by Debra Webb
He straightened, backed off marginally. “Sorry,” he murmured but the word lacked any allusion of repentance. “The Mercer Agency is small but highly respected,” he pressed. “I want this opportunity. If I don’t live up to your expectations, you can let me go.” That relentless gaze dared me to argue that. “You have nothing to lose.”
Despite my best efforts to remain unmoved, I shivered with undeniable awareness of his sex appeal...of his flat out charisma, however schoolgirl silly it might be. This had to be one of those rebound things. Though I couldn’t be sure my most recent involvement with a man, which lasted less than two weeks, counted as an actual relationship from which to rebound. Whatever the case, this was not good. I should be pissed that Dawson had assumed he could get away with blatant flirting. And he’d definitely been flirting. Yet, here I was, waffling about the only reasonable solution to this quandary. I had to send him on his way.
“Why did you leave your birth date off your application?” I demanded, dragging the conversation back into more neutral territory. I hated the way the question came out all husky and slightly breathless instead of PO’d.
One corner of that sexy mouth—I just noticed that dammit—lifted in a wry smile. “Age is irrelevant, don’t you agree?”
Funny thing was, just then, with him looking at me that way and his voice all husky too, I actually did agree. If I hadn’t been so caught up in the heat-inspiring resonance of that voice and the mischievous twinkle in those bedroom eyes I might have gotten annoyed all over again at his nerve. I had no choice but to stage an aggressive coup here to regain some of the ground I’d lost.
“I tell you what, Mr. Dawson–”
“Dawson,” he reminded.
“Dawson,” I acquiesced. This would never in a million years work. This guy was way too self-assured for my taste. Any respect I thought I’d experienced just moments ago for those very traits vanished in a puff of you-know-what-guys-like-him-are-good-for smoke. “I’ll make a deal with you.” He seemed exactly like the deal-making type.
That watchful gaze narrowed. “A test?”
Ah, perceptive too.
“A test,” I confirmed. I had to smile as the idea gained momentum. A real test. The kind that separated the men from the pretty boys—pretty being the operative word here.
Silence throbbed long enough that I considered perhaps I’d called his bluff. Maybe he’d deem the whole idea as too much trouble and walk away.
“All right.” He braced his hands on his lean hips drawing my gaze once more to the way the denim molded to his gorgeous frame. My mouth parched and I cursed myself for the weakness. “Name it,” he said, tossing out his own ultimatum. “I can definitely get juiced for a little friendly competition.”
I gave myself a mental pat on the back. Oh yes, I knew this guy’s type. Too much testosterone...too much confidence. Or maybe he simply liked himself far more than was acceptable. He was not what I had in mind for a business associate. He was trouble with a capital T.
I picked up one of the manila folders lying on my desk. A failure to appear case Hobbs had likely placed there this morning in hopes I’d take care of it first thing.
“You pick up this guy. Bring back the body receipt and the job is yours.”
He accepted the folder, didn’t bother opening it and checking out the contents. “Done.”
“You sure you don’t want to take a look at that first?” I glanced at the folder to ensure he understood that I’d thrown down a gauntlet. “In case you have any questions.”
He moved his head side to side. “I know the drill.” That breath-stealing gaze did a quick sweep of me, from the waist up since my desk still separated us, before colliding with mine once more, victory already glittering there. “I’ll be back with your receipt.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and enjoyed the view as he strode out of my office. Might as well eat it up. I wouldn’t be seeing him again.
I toyed with the idea that I should feel guilty. “Nah,” I muttered. Mr. Dawson would take one look at the bail jumper named in the file and he’d walk away. He’d book it on back to New York faster than a Hail Mary play in the final thirty seconds of the fourth quarter of a Cowboys game.
Maybe it was his cockiness...or maybe it was just my reaction to that untamed surliness. Whatever. Derrick Dawson was the dead last thing I needed in my life just now.
Hadn’t I already learned the hard way that whenever I’m attracted to a guy it usually ends in disaster? No way was I dragging that kind of liability into my work.
