“Moon,” Decker supplied. “Penelope Moon.” He gripped the arms of his chair as his gaze met Max’s. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. Not at all. She’s the woman I want to marry, and the sooner we can put your plan into motion, the better. I must stress again, however, that she can never know about our arrangement.”
“She won’t find out from us,” Max assured him. “We’re very good at what we do, Mr. Decker. As I told you last week, my operatives are the best in the business. They’ll find out everything there is to know about Ms. Moon, right down to the title of the book she has on her nightstand and where she shops for underwear. Once our investigation is concluded, we’ll design a coincidental meeting for you. By then, you’ll be armed with enough information to strike up a conversation that is guaranteed to spark the lady’s interest. The rest, of course, will be up to you.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” Simon Decker said eagerly. Behind his thick-rimmed glasses, his blue eyes gleamed with anticipation. “When do we start?”
“I need to ask you a few questions first.”
Decker looked crestfallen by the delay. “But I’ve already filled out all the necessary paperwork. I’ve even given you a sizable retainer, and I know you’ve had time to substantiate my qualifications. I assume everything checked out.”
“Oh, everything checked out all right. You met our client profile right down to the last bullet point,” Max said, a bit dryly. “Your professional résumé and financial portfolio are quite impressive. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you seem to have amassed quite a bit of wealth for someone of your age and profession.”
Decker gave him a tight smile. “Numbers are my business, and I’m very good at what I do, too. I’ve invested wisely over the years, and now I’m ready to reap the fruits of my labor.”
Max hesitated, then reached inside his desk drawer and withdrew Decker’s check. The retainer was substantial, as he’d said, and it pained Max to have to return it. But if he’d learned anything in his years as a detective for the Houston Police Department and now as a P.I., it was to follow his instincts. Simon Decker was trouble, and Max had no intention of getting involved in whatever scam the man was trying to run.
He slid the check across the desk. “I’m afraid we can’t help you, Mr. Decker.”
The man’s eyebrows shot above the rim of his glasses. “What? Why not? You said yourself my finances checked out, my business résumé is impressive—”
“Yes. A little too impressive, if you ask me,” Max said coolly. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re really here, but I’d stake my reputation that you aren’t an accountant or a businessman or even a savvy investor. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say you’re some kind of con man.” His gaze narrowed. “Either that or a cop.”
Instead of denying the assessment, Decker got up and strode to the window, where he stood staring out for a moment. Then shoving his hands into his pockets, he glanced over his shoulder. “What gave me away?”
The transformation was astounding. Gone was the nervous, geeky accountant who’d claimed to be seeking a meeting with the woman of his dreams, who’d appeared to have neither the experience nor the confidence to approach her on his own.
Instead, the man at the window exuded an innate self-assurance that bordered on arrogance. And as he removed the thick glasses and put them in his pocket, Max saw that his eyes were flinty and coldly assessing.
Max supposed he should have felt a measure of satisfaction at having so accurately nailed a grifter, but instead what he experienced was a faint prickle of alarm. And suddenly he found himself wondering if he could reach the .38 he kept in his desk before Simon Decker had time to pull his own weapon.
Somehow he doubted it.
“I’m serious.” Decker turned to face him. “I’d really like to know what tipped you off.”
Max tried to shrug off his unease. “Your background check was a little too clean for one thing. And you fit our client profile just a little too neatly. Beyond that, though, it was the small things. Like the way you check for exits before you enter a room. And where you sit. Nine times out of ten, the client who comes into this office is going to choose the chair directly across from my desk, but you picked the one that’s off to the side. There isn’t a cop alive who’d voluntarily place his back to a door when another alternative is readily available.”
“So you think I’m a cop,” Decker said with a faint smile.
“I never said that. It’s been my experience that the most effective criminals have some of the same instincts.”
“Interesting observation.” Decker walked back over to Max’s desk, but he didn’t sit. Nor did he place his back to the door. “I can assure you, I’m not a cop or a criminal.”
