Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
The look of incredulousness on Simon's face nearly duplicated her own emotional state. It seemed crazy, unlikely, impossible. But it was true. After too many years apart, she was going to see Jazz Chester. Tonight. So what was she doing, standing there playing games with Simon Hunt? She should just walk away. She should turn around and go to Boston and never come back— at least not without Jazz.
“Whoa.” Simon looked out at the horizon as if he needed its steadying influence. “I guess you got through to him.”
Frankie nodded. “He was in his office.”
Simon stood up, brushing the sand from the seat of his shorts. “And you're going there
today?”
“I'm catching the ten-fifty flight off the island.”
“Tell me about the phone call. Start with the part where he said hello.”
“He's exactly the same,” Frankie told him. “He's single—divorced, I think. He didn't go into detail. I told him about my search for his stepfather—Marshall is John's last name. We were close, tracking him with the rental records.”
“So that's it? Case closed? Time for a vacation in Boston?”
“The case isn't closed.” Frankie started walking back toward the house, and he followed. “Jazz didn't have John Marshall's phone number—they didn't stay in touch. Jazz's mother and John were divorced twelve years ago. That's why Jazz never came back to Sunrise Key.”
Simon snorted. “Is that what he told you? And you believed him?”
Frankie shot him a hard look. “Of course.”
“He was what, twenty years old, yet he couldn't come down here without his mommy and his daddy?”
“Sunrise Key was John's favorite vacation spot,” Frankie said tightly. “Jazz
wanted
to come back, but he was afraid he'd run into John. Apparently the divorce was nasty.”
Simon lifted one eyebrow. “It looks bad to me, Francine. He can't be
bothered
to come back here, yet at the drop of a hat you're blowing hundreds of bucks on a plane ticket to see
him
again. He's taking advantage of you.”
Frankie stopped on the stairs to the back porch feeling exasperated and annoyed and emotionally chafed. What did she care what Simon thought? And certainly, who was he to criticize Jazz? Simon hadn't had a single relationship in his entire life that wasn't based on his taking advantage of someone else's hopes and emotions and weaknesses. He hadn't
once
had a relationship where he'd been the one to give instead of take, where
he'd
been the one to fly a thousand miles, his heart in his throat, simply to see someone's smile.
“For your information,” she said icily, “my trip to Boston isn't a social call. Jazz's mother
did
keep in touch with John Marshall regarding alimony payments. Jazz thinks Marshall's current phone number is in her address book.”
“And you can't just call her …. ?”
“No, I can't. She died six months ago.”
He was instantly contrite. “I'm sorry, I didn't know—”
“There's a lot you don't know.”
“You're right. I'm sorry. Please, fill me in.”
“Jazz hasn't had time to go through his mother's personal effects,” Frankie said stiffly. “Everything from her apartment was packed up and put in one of those self-storage facilities. He thinks there's at least one, maybe two boxes that are labeled as being from her desk.”
Simon looked at his watch. “Okay. What do I need to pack? How many days do you think we'll have to stay?”
“We?”
“I'm coming too.”
Frankie had to laugh. “Oh, no, you're not. I don't need your help for this.”
“What if John Marshall's address
isn't
in the box that was packed from Jazz's mom's desk? What if you need to search through the entire storage area? You'll need me for that.”
“I'll muddle through.”
“I'll meet you at the airport at ten-thirty.”
Simon started walking toward the front of the house, toward the street where his car was parked. “Until this case is closed, I'm your assistant, remember?”
“No, you're not my assistant.” Frankie chased after him. She had to go to Boston alone. It would be too weird to see Jazz for the first time in years with Simon looking on.
“Oh, yes, I am.”
Frankie's frustration turned to full-blown annoyance. “Look, Si, this was just another one of your games, but it's over now. You lose—I didn't sleep with you. Sorry. Time to hit on your next target.”
Simon looked at her over the top of his sports car, a deadly glint in his eye. If Frankie hadn't known better, she might have thought he was even more upset about this than she was. “Are you kidding?” he said with a tight smile. “This isn't over—it's just starting to get interesting. See you at the airport, boss.” He got into his car, closing the door behind him and starting the engine with a roar.
