“Sounds a lot like Mrs. Evans.”
Which means that I
need to stop looking for something that isn’t there.
Cami stood, smoothing the creases from her linen skirt.
“Good luck, Finley. If you ask me, the kindest thing you could do for Mrs. Evans is to tell her the truth.” She pointed toward the fax on my desk. “Telling her about José Vasquez being dead will only make things worse.”
Cami was probably right. The best thing I could do for Stacy was to convince her to let it go. I was just about to call the fileroom to have them retrieve the boxes when my phone rang. With my luck, it was probably the Widow Evans demanding an update. Well, I’d give her one. An honest one. It was time for her to accept that her husband’s tragic accident was exactly that—an accident.
“Finley Tanner,” I practically growled into the receiver.
“Wow, you’re in a mood. Caffeine withdrawal?”
Hearing Patrick’s voice salved my irritation. “Sorry. Hi.
When did you get in?”
“Really late last night.”
That explained why he hadn’t called. I absently started twirling a pen between the fingers of my right hand. I began our well-practiced game by asking, “So, where’d you go this time?”
FedEx flew all over the world. Patrick never told me his itinerary. Instead he brought me thoughtful gifts from whatever countries he’d hit during his trips.
“I’m holding something you can wear and something to eat.”
Just to get his blood boiling, I said, “Mmmm, I’m thinking edible panties.”
“Now that you mention it, so am I,” he teased, his tone dropping several seductive notches.
I was grinning now. The whole Evans mess began evaporating from my thoughts as I threw myself further into the game. I’d missed him. He was my rock, my . . . All of a sudden I had a vision of a big iron ball and chain dangling from around my neck. Was there some kind of subconscious passive-aggressive thing in me that thought of Patrick as some sort of albatross around my neck? That couldn’t be right. He adored me.
I rubbed my tired eyes. “So, what’s the plan?” Patrick always had a plan. Most women would find that impressive and considerate. I did, too, most of the time. Though I wouldn’t have complained if he’d done the occasional spontaneous thing.
Anyway, what was the alternative? Returning to the depths of Single Hell? Pass, thanks. In my opinion, dating is a lot like interviewing for a job you don’t really want but feel compelled to go after.
“Dinner and sex.”
I laughed quietly. “I’m supposed to meet the girls tonight for dinner.”
“You get to see them all the time,” he reminded me.
“Can you get out of it?”
“Sure,” I said on a sigh. I knew full well that I’d get a mixture of grief and support from Becky, Liv, and Jane. I was going to break one of the cardinal rules of girlfriendom.
A last-minute ditch in favor of a man. They’d understand, of course. They knew Patrick and I had to work around his schedule but I’d still be charged with a misdemeanor friendship violation.
“You should come by here first,” he said. “I want to give you your presents before dinner. I’ve made reservations for seven, so you’ll need to be here by six-thirty.”
I glanced at the small clock on the right-hand corner of my computer screen. Amazingly, it was already after one.
Hard work certainly made the time pass.
“I can do that.”
“Six-thirty,” Patrick repeated, knowing full well that I had a small propensity for being late. “Six-thirty-one and you don’t get your presents.”
I felt a twinge of excitement at the thought of being with Patrick again. Knowing him, he’d made reservations at Fendu. He knows how much I adore their food, and the ambiance is to die for.
I spent the next half hour begging off my commitment to the girls. Then I used my lunch hour to run to Macy’s for something new to wear that night. I found an adorable strapless black dress and some really cute satin and rhinestone sandals in just under forty minutes. I talked the clerk down on the shoes because one of the stones was missing.
The dress was fifteen percent off, but only if I opened a new Macy’s account—which I did. Like I need another Visa card, but, hey, for fifteen percent off, it was worth the hassle of filling out the tedious form.
I grabbed a coffee on my way back to the office, stopping only long enough to put my purchases in my car.
Margaret issued her usual faux smile, and I felt her eyes on my back as I slipped into the elevator.
I was looking forward to my date with Patrick, and I was growing curious about my gifts. His choices are always personal—he certainly knows how to set the mood for a romantic reunion. A guy like Liam McGarrity wouldn’t know how to make plans for a romantic reunion.
Where did that come from?
