by Patti Berg
He sure as hell hoped she wasn’t buying them to please Peter—but that was her business, not his.
The price of the earrings and bracelet she’d purchased were a blur as his mind turned back to the cost of running a ranch. He tossed the invoice on his desk and set his newly acquired paperweight—one lone shoe, size 9–1/2, that was nothing more than rhinestone straps affixed to a sole and four-inch heels—on top the other bills he needed to pay.
For a moment he allowed himself to think about red ringlets, the soft curve of a woman’s spine, whiskey-colored eyes, and a sweet, luscious mouth. Two weeks had gone by, yet he could still taste the champagne on her lips, and feel hard nipples and soft, full breasts burning through his shirt as he held her against his chest.
Damn, if his life hadn’t gotten complicated. He lusted after a woman who hadn’t called after receiving the roses he’d sent and his heartfelt note telling her he’d like to talk and get to know her better. On top of all that, he had a son he couldn’t talk to and a sister in Palm Beach who thought he was engaged to a beautiful redhead when, in truth, he was engaged to no one. The blasted shoe he was using as a paperweight served as a reminder to call Lauren and tell her the truth, and never again to pay a stranger to be his fiancée.
He picked up the phone. He was distracted now. He couldn’t think, which meant he couldn’t work, so he figured he might as well call his sister, wish her a happy birthday, and break the news.
What would she think of what he’d done? Would she cry? God, she’d cried so damn much when she was little, when their mother would go off on one of her escapades to Europe or South America, and leave Lauren with the servants. He remembered their long-distance phone conversations over the years. She always put up a front, trying to sound brave, but he could hear her fighting back sniffles and tears. She’d ask him what he was doing. She’d ask about Dad and Mike and Crosby. She’d even ask about the cows and horses, and at the end of every conversation tell him that she loved him, that she knew she could always rely on him, that she knew he’d never hurt her.
He’d blown it this time!
None of this would have happened if he’d told her the truth the night of her engagement party. But he’d been too damn worried about making her cry. Those tears would probably come tenfold now.
His grip had tightened on the receiver as he listened to the ring. Finally, the butler answered, and informed Jack that Mrs. Lancaster—her second husband’s last name—was out to dinner “with Mr. Leighton and Miss Fleming.”
Miss Fleming?
“She’s what?” Jack asked incredulously.
“They’re celebrating Mrs. Lancaster’s twenty-eighth birthday, Mr. Remington. Surely you hadn’t forgotten.”
“I didn’t forget her birthday. Who did you say she’s out with?”
“Mr. Leighton and Miss Fleming, your fiancée, sir.”
“Oh, hell!”
“Is there an emergency?” the butler asked. “They’ve gone to the country club. I would be happy to get in touch with Mrs. Lancaster for you.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Just tell her to call me as soon as she comes home.”
“She and Mr. Leighton are leaving for London tonight, directly after dinner.”
“Miss Fleming isn’t going, too, is she?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. I believe Mrs. Lancaster said Miss Fleming would be returning to Denver early tomorrow morning.”
She would, would she?
“Thanks, Charles,” Jack said. “Next time you talk with my sister, tell her I called to wish her a happy birthday.”
“I’d be happy to tell her, sir.”
Jack hung up the phone and stared at the rhinestone shoe. What the hell was the redhead up to? he wondered. She’d easily taken his sixty-one hundred dollars. Was she now trying to get money from his sister?
He grabbed the phone again and called information. When he had the number for Antonio’s, he stabbed at the buttons on the phone while absently scanning the invoice again. He listened to the constant ring as he stared at the total: $7,857 and some change. When he realized it was after 9 P.M. in Palm Beach, he hung up the phone, but his eyes didn’t leave the invoice. Instead, they concentrated on the name carefully written at the bottom. Arabella Fleming.
“Damn her!” He ripped the invoice from under the shoe. Arabella signed her name in a flamboyant script. The redhead might be wild and engaging, but her handwriting was shaky and unrefined, and he planned to tell her, up close and personal, that he’d hog-tie her and brand her a con artist if she got within ten miles of his sister ever again.
Except for the black tux, Jack thought that Mr. Antonio looked more like a snake-oil salesman than the proprietor of a fine men’s store. He greeted Jack with one hand tucked in his pocket, the other extended flamboyantly in front of him.
“Good afternoon. I’m Mr. Antonio.”
Jack was in no mood for pleasantries, especially after the long flight to Palm Beach. “I need to speak with one of your employees.”
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“No. Not at the moment, anyway.”
“Messrs. Erickson and Hansen are with clients. Perhaps I could help you.”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
“I’m sorry, Mr.—”
“Remington. Jack Remington.”
“The restaurateur?”
Answering someone else’s question was the last thing Jack wanted to do, but he managed to nod.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Remington. I’ve had the pleasure of eating in your Boca Raton steak house many times. The food is superb.” Mr. Antonio kissed his fingers and flung them into the air.
Jack wanted to punch his lights out.
“You have a redhead working for you. A female tailor named…Sam Jones.”