Frankie's annoyance turned to anger, and she leaned down, knocking rapidly on the passenger's
side window until he opened it. “You're fired. You can't come with me because you're
fired!
“
He just laughed as he slipped his sunglasses onto his nose and drove away.
Simon had to pull over to the side of Ocean Avenue. He had to take several long, slow, deep breaths before his heart rate returned to near normal and his hands stopped shaking.
Jazz was single. Jazz was exactly as Frankie had remembered him. Jazz was friggin’
perfect.
Jazz was going to have dinner with her to night ….
It was his worst nightmare coming true. God help him, if Jazz truly turned out to be a candidate for Mister Rogers's nice-guy-of-the-year award, Simon could quite literally kiss Frankie good-bye.
He could see it all so clearly. She'd extend her trip to Boston for a week or two. Before the second week was out, Jazz, not being stupid enough to pass up a good thing twice, would ask her to marry him. And Simon would be a guest at their June wedding. He'd sit in the back of the church
and die a thousand times, wanting her,
needing
her, knowing she was forever out of his reach.
Of course, he'd finally get his chance to kiss Frankie—when he kissed Jazz's bride.
Just like that, Frankie would be gone forever.
You're fired,
she'd told him.
Like hell he was.
You lose.
Not yet, he didn't. Not yet, not by a long shot.
He
was
going to Boston. And before midnight tonight, he vowed, he was going to seduce her. He was going to get what he wanted and convince Frankie that it was what
she
wanted too. All it would take was a single kiss.
He was a fool for not having kissed her before. He'd had the opportunity. One kiss and she'd stop being able to hide the fact that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. One kiss and this mutual attraction they'd both denied for so long would ignite into flames.
One kiss ….
Nothing and no one was going to stop him.
No one except Jazz Chester. Nothing except the fact that Jazz was the one Frankie truly wanted. Jazz was the one who was going to be with her
tonight, holding her, kissing her, probably even making love to her.
Miserably, Simon pulled his car back onto Ocean Avenue and drove the rest of the way home.
THE PHONE RANG
in the hotel room, and Frankie dove across the king-sized bed to pick it up. “Hello?”
It wasn't Simon.
It was the starchy-sounding concierge from the hotel's front desk. “Several large boxes have been delivered for you,” he said, his blue-blooded voice tinged with disapproval. “Shall I have the bellboy bring them up?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She hung up the phone, silently berating herself. Of course it wouldn't be Simon on the phone.
Simon hadn't bothered to show up for the airline flight off the key. Apparently, he'd thought better of their parting argument, and cut his losses. No doubt he'd moved on—exactly as she'd said—to his next “target.”
No, he wouldn't be calling her here. Besides, even if he
did
do something as certifiably insane as follow her to Boston on a later flight, there was no way he'd find her at the ritzy Parker House hotel.
Frankie had called Clayton Quinn on her flight from Orlando to Boston. She'd filled her client in, letting him know she was close to finding his great-aunt Alice's mysterious friend John. Clay had been thrilled at her progress. He'd been ecstatic at the news she'd discovered John's last name was Marshall, and that his current phone number and address were—hopefully—packed in a box in Boston.
Clay had recommended that Frankie stay at the Parker House while she was in Boston. In fact, he had more than recommended—he'd insisted. He'd reminded her to keep her receipts for lodging and meals. Whatever she spent would be reimbursed as a travel expense.
She'd made her room reservation from the plane, and had been shocked to find out that one night's stay in the fancy hotel cost more than she normally spent on four weeks’ worth of groceries.
The towels were heated on steam-filled bars in the bathroom. There were telephones in every corner of the room. Huge windows overlooked downtown Boston. The furniture and decor were elegant and made Frankie feel a touch nervous— as if she might accidentally break something priceless.
No, Simon would never think to look for her here.
