What a Girl Wants (4 page)

“No. It just makes me hungry.” George reached into her desk for a bag of nuts. “How was family lunch yesterday?”

She pursed her lips, looking for the right word. She settled on, “Weird.”

“Weirder than usual?”

“Way weirder.” She stood up long enough to pull the photo out of her pocket. She wasn’t sure why she’d taken it with her, but she was glad she had it to show George. “I found this picture and they both freaked out.”

George looked at the photo. “The kid is obviously you.”

“You can tell?”

“Duh.” She nodded at the print. “Your dimple. Who’s the woman?”

“I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me.”

“Who do you think she is?”

“Maybe my dad’s sister-in-law? His brother got married right before he died in Iraq, and she ditched the family right after.” She turned her head and frowned at the picture.

George looked up, her gaze shrewd. “Why is this bothering you? It’s just a picture.”

“Right? Who gets worked up about a picture, especially one from over thirty years before?” She frowned at it.

“You, obviously.” George smirked as she handed it back. “It’s funny. You never get worked up over anything. You’re so typically a California go-with-the-flow kind of girl.”

“Because this is nagging me on the inside.” There was something about the woman’s face, like she remembered it from a dream. “All the pictures of me before I was a year old were thrown away because they got moldy from a leaking pipe. This is the only one that exists, but my dad threw it away. Shouldn’t he have kept it?”

George shrugged. “He’s not really a sentimental kind of guy, is he?”

“No, but something’s wrong. If you’d been there, you’d have thought they were hiding something, too.”

“So find out who the woman is.”

She rolled her eyes as she put the photo back in her pocket. “And how do I do that?”

“Rick, the PI who rents from me upstairs.” Her friend pointed up. “I bet he could help you.”

“Isn’t that extreme? You don’t find a picture and then hire someone to investigate who the person in it is.”

“You do if it’s bugging you and your parents are acting weird. What can it hurt? Worst case is he won’t be able to figure anything out. Plus, have you seen him? He’s hot.”

“I think he’s taken.”

“Still can’t hurt to look.” George sipped her coffee. “Look, it’s bugging you so go talk to him. It’s probably overkill, you’re right, but maybe he can give you tips on where to look to answer who she is.”

Her phone rang. Taking it out of her back pocket, she pursed her lips when she saw it was Sebastian Tate. She thought about answering it, just to hear his voice in real time. But she didn’t want to drool over an ancient colleague of her dad’s in front of her friend, so she silenced it.

Ariana made a face and tucked her phone into the waistband of her yoga pants. New low: lusting over phone sex with an octogenarian.

George raised her brow. “A stalker or your dad?”

“A stalker my dad sent to me.”

“Is the old man still determined to turn you into the next Estée Lauder?”

“I don’t understand how he doesn’t hear that that’s the last thing I want. I’ve told him so many times that world domination is Belle’s thing, not mine.”

“Yeah.” George propped her feet on the desk. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you’re more low-key.”

“I just want to be happy.” And she was, now that she’d found what she was good at. She liked what she did and how personal it was. There was no reason to screw it up.

Speaking of which . . . She stood up. “I’ve got a facial in a little bit. See you tonight for drinks?”

“Yeah. It might be late because I’ve got this Chevy that won’t cooperate.”

“Call me.” She waved and headed back to her studio.

She let herself into her small space. It wasn’t very big at all, but it’d been all she could afford at the time. She hadn’t started to make skincare products yet when she’d moved in. She’d been in her scarf-knitting phase.

It hadn’t taken her long to realize knitting wasn’t her thing.

But making organic products was. She had George to thank for it, too, because her friend had come over for an improvised girl’s night and, the next day, exclaimed over how great her skin felt. She’d asked Ariana to make her more.

It’d been a homemade moisturizer. Ariana hadn’t had extra money to spend on cosmetics back then.

That day, everything had changed, falling into place. She’d found her purpose. She had a knack at making people feel good about themselves, and her skincare magnified that.

Her dad even agreed, which was huge. Edward Warren didn’t agree with anyone frivolously. He particularly didn’t agree with her plans on running her little business.

Her phone rang again as she was packaging some makeup remover for a makeup artist in the neighborhood. She took it out of her pocket, and the photo fell out with it. As she picked it up from the floor, she checked her screen.

Sebastian Tate again. She bit her lip. He was determined, she’d give him that. Because she sometimes made bad decisions, she answered it. “I’m not interested.”

“You don’t know what I’m offering,” he replied instantly.

If his voice was any indication, she could imagine all the things he could offer, and she wasn’t interested in any of them—much. “Just give up. I’ll tell Dad you tried, and we’ll call it even.”

He paused, as though he wasn’t averse to that idea. “I can’t do that without at least talking to you in person.”

And ruin her fantasy imagining him being hot? “No, thank you,” she said before she hung up. She tucked her phone in her pocket.

It caught on the photo. She took it out and studied it again.

Maybe George was right—it couldn’t hurt to just talk to the private investigator.

She checked the time. Twenty minutes till her next appointment. Before she could change her mind, she turned and headed for his office. He wouldn’t be there, anyway, she assured herself.

But he was. To her surprise, he buzzed her in and stood waiting for her in the doorway. His smile was no-nonsense as his eyes focused on her.

“I’m probably wasting your time,” she said as she reached the top of the stairs.

He shrugged. “Let me be the judge of that. Come in.”

She followed him inside, taking the visitor’s chair facing his desk. On his desk was a worn bronze nameplate that read Rick Clancy, Private Investigator, in simple lettering. The room was pretty much like what you’d imagine a detective’s office to be, except for one bookshelf that housed a collection of gourd art.

