by Nora Roberts
Besides, he didn’t believe in feeling guilty. Lying, prevaricating, pretense and guile were all part of the job. And the fact was he hadn’t lied to her—yet.
He walked half a block down where he could stand and look back at the spot where Willy had died.
He’d only lie to her if she turned out to be part of this. And if she was, she was going to get a lot worse than a few smooth lies.
What worried him was the not knowing, the not intuiting. He had a sense about these things, which was why he was good at his work. But Laine Tavish had blindsided him, and the only thing he’d felt was that slow, sugary slide of attraction.
But big blue eyes and sexy smile aside, the odds were she was in it up to her pretty neck. He always went with the odds. Willy had paid her a visit and ended up splattered on the street outside her shop. Once he knew why, he was one step closer to the glittery end of the trail.
If he had to use her to get there, those were the breaks.
He went back to his hotel room and took the receipt from his pocket, carefully dusted it for prints. He had good ones of her thumb and forefinger. He took digital pictures and sent them to a friend who’d run them without asking irritating questions.
Then he sat down, flexed his fingers and went to work on the information highway.
He plowed through a pot of coffee, a chicken sandwich and really good apple pie while he worked. He had Laine’s home address and, between the phone and the computer, the information that she’d bought her home and established her business on Market four years before. Previously, she’d listed a Philadelphia address. A bit more research located it as an apartment building.
With methods not strictly ethical, he spent more time peeling away the layers of Laine Tavish and began to get a picture. She’d graduated from Penn State, with her parents listed as Marilyn and Robert Tavish.
Funny, wasn’t it? Max thought, tapping his fingers on the desk. Jack O’Hara’s wife was, or had been, Marilyn. And wasn’t that just a little too coincidental?
“Up to your pretty neck,” he murmured and decided it was time for more serious hacking.
There were ways and there were ways to eke out tidbits of information that led to more tidbits. Her business license had been, according to law, clearly displayed in her shop. And that license number gave him a springboard.
Some creative finessing netted him the application for the license, and her social security number.
He stuck with it, using the numbers, intuition and his own insatiable curiosity to track down the deed to her house through the county courthouse, and now he had the name of her lender should he want to break several laws and hack his way to her loan application.
It would be fun because God knew he loved technology, but it would serve more purpose to find out where she’d come from rather than where she was now.
He went back to the parents, began a search that required a second pot of coffee from room service. When he finally pinpointed Robert and Marilyn Tavish in Taos, New Mexico, he shook his head.
Laine didn’t strike him as a flower of the West. No, she was East, he thought, and largely urban. But Bob and Marilyn, as he was thinking of them, had a link to something called Roundup, which turned out to be a western barbecue joint, and they had a web page. Everyone did, Max thought.
There was even a picture of the happy restaurateurs beside an enormous cartoon cowboy with lariat. He enlarged and printed out the picture before flipping through the site. The attached menu didn’t sound half bad, and you could order Rob’s Kick-Ass Barbecue Sauce through the site.
Rob, Max noted. Not Bob.
They looked happy, he thought as he studied the photo. Ordinary, working class, pleased as punch to own their own business. Marilyn Tavish didn’t look like the former wife—and suspected accomplice—of a career thief and con artist who’d not only gotten delusions of grandeur, but had somehow pulled it off.
She looked more like the type who’d fix you a sandwich before she went out to hang up the wash.
He noted Roundup had been in business eight years, which meant they’d started the place while Laine had been in college. Playing a hunch, he logged onto the local Taos paper, dipped into the archives and looked for a story on the Tavishes.
He found six, which surprised him, and went back to the first, in which the paper had covered the restaurant opening. He read it all, paying close attention to personal details. Such as the Tavishes had been married for six years at that point, and had met, according to the report, in Chicago, where Marilyn had been a waitress and Rob worked for a Chrysler dealership. There was a brief mention of a daughter who was a business major in college back East.
Rob had always wanted to own his own place, blah blah, and finally took up his wife’s dare to do something with his culinary talents besides feed their friends and neighbors at picnics.
Other stories followed Rob’s interest in local politics and Marilyn’s association with a Taos arts council. There was another feature when Roundup celebrated its fifth anniversary with an open-air party, including pony rides for kids.
That story carried a picture of the beaming couple, flanking a laughing Laine.