“Then who the hell are you?” Max challenged.
Decker hesitated. “I work for the United States government. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that.”
“You’re a fed?” Max gave him a skeptical look. “And I’m just supposed to take your word for it? How about showing me some credentials? The legit ones this time.”
“If you agree to help us, I’ll give you a phone number that you can call to verify my credentials,” Decker said smoothly.
“If I agree to help you,” Max repeated, his tone mocking. “Now why would the United States government need my help?”
“For the very reason that Simon Decker, the accountant, required your services. To find out everything there is to know about Penelope Moon.”
Max stared at him for a moment. “I don’t get it. The government has far more resources than we do. If you want this Moon woman investigated, all you have to do is make a few calls.”
Decker shrugged. “We may have more resources, but we don’t necessarily have your expertise. Not for the kind of information we need. How did you put it? When you’re finished, you’ll know everything there is to know about her, right down to the title of the book she has on her nightstand and where she shops for underwear.” He paused, as if intrigued by the prospect. “I want you to proceed with your investigation, Mr. Tripp, exactly as we discussed, and then I want that meeting with Penny.”
“Penny?”
Decker’s expression turned enigmatic. “Did I forget to mention that Penelope Moon and Simon Decker have a past?”
“Seems as if there are a lot of things you forgot to mention,” Max said accusingly. “And you’ve yet to give me one good reason why I should still be listening to you.”
Decker seemed to ponder the dilemma. Then, as if deciding he had no choice but to trust Max, he gave a curt nod. “All right then. What if I were to tell you that the museum where Penelope Moon works is being used to smuggle illegal substances into the United States?”
Max frowned. “You mean drugs.”
“Probably not what you have in mind, but the people we’re dealing with are every bit as dangerous as the cartels who traffic in heroin and cocaine. One of our agents was murdered last week in Mexico City, and if this ring isn’t shut down, a lot of innocent people could die. Under the circumstances, I think you’ll agree that it’s your civic duty to help us—”
Max cut him off. “One thing you need to know about me, Decker. I don’t respond well to coercion, subtle or otherwise. So just get to the point, okay?”
Annoyance flared briefly in Simon Decker’s eyes, but his expression remained coolly resolved. “Whatever you say, Mr. Tripp. You’re calling the shots here.”
But for how long? Max wondered. He didn’t trust Simon Decker. Not for a second. “So what kind of drugs are we talking about?”
“It’s a toxin known as Nicin, a derivative of the nerve agent niacine,” Decker explained. “Both are produced from the seeds of Niacinus toxifera, a plant indigenous to the Amazonian rain forest, but it’s now being cultivated in greenhouses all over Colombia, Central America and Mexico. It’s also called the fountain-of-youth plant.”
“Why? What does it do?”
“When injected into the skin, Nicin
performs similarly to botulinum toxin type A. Facial muscles are paralyzed to smooth wrinkles. But with Nicin, the results are far more dramatic and long-lasting.”
“So what’s the catch?”
“The side effects,” Decker said grimly. “When the injections are discontinued, muscle degeneration accelerates. Within a few months, the patient can end up looking ten or even twenty years older than when he or she began the treatments.”
“Bummer,” Max muttered.
“The only way to halt the deterioration is by increasing the frequency and strength of the injections. Eventually, when enough poison builds up in the system, the paralysis can spread to other parts of the body, including respiratory muscles.”
“In other words, the patient suffocates,” Max said.
Decker nodded. “Which is why the FDA not only prohibits the use of Nicin in cosmetic medical procedures, but has banned the importation of Niacinus toxifera in any form. Unfortunately, however, supply will always meet demand. The illegal trafficking in Nicin has become a billion-dollar business in Europe and South America, and it’s spreading rapidly into this country. A vial can be bought on the black market for two hundred dollars and the charge for injecting it can be anywhere from two to five thousand. Repeat the process again with another patient ten minutes later, and you get an idea of the kind of money we’re talking about.”