“Ah, yes. Miss Samantha Jones. I’ll apologize now for any grief she may have caused you a few weeks ago. But let me assure you, Mr. Remington, Antonio’s always stands behind its merchandise. If there’s any problem with your tux—”
“I don’t give a damn about the tux. I need to talk to Sam Jones.”
“She is no longer in my employ.”
“Then where can I find her?”
“I’m afraid Miss Jones was not the kind of woman I associated with; therefore, I was not inclined to keep an account of her where-abouts. She stole a sewing machine from me. Oh, she returned it the next day, and I was kind enough not to turn her in to the authorities, but I couldn’t have someone of her ilk working in my establishment.”
“Look,” Jack said, tired of Mr. Antonio and his attempts to cover his ass. “I need to find her, and in an establishment such as this, I’m sure you keep records on your employees. Social Security number? An address where you can send a W-2? A phone number for someone to call in case of emergency?”
“Perhaps.” The man fussed nervously with one of his cuff links. “Would you like some wine while I look?”
“No!”
Beads of sweat had built up along Mr. Antonio’s hairline. “I’ll see what I can find,” he said, his voice faint, almost strangled.
Jack followed the weasel of a man to an ornate, highly polished table at the farside of the room. He took a key from his pocket, opened a drawer, and pulled out a gray index file. “Let me see. Jones. Jones. Ah, here it is. Samantha Jones.” The man’s eyes flicked up toward Jack. “A Social Security number and post office box, nothing more. No phone number, either, but that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why?” Jack asked, jotting the information down on a pad of paper he’d grabbed off Antonio’s desk.
“I fired her, in part, for spending her nights in the sewing room and bathing in the rest-room sink. Can you imagine?”
Jack glared at the man. “You’re telling me she lived here? That she might not have had anyplace else to stay?”
“I never asked. She had certain talents where tailoring was concerned. My clients never complained about her work, and I do not pry into th
e lives of my employees.”
“What about your other employees? Do you think any of them pried, or even took the time to get to know her?”
“Mr. Hansen, possibly.”
“Where’s he? In the back?”
“He’s with a client right now. I could ask him and get in touch—”
“I’ll ask him.”
Jack stalked across the room, through the swinging doors that led to a hallway lined with dressing rooms. He knocked on the first closed door but didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Are you Mr. Hansen?” he asked, barging in and frightening the bald-headed man who had straight pins protruding from his mouth.
“Yes. May I help you?”
“Do you know where I can find Samantha Jones?”
The tailor stood slowly, pulling one pin from between his lips and then another. “No.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from her since she left a few weeks ago. Nice lady. A little down on her luck. She’d been living in her bug before she came here to work.”
“Her bug?”
“A battered orange Volkswagen.”
Jack stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip, and slipped it into the tailor’s hand. “Thanks.”
Mr. Antonio was hot on his heels when he walked toward the front door. “Perhaps I could interest you in a new suit while you’re here, Mr. Remington. Why, just this morning I received a Tombolini that would look perfect on you.”
“Not interested,” Jack barked, then slammed through the glass door and headed for his rented Lincoln. The only thing he was interested in right now was finding Samantha Jones—thief, con artist, and…Hell! Homeless person.
The post office refused to give Jack any information. They wouldn’t even verify if the box number he’d given them did, in fact, belong to Samantha Jones. He wasn’t going to give up, though. How many orange VW bugs could there possibly be in West Palm Beach?
He’d picked up a map from the Chamber of Commerce and started his search, driving up one street and down another, the wheel in one hand and a cigar in the other. After an hour of searching, he took his cell phone and electronic address book from his briefcase and punched in the number for Wes Haskins, the same investigator he’d hired to check out Peter Leighton.
“I need you to find out everything you can about someone,” he told Wes. “Her name’s Samantha Jones.”
“You’re gonna have to give me more info than that.”
“Red hair. Five-nine, maybe five-ten. Slender.”
“What did she do? Break your heart?”
“Why I want to find her is no one’s business but my own. She used to be an actress in Hollywood. Played in some kind of dinner theater.”
“What else do you know about her?”
Not enough, Jack thought, and more bad stuff than I ever wanted to know. “She’s around twenty-five. Drives a beat-up orange VW bug and might be living in it now, somewhere around West Palm Beach.”
Jack gave Wes Samantha’s Social Security number, her post office box address, and all the other details he could remember, little things they’d talked about while she’d altered his tux, sat across from him in a limousine, danced in his arms. He had no idea what an investigation might turn up. Was she on the run from the law? Was Samantha Jones her real name? Was she married?
That last thought bothered him the most.
Deep inside, he hoped Wes would come up empty-handed. He’d spent a lifetime not trusting people, but for some reason, he didn’t want to believe the worst of Samantha Jones.
Eight hours later he was still driving the streets. He thought he had checked out every parking lot, every back alley, and every surface street in West Palm Beach. He’d counted twenty-three bugs. Five of them were the new models, the remaining seventeen were in various stages of decay or had been souped up with wide tires and bright paint—but not the color he was searching for.