She stared at it. He didn’t look like the type of person who’d collect gourds.

“My wife is the artist,” he said, seeing what had drawn her attention.

“They’re beautiful.”

His eyes narrowed as he took his seat. “You sound like you mean it.”

“I do.” She had an appreciation for obscure arts.

“So what brings you in?”

Right. Redirecting her attention, she reached forward and set the picture on the surface. “The baby is me, but I don’t know who the woman is.”

He nodded. “You don’t have anyone in your family who’d know her?”

“That’s the thing. My parents acted strange when I asked them about her.” She frowned at the picture, feeling the lines of the woman’s face tugging at her. “I feel like I’m missing something. It’s like she’s on the periphery of my mind, but I can’t put a finger on it.”

“It’s bugging you and you want answers,” he summed up.

She smiled. “Pretty much.”

He took out a pad of paper and reached for a pen. “Do you have any clue if she’s a family member?”

“I think she might be my uncle’s wife. He died in Desert Storm, and I have no idea what happened to her.”

Nodding, Rick scribbled some notes. “Anything else you can think of that might help? Has your family always lived in San Francisco?”

“We lived in Los Angeles until just before my sister was born.”

He speared her with his gaze. “Are you sure you want to find out who this is?”

She pressed against the back of the chair. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but people don’t really think these things through, and the next thing you know Pandora’s box has been opened and it’s too late to close it back up.” He pushed the photo back toward her. “Some stories are better left buried.”

Looking down at the picture, she stared at the woman holding her. “You think I’m going to regret finding out who this is?”

“Yeah, I do.” He shrugged. “I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve uncovered a lot of secrets. You think you want to know, but once the secret is out, you’ll wish you had let it be. Are you happy?”

Pursing her lips, she nodded. “Yes.”

“Then leave this woman in hiding.”

“Are you saying you won’t let me hire you?”

“No, but I want you to be sure of the consequences.”

What consequences could there be to a woman who’d never been in her life? She glanced at the photo, knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

“Good decision.”

“But for the sake of the discussion, if you
were
going to look for her, where would you start?”

“Well”—he tapped the pen against the desk—“she knew your parents when you were a baby, so I’d probably start by researching the people they knew. Their friends, their neighbors, coworkers they associated with. Classmates they kept in touch with, that sort of thing.”

She nodded. She could do all that online.

Rick narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Probably not.” She smiled ruefully at him.

“Then I’m here if you need help.” He picked up the picture and frowned at it, obviously puzzled. He shook his head and handed it back. “I’m telling you my gut says this is a mistake.”

“It’ll all be good.” She slipped it back into her pocket.

“Good luck,” he said, sounding dubious.

“Thanks.” She stood with a confident smile. It was just a strange woman. What was the worst thing she could possibly discover?

‡

S
ebastian stepped out of the car service that dropped him off on the corner of Fillmore and Greenwich, where Google Maps said Ariana Warren’s shop was located.

Before he looked for her shop, he walked around the neighborhood. He’d expected Edward Warren’s daughter to live somewhere upscale. Not that this area was dodgy, as his cousins would say, but there weren’t any Gucci stores here. The fanciest shop appeared to be an optometrist’s office that had Barbie dolls hanging from nooses in the window.

He stopped to look at its large display window. Beyond the court-martialed Barbies, there was a grand piano. Just inside the doorway, there was a shiny red Ducati parked to the side.

Sebastian thought of his friend Luca, who’d married Beatrice, the most difficult of his Summerhill cousins. Smiling, he made a mental note to call them. He missed them.

Turning, he narrowly escaped being trampled by the svelte women coming out of the yoga studio next door. He noted the juice bar around the corner and then, phone in hand, he pulled up the address. Ariana Warren’s shop should be directly across.

He looked but all he saw was a tiny wine shop called In Vino Veritas. He stared into the window as he crossed the street. Inside, there was a woman with dark curly hair unpacking a box, sipping from the glass of red wine in her hand, despite the early hour.

It was kind of tempting to join her. Smiling, he ignored the urge and found the address Edward had given him. There was no sign, but the intercom had a listing for Dew Me.

Pausing, he looked up at the building. It looked like an ordinary apartment complex, not the headquarters for a skincare conglomerate. He thought about everything he’d told Mark Schaffer from Whole Foods when they’d talked that morning. Mark had been very interested in Dew Me and had requested a prospectus. Sebastian wondered how interested he’d be if he saw where the company was based.

“Hi there!” someone said from behind him.

He turned around to find a gypsy studying him curiously. She wore a colorful scarf around her head, completely covering her hair, and several more wrapped around her body. When she waved, all the bracelets on her wrists jangled merrily.

Looking closer, she appeared to be young except for her eyes. Her eyes said that she’d seen a lot in her short life.

She smiled at him as though they’d been friends forever. “How are you?”

“Great,” he said, playing along. “And you?”

“Better, now that you’re here.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. “I’ve been waiting for you to show up.”

Was this Ariana Warren? “Who are you?”

“I’m Esme,” she said as though he should know who she was. “What’s your name?”

“Sebastian,” he said automatically. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m here for someone else.”

“I know! Like I said, I’ve been waiting for you, Sebastian. I was beginning to turn into a crapehanger, though. I thought you’d never get here.”

“Crapehanger?”

“Someone who’s pessimistic,” she explained cheerily. “It was today’s Word of the Day.”

Maybe she wasn’t as harmless as she looked.