Maybe the adage that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks is true...funny thing is a few hours ago I was a hot chick...talk about going to hell in a hurry. I felt my self-worth stock plummeting.
This day had to get better.
CHAPTER FOUR
“You did what?”
You would have thought I’d committed a cardinal sin. “Gave him a little test.” I stood my ground. It wasn’t like I’d had a choice. Derrick Dawson refused to come clean about his past employment woes. He had insisted he wanted this job, so he’d left me no option but to assess his ability to handle a challenge in the only way I knew how.
Plus, he’d ticked me off. The guy needed a lesson in manners—Texas style. And all I needed was a legitimate excuse not to hire him. For reasons I couldn’t say out loud. Yeah, yeah, I was playing dirty. By age forty every woman knew how when the need arose.
My assistant’s eyes bulged. “You sent him to pick up Big Hoss?”
Hey, it wasn’t like I’d dropped him in the mountains of Afghanistan with no AK47 or rations. Big Hoss generally hung out in one of the local bars or pool halls. He wouldn’t be that difficult to find. It was the part after finding him that would prove the real test.
Big Hoss Aiken was mean as hell. At six-seven and three hundred pounds of rock hard muscle he towered over most, intimidated all who had the misfortune of crossing his path. Even the cops didn’t go pick him up when he jumped bail. Not since they’d figured out I could do it without all the fanfare of S.W.A.T and tear gas.
I appeared to be the only person in Texas who Big Hoss would listen to. Would peacefully accompany back to Central Processing. My secret was easy. I’d gone to school with Big Hoss’s older sister. Saved her ass more than once. Big Hoss would do anything—I mean anything—his sister, who had long ago moved to Louisiana, told him to do, which included minding his manners around me. Depending on what law he’d broken picking him up meant paying a number of things from the utility bill to Hobbs’ weekly salary.
I made a so-what face as if I didn’t see the problem. “What’s the big deal? If he handles the situation I’ll know he can be counted on in a pinch. In the event he fails I’ll take care of Hoss myself.”
“Speaking of which.” Hobbs turned all suspicious again, revving up his super-duper X-ray vision and trying to read my mind. “Where’s the receipt for Willis?”
A lungful of exasperation puffed out of me. I couldn’t put off the inevitable forever. I was surprised he didn’t know already. Of course there was always the possibility that he did and just wanted to watch me dance over the hot coals of apprehension for his viewing entertainment. “He’s involved in an ongoing federal investigation,” I deadpanned. “They cut him loose.”
This time my assistant’s eyes bulged to the point I feared I might have to pick them up off the floor and poke them back into his head. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t heard already. “You’re joking, right?” He laughed then coughed in an attempt to catch the breath he’d apparently lost upon hearing my explanation.
“No joke, Hobbs. It’s hands-off where Willis is concerned.” I pretended not to notice the way his entire head turned red. Hobbs was one of those really pale blonds with short spiky hair that allowed his scalp to show through whenever he blushed or stayed in the sun too long. He was actually kind of cute when he wasn’t suffering from what I call VES, vagina envy syndrome—the gay male version of PMS.
“Well.” He made a show
of rearranging the mass of papers on his desk. “There goes next month’s budget,” he muttered to himself.
There was that. “I’m sure something will come along,” I offered with a dismal attempt at optimism. It always did...at least most of the time anyway. From the beginning, no matter how desperate things got, someone always skipped out on their bail or needed their no-good, two-timing husband followed. I’d made a small fortune over the years recording the comings and goings (mostly comings) of men who cheated on their women. I had no reason to believe my luck wouldn’t hold out in this feast or famine business. It’s my personal life where my good fortune generally goes missing in action.
“I suppose you’re right.” Hobbs heaved a woebegone sigh but caught himself mid-exhale. His expression abruptly morphed from gloom and doom to something resembling malicious anticipation. He glanced toward my office, then down at my feet. “There’s always that other option we’ve talked about before.”