Jesus, she was a knockout. Her head was thrown back with the laugh, her arms slung affectionately around her mother and stepfather’s shoulders. She was wearing some western-cut shirt with little bits of fringe on the pockets, which—for reasons he couldn’t fathom—made him crazy.
He could see a resemblance to her mother now that they were side by side. Around the eyes, the mouth.
But she’d gotten that hair, that bright red hair, from Big Jack. He was sure of it now.
The timing worked, too well. Marilyn O’Hara had filed for divorce while Jack was serving a short stretch, courtesy of the state of Indiana. She’d taken the kid and moved to Jacksonville, Florida. Authorities had kept their eye on her for a few months, but she’d been clean and had worked as a waitress.
She’d bumped around a bit. Texas, Philadelphia, Kansas. Then she’d dropped out of sight, off the radar, a little less than two years before she and Rob tied the knot.
Maybe she’d wanted to start fresh for herself, for the kid. Or maybe it was just a long con. Max was making it his mission to find out.
CHAPTER 3
“What am I doing? This isn’t something I do.”
Jenny peered over Laine’s shoulder at their dual reflections in the bathroom mirror. “You’re going to have a drink with a great-looking man. Why that isn’t something you do is best discussed with a therapist.”
“I don’t even know who he is.” Laine set down the lipstick she held before applying it. “I hit on him, Jen. For God’s sake, I hit on him in my own shop.”
“A woman can’t hit on a sexy guy in her own shop, where can she? Use the lipstick.” She glanced down to where Henry was thumping his tail. “See, Henry agrees with me.”
“I should just call the inn, leave a message for him, tell him something came up.”
“Laine, you’re breaking my heart.” She picked up the lipstick. “Paint,” she ordered.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into closing a half hour early. I can’t believe how easy it was for you to talk me into it. Coming home to change—it looks obvious, doesn’t it?”
“What’s wrong with obvious?”
“I don’t know.” Laine used the lipstick, studied the tube. “I’m not thinking straight. It was that moment, that kaboom moment. I just wanted to yank off his shirt and bite his neck.”
“Well, go to it, honey.”
With a laugh, Laine turned around. “I’m not following through. A drink, okay. It’d be rude not to show up, wouldn’t it? Yes, it would be rude. But that’s it. After that, common sense will once more rule the day, and I’ll come home and close the door on this very strange interlude.”
She held her arms out. “How do I look? Okay?”
“Better.”
“Better than okay is good. I should go.”
; “Go ahead. I’ll put Henry out in the mudroom. You don’t want to smell like dog. I’ll lock up for you.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it. And the moral support. I feel like an idiot.”
“If you decide to . . . extend the evening, just give me a call. I can come back and get Henry. We’ll have a sleepover.”
“Thanks again, but I’m not going to extend the evening. One drink. I figure an hour tops.” She gave Jenny a light kiss on the cheek, then, risking eau de Henry, bent down to kiss the dog’s snout. “See you tomorrow,” she called as she dashed for the stairs.
It had been silly to drive all the way home just to drive back to town, but she was glad she’d been silly. Though even Jenny hadn’t been able to talk her into slipping into a little black dress—talk about obvious—she felt more polished out of her work clothes. The soft sweater in forest green was a good color, and just casual enough not to send the wrong signal.
She had no idea what sort of signal she wanted to send. Yet.
There was a little bubble of panic when she walked into the hotel. They hadn’t actually confirmed they were meeting for drinks. It had all been so off the cuff, and so out of character for her. What if he didn’t show or, worse, happened into the bar while she was waiting and looked surprised—chagrined—annoyed?
And if she was this nervous about something as simple as a drink in a classy, public bar, she’d definitely let her dating tools rust.
She stepped in through etched-glass doors and smiled at the woman working behind the black oak bar.
“Hi, Jackie.”
“Hey, Laine. What can I get you?”
“Nothing yet.” She scanned the dimly lit room, the plush red sofas and chairs. A few businessmen, two couples, a trio of women starting a girls’ night out with a fancy drink. But no Max Gannon.
She chose a table where she wouldn’t actually face the door but could observe it. She started to pick up the bar menu just to do something with her hands, then decided it might make her look bored. Or hungry. God.
Instead, she took out her cell and used it to check for messages on her home answering machine. There weren’t any, of course, since she’d only walked out the door twenty minutes earlier. But there were two hangups, a couple minutes apart.
She was frowning over that when she heard him speak.
“Bad news?”
