Rules of Attraction

by Susan Crosby

  “I like the way you think,” she said. “Let’s see if Mr. Gerard is in as good shape as he looks.”

  Three

  Quinn pulled up beside Cassie Miranda’s car, leaned across the passenger seat and handed her a steaming cup of her favorite mocha. She was one of two investigators he’d hired late last year. She’d pulled the night surveillance on Jennifer, and now Claire.

  “Thanks,” she said, breathing the aroma before taking a sip and sighing. “No activity from the house, except that she opened the blinds a little while ago.”

  “I bet she’s showered, dressed and sitting like a soldier in her living room.”

  “Not the kind to fly, hm?”

  “No reason for her to.” He admired Claire for standing up to him last night, even for not letting him inside her house. “I’ll probably see you in the office later.”

  “I’m going to grab a few hours of sleep before I come in.”

  “Hey, it’s Sunday. Take an extra hour.”

  “Gee, thanks, boss.” She started her engine. “How come we’re still working this, anyway? The job is done. There’s no one to tail.”

  How come, indeed? Not just because he always saw things through, but because he thought his presence might make what was about to happen easier for Claire, if she wasn’t too mad at him. He’d been in a similar situation once. He hadn’t forgotten how it felt, and how hard it was to recover from the invasion of privacy.

  “She’s taking the dog for a walk,” Cassie said, pointing. “I’ll get going.”

  Quinn swore. He’d bet she’d specifically waited for this moment, when he and Cassie traded places, to get a head start on him. What did she think he was going to do, follow her? As far as she knew he was waiting for her sister.

  He wasn’t.

  He looked out his car window just then and she smiled—no, smirked—and waved to him then started jogging up the street, her dog beside her. Her dinky dog with the big bark.

  Was that a challenge?

  In no time he was following her, watching her ponytail bounce in rhythm with her steps. He caught up soon enough but lingered behind her, enjoying the view and the way she looked over her shoulder without trying to seem like she was. She did have spectacular legs.

  When she spotted him she picked up speed. The dog broke stride, barked once then settled beside her, keeping pace.

  Quinn had appreciated the leather skirt yesterday. Today she wore running shorts, a tank top and a sweatshirt that she’d pulled off and tied around her waist without missing a step. He whipped his own sweatshirt off, wishing he’d known he would be running. Jeans chafed. Good thing he’d worn sneakers. Most of the time he wore boots. He would’ve looked like he was chasing her. Some Good Samaritan might’ve decked him.

  She jogged in place at a traffic signal at the bottom of a hill. He stayed twenty feet behind her. The light turned green and she took off with only a glance over her shoulder. Damn. He hadn’t felt this good in months, ever since he’d left his one-man operation to come aboard with ARC. The transition had been challenging, reporting to and working with other people.

  Today he was glad for the job, glad for this particular assignment. The bleached blonde with the long legs and the canine companion sent his mood soaring.

  Suddenly she turned around and ran toward him, the dog nipping at her heels. Was she going home already? Should he step aside and let her pass or—

  “You might as well run with us,” she said, stopping in front of him but still jogging.

  The dog danced around, barking.

  “Stop it, Rase.”

  “You call that a command?”

  She pursed her lips. The dog never stopped moving.

  “And I see how well it works,” he added. “Sit,” he said authoritatively.

  The dog put his rear on the sidewalk instantly and grinned, his tongue hanging out, his tail dusting the ground.

  Claire stopped jogging. “How did you— Traitor,” she said to the dog. “You little traitor. He has never done that for me.”

  “That’s because you say ‘Stop it.’” He tried to match the pitch of her voice. “Good boy,” he said to the dog, patting his head. “Rase?” he queried, looking at Claire.

  “Short for Eraser. Because his coat is the color of the old blackboard erasers.” She rubbed his ears. “He probably had another name, but I got him from the pound. He was already a couple of years old.” She put her shoulders back. “Let’s go.”

  They jogged up a hill, not a particularly steep one by San Francisco standards, but enough that they couldn’t talk much.

  “You saved his life,” Quinn said to her, not surprised that she’d rescued the dog from death row.

  “He kind of saved mine, too.” She kept her eyes focused ahead. “We needed each other.”

  Because of her parents or her sister? he wondered. He tried not to feel sorry for her. People often couldn’t see the truth about family. He’d been in that position himself, not once but twice. Claire was apparently as untainted as he had been once, enough so that she volunteered at a blood bank in gratitude for a little extra time with her dying mother…and chose to teach first-graders, innocence personified…and rescued pound dogs…and had blind faith in her unworthy sister.

  But it was also hard to imagine Jennifer talking Claire into something she didn’t want to do. Claire only seemed mild mannered. She’d displayed a firm strength of character last night. So, why change from brunette to blonde? Why the shift to leather skirt and snug blouse? The change was drastic.

  Had Jennifer convinced her to transform herself? Quinn found it hard to believe it had been Claire’s idea. Jennifer needed to escape surveillance, and she’d used her sister to do it.