Libido meltdown, I decided as I returned to my office. I could make a list a mile long as to why I should put Liam in my “don’t even go there” file. But something about those ice blue eyes kept drawing me back.
Putting my fantasies on hold, I sat at my desk and checked my e-mail. I nearly groaned when I saw the one from Mary Beth. She was inviting me to a scrapbooking party at her house Thursday night. Tomorrow. Shit.
After hitting REPLY, I struggled to find a polite way to tell her to kiss off. I didn’t want to lie. First, I’m a terrible liar, and I’d get caught. If I said something like “I’m visiting a sick friend,” Mary Beth would want details, then she’d send flowers and probably host a fund-raiser. I could try the general “other plans” excuse, but a week from now she’d inquire about those plans and I’d probably choke and forget whatever lame-ass thing I’d said.
Thing.
I smiled. “Thank you, Liam,” I mumbled as I typed in my reply: Thanks, Mary Beth, but I have a thing on Thursday. Maybe next time. Regards, Finley.
The “thing” was convenient as hell. Vague but effective.
One problem solved. Now on to the other thorn in my side.
Pulling out the file, I dialed Stacy Evans and felt almost giddy with relief when the call went straight to voice mail.
I told her I was sorry I’d missed her and that I’d be in touch in the morning.
My e-mail dinged. It was Mary Beth, letting me know she was sorry I couldn’t attend. Beneath her name was a smiley face with big tears spilling down that made a loud splat sound as they fell.
Stacking the information about José Vasquez off to one side, I went back to the D’Auria estate accounting. I ran the inventory totals a dozen times and still couldn’t recon-cile the numbers. I cursed, tried one last time, then reached for the phone.
Jane Spencer is more than my friend, she’s an invest-ment broker and tax analyst to boot. Jane is a walking contradiction. She’s a card-carrying member of Mensa but looks more like one of the Spice Girls. Posh Spice to be exact. Tall and willowy, with long, dark hair and chocolate-colored eyes. But beneath that never-misses-a-morning-workout, funky exterior is a certifiable geek. A geek who will free me from the shackles of accounting hell.
Her assistant put me right through.
“Patrick cancelled?” she asked.
“No, I’m really sorry about tonight. As I remember, you blew off lunch yesterday.”
“For work. That doesn’t count.”
“But since you brought up work, I need help.”
I heard Jane expel a breath. “It’s tax season, Finley. I’m up to my eyeballs in ten-ninety-nines. Doesn’t your fancy-schmancy law firm have accountants?”
“Not wonderful ones who I let borrow my very favorite pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.”
“That was a year ago,” Jane said on a small laugh. “I think I’ve more than worked off that footwear debt.”
“It’s not a big thing,” I insisted. “I just need you to go over some figures for me.”
There was a brief pause, then she said, “Okay. I can meet you for coffee . . .” Another pause, and I knew she was flipping through her ever present Week-at-aGlance.
“Monday.”
I grimaced. “It’s due to the clerk of court on Friday.”
“Christ, Finley, nothing like waiting until the last possible second.”
“I know, I know. Please don’t make me file an extension. The heirs are expecting their money, and if they don’t get it, they’ll complain to my boss and then I’ll get fired.
I’ll end up homeless, with nothing to eat but government-issue peanut butter and cheese.”
“No, you won’t.”
I relaxed. “Because my dear friend is going to help me?”
“Because the government only gives peanut butter and cheese to WIC families.”
“Please?”
“Actually, peanut butter and cheese would be an improvement over your normal diet.”
“Are you going to help me?”
“Yes. Meet me tomorrow morning outside the gym. I should be finished by seven.”
“A-freaking-M?”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“Of course, thank you. I’ll be there. I’ll be the one in the slippers and jammies.”
“Suck it up,” Jane joked. “See you in the morning. Say hi to Patrick for me.”
It was nearing quitting time, so I started packing up the estate accounting for my predawn meeting with Jane. I needed to be out the door of the office at the stroke of five.
Then I’d have plenty of time to shower, shave my legs, and glue a spare rhinestone on my cute new shoes before I went to Patrick’s place.
At precisely 4:59, my phone rang. It was probably Stacy Evans, and I really debated the pros and cons of answering it. The biggest con of ignoring her was the very real possibility that she’d complain to Vain Dane and my ass would end up in a sling. I’d just have to shave fast.