Max whistled. “Not pocket change, that’s for damn sure.”
Decker walked back over to the window and stared out. “We know the Morehart Museum is being used to smuggle Nicin into the country in one form or another. What we don’t know is the identity of the kingpin.”
“Which is why, I assume, you need to get close to Penelope Moon.”
Decker turned, his eyes dark and unfathomable. “We believe she’s the key to the whole operation, although we’ve yet to ascertain whether she’s directly involved or not. But at this point, her innocence is irrelevant.”
“Not to me, it isn’t,” Max said angrily. “We may push boundaries at this firm, but we do have ethics. We don’t break the law, and we don’t deliberately put innocent people in harm’s way. In fact, we do everything we can to protect both the client and the target. That’s why we have such an elaborate screening process. If I agree to help you, I’ll need two things from you.” He ticked them off on one hand. “Indisputable proof that you’re exactly who you say you are and your assurance that Penelope Moon won’t be physically harmed.”
Decker nodded. “You have my word that I’ll do everything in my power to keep her safe.”
Max’s frown deepened. “I don’t know if that’s good enough. Given the involvement of my firm, I think I have a right to know what your intentions are toward her.”
“My intentions?” Amusement flashed in Decker’s eyes. “Very well. I see no reason why you shouldn’t know. My intentions are exactly the same as they were when I walked into this office a week ago.”
“Surely you don’t mean that you intend to—”
“Marry her?” Decker’s expression hardened. “Watch me.”
Chapter Two
Three months later…
Penelope Moon squinted at her watch. It was hard to bring those tiny little hands into focus after swigging down French champagne for the better part of two hours, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do.
She squinted harder and tried to concentrate on following the second hand around the watch face, but she grew dizzy and had to look away. The best she could tell, though, it had been three hours, twelve minutes and thirty-one seconds—give or take a few—since she’d been jilted. But who was counting?
Besides, she couldn’t allow herself to get sidetracked from the real issue here—namely, why Simon had left her at the altar. Left her without a word or a phone call or even a note.
Evidently, sometime in the hours between his last call to her from Dallas that morning and seven o’clock that evening—the time the ceremony had been scheduled to start—he’d gotten cold feet and decided not to show.
That was so not like Simon. He’d always been kind and sweet and unfailingly considerate of other people’s feelings.
But then, as her mother had so helpfully pointed out earlier, when they’d been trying to decide what to do about the guests, what did she really know about him?
Thankfully, Athena Moon had managed to restrain her I-told-you-so gloat, at least to her daughter’s face; but Penelope had known what she was thinking. What they were all thinking. Penelope was not the type of woman who could attract—let alone keep—a man, even one as unpretentious and trustworthy as Simon Decker.
Trustworthy. Penelope sniffed. How funny was that?
She took another long pull on the champagne bottle and then wiped her mouth on the skirt of her beautiful Carolina Herrera wedding gown. No way she could pull off a Vera Wang, her sister, Helen, had bluntly informed her the day they’d gone shopping at Neiman’s. Not unless Penelope would finally consent to having her thighs vacuumed and her breasts augmented. A chemical peel or some collagen injections wouldn’t hurt, either. After all, she was pushing thirty, and she’d never been one to take care of her skin.
For once, Penelope hadn’t minded her sister’s disparaging suggestions because she’d been so madly, passionately, desperately in love with Simon. And secretly? The Carolina Herrera had been her favorite anyway. It was so feminine and classy and ladylike. Everything a wedding dress should be.
She fingered the delicate embroidered organza. Too bad Simon would never see her in it.
Looking back, Penelope supposed she should have been a little suspicious of his intentions when he’d waltzed back into her life three months ago, expecting to pick right up where they’d left off in high school.
