Glass Slipper Bride

by Arlene James

  “No one can make you wash walls,” he pointed out.

  “That’s not really the issue. I know Janzen. I can help, I’m sure of it.”

  He had to admit that she had a point. Still, it went against policy. “I don’t know.”

  “Please. I need to help.”

  She did have a certain stake in this matter. Her sister was the target, after all. If the only reason he had for not letting her come along was personal... He pushed away the thought, not quite ready to think about that yet. So where did that leave him? Pushing up his sunglasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “This kind of thing is really pretty dull work,” he warned her.

  “More dull than washing walls?” she retorted.

  He couldn’t argue that one. “I, um, have to go home and clean up first.”

  She knew capitulation when she heard it. Turning immediately, she moved toward the car, saying, “I don’t mind.”

  This wasn’t smart, and he knew it, but somehow he couldn’t make himself care much at the moment. He watched her slide down into the passenger seat, then got in behind the wheel and started the car. It occurred to him as he drove around the block and headed downtown that nothing to do with this case was playing true to form, nothing and no one, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason for it. Then again, perhaps the reason for it was sitting next to him. She compelled him in a way he hadn’t counted on, and that had upset his equilibrium. No doubt about it. And somehow, he had to get it back. But not now. Not just now.

  She was impressed, and she told him so as they walked away from the valet who would park his sport car.

  “Don’t be,” he said, escorting her across the marble-tiled foyer. “The building has some spectacular units, but mine isn’t one of them, and even my little cubbyhole requires some heavy trade-off.”

  “In other words, you’re not as successful as you seem?” she asked, knowing full well that he did a good deal of pro bono work.

  “I do all right,” he said, “but I had help getting started.”

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  They walked toward a uniformed security guard at a small desk, behind which stood two banks of three elevators each, facing each other. “Eugene, this is Jillian Waltham.”

  Eugene stood and doffed his hat. “Miss.”

  She noticed that as soon as they’d passed him, he flipped open a book and wrote down something in it. “Does he always do that?” she whispered, nodding in his direction as they waited for the elevator. The doors slid open on the left before Zach could reply.

  “Only when I give him a name,” he said, ushering her on board and pushing the button numbered four. “Once you’re in the book,” he explained, “you can go up without waiting for permission. Otherwise, you have to stand down here while he calls upstairs to ask if you’re allowed.”

  She smiled at that. So he’d purposefully put her “in the book,” had he? She tried not to assign too much importance to it, but she couldn’t help wondering if he brought many women here with him and just how many of their names he gave to the guard.

  The elevator delivered them quickly and smoothly to the fourth floor, where they disembarked midway along a wide, well-lit corridor. Again, they turned to the left. Six doors down on the right, he stopped and took out two sets of keys. After fitting one key from one ring into the top lock and another into the lower, he turned both, then opened the door a crack, extracted both keys, pocketed them and pushed the door wide. “Make yourself at home,” he said, going in first to flip on lights.

  It really wasn’t very big. A dark central hall led to a small living area with a narrow balcony overlooking Turtle Creek. It was furnished with a single chair upholstered in black leather, a television set and several pieces of workout equipment. Opposite the balcony was a bar counter; shutters above it closed off the kitchen. One end wall was ceiling-to-floor shelves, the contents of which she wanted to study further. The kitchen and bedroom opened off the hallway at the front of the apartment. He allowed her to stick her head in both rooms, saying, “Nothing much to see, I’m afraid.”

  The kitchen was small and done in black and white, with recessed lights above the high-gloss black cabinets. He had shoved an old desk into one corner and obviously used it for a makeshift home office. A small, top-line notebook computer sat open on the battered desk next to a canister of beef jerky. The counters were bare, the sink empty except for a single drinking glass. The bedroom was tiny and dark, furnished cheaply with a mismatched queen-sized bed, dresser and bedside table. A brass lamp on a swing arm had been mounted on the wall at the head of the bed. The bed was unmade; the dresser mirror was hung with clothing: a shirt, a pair of jeans, a tie and belt A newspaper lay folded on the floor beside the bed. Curiously, an alarm clock and book sat on the floor beneath the bedside table, which was bare on top. An open door revealed a small bathroom with one towel on the floor and another draped over the edge of the sink.

  “Seen enough?”

  She drew back into the hallway, blushing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He grinned. “I didn’t think you were. I figure it’s a female thing. My mother always checks to be sure I’m not leaving my socks and underwear on the floor.”

  Jillian laughed. “She’d be proud, then. No socks, no underwear.”

  “That’s because I sent the laundry out yesterday,” he admitted shamelessly.

  She followed him back into the living room. He went to the shelving unit and picked up a remote control, which he put into her hand.

  “TV, radio, CD player. Amuse yourself. I’ll be quick.”

  “No problem.”

  He went off to clean up. Within seconds she heard the sound of water running. She studied the remote, aimed it and turned on the radio. Then she began cataloging the contents of his shelves.