“Finley Tanner.”
“Hi.”
The sound of Liam’s deep, sensuous voice tickled my ear. “H-hello.”
“I’ve got something for you.”
His voice faded in and out, and I could make out the sounds of wind and traffic. He must be on a cell. “Great.
We can meet—”
“I think you’re going to want to see this ASAP.”
“What is it?”
“Report on the car and a pretty—” the rest of his words were unintelligible.
“You’re breaking up. Are you on your way to drop it off here?”
“I’ve got a thing,” he said.
I stifled the urge to tell him to stick his thing in his ear.
“I’ll drop it by your place—”
“I’m not going to be home this evening,” I cut in. I didn’t tell him I had a date, but for the life of me, I didn’t know why I was keeping it a secret.
“First thing in the morning, then,” he countered.
“I’ve got an early meeting.”
“I’ve got the stuff with me now. I’ll be at the Blue Martini from six until about nine. Can you stop by?”
He left me no choice, damn it. His “thing” was at one of the biggest pickup bars in City Place? So he’s a player, eh?
So much for the leisurely bath. I calculated time in my head.
If I leave now, I’ve got just enough time to get home,
shower, dress, fix my shoe, swing by the Blue Martini, and
still make it to Patrick’s place before six thirty-one.
Maybe. Hopefully.
Traffic screwed me. I raced into my apartment, dress and shoes in hand. Dropping my shoes on the bed, I hung the dress over the hook on the back of my bathroom door and turned on the shower. The steam would smooth any wrinkles, and right then I was in serious need of multi-tasking.
I fumbled around on the top shelf of my closet, finally finding my box of treasures. Because of my forced foray into the world of factory damage, I keep a box of buttons, ribbons, stones, and other assorted items for emergency repairs. Luckily, I had a rhinestone that would work. It wasn’t perfect—the stone had a slight pink cast to it—but it would have to do.
My trusty glue gun—the woman’s duct tape—was
under the sink. I plugged it in, then found a clip for my hair while the glue stick heated. So far, so good.
I secured the stone in place, then cursed when the glue oozed on to my thumb. That was going to leave a mark.
Wounded thumb and all, I managed to shower, dress, and run a flat-iron through my hair in record time. I should have been thinking about Patrick, but, honestly, Liam’s sexy voice kept running through my head. No matter how fast I went, I was running behind. I hopped from foot to foot, tugging on my sandals while I hunted down my favorite Kate Spade Wristlet bag. I spent a few extra minutes I didn’t really have applying my makeup, wondering just who the hell I was trying to impress. Then I transferred my license, money, cell phone, a credit card, and my lipstick into my purse. The Kate Spade was cute, but it didn’t hold all that much. It was a fashion-over-function thing, but I was fine with that.
As I went to grab my keys off the counter, I saw the light on my home phone flashing. Tempted, but no time. I’d have to grab messages later.
It was almost six when I hit the entrance ramp for I-95.
I was heading back into town, so traffic on the southbound lanes was light. I made the trip in under fifteen minutes, a personal best.
The line for valet parking was six-cars long, so I doubled back and found a spot about a block west of City Place. I’d been so rushed to get out the door that I’d left my pashmina at home. Now I felt every brush of the cool night air as it danced along my bared shoulders.
The Blue Martini is on the second floor, so I climbed the stairs at a brisk pace, hearing the click of my heels against the marble steps. The sound of music blended with the din of conversation as I reached the entrance. As always, it was crowded.
Liam was easy to spot. He was leaning sideways against the bar. I allowed myself a few seconds to admire his profile before I breezed past the bouncers. I weaved through the crowd completely aware of the fact that I was garner-ing my fair share of admiring glances. Nothing boosts confidence like a new dress.
When I got closer, I noticed two things about Liam.
First, he was wearing a great-fitting pair of black slacks paired with a tight, torso-hugging black shirt. He looked perfect. Well, as perfect as any hot guy looks with a busty blonde hanging on his arm. By the way, she was the second “thing.”
It was a battle to keep my expression bland, especially when I got a decent look at his date. She was pretty in a showy way. She had on a glittery, gold halter top that left her perfectly toned back bare. Her skirt was white, short, and belted low on her hips. If she had an ounce of fat, I certainly couldn’t see it, and, believe me, I was looking.