  He gave up asking himself questions he couldn’t answer and focused on the run, which felt good. He hadn’t taken enough time for himself lately. Lately? He almost laughed at the understatement. He got a work-out in because he had a gym at home, but free time was a rarity, which was why on the rare occasions he dated, they were busy women who weren’t demanding of his time, because they understood working long hours. So he chose professional women, mostly. Except lawyers, who asked too many questions.

  And most women ended the relationship quickly, saying he was too serious. Hell, life was serious.

  A block away from Claire’s house he spotted two men loitering at the base of the stairs. He knew them. Knew why they were there.

  Claire slowed her pace to a walk. So did Quinn. Rase started to bark as they got closer to the house.

  “No,” Quinn ordered. The dog went silent, then looked adoringly at Quinn.

  Claire sighed loudly.

  “Dogs like limits,” Quinn said. “He’s obviously had some training.”

  She angled her head toward the men, who had come to attention and were watching their approach. “Friends of yours?”

  “I know them.”

  He couldn’t read her expression, and he admired her all the more for that. Show No Fear was his personal motto. Maybe hers, too. Maybe being a teacher ingrained that, he decided.

  “Gerard,” the taller of the two men said in greeting.

  “Santos,” Quinn replied.

  “We can take it from here,” the man told Quinn.

  Peter Santos was the D.A. investigator Jennifer had spotted tailing her, the reason why Quinn, a private not public investigator, had been hired. Quinn noted the edge in his voice. Santos should relax. Jenn had spotted Quinn, too—another reason why Quinn figured she was guilty. She wouldn’t have been that alert if she hadn’t been looking for someone watching her.

  “I believe I’ll stay,” Quinn said. “This is Claire Winston.”

  “Ms. Winston, I’m Peter Santos from the district attorney’s office. Could we go inside, please?”

  “Do I have a choice?” she asked, but led them up the stairs, not waiting for Santos’s answer to her rhetorical question. When everyone was gathered in her foyer, Santos held out a piece of paper. Rase whin
ed.

  “I’ll be right back,” Claire said, not accepting the document. “I’m going to shut the dog in the kitchen.”

  Good. She would handle the situation on her own terms. Had she figured out why Santos was there?

  When she returned she looked calm. She’d also put her sweatshirt back on.

  Santos passed her the paper. “I have a warrant, Ms. Winston.”

  “For what?”

  “Requiring that you turn over the note that your sister, Jennifer Winston, wrote you.”

  Claire’s gaze shifted to Quinn. Hurt radiated from her like a furnace blast. Because of him the note would no longer be private but would be seen by the D.A. and others. “It takes three of you to bring me one piece of paper and pick one up?” she asked. “You all must’ve heard about my black belt in karate, I guess.”

  The joke went over Santos’s head. Quinn cleared his throat. It really was pretty funny, the three of them confronting one slender schoolteacher with a spotless reputation. Claire took her time reading the warrant. Santos shifted from foot to foot. A grandfather clock by the front door ticktocked, ticktocked.

  “Ms. Winston,” Santos said after a while. “All it says is—”

  “I can read.” She opened the drawer of her entry table, removed a piece of paper and gave it to him.

  Santos looked it over. Quinn held out his hand and was handed the note, probably because Santos didn’t want to argue in front of her.

  “Dear Claire,” it read. “I’m doing what you asked. I’ll be in touch. Love, Jenn.”

  “What does this mean?” Santos asked. “That she’s doing what you asked?”

  “Night before last I gave her a deadline to find somewhere else to live.”

  “Why?”

  “She’d lived here long enough.”

  “Her car is in your garage.”

  “I don’t have an explanation for that. I assume she will be back for it.”

  Santos took the note from Quinn. “You bleached your hair.”

  She raised her brows. Quinn thought she looked magnificent, all haughty and cool. Mild-mannered schoolteacher—ha!

  “So?” she asked.

  “So, you look a lot like her now. Did you pretend to be your sister, Ms. Winston, so that she could get away?”

  “I don’t believe your warrant covers anything beyond me giving you the note. I already answered questions I didn’t have to. It’s time for you to go.” The front door still stood wide open. She gestured for them to leave.

  Quinn stepped aside as the two investigators exited.

  “You, too, Mr. Gerard,” she said, not looking at him but at the men headed toward their car.

  He saw a break in her composure, a fragility she hadn’t shown Santos. “I’d like to talk to you,” Quinn said.

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “I have things to say. I’ll stand right here, with the door open. Or we could go outside, if you prefer.” He pulled a business card from a leather holder and passed it to her. “I’m not a D.A. investigator. I’m in private practice. My job for them was over when your sister left. This is personal now, just between you and me.” The betrayal he’d endured years ago whirled inside him until he tamped it down. He knew how she felt. That’s all he wanted to tell her. He had little doubt she was an innocent victim swept into her sister’s game.

  “You knew they would be waiting for us after the run,” she said, her tone accusatory.

  “I knew they would be here sometime today.”

  “You told them about the note.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “You had a choice.”

  “No, I didn’t. Ms. Winston, are you worried about your sister?”

  “Worried?”