  The photos drew her eye first: a middle-aged couple in jeans and hats standing arm-in-arm in front of a corral; a young Zach in a police officer’s uniform flanked by two other men who bore him a strong resemblance and, therefore, must be his brothers; a formal portrait of three small children that bore the handwritten message “We love you, Uncle Zach.” She smiled and turned her attention to the spines of a row of hardback books. He liked techno thrillers, military biographies and westerns. In addition, he kept a number of law books and college texts dealing with criminal justice studies. A stack of magazines revealed the male standards: sports, cars, computers. She found a chart detailing dietary requirements and the uses of herbal and vitamin supplements. All these things were interesting and revealing, but they were not the items that most intrigued her. What truly interested her were the “decorative” items scattered among the rest: an eggshell ceramic bowl, a brick inscribed with what looked like runes, a ranch scene in silhouette cut from a pair of Mexican spurs and, most interesting of all, a small stone sculpture that was part horse and part ‘57 Chevy. She lifted it and looked at the bottom, her eyebrows rising when she saw the name of the artist inscribed there.

  “It was a gift,” he said, startling her.

  She whirled to find him standing in the doorway. Her eyeballs nearly popped. He looked good enough to eat, in boots, crisply creased jeans, western belt and a pale-yellow, torso-hugging T-shirt that delineated every cut and swell of a chest that had been sculpted in this very room. His cleanly shaved face seemed chiseled of bronze stone, and his dark hair curled damply against his forehead. He extracted a comb from his back pocket and swept his hair back as he walked toward her. Jillian. made herself turn calmly and replace the sculpture on the shelf.

  “The giver has excellent taste,” she said.

  “Had,” he told her, coming to her side. He slid the comb into his back pocket and gestured toward the shelves before folding his arms. “I don’t know about taste, frankly, but Serena had a knack for knowing exactly what I would like. These were all gifts from her, and they aren’t all she gave me. I told yo
u I’d had help getting started. She left me sixty thousand dollars in her will.”

  “And you put it to good work rescuing victims of stalkers and domestic abuse,” Jillian said, smiling. “Your secretary brags.”

  “I’ve noticed that.” He stared down at her, smiling. “I didn’t realize the two of you were such good friends, though.”

  She shrugged. “Lois is easy to talk to.”

  He burst out with a laugh. “No, you’re easy to talk to. With Lois, about all you can do is listen.”

  She smiled. “Maybe so.”

  He narrowed his eyes as if trying to figure something out. “You remind me of her, you know.”

  She knew that he wasn’t comparing her with his garrulous secretary. “You mentioned that before.”

  “It’s not looks so much,” he said, almost to himself. “You’re built similarly, but the rest is completely different It’s more...I don’t know, personality, I guess.” Her eyebrows shot upward at that, and he smiled. “Serena was a sweet, generous woman with a quirky sense of humor and a very personal sense of style. Even after she made it big modeling, she never thought she was anything special, and that made her very easy to be with. Her appreciation for what she considered her good luck made her a lot of fun.”

  Jillian swallowed, torn between hopeful flattery and sheer envy. “You must have loved each other very much,” she said softly.

  “We were crazy about each another,” he said, “and I miss her, but we were a long way from settling down.”

  “Still, she was very important to you.”

  He nodded. “She had a profound impact on my life. What happened to her shouldn’t have happened to anyone, but especislly not to her, and I owe it to her to keep it from happening again.”

  “You must know that you’re not to blame for what happened to her.”

  “I understand that others are more to blame,” he said.

  She smiled up into his soft green eyes. Perhaps he still felt some guilt over what had happened to Serena, but she could see that he had dealt with his loss and made something good come of it. She admired that, very much, and she meant to tell him so, but when she opened her mouth what came out was, “I’m glad you’re free now.”

  He blinked and jerked slightly, as if she’d taken an unexpected swing at him. Color flooded her cheeks; the heat of embarrassment rose in her throat and threatened to choke her.

  “I—I shouldn’t have said that! I didn’t mean—”

  “Are you saying you’re attracted to me?”

  She could have laughed. “Do you really have to ask?”

  “How would I know otherwise?”

  “How could you not? Every woman who knows you is attracted to you.”

  His grin turned her heart over. “Is that so?”

  “All the girls in the deli have huge crushes on you.”

  His green eyes drilled her. “What about you?”

  She gulped, thinking, Especially me, but she said, as nonchalantly as possible, “I certainly understand why they feel that way.”

  “Do you?” His gaze dropped to her mouth.

  She knew that she could turn away and derail what was going to happen next, but she stood her ground, amazed at herself, and said, “Yes.”

  He reached out a hand to clamp it around the back of her neck. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, even as he pulled her to him.

  Her brain went on autopilot. She heard herself saying inanely, “No?”

  “No.” He widened his stance and snaked his free arm around her waist, curling it tight and bringing her closer still. “Definitely not,” he said, even as his mouth covered hers.

