Sometimes lately he felt like his own ghost, haunting his own life.
He kept going through the motions, getting up each day, taking care of Hearsay, wrestling with issues and commitments. If someone took a snapshot of his life, though, he’d be a shadow on the film. A specter in a world he once inhabited.
It’d be easy to say something out there could anchor him again to his life. A great case, a new apartment, Val…
He had a hunch the answer was somehow within him, but he had no idea how to get to that place.
After wandering around the lot some more, he decided to head back. That’s when he looked down, and there it was. Under a scraggy bush, nearly blending into the dusty earth.
He pulled a tissue out of the paper bag and used it to pick up the cigarette butt.
* * *
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Drake was working in his back office when Hearsay lifted his head and gave a low woof.
“What is it, boy?” Drake listened, thought he heard a muffled noise.
The dog shot across the floor and down the hallway to the connecting door, which he kept barking at.
Somebody appeared to be in the Diamond Investigations office. Had Val forgotten to lock its front door yesterday when she left? No. She might have been angry when she’d left, but she would have locked up.
Downtown Las Vegas was deserted on Sundays, which gave him an uneasy feeling about who this unexpected visitor might be.
He walked quietly down the hall to Hearsay, still yapping like a maniac at the door. He touched the dog’s head. “Shh, boy.”
Hearsay emitted a low-throttled growl.
Drake looked at the slide lock, which he’d left unbolted. He drew Hearsay behind him.
Then grabbed the knob and jerked open the door.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
STARTLED, VAL EMITTED a wispy shriek.
Drake didn’t say a word. Heavy, dark eyebrows hovered over narrowed eyes glittering with anger. The sullen slant of his mouth was back with a vengeance. His white T-shirt was rumpled, stained with sweat.
His big, bad self reminded her of Heathcliff, a character she had always found laughable, with a mystique about as hot as a cold, distant star. What she hadn’t put together until this moment was that such distance alluded to the depth of the man, and that the closer you got to a distant star, the hotter it burned.
Standing here, she was damn near melting under the dark rays of this Heathcliff’s bad-boy sun.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled.
Hearsay, his tail wagging, sniffed Jaz’s shoes that Val had borrowed. At least somebody in this office was happy to see her.
“I, uh, didn’t want to bother you if you had a visitor,” she said, her voice barely audible, “so I was listening to see if I heard voices, but this door is so thick, it’s hard to hear, and then you opened the door so suddenly it scared me.”
Earlier that morning, after her crying spell was over, Jaz and Char had decided Val’s best approach to heal this rift was to go after her man in style. Or as Char said, “You need to air up your tires for this trip, dawlin’.”
So Val took a shower, spritzed on Jaz’s spicy patchouli perfume, polished her nails and borrowed a brightly flowered summer dress from Jaz, who also helped her create a sleek, one-sided do accessorized with a hot-pink flower hair clip.
Which had all seemed like a great idea until now.
The way he glared at her, she wished she’d just eaten the box of beignets and called it a day.
She’d turn around and leave, but Jasmyn’s high-heel platforms were a tad too large, which made it difficult to walk faster than a snail’s pace, and besides, her knees were shaking so badly, she didn’t trust herself to walk away with any grace whatsoever.
So she decided to stay put and give him the makeup gift she hoped would inspire peace between them.
She held it toward him. “This is for you.”
He took it from her, stared at the cover. “The Lincoln Lawyer.”
“Thought you’d like it.”
The fury in his eyes gave way to a perplexed look. “You coulda called, let me know you were coming into the office today.”
She bit her tongue to not say, And you coulda said thank you. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“In our business,” he said, his voice taut, “the less surprises the better.”
At least he said our. “I’ll keep that in mind when I plan your next birthday party,” she quipped.
He glowered at her. “I don’t like birthday parties.”
Oh, good Lord. She liked to think of herself as a pretty easygoing person, off and on anyway, who practiced good manners even when her temper got in the way. This man obviously did not share that value.
“Give me the book back, please, because you don’t even have the good sense to behave graciously when you receive a gift.”
He frowned. “Don’t tell me how to behave.”
She sucked in a breath. “Forget it! Can’t believe I got aired up for this trip. If I didn’t want to be a P.I. so damn bad, I’d quit right now. Let some other poor, hardworking intern put up with your badass, know-it-all, ungrateful attitude. Now I’m going to say something I’ve never said to anyone in my entire life. Kiss my ass.”
She pivoted slowly and started a glacial slide back down the hallway.
None of this was going according to plan. She was supposed to knock on his door, he’d open it, his anger going by the wayside after he got an eyeful of her. She would flash him a thousand-dollar smile, hand him the gift, apologize and they’d pick up where they left off.
She pressed one hand against the wall for balance as she took another gingerly step. Hearsay trotted up to her, nuzzled her leg. She reached down to pet his head, and her ankle gave way.
With a soft shriek, she tumbled to the floor.
Drake was instantly at her side, leaning over her, a concerned expression on his face. “You okay?”
“These shoes don’t fit,” she muttered, seeing one had slipped off in the fall.
He touched the ankle on her bare foot. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
He picked up the shoe. “Hold this.”
