Fair Game Inc (2010) (4 page)

"She'd mop the floor with you, little brother."

****

Amber sat alone in the darkened office. Light from the distant street leaked through the vertical blinds, gilding the chrome furniture. From memory, Amber made her way across the office to the alcove at the back that contained her coffee maker. She poured herself a cup of coffee hours cold. Adding a splash of powdered creamer, she stuck the mug in the microwave to heat. It beeped, the only sound in the building besides the rush of an occasional car on the street. She jumped, startling herself from her dark muse.

Retrieving the cup, she collapsed back into her leather chair. The coffee was foul enough to jolt her into wakefulness. She flipped on her desk lamp. It cast a puddle of golden light across her desk. With a deep yawn, she reached for the active file in her bottom drawer.

Words in her own handwriting danced across the pages, refusing to make sense. The scent of Grayson's cologne clung like a ghost to her clothing. Her arm was still warm where he had touched her. She could almost feel the heat of him radiating over her as if he stood behind her still.

Spooked by the intensity of her thoughts, Amber spun around in her chair. But the office behind her was as dark and as empty as she remembered.

Fatigue worked its way into her muscles. Exhausted from their encounter in the courthouse, there was nothing she wanted to do more than go home and crawl into bed. But work that didn't get done today only piled up tomorrow. Her time was at a premium now that she'd been ordered to spend evenings helping Grayson.

Stupidly, she thought she'd won the judge's support. They were all the same, she decided, judges, lawyers, men. How could he possibly have sided with Grayson Charles? Couldn't he see it was an honest mistake?

The only one she'd ever made.

Chapter
THREE

Amber peered through the binoculars at the nondescript brown building she'd been parked in front of for the past six hours. Resting the binoculars against the dash, she rubbed a hand across weary eyes.

"Come on, come on," she chanted to the impassive building face as if the force of her will could penetrate the brick and the mind of the man who lived in apartment four. She drummed her fingernails against the steering wheel. "You feel the need for take-out Chinese, or you're out of soap and you've got a hot date tonight." But the occupant of apartment four stayed firmly ensconced. With a frown she glanced at her watch. "And I've got a date with Grayson Charles in half an hour."

Leaning back against the headrest she vividly pictured the profits flying out the window. The long time girlfriend of the man in number four suspected she was not the only one in his life. Willing to pay for Amber's deluxe package, complete with videotape of the event, she nonetheless insisted on proof before sealing the deal.

Were it not for Grayson Charles, Amber would be content to sit and watch until either the suspected cheater either left his apartment or the suspected new girlfriend arrived. A loaded 35mm camera with a telephoto lens lay on the seat beside her. But in six hours the most interesting visitors to the tiny building had been a squirrel and a couple of motley looking pigeons.

Amber thumped her fist against the steering wheel. She'd bet the girlfriend would show up the moment she left for Grayson's office. Never failed. If she went out for coffee or to use the ladies on a stake-out it proved to be the five minutes she should have stayed put.

Minutes passed with agonizing slowness. Investigative business of any sort just didn't keep regular hours. Couldn't the judge have understood that? Unlike Grayson Charles, she didn't go home at six in the evening. Often that was merely the beginning of her day.

If she didn't snap off a few shots of the occupant in number four, she'd be sitting here again tomorrow. While all the work that should have been done back at the office during the day piled up to be done another.

Another half an hour. Grayson Charles could wait. She'd put in the hours as per the court order, and according to her own schedule.

A car pulled up in front of the squat building. Rolling down the window, Amber rested the camera against the glass and put her eye to the viewfinder. But the little sports car discharged only a middle aged woman and a yappy poodle. Amber tossed the camera back on the seat beside her. Another glance at her watch showed thirty-five minutes passed. Now she was not only behind in her own work, but in the work she'd been ordered to do for Grayson as well.

With a deep sigh, she put the car in gear and drove away.

****

The glass doors to Grayson's office building flew open as Amber charged through. Thinking of the work piling up on her own desk, she cursed Grayson Charles fluently and thoroughly.

It wasn't just the research, the execution of the prescribed revenge. Once a case was completed, there was still the filing, the billing and a myriad other tasks to occupy her time. Someone had to dust the computer. Someone had to wash the coffee cups, order the supplies and vacuum the carpet. As owner, operator and sole proprietor of Fair Game, that someone was Amber. Caution stopped her from hiring an assistant. Her last expansion nearly sent her to bankruptcy court, she reflected darkly. Renting a bigger office and hiring an assistant had tipped the scales on Shaw Investigations. That coupled with a slow year, had plunged the company permanently into the red. Never again, Amber promised herself. For the time being she'd indulge herself with upscale tissues and gourmet coffee. She wasn't about to gamble with her livelihood again.

Grayson Charles certainly didn't wash his own coffee cups, she thought with a glance around the lobby. Marble floors led the way to the elevator. A brass-framed directory told her the offices of Barlow & Charles were on the third floor. Must be nice, she thought bitterly and stopped.

It wasn't jealousy she felt. No, not Amber Shaw. She was proud of the years of hard work that created her success. Better to start with nothing and build up slowly. That way no one could take away what was rightfully yours. The mantra had served her well so far. Fair Game was all hers, down to the last paper clip and bottle of white-out. And if Grayson Charles thought differently, he was in for a surprise.

She stabbed at the elevator button. Chrome doors slid open obligingly. She suppressed the urge to smear her fingerprints on the door as she entered. Anything to tarnish the untouchable interior.

On her way up she pictured the pristine interior of Barlow & Charles. It would be oh-so-tastefully decorated, she suspected. Muted colors, probably beige and that celery green that seemed to have taken over decoratorsAE better judgment that year. Furniture would all be polished to a dull gleam, and it would, of course, all be wood. Real wood. A young, blonde secretary would just be getting up from her desk. She'd put on an extra pot of coffee for Grayson before she left.

