As you'll recall from last time Holden Heidegger has just come face to face with the man who dumped him fifteen years ago. So, will Jeremy recognize him? And how does Holden feel about the situation. Let's find out!
The years have been more than kind to Mr. Daniels in
many ways. Mother Nature obviously loves him—he’s filled out in all the right
places. I suspect he has a personal gym and he knows how to use it. Even underneath
the expensive clothes, I can tell that is one fine-looking body. Having access
to money hasn’t hurt him any, either. He always did like to dress well. It was
just harder before. Neither one of us came from money. He married into it and I
still don’t have it. But then I wasn’t exactly looking for it; I guess he was.
Is he happy? Stupid question. He’s cheating on his
wife. That should tell me something. I know I don’t have any proof of that, not
yet, but I’ve taken on enough of these kind of cases to know that when the wife
gets a whiff that there’s something going on, there generally is, ‘cause they
tend to be the last ones to know. Part
of that where there’s smoke, there’s fire syndrome.
I suspect Mr. Jeremy Daniels is one smoldering fire,
waiting to release his flames at the first opportunity.
I catch myself staring directly into his gorgeous
brown eyes. I drop my gaze to his pale pink lips, with the perfect Cupid’s bow,
and I try not to remember how good those lips used to taste when they were
locked with mine. So I drop my gaze even farther and fixate on his broad,
smooth jaw instead, lightly stubbled and looking way more chic than any look I
could hope to carry off. So much for objectivity. This isn’t working out very
well for me, is it? I’m fighting every inner demon I possess, the ones with his
name branded on
them, and they’re screaming at me to do something—anything—and
do it right now.
I manage to ignore them.
Has he been talking? I really should concentrate
more.
Have I changed so much? Hell if I know. I’ve gotten
a little taller, added a little weight; I’m not as skinny as I used to be, I
guess, but who is? I can still wear most of my old jeans when I’ve a mind to.
The ones that I haven’t worn clean through. I know I look older than the last
time he saw me, but hell, it’s been fifteen years. And I knew him in a
heartbeat. Why doesn’t he know me? Is that common sense or hurt pride speaking
up?
“I asked you who you are, and why you’re carrying a
gun in my hotel?”
Damn, he did ask me something.
“Just an ordinary guy doin’ my job, Mr. Daniels.” I
pull off my hat, and run a hand through my hair to get it to settle down some,
because common sense has just kicked in and booted my emotional side out of the
way—I’ve figured it out. Why he doesn’t recognize me. Yet. I didn’t wear one of
these back then, and a hat is a great way for people to not pay attention to
your face. Criminals use them all the time; I remember my dad telling me that. Witnesses
pick up on the fact that someone wore a hat and they can’t tell you what the
face beneath it looked like. The silver hoops are new too. Part of my
rehabilitation, after he left. I guess when you get down to it I have changed a
bit since high school. Only natural. So has he.
I wait for his reaction, force myself to assume a
calm demeanor, one that I’m far from feeling, to hide how much I’m quivering on
the inside. Damned if I’m going to let him know just how badly he’s upset my
equilibrium even after all this time. I watch him carefully as he does a double
take. He narrows his eyes and he’s looking straight into my soul now; his
expression’s impossible to read; like a poker player studying a potentially
winning hand and deciding how to play it. I don’t cut him any slack, simply stare
back at him. He’ll either figure it out or he won’t.
“Well I’ll be damned…” And there it is. That slow
lazy smile I used to know so well, the one that lights up his eyes and used to
make me tingle inside. Guess what? It still does.
And I know that he knows. And he knows I know he
knows.
A polite—make that bored—cough from the doorway is a
reminder that the rent-a-cops are still standing there. With my gun.
“I’ll take that,” Jeremy holds out his hand toward
them, his eyes still locked on mine.
“Mr. Daniels,” one of the witless wonders ventures,
but Jeremy snaps his head toward him, and he ceases and desists whatever
protest he was about to make. Quietly lays my piece in his boss’ outstretched
hand.
