?
Will shook his head, destroying the image that was starting to capture his imagination again.
Business. Not pleasure. All business.
He glanced at the file spread across his desk. The warehouse theft. He tried to concentrate on his operative’s final assessment of the case. Several things had tripped up the guilty computer thief: good investigative technique, unflagging attention and a stroke of luck.
Dumb luck.
Just like the dumb luck he’d had, saving Sara from a potential hit-and-run driver. He would never have chanced something potentially dangerous like a runaway car to ingratiate himself with her, to make her feel appreciative of his selfless act and to force a wedge into the temporary crack that gratitude could create. He never worked that way with inherently dangerous gimmicks. However, he wasn’t beyond taking advantage of an unforeseen opportunity to make one last effort to get under her skin.