The next thing she knew, he’d scooped her up in his arms and was carrying her into the front office. Leaning her head against his shoulder, she gazed up at his strong, determined and very worried profile.
“How do you feel?” he asked, setting her down carefully in her desk chair.
“Pretty good,” she whispered, thinking how the soft gray of his eyes, the color so light, reminded her of moonlight.
He pulled back, dropped to one knee. “How’s your foot?”
“Pretty good, too.”
“No pain anywhere else?”
“My ego’s bruised, but that’s it.”
His mouth worked into a grin, then he turned serious again. “I owe you an apology. Should’ve said thank you, and not opened my big mouth.”
“I’m sorry I said kiss my ass.”
“Am I really the first person you’ve ever said that to?”
She nodded.
“I’m honored.”
She leaned over and lightly popped the back of her hand on his chest. “Suck-up.”
“Is it working?”
“Yes.”
This felt good. The two of them being playful, teasing each other. No struggle, no tension, just easy-breezy. The perfect moment to tell him what she came here to say.
“I’m sorry about last night.”
He took a deep breath, blew it out. “You spoke your mind. Nothing wrong with that.”
“But I shouldn’t have said—”
He waved it off. “No, Val. You were honest. I admire that, even if it drives me crazy at times.” He held out his hand. “Give me your shoe. I’ll put it on for you.”
She handed it to him, and he gently lifted her bare foot with one big, warm hand and slid on the shoe with the other.
“Your dress survive that
fall?” he asked, holding her foot with both hands.
The roughness of his voice, the heat of his touch and the fact she caught him darting a look at the inside of her exposed white thigh, which made an appearance thanks to the angle of her leg, made her stomach clench.
She glanced down at the filmy, flowery material. “Looks fine.”
“Because if it got torn or something, I’d pay for a new one.”
“It’s not even my dress,” she admitted, “but I thank you for the offer.”
As they held each other’s gaze, she felt a fluttering inside, imagining how it would be to face him like this, look into his eyes, day after day for the rest of her life. Sometimes their personalities clashed like the Hatfields and McCoys, then sometimes she realized how much they had in common. Their love of this profession. Their independent natures. Their loyalty to family. And as much as he tried to hide his, their passionate natures.
She wet her lips and swallowed. The thought of what she was about to say quickened her breath, damn near put her heart into overdrive. She wasn’t sure exactly how to say it—although I like you, Drake, as more than friends—seemed pretty good. But sometimes it wasn’t about finding the exact right words as having the guts to say what was on your heart.
“I—”
“Hear that?” He jerked his head toward his office. “It’s the tracking alert I set. Marta’s car is on the move again.”
After setting her foot back on the floor, he jogged down the hallway. Hearsay followed, yapping. Val heard the connecting door open and click shut.
Lowering her hand, she stared at the space of air where he’d just been. She’d been ready to tell him she liked him. A lot. That she’d been an idiot last night to pull back, make that comment about the two of them being friends. Yes, they were that…but they were so much more.
But suddenly the words didn’t fit how she really felt, which was so much deeper.
“I love you,” she whispered.
She sat there for a moment, stunned and happy at the revelation. At the freedom, the relief, to have expressed the words. A laugh bubbled up from inside and she leaned back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling and grinning like a crazy person.
“I love you, Drake,” she whispered again, seeing how the words felt in her mouth. Damn good. Tasted sweet, too.
Could she say it to him when he came back in? No, she might be a girl in love—just like Grams said—but she was also a girl who was learning to harness that impetuous streak.
Wouldn’t Jayne be proud of her.
Her gaze slid to the grandfather clock. Nearly three o’clock.
She frowned.
On the very top of the clock sat a small black object with a hole in the center. No, not a hole. A lens.
A surveillance camera.
Hearing the scrabble of Hearsay’s nails on the floor and the heavy steps of Drake, she turned to face him.
“She’s back at the jewelry store,” he said, carrying his smartphone. After she leaves, I’m going to place a pretext call to Mousseux, say I’m her fiance or husband, ask if she’s had a chance to pick up the ring yet. Doesn’t mean they’ll tell me, but it’s worth a shot.” He paused. “You started to say something when I left?”
She pointed at the top of the clock. “What’s with the surveillance camera?”
He glanced at it, back to her. “Picked up an extra one the other day, figured it’d be handy for me to see the front office while I’m in the back. Plus it’s a good security measure.”
“Could’ve told me.”
“Just put it up today, Val. We haven’t exactly had time to discuss work.”
“Is it recording now?”
“Yeah. Haven’t set up a feed to my smartphone or computer yet, though.”
Her stomach plummeted. He hadn’t seen her saying she loved him, but a video of her performance existed on some storage device. “Erase that recording.”
He bit back a laugh. “It’s only been running for the past hour or so.”
“Please. I don’t want a video of me…being carried to my desk.” And saying I love you. Twice.
“Women and their vanity.” He eyed her for a moment. “Okay, I’ll erase it.”
She released a pent-up breath. “Thank you.” She stood, picked up her purse that she’d left on the desk. “For the record, men can be vain, too.”
“Duly noted.”