  She closed her eyes, her hands clasping the tops of his shoulders. His lips moved against hers, sliding and nipping. When he licked the corner of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, she opened for him. Groaning, he fit his mouth over hers and plunged deep. Liquid heat speared through her. In response she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned into him and slid her tongue against his. Suddenly she was being devoured with lips, tongue, teeth and hands. Her feet edged forward, so that she was standing essentially between his legs, her body welded to his from pelvis to chest. She could not mistake the fact that he wanted more—and that she wanted to give it to him. Long moments later, he began to pull back in increments. When at last his mouth left hers and she managed to lever open her eyes, it was to find him looking down at her with an intently troubled expression on his fare.

  “I really shouldn’t have done that,” he said, dropping his hands and stepping back. “I mean, I really shouldn’t have done that.” He rubbed the heels of his hands across his temples, slicking down the sides of his damp hair. “I really do have a policy against this kind of thing. It’s dangerous to get emotionally involved with clients.”

  “I understand,” she said, nodding.

  “It complicates everything, skews my judgment. It...it’s just not smart.”

  She took a deep breath, trying to calm the excitement rioting through her body. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

  He bowed his head, looking up at her from beneath the jut of his brow. A smile crept across his face. She felt her own breaking out in response.

  He shook his head as if wondering which of them was the biggest fool. “We have work to do,” he said.

  She cleared her throat “We should go.”

  He lifted his hand, palm out, and suddenly she knew exactly what she was doing, exactly what she wanted. With startling clarity, she understood that she’d already jeopardized this. It hadn’t really happened yet, and already she was in danger of blowing it. She should have told him everything from the beginning, no matter what Camille said or did, but she hadn’t, and now she was stuck. If she told him now, this kiss might as well have never happened. If she told him later, at least she might have something to lose, not that it was ever going to be dreams coming true with him. Wanting to kiss her was a long way from being in love with her. He’d said himself that he’d been wild about Serena and nowhere near ready to settle down with her. She couldn’t expect even that much from him, really. But she could feel the magic for a while. She lifted her hand and placed it in his, as silent as the grave.

  Chapter Five

  They rode the elevator down to the lobby, then let themselves out into the parking garage. He made himself let go of her hand as they approached his parking niche.

  “We’ll take the workhorse,” Zach said, indicating the battered ten-year-old, three-quarter-ton pickup occupying the space next to his beloved convertible. “It’s less conspicuous, and I don’t mind banging it up, if I have to.”

  “What do you mean, banging it up?” she asked as he handed her up into the passenger side.

  It was already sweltering in the garage, and he knew the inside of the truck was like an oven, so he hurried around and got in to start the engine and the air conditioner. “Sometimes,” he explained, letting the engine idle a minute or so, “I get made. The bad guy recognizes me, and he usually doesn’t like being tailed and watched. I’ve had them attack my vehicle with everything from their fists to a riding lawn mower. Sometimes they think they have to run away, and they actually bash into me, but not in this baby. There’s something about heavy-duty chrome bumpers and grill protectors that makes even maniacs think twice.”

  “I see why you don’t want to take the convertible,” she said, appearing not in the least bothered by the prospect of getting rammed.

  “Think Eibersen is violent enough to bash my truck?”

  She shook her bead. “No. I can’t say he wouldn’t do something stupid if pushed far enough, though.”

  “He’s already done something stupid,” Zach pointed out.

  “I mean, something intentionally violent, at least toward Camille.”

  “But you don’t think he’ll take me on?”

  “Not on his best day.”

  He nodded and put the five-speed transmission in gear. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He started the
vehicle moving and reached for the radio knob, only to find that she had reached for it, too. Grinning, he sat back and let her take care of the music while he concentrated on his driving.

  They must have made ten stops that morning, checking known hangouts and friends of Etbersen’s, asking questions, waiting and watching. Early on, conversation featured the basic premise and standard operating procedures for tracking and tailing someone, as well as the kind of interventions he could legally perform. Jillian was enthralled, but during lunch at a coffee shop on the far east side of Mesquite, the topic of conversation changed to Jillian and her art.

  “When did you know you wanted to be an artist?” he asked.

  No one had ever asked her that before, and Jillian had to think about it. “I can’t recall a time when I wanted to be anything else, actually—except the standard stuff.”

  “Standard stuff?” he echoed, picking up his hamburger to take a huge bite out of it.

  She nodded, scraping sesame seeds off her bun with a fingertip. “You know, wife and mom. Other than that, an artist is all I ever wanted to be.”

  He wiped his mouth, and she noticed that he didn’t look up from his plate to make eye contact with her. “How did you meet your friend Denise and her musician husband?”

  She accepted the change in subject with a tinge of disappointment. “We all met in college at North Texas.”

  “UNT, that’s Denton, right?”

  Jillian nodded. “It’s a good art school, but it’s a top-notch music school.”

  “How come you wound up there?”

  She shrugged. “It was the best school within driving distance that I could afford.”

  “You had a car then, huh?”

  “I still have a car.”

  He laid down the hamburger and wiped his fingers on a paper napkin as thin as cheap tissue. This time the gaze that he lifted to hers was as sharp as broken glass. “That was your car you let Gerry commandeer this morning?”

  “Hers was in the shop.”

  He shook his head, and she recognized the flash of anger that brightened his eyes. “Holy cow, Jillian, don’t you ever stand up for yourself?”