Which was nowhere really. Their families had been neighbors and their fathers, colleagues. But Penelope and Simon’s relationship had been mostly one-sided. She’d developed a passionate—some might say obsessive—crush on Simon while he’d barely been aware of her existence.
And, after all, why would he? Why would anyone notice a lonely little bookworm amidst a swarm of glorious butterflies? A plain-Jane mortal dropped into a bevy of goddesses?
Goddesses who’d had a little help, but goddesses nonetheless. Helen, with her plumped lips and Botox-treated forehead and Cassandra, with her beautifully bobbed nose. Even little Ariadne, the baby of the family, who had eschewed the Moon money and prestige to become lead singer in a local punk-rock band, had her own penchant for cosmetic enhancement. Granted, hers came by way of facial piercing and the discreet tattoo, but still, she knew how to make her mark on the world—and in the family—while Penelope simply faded into the woodwork.
Which was, no doubt, why she was alone in her apartment on what should have been her wedding night, getting drunk on her father’s Cristal.
Had she come on too strong? Pushed too hard? Rushed Simon into a June wedding instead of waiting for Christmas as her parents had demanded?
Actually, Simon had rushed her. He’d wanted to elope just a month after he’d walked into the museum where she worked as assistant curator. It had been Penelope who’d insisted on waiting a whole three months so that her mother and sisters could plan the wedding they’d never dreamed of for her.
Maybe that was it, she decided, turning up the nearly empty bottle of champagne and slugging back the dregs. Maybe her family had scared him off.
She could certainly relate to that. Sometimes they still intimidated her with all their accomplishments and expectations and…perfection.
Conveniently, her father, Edward Moon, was a renowned plastic surgeon whose private clinic in Houston attracted the rich and famous from all over the world. And then, of course, there was Athena, an actress turned socialite whose dinner-party invitations were among the most coveted in Houston.
Penelope’s oldest sister, Helen, a legendary beauty queen in a state known for beauty queens, had given up a long and successful modeling career when she’d married Grayson McKenna, an ambi
tious entrepreneur who, by the time he’d hit thirty, had already founded several businesses including an extremely lucrative pharmaceutical company.
Cassandra, five years older than Penelope, was the daredevil of the family. A photojournalist for a national magazine, she’d returned from a trek through the Amazonian rain forest just for Penelope’s wedding (talk about wasted miles), and Ariadne—gorgeous, quirky Ariadne—had the distinction of being the true black sheep of the family.
Penelope, of course, now had the distinction of being the only Moon daughter ever to be jilted, let alone left at the altar. How lucky was she?
It had been through some strange twist of fate—a rather peculiar coincidence really—that she and Simon had even reconnected in the first place. He’d been in Houston on business and had come into the Morehart one day after reading about the recent acquisition of a pair of burial masks from a small museum in Mexico City. The exhibit had received a fair amount of publicity because so many of the masks from the ancient city of Teotihuacan had been stolen by looters and were now in private collections. Only a handful had been found through scientific excavations.
Penelope had spotted Simon that day studying the exhibit, recognized him, and had shyly reintroduced herself.
He’d been so delighted when he found out who she was, so attentive as she’d given him a tour of the museum. And then he’d insisted on taking her to lunch and, later, to dinner. They’d spent hours catching up, and it was then that Penelope remembered his family’s rather hasty departure from River Oaks.
His father had been offered a position in Dallas, he told her, and then his parents had split up. They’d all gone through some trying times, and judging by the way his eyes darkened, the memories were still painful. But then the shadow passed and Simon smiled. And Penelope had fallen in love right then and there.
How could she not? They had so much in common. She’d never met anyone, outside of the museum set, who was so knowledgeable about pre-Columbian artifacts, particularly the ceremonial and dance masks in which the Morehart specialized. She and Simon read the same books, listened to the same music, and even shared the same passion for South American culture and cuisine.
Unauthorised Passion/Intimate Knowledge Page 18