It had been a strange day. Too many ups and downs, but at least the playing field was level again. “I should be leaving—”
The office phone jangled. She glanced at the caller ID. Local number. She picked up the receiver. “Diamond Investigations.”
“Miss LeRoy, it’s Suzanne Doyle. The Riviera had a last-minute cancellation for the penthouse this Wednesday night, so I reserved it for your investigation. That is, if you and Mr. Morgan are still interested?”
* * *
AT TEN ON Monday morning, Hearsay trotted toward the back-entrance door to Drake’s office and barked sharply.
“Hold on, buddy, be right there.”
He glanced at the tracking app on his smartphone. Red dot hadn’t moved in a few hours. Yesterday, he’d called Mousseux, but the girl who answered hadn’t known how to check if Marta had picked up the ring yet, and suggested he call back later in the week.
After closing the app, he headed across the room, tucking his polo shirt, this one blue, into the waistband of his jeans. It had seemed a good idea after the fire to simplify things by buying a stack of polo shirts, but wearing the same thing every day was getting monotonous. Wouldn’t Grams love to know that Drake was dying to branch out and buy a stack of casual button-down shirts next time.
He opened the door. Tony Cordova stood on the porch. He smiled, his teeth white in his brown face.
“Hi, Drake,” he said in his signature rasp, “how you doin’?”
“Fine, Tony. Come on in.”
The arson investigator wore a striped short-sleeve shirt, untucked, khaki pants and a pair of scuffed brown leather shoes. His slicked-back hair exposed a broad, lined forehead. At the scene of the fire, it had been difficult to tell his age. Seeing him today, Drake guessed late forties.
As Tony walked to the center of the room, one foot dragged slightly. Drake hadn’t noticed the limp the other night, but they’d only talked for a few seconds. Plus his focus had been on Hearsay.
“Parked across the street and walked over,” Tony said, pressing the back of his hand against his brow. “This heat’s a killer. Nice and cool in here, though. Smells good, too.”
“Egg and sausage sandwich.”
“I envy you, my friend.” Tony patted his stomach. “Ulcer won’t let me eat my favorite foods anymore.”
Hearsay trotted over to his bed, where he curled up and gnawed eagerly at the big pink ball. Drake had put away the chicken toy so he and Tony wouldn’t be trying to talk over nonstop squeaking.
“Tyke’s looking good.” He scanned the room. “Both of you staying here?”
“No.” Drake walked around the desk and sat down in the tufted chair, which creaked softly. Tony settled in one of the guest chairs Drake had brought in earlier from Jayne’s office.
He wondered if Tony had parked his fire-department-issued vehicle across the street rather than in the lot outside so as to not draw possible attention to Drake’s new office space. He appreciated the courtesy.
Tony glanced at the smartphone. “That your main piece of equipment?”
“Beats carrying a satchel with cameras, recorders, notebooks.”
“I hear ya. One of our guys has some new, state-of-the-art wireless recording device the size of a half dollar—when planted on a person, picks up their words even if there’s white noise. Me, I like using the digital recorder.” He pulled one out of his shirt pocket. “But the old-fashioned way—taking notes—is the best security. Nobody can hack into your notepad and steal information.”
“Sorry,” Drake said, “but I don’t want to be recorded.”
A fellow investigator would especially understand that taped interviews weren’t always in the best interest of the interviewee. If the person being recorded inadvertently provided an incorrect fact, or came off sounding arrogant, or even used bad grammar, a slick lawyer would be all over that like a fly on trash.
“Old-fashioned note taking?”
When Drake nodded his assent, Tony dropped the recorder back into one pocket, pulled a small notepad from another, then helped himself to a ballpoint pen lying on the desk.
Tony began asking basic questions. Drake’s full name, address, phone numbers. The location of fire alarms inside the home. His location at time of fire. Had he left the house locked, did anyone else have keys, were there any suspicious vehicles or activities recently in the neighborhood?
Drake gave honest, short answers.
Fifteen minutes in, Tony sat back in his chair, his dark brown eyes studying Drake’s face. “You’re a tough investigator who’s made some enemies.”
“Everybody has enemies.”
“Not like you, my friend.” Tony slipped his notepad into one of his shirt pockets, placed the pen back on the desk. “We’re off the record.”
“There’s nothing in the law that puts a fence around off the record.”
“True. The only thing that’s gonna make our conversation private is the trust we have in each other.”
Drake didn’t trust most people he met. Even fewer people did he feel he could count on. To trust someone was like hoping for something—vague attributes people bandied about, as though by saying I trust you made it so.
Yet a part of him envied Tony that he could talk about trust as though it was a fact.
“Tell me about Yuri,” Tony said.
“My brother’s work associate, but you already know that.”
Tony had undoubtedly run a background check on Drake, a standard investigative procedure, in which he’d learned he had a brother who worked at Topaz. Tony might have dropped by the club later that night, or called, hoping to interview Braxton. He would have identified himself as an investigator—savvy enough not to say arson investigator. If Brax had answered the phone, he wouldn’t have said much more than confirming he was Drake’s brother. An employee, however, could have let it slip that recently Drake had been in the club, asking about Yuri.
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