There didn’t seem to be an orange bug anywhere in West Palm Beach.
At 1:00 A.M. he drove through the parking lot of Denny’s. He thought about stopping to get a cup of coffee, but he was tired and ready to head to the Breakers and catch a few hours’ sleep.
The lot was well lit and more cars than he’d expected at that hour filled the spaces. He was just about ready to pull back onto the street when he caught sight of a round headlight in his rearview mirror. He turned, and partially hidden behind a Dumpster at the back of the lot was an orange VW.
Backing up, Jack pulled the Lincoln close, got out, and checked the inside of the car. Half a dozen wire hangers holding an assortment of clothes were suspended from a rod mounted over the cramped backseat. A jumble of shoes rested on the floor. A pillow and folded blanket sat on the passenger seat, and on top of the bedding was a gold-and-black shopping bag marked Michel—a boutique in Palm Beach that was all too familiar to Jack.
Pay dirt.
Jack locked the Lincoln and headed for the coffee shop.
“Just one?” the hostess asked when he walked through the door.
Jack nodded. “Is there a Samantha Jones working here?”
“Sam? Sure,” the young girl answered. “Would you like to sit at her table?”
He nodded again, checking out the two women behind the counter with their backs to him. Sam was easy to pick out. She stood a good head taller than her coworker, and her flaming red hair could be seen a mile away.
“Is this okay?” The hostess set a menu on the table and smiled.
“It’s fine. Thanks.”
He slid into the booth, hung one arm over the back of the seat, and got comfortable. He wanted a clean view of Samantha Jones as she headed for his table.
She had a coffeepot in one hand and a glass of ice water in the other when she stepped out from behind the counter. The water sloshed onto the floor when their eyes connected.
“Evenin’, Sam.”
She let out a sigh, and he could easily see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the white shirt and Denny’s tie. “I was wondering if you’d come looking for me.”
“You weren’t easy to find.”
Her hand was shaking when she set the glass of water on the table. “Coffee?”
“I’d prefer answers.”
She leaned across the table and turned over the mug. “The coffee’s good, and I’m busy.” Steam rose from the cup as she poured. He could tell she was trying to concentrate on the coffee, but her eyes peeked at him through thick lashes. “Have you had time to look at the menu?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You can’t sit here if you’re only going to have coffee. We need the tables for customers who want to eat.”
“Then give me a hamburger with fries.”
“How do you want it cooked?”
“Medium-well.”
“Onions?”
“No.”
“Would you like a salad, too?” she asked, scribbling down his order.
He stilled her hand. “What I want is to talk.”
She pulled away. “I can’t. It’s busy tonight, and I’ve got other customers to take care of.”
“When do you get off?”
“Four.”
He lounged back in the seat and lifted his cup of coffee. “I’m in no hurry.”
The skirt she wore was short and tight, and he couldn’t miss the provocative swing of her hips as she walked away. A thick braid hung down her back, and just then he wanted to pretend it was a rope and pull her back to his booth.
All in good time, he decided.
She must have walked by three or four times, clearing tables, delivering an armful of plates to another, not slowing down a moment. She didn’t take time to count the tips she shoved into her pocket, or to glare at him as he watched every sensual step she took.
Ten minutes later she delivered his plate.
He wasn’t interested in the food—only in her. “Looks good,” he said, watching the way sh
e stared at the table instead of him.
“Thanks. More coffee?”
He put a contemplative finger to his lips, making her wait for an answer. “Do you have any apple pie to go with it?”
She rolled her eyes. “We had a run on apple earlier tonight. Is peach okay?”
He lifted the burger and held it close to his mouth, watching the way her pretty lips pursed in annoyance while she waited. Let her get angry. She’d made him angry when she’d walked out of his hotel room without saying good-bye. Let her see how it felt to be totally annoyed.
“I’m waiting for an answer, Jack. Do you want peach pie?”
“Do you have berry?”
“Only peach.”
“Well, I prefer apple, but I suppose peach will do.”
Again she filled his cup, but this time she didn’t bother watching what she was doing. Instead, she stared him right in the eye. “Are you going to make my life miserable all night?”
“That’s my plan.”
“Couldn’t you wait outside until four?”
“I prefer the view in here. If it’s a tip you’re worried about, don’t.”
“I don’t want a tip from you.”
“What about money for services rendered? What about clothes and jewelry?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“That’s a switch.”
She straightened, looking away as if she couldn’t face the animosity he knew was in his eyes. “I deserved that,” she whispered.
“Hey, miss,” a burly man called to her from two booths away. “Could I have some more coffee.”
“Be right there.”
Jack wasn’t hungry, but he managed to choke down the hamburger and fries as he watched every one of Sam’s moves. He didn’t know if she’d bolt, but he wanted to be ready to go after her if she did.
When Sam came back to the table, she slid a jumbo slice of peach pie in front of him. He hadn’t asked for ice cream, but there were two scoops on the side.