There was a knock on the door—the bellboy with the boxes sent over from the storage facility. He frowned, recognizing her from the front desk, where she'd insisted on carrying her own small suitcase up to her room. Still, he was servitude incarnate, making sure he placed the boxes exactly, precisely where she wanted them, and offering to open them for her. Frankie tipped him—too little from the look on his face—and then he was gone.
She closed the door and turned to gaze at the big boxes. Somewhere inside one of those boxes were a phone number and an address that were
going to solve her first big-league case
and
get her that $10,000 bonus.
So why didn't she feel excited? Why wasn't she giddy with euphoria? Why wasn't she doing a victory dance and slapping a high five?
Well, there wasn't anyone to high-five, for starters.
Simon should have been with her.
Frankie shook her head. Where had
that
crazy thought come from? She certainly didn't need Simon around, distracting her with his bedroom eyes. No, she didn't need Simon, subtly stealing her focus away from everyone and everything else around her, until all she thought about was his smile, the sound of his laughter, the touch of his hand on her arm, the look in his eyes as he undressed her ….
And
that
was one fantasy she was never going to live out. Simon had given up on her. True, she'd fired him, but when had something like that ever stopped him before? It was clear he'd decided she simply wasn't worth the effort.
Dear Lord, she was exhausted. She'd been up all night. She'd caught a few hours of sleep on the
plane, but she wasn't a happy flyer, and her nerves kept her from feeling truly rested.
No, this wasn't disappointment she was feeling, it was fatigue. Simon Hunt was nothing but trouble, and she was a thousand miles away from that trouble right now, and that was a
good
thing. Wasn't it?
Jazz. Think about Jazz, not Simon.
She had approximately thirty minutes to shower and transform herself into something that looked more alive than dead before Jazz Chester came to take her to dinner.
Frankie pulled out the blue-flowered dress she'd thrown into her suitcase along with a clean pair of jeans, a few extra T-shirts, and several changes of underwear.
When she'd called Jazz from the hotel, he told her he'd have his secretary make a reservation for dinner at the restaurant right there in the Parker House. Frankie had caught a glimpse of the restaurant from the front desk. It was
not
a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of place.
Only someone with Simon's confidence and charisma could walk into a fancy restaurant wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt and look as if he were
properly dressed. Simon had that slightly amused, so-what attitude ….
Frankie skimmed off her clothes and climbed into the shower. She closed her eyes and let the water pound down on her head.
So what. It was a good attitude to have, and in her current state, not impossible to adopt.
So what if she was having dinner with the first boy she'd ever loved. So what if she didn't feel like wearing some stupid wrinkled dress. So what if the restaurant didn't serve her because she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt—they'd go get pizza. So what if Jazz disapproved ….
And if she never even so much as
saw
Simon again ….
Try as hard as she might, when it came to Simon Hunt, Frankie couldn't summon up a single so-what.
“I'm sorry,” the hotel concierge told Simon. “I can't give out room numbers for our guests, but I can connect you to Ms. Paresky's room.”
Simon had a pinpoint spot of pain directly over his left eyebrow that was threatening to explode
into the biggest headache he'd ever had in his life. It had started before he'd sat in traffic for more than forty-five minutes in the taxi that took him from Logan Airport to the Parker House. It had started before the flight he took from Sara -sota was delayed for two hours. It had started before he'd been unable to charter a plane off Sunrise Key and had had to rent a car and drive all the way to the Sarasota airport. It had started when he'd realized he was going to miss the 10:50 flight off the key, when he'd stopped to play the messages on his answering machine. One of his best clients had left half a dozen distressed calls about several priceless twelfth-century pieces she was trying to unload to a buyer in Jacksonville who hadn't done more than give her a verbal commitment.
He'd returned the call, calming the elderly lady down and promising to get the agreement in writing as soon as he returned from Boston. But his client was so upset—her grandson's college education depended on this sale—he had to draw up a written agreement. It had to be faxed to both the seller and the buyer and reworded and re-faxed, and before Simon stood up from his desk,
it was just after eleven. The sale was binding, his client was relieved, but he'd missed Frankie's flight.