“No.” Both flustered and pleased, she disconnected, then dropped the phone into her purse. “Nothing important.”
“Am I late?”
“No. I’m irritatingly prompt.” It surprised her that he sat beside her on the little sofa rather than across the table in the chair. “Habit.”
“Did I mention you smell great?”
“Yes, you did. I never asked what you were doing in the Gap.”
“Some business, which I’ve managed to extend a few more days. Due to local attractions.”
“Really.” She wasn’t nervous anymore, and wondered why she had been. “We have a number of them. There are some wonderful trails through the mountains if you like to hike.”
“Do you?” He brushed his fingers over the back of her hand. “Like to hike.”
“I don’t make much time for it. The store keeps me busy. And your business?”
“Fills the day,” he said, and glanced up when the waitress stopped by their table.
“What can I get you?”
She was new, and not someone Laine recognized. “Bombay martini, straight up, two olives. Iced.”
“That sounds perfect. Make it two. Did you grow up here?” he asked Laine.
“No, but I imagine it would be nice to grow up here. Small-town enough without being Mayberry, close enough to the city without being crowded. And I like the mountains.”
She remembered this part of the first-date ritual. It hadn’t been that long. “Do you still live in Savannah?”
“New York primarily, but I travel a lot.”
“For?”
“Business, pleasure. Insurance, but don’t worry, I’m not selling.”
The waitress brought the glasses and shakers on a tray and poured the drinks at the table. She set down a silver bowl of sugared nuts, then slipped discreetly away.
Laine lifted hers, smiled over the rim. “To your mother.”
“She’d like that.” He tapped his glass to hers. “How’d you come to running an antique store?”
“I wanted a place of my own. I always liked old things, the continuity of them. I don’t mind paperwork, but I didn’t want to work in an office all day.” Comfortable now, she settled back with her drink, shifting her body so they could continue the flirtatious eye contact along with the small talk. “I like buying and selling, and seeing what people buy and sell. So I put all that together and opened Remember When. What kind of insurance?”
“Corporate, mainly. Boring. Family in the area?”
Okay, she thought, doesn’t want to talk about his work, particularly. “My parents live in New Mexico. They moved there several years ago.”
“Brothers, sisters?”
“Only child. You?”
“I’ve got one of each. Two nephews and a niece out of them.”
“That’s nice,” she said and meant it. “I always envy families, all the noise and traumas and companionship. Competition.”
“We’ve got plenty of that. So, if you didn’t grow up here, where did you?”
“We moved around a lot. My father’s work.”
“I hear that.” He sampled a nut, kept it casual. “What does he do?”
“He . . . he was in sales.” How else to describe it in polite company. “He could sell anything to anyone.”
He caught it, the hint of pride in her voice, the contrast of the shadow in her eyes. “But not anymore?”
She didn’t speak for a moment, using a sip of her drink as cover until she worked out her thoughts. Simple was best, she reminded herself. “My parents opened a little restaurant in Taos. A kind of working retirement. With work the main feature. And they’re giddy as kids about it.”
“You miss them.”
“I do, but I didn’t want what they wanted. So here I am. I love the Gap. It’s my place. Do you have one?”
“Maybe. But I haven’t found it yet.”
The waitress stopped by. “Another round?”
Laine shook her head. “I’m driving.”
He asked for the check, then took Laine’s hand. “I made reservations in the dining room here, in case you changed your mind. Change your mind, Laine, and have dinner with me.”
He had such wonderful eyes, and that warm bourbon-on-the-rocks voice she loved listening to. Where was the harm?
“All right. I’d love to.”
He told himself it was business and pleasure and there was never anything wrong with combining the two as long as you remembered your priorities. He knew how to steer conversations, elicit information. And if he was interested in her on a personal level, it didn’t interfere with the work.
It wouldn’t interfere with the work.
He was no longer sure she was neck-deep. And his change of mind had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was attracted to her. It just didn’t play the way it should have. Her mother tucked up with husband number two in New Mexico, Laine tucked up in Maryland. And Big Jack nobody knew just where.
He couldn’t see how they triangulated at this point. And he read people well, well enough to know she wasn’t marking time with her shop. She loved it, and had forged genuine connections with the community.
But it didn’t explain Willy’s visit, or his death. It didn’t explain why she’d made no mention of knowing him to the police. Not that innocent parties were always straight with the cops.
Weighing down the other side of the scale, she was careful to