“Thank you for your diligence in this matter. I’ll
call you if I need you.” He’s gone from irate to charming in six seconds flat.
While Jeremy deals with his subordinates, I look
around me at his grand and glorious office. He certainly has come up in the
world. Large, dark, expensive-looking
desk that looks like it’s pure mahogany. No gunmetal grey cabinets in sight,
nothing to show that this man works for a living, or does anything quite so
mundane as filing. He probably has a pretty little secretary to handle that
sort of thing for him; no doubt she has a desk of her own in an adjoining
office. Isn’t that how it usually works? Someone to bring him his coffee and
take dictation while sitting in his lap?
At least in some of the old movies I’ve seen.
The office is done up in rich, warm tones—all reds
and browns—with gold trimmed everything. The art on the walls could easily
rival the stuff they got hanging in the Louvre. I’m not surprised to see that
he’s got his own elegant bar set against the back wall; the top’s covered with cut
glass decanters and bottles of assorted liquors and mixers.
Now this is interesting. I spot two glasses sitting on
the bar, looking out of place as though they’ve been hastily set out of the
way, and they’re both barely touched. I don’t imagine Jeremy’s devolved into a
two-fisted drinker, so I wonder if my unexpected arrival has managed interrupted
something. A tryst, maybe? But with whom? Where is this mystery person, and can
I be on to something? Of course, this isn’t exactly proof of any infidelity. I
need to find more solid evidence than this before I can even think about going
back to his wife to tell her the unpleasant news.
Jeremy closes the door, having shooed out the faux
lawmen, and now we’re alone, and my stomach is tied up in knots, but I don’t
let on ‘cause I sure as hell don’t intend to let him know how badly he hurt me.
Play
it cool, boy… real cool.
“Holden…” His voice is whiskey soft as he crosses
the room, coming straight for me. For someone who ran out on me without a word
of explanation—and I don’t count his terse “We’re done”—he sure seems to have
forgotten all about the past. Our past, anyway. I can’t decide if I’m more
relieved, or affronted.
“Holden, it’s been so long…” He lays my gun on his
desk, removes my hat from my hand and sets it on top of the gun, then reaches
for my hands, takes them into his, and pulls me in for a light kiss before I
realize what his intentions are. I submit with as good a grace as I can muster—not
even going to go there, ‘specially not with my client’s husband. Remember her?
The lady who’s paying you? I take a step
backward, but all that gets me is my ass plastered against the bar with nowhere
to go.
“You’re looking good,” he says. “Come on, let’s sit
down and catch up. Let me fix you a drink. What are you drinking these days? You
name it, I’ve got it.”
While it’s a tempting offer, I think I’ve put enough
liquor away for one evening, and I am working, so let’s be sensible here. As
sensible as I can be, under the circumstances. Better to keep a clear head, all
things considered.
“Nothing for me, thanks, I’m working,” I demur.
“Working?” He
arches his thick, dark eyebrows at me; on another man, they’d be considered Neanderthal,
but on him, they’re just sexy. “Sorry I
don’t have any root beer. Will water do, instead?”
I’ll be damned. He remembered.
Water actually sounds real good, and I nod, not
trusting my voice. He leans down and opens the door of a mini-fridge concealed
in the bar, one I hadn’t noticed, and pulls out a plastic bottle, handing it to
me. Our fingers touch, and I’m surprised to feel a low-grade tingle shoot
through me, like I’ve just touched a live wire. I take the bottle, pull back,
and step around him, mumbling, “Thanks.”
I notice he picks up one of the two drinks. I wonder
what happened to his partner in crime? Did he shoo her into the next office to
await our departure? Was he afraid she’d be recognized if she tried to make her
escape, or is he just waiting this out to return to whatever was interrupted?
I notice there’s another door on the other side of
the room. If the first one leads to his secretary’s office, I’m guessing this
one’s a private washroom. Being boss certainly has its perks. In my office
building, we’re stuck with communal lavatories and grateful to have them.