  “After you got home yesterday you never turned on your lights downstairs. That’s how I knew something was wrong and why I knocked. If she’d only been doing what you asked her to do—move out—you would’ve turned on your lights and gone about life as usual.”

  Her shoulders drooped slightly. She closed her eyes for a second too long.

  “What you say will stay between us,” he said, hoping she would talk to him, unburden herself. He’d been in her shoes. He understood.

  “She didn’t take her stuff,” she said, meeting his gaze, confusion in her eyes but no weakness.

  “Nothing?”

  “Her jewelry, but not her clothes, or at least not many. And her car! She loves that car.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  He hesitated in offering a possibility. “Could we sit down?”

  She nodded. After they sat on her sofa he watched her finger his business card. “What does the ARC stand for?” she asked.

  “The initials of the three original partners of the agency, Alvarado, Remington and Caldwell. I’m also a partner.”

  “Have they been in business long?”

  “About eight years. They work out of L.A. I opened a branch office for them here right after Thanksgiving last year, but I’ve been a private investigator for ten years.”

  “Why were you working for the D.A.?”

  “Your sister realized she was being followed by their people, so the D.A. hired me to take over. I’m usually pretty good at it.”

  “Not this time?”

  “I figure she made me, too.” Made a fool of me.

  He knew Claire was killing time. He let her set the pace.

  “Jenn doesn’t have the money,” she said finally.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “She said so.”

  “Is she always honest?”

  Claire started to answer, then shut her mouth. “Usually. Brutally honest.”

  He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “Why did you bleach your hair?”

  She ran a hand down her ponytail, as if she’d forgotten. “I wanted a change.”

  “It was your idea?”

  She shifted. “Not entirely.”

  “Jennifer came up with the idea?”

  “She said blondes…”

  “Have more fun?” he asked, finishing her sentence when she didn’t.

  “Yes.”

  “And the clothes? Her clothes that you wore yesterday?”

  “Part of the makeover. Yes, that was also her idea. But I didn’t have to go along with any of it, and she couldn’t have forced me.”

  Quinn knew all about the tactics of manipulation. Some people were so good at it that they could even get their victim to defend them, which was probably true in this instance.

  “We did it on a lark,” Claire said, sitting up straighter, apparently well in control again. “To celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of summer.”

  “Did she make changes, too?”

  Claire frowned. “Do you mean, did she take on my appearance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meaning, you think she’s on the run?”

  “Could be.”

  “She said in her note that she would be in touch with me. Doesn’t that imply she’s not running or going into hiding?”

  He didn’t answer. He knew something Claire didn’t—her sister had been followed by someone else, someone not from the D.A.’s office. Quinn had seen him and reported it to the D.A. It was likely someone her convict boyfriend had managed to hire, therefore he must believe she was a threat to run. Therefore, she knew more than she’d said in court.

  “You don’t believe her,” she said, her gaze cool.

  “I don’t know her.”

  “Well, one thing I can tell you—she wouldn’t be caught dead as a brunette or wearing the clothes I wear.”

  “Are any of your clothes missing?”

  She sat back. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to look.”

  “Maybe you should. Maybe you should check your trash cans to see if there’s a box of hair color in there.” He stood. She’d gathered her composure. His job was done—unfortunately. He w
ouldn’t have minded getting to know her better, but he didn’t think they could get past the reason they’d met in the first place.

  “Maybe you should try to put the facts together and see what you come up with,” he said, then pointed to the business card she still clenched. “You’ve got my number. If you want to talk, you can reach me on my cell phone twenty-four hours a day.”

  She stood, too. “Why would I call you?”

  “Because I know what you’re going through.” He resisted the temptation to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He had no right to touch her, but he was also afraid he wouldn’t stop there, that he would pull her into his arms and hold her close, maybe for his sake as much as hers. Everything she was experiencing brought back devastating memories for him, memories he usually had no problem keeping buried. She was as innocent as he’d been.

  If he ever did meet up with Jennifer Winston—

  “Thank you for staying and talking,” Claire said.

  “Thanks for believing I’m not the enemy.”

  “I’ve seen you faint. How scared should I have been?” she asked, a teasing smile brightening her face.

  Claire Winston didn’t fall under the category of client or subject, but his own code of ethics, the personal rules by which he lived, prevented him from letting himself respond to her in a way his mind and body were telling him to. Even with her face lined with exhaustion she looked pretty. Not classically beautiful, nor cute. Pretty. The kind of pretty that comes from inside. He remembered the way she looked in the short leather skirt, the slow, tempting way she walked, the way her cheeks had flushed when they’d first made eye contact. He remembered her teasing eyes as he’d jogged with her.

  Temptation, thy name is Claire.

  And he needed to avoid this particular temptation.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Not wrong, but not right, either. “You’ll call if you want to talk?”

  She smiled. “Maybe.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Winston.”

  “Claire.”

  “I hope you can sleep now.” He pulled her front door shut behind him and didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see her standing in the window, watching him. Claire, with the bright blue eyes that weren’t as innocent as they had been yesterday.