His meaning cleared instantly. “No way.” I backed away from his desk as if standing too close would give him some unforeseen advantage.
“I know a buyer on eBay who would pay top dollar for that Birkin. Black crocodile with diamonds.” He nodded. “Oh yes. And those Christian Louboutins could pay two-months’ utility bills.” He made another hasty assessment of my feet then lifted a challenging eyebrow at me. “In a heartbeat.”
We’d had this discussion when my client first offered the shoes as a retainer fee and then the bag as final payment in full, but I decided to keep them for myself. I’ve been smitten since. The bag and shoes were my own personal cestus—imbued with vast feminine power. (There’s no need to spell it out, is there?) I would protect the one or both with my life. I worked hard. I deserved them.
Hobbs had never let me forget my one selfish act. Well, maybe there had been two, but who was counting? Once, just once I had taken a Victoria’s Secret gift card for payment. It had kept me in sexy undies for two years!
The bell over the door jingled saving me from having to further defend my most obvious vanity flaw, or from having to use the leverage I had gained against Hobbs considering that phone call he’d made in front of Dawson this morning. Taking advantage of the moment, I swiveled on the heel of my treasured footwear to greet my savior and, hopefully, rich, needy client.
No such luck.
“Hola, Miss Jackie.”
Alita, a petite Hispanic woman, modestly dressed in her usual plain gray dress that covered her from neck to knees and the kind of sturdy white shoes nurses wore, offered a broad smile as she hurried into the office. Tucked beneath one arm was a FedEx envelope.
“Hola, Mr. Hobbs.”
“Hola,” Hobbs said, scarcely glancing up. He was still miffed about the Willis escapade. I felt like throttling him and ranting, How do you think I feel? But I resisted. It was his job to keep the bottom line as far away from scraping the bottom as possible. He wasn’t really mad at me, just my choices in men. I was pretty pissed at myself.
“Morning, Alita,” I said, canting my head so I could see the little boy hidden behind the skirt of his mother’s dress. “Good morning, Emilio.”
Big soulful brown eyes peeked around at me. “Hola,” he returned shyly. He wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt sporting a Transformer logo. Emilio would start school in the fall. Until then Alita would bring him to work with her most days. As a single mom with no family on this side of the border daycare was far too expensive.
“For you, Mr. Hobbs.” Alita offered the envelope she held to my still stewing assistant. “I sign for it outside.” She smiled widely. Alita was young, only twenty-four. But her otherwise healthy complexion was lined by varying degrees of fatigue and hope. Her shiny black hair was secured in a meticulous bun that defied any prospect of escape. She was my ongoing pet project. I couldn’t help myself. I truly was a sucker for noble causes. The two of us had studied together one night a week until she’d passed the test and gotten her citizenship papers. Having been born in Texas, Emilio already possessed that privilege.
“Emilio can stay with you this morning, Mr. Hobbs?” Alita ask hopefully.
I hid a smile behind my hand. She made the request from time to time when she had an office to clean where Emilio’s presence wouldn’t be so welcome. Though he never turned her down, Hobbs occasionally grumbled about the extra duty, insisting that he wasn’t a babysitter. But I knew the truth.
He eyed the little boy warily. “I could use some help keeping Miss Jackie straight today.” He glanced pointedly at me and I gave him a look that dared him to mention the shoes or the bag again.
As my assistant conversed with the little boy Alita and I shared a knowing smile. However tough Hobbs pretended to be, however much he complained, he was just as much a sap for the cute kid as me.
With Emilio busy scattering the Legos my persnickety assistant kept in a box under his desk for the child he claimed not to want to be bothered with, Alita followed me into my office.
“Miss Jackie, I am a problem.”
“You have a problem,” I corrected. Her English was excellent for a woman who’d had no formal education in the language. That was another thing we’d worked on together.
Alita nodded and turned those big doe eyes up to me and something passed between us, woman to woman, an urgent plea I couldn’t have missed short of having been struck blind in that same instant.