And because of that one, albeit regrettable, mistake Amber could sit right down in her vacated spot and spend the evening working for Barlow & Charles instead of Fair Game.

As if Mr. Grayson (never a hair out of place, expensive suit, drives a Mercedes) Charles actually needed her help. He didn't give the impression he'd ever needed anything from anybody.

Striding down the hallway with its plush carpet, she pictured his early life. Born into a well-bred, well-off family, that was a given. From there he'd excelled in school, of course he had. By the time he was in his late teens, his dad, who was probably a judge, was already giving him career advice over brandy at the old boy's club.

Amber gripped the brass door handle as if she wanted to throttle it. She'd bet this month's revenue Grayson Charles never had to work his way through college.

The door swung open. Instead of being ushered in by the departing blonde secretary, chaos greeted her.

At least three phones rang in a discordant chorus. File folders, stuffed to the point of bursting covered every surface. A flurry of green message slips caught the breeze as she entered and drifted to the floor.

"Hello?"

Silence answered her.

From down the hall she could hear the low murmur of a man talking. Presumably on the phone. Amber followed the sound.

The offices of Barlow & Charles had been nice at one time, she thought as she made her way through the inner sanctum. Tasteful paintings decorated the walls. The furniture, what she could see of it beneath the debris was upholstered in muted colors. At the end of the hallway lay a corner office. She poked her head inside.

It took a moment to locate the occupant. The entire office looked as if someone had shaken the contents like one of those snow-globes you brought back from Niagara Falls, and left them to lie as they fell.

A gasp escaped her lips.

"Hang on one seca." The speaker straightened from bending over the file drawer of his desk. It took a moment for Amber to recognize him in his shirt sleeves and with his tousled dark hair. Grayson pressed the hold button and put the phone back on its cradle. The red light pulsed between them.

"If you just have a seat out front, Ms. Shaw, I'll be right with you." Weariness worked its way into his tone.

"Seat?" Amber asked incredulously. "There isn't one square inch in this entire office that isn't covered with paper."

His eyebrows drew threateningly downward. "Then if you wouldn't mind standing out front for one moment, I promise I'll be right with you."

Amber wrapped her will around her temper and strode back down the hall. Taking a stack of files from one of the chairs in the waiting room, she dumped it on top of another and sat down. Minutes dragged by. Should have brought my laptop. If Mr. Charles wanted to waste her court-appointed time that was fine with her. She could put it to good use.

As seven minutes became ten, she found herself pacing the narrow entrance way. Her eyes came to rest on a brass plaque on one of the doors. John Barlow. Amber tried the handle. It opened easily.

Well, J. B. was certainly nothing like his partner, she deduced. In the immaculate interior not even a speck of dust was out of place. She stepped further into the room. The mahogany desk wasn't locked, either. Amber sat in the leather chair and gently pulled open the top drawer.

"Lose something?" The sound of his voice brought her head up sharply. Grayson leaned against the door frame. Gazing at him, Amber had to suppress a gasp. The disheveled stranger bore only a superficial resemblance to the Grayson Charles she'd met last night. Dark curls tumbled across his forehead, bearing evidence of the many times he must have run his hands through his hair during the day. A white shirt that still showed vague signs of once being starched and pressed now hung in a myriad wrinkles. Sleeves had been shoved, not rolled, above his elbows and his tie hung loosely and crookedly about his neck. If she didn't know better, Amber might suspect he had yet another identical twin lying around somewhere. The thought made her shudder. The Charles twins were enough to deal with as it was.

Amber shut the drawer quickly and straightened. "You told me to find a seat." She glanced around the office. "So I found one."

Grayson's expression said he knew exactly what she'd been doing. He glanced at his watch, then pointedly back at her. "You're late."

"I got tied up on surveillance." Amber bit back the urge to apologize. He was the one who should be sorry. Grayson Charles would be the end of Fair Game, yet.

His frown told her just what he thought of her activity. She might just as well have said something obscene.

"You and your partner seem to have differing ideas about neatness," she said finally, to distract him for her lateness and her business activities.

To her surprise, he snorted softly. "Barlow's as uptight as they get."

She choked back the peal of laughter. A case of calling the kettle black, don't you think? But she kept her lips resolutely shut.

"They don't call him Jumpy John for nothing," Grayson supplied. Then as if he'd just spilled a dark personal secret, he firmly shut his mouth.

"So why'd you want him for a partner then?"

"He was my father's partner." His expression darkened. "It was obvious Roger was never going to be a lawyer, so that left me to join the firm."

There was pain behind that dark gaze, as he stood before her disheveled and wounded-looking. Amber found herself wanting to circle him with her arms, rest her head against his chest, and tell him it would be all right. She shook herself from her thoughts. No way was she going to feel sorry for Grayson Charles, who for all the opportunities he'd been granted obviously couldn't organize so much as his date book. But she couldn't stop herself from asking softly, "Your father died young, I take it?" Research, her conscience insisted. Just research.

"Heart attack."

Grayson's words were short, clipped. She knew when a subject didn't want to talk. She'd get no more from him even if she tied him to a chair and interrogated him under a bare light bulb.

But then he surprised her by saying, "Worked himself to death."

"I'm sorry." The words slipped traitorously from her lips. The only thing she was sorry about was having to work for Barlow & Charles, she told herself sternly.

Grayson drew in a deep breath. "Well, Ms. Shaw, as you can see there is plenty of work to be done. I'm afraid I have to make several more calls this evening, so please," he cast a grim glance over his shoulder at the decimated reception area, "jump right in."