“What’s wrong, Alita?” Living in Texas, especially this close to the border, no one was more acutely aware of the controversy over illegal immigrants and the cruel treatment they often endured. Alita and her son fell smack into that category, though both were citizens. To some, they would never belong. Still, she had made Houston their home. I respected her determination. I respected her period. She reminded me of my mother, though a born and bred Texan she had also cleaned offices in this city long ago, when I was about Emilio’s age. My father had just started his law practice but mother was the one who kept food on the table while he built up a client list. Women like my mother and Alita Reynoso were a special breed.
Sometimes I wondered why I fell slightly short of that category. I worked hard that much was true. My friends described me as driven, even accused me of being all work and no play at times. But I often considered whether my intense focus on making it in this male-dominated occupation was more about proving I could. I’d felt that way since the divorce...as if I couldn’t risk failing at anything else. Maybe that’s why I always picked the wrong guy. I couldn’t fail at a relationship if I wasn’t technically in one. The wrong guy automatically ensured things didn’t meander too far into dicey territory.
Enough with the self-psychoanalyzing already. Something was troubling my young friend and she needed my help.
Alita glanced back toward her son. “I would very much like you...find Emilio’s father.”
“You want me to find your son’s father?” I blinked in an attempt to hide my initial reaction. Too late. She noticed. My repeating her statement in the form of a question might have played a small part in giving away my surprise.
“I never talk of him before but it’s time he know he had a son.”
I nodded, just then grasping her full meaning. “Were you pregnant with Emilio when you left Mexico?”
Her head moved up and down quickly. “But I did not know. When I find out it was too late. I couldn’t go back and he not know.”
Before I said yes I knew full well Alita couldn’t pay me. But it didn’t matter. She was my friend, if I could help her I would. “I’ll look into it, Alita. Make a list of all you know about him. Full name, last known address, stuff like that and I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you, Miss Jackie.”
Hobbs made a sound in his throat and I shifted my attention to where he lurked in the doorway. “I believe this is for you.” He waved the FedEx envelope Alita had accepted.
There was something about his tone that gave me pause. “What is it?”
He strode to my desk and placed the envelo
pe in my outstretched hand. “A somewhat intriguing message,” he declared.
I frowned. I couldn’t be sure if Hobbs was yanking my chain because he was still frustrated about Willis or if he was serious. There was a return address, a PO box, but no name. I reached into the envelope and felt around. At first I thought it might be a joke since the envelope felt empty. Some might deem that a message in itself. Then my fingers encountered something small and rectangular. Smooth, slightly thicker than paper. I withdrew the object and studied it. A photograph. The kind taken for a passport or drivers license. It was...
The air evacuated my lungs...for ten full seconds I couldn’t speak or form a coherent thought. I could only stare at the face I hadn’t seen in a decade.
“Who this, Miss Jackie? You know him?”
I licked my lips and took a shot at swallowing, but a chunk of emotion had rammed into my throat.
“You might want to read what’s written on the back.” My gaze collided with my assistant’s and he nodded to the photo.
I knew from the softness of his tone and the concern in his eyes that my face had gone white as a sheet. Hobbs and I enjoyed our cutting banter, but we were both keenly aware of each other’s feelings.
Somehow I managed to turn the photo over though my fingers were ice cold and shaking. My heart stumbled as the words scrawled there registered in my brain.
You were the last one to see him alive. #D-1216.
My knees went weak, forcing me to wilt against the edge of my desk to keep from hitting the floor. Who the hell would send this to me? No one knew...I hadn’t told a soul.
“Do you know this man, Jackie?” Hobbs inquired cautiously as if he feared the answer might be something he didn’t actually want to know.
I blinked, tried to snap out of the daze of disbelief I’d slipped into but couldn’t quite manage the feat. I must have looked as if I’d seen a ghost since both Hobbs and Alita hovered close, their faces cluttered with worry.