He waves me to the elegant oxblood Chesterfield sofa
along one wall and I perch on the edge, afraid if I sink back too far I won’t
want to come up for a long time. He takes a seat beside me, turned toward me,
his knees touching mine.
“How do you mean, you’re working?” He takes a sip of
his drink, regarding me curiously over the rim.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a private investigator.” I’m a real big
believer in the truth. I think that’s part of why I do what I do. Something
that was instilled in me by my old man, this love of justice. Of righting
wrongs and making things better. Even when the truth is a bitter pill to
swallow.
Doesn’t mean I intend to tell him that I’m
investigating him, of course. My father didn’t raise any stupid sons.
Jeremy’s smile is so disarming. He’s so at ease with
himself, and the situation, and being king of his own hill. Does he have no
conscience? No memory of what he did to me? Or is it all part of a past he left
behind with
no regrets?
If he can do it so easily, why can’t I? I thought I
had until tonight. Now I’m not so sure.
“Are you investigating one of my guests?” His tone is even; he shows just the right
amount of concern for someone with a business to run, someone who would not
care for adverse publicity of any sort.
“Sorry, I’m really not at liberty to say.”
“Okay, Holden, I trust you.” He pats my knee and
smiles that smile, and I have to keep reminding myself that this is strictly
business. Even if it weren’t, why would I ever take him back again?
“You know, I can remember when all you wanted out of
life was to be a cowboy.”
“Yeah, like when I was maybe six. I got over that a
long time ago.”
“To be honest, I always figured you’d end up a cop,
like Stan. You and him were always so close.
How’s the old guy doing? He ever retire from the force? Or he still making this
world a safer place to live?”
I look down at the bottle of water, still unopened,
and twirl it between my palms for an uncomfortable moment; I should have
realized he didn’t know. “Jeremy, Dad passed on seven years ago.”
“Oh God, Holden, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” He
slides his arm about my shoulder, and the heat I feel emanating from him is
echoed by my own rising temperature.
This is not good.
Thinking quickly, I let the bottle of water slip
through my fingers, grateful it can’t spill. “Oops, butter fingers,” I mumble,
ducking beneath his touch in order to pick it up. “ ’Sall right, I figured you
didn’t know.”
I straighten up, slide myself a little farther down
on the sofa and manage to put a few inches between us in the process. “What
about you?” I aim the conversation in other directions. I don’t want to talk
about Dad. Not here, not now, and not with him.
“Me? I run a hotel.” His laugh is a rumble, low and
throaty.
“I kind of noticed that.” I force a half-way cheesey
grin onto my face. “I mean, how’d you get into this?” I wave my hand,
indicating the whole set-up—fabulous office and everything—pretending that I
don’t know he married his way in. “Last I remember you wanted to be a drummer
in a rock and roll band. What happened to that dream?”
“Reality, that’s what happened.” He shrugs. “And
lack of talent. After high school, I got married. To the boss’ daughter. I
guess you can say I got really lucky.”
Or
she got really unlucky.
“So that’s what happened to you, is it?” Does my
tone sound as bitchy as I think it does? Way to not mix in the sins of the
past.
“Holden…” He reaches for my hands again, first
taking the water out of my grasp, and he’s looking into my eyes most earnestly,
and for just a moment I think I see something… A trace of remorse? Repentance?
Regret for what might have been? “There’s so much I need to say to you… things
I need to explain—“
“No, you don’t owe me any explanation, Jeremy. Life
goes on, right? I survived… you survived… Hell, the whole world’s still
turning, right? No harm done…” I reach down toward the floor to grab the
wayward water—something tells me I’ll be better off with something in my hand,
something that isn’t Jeremy—but he forestalls my movement, and the next thing I
know, he’s pulled me into his arms, and he’s got our lips pressed so slightly together
that I can’t properly breathe and my head is spinning.
He pushes me back until I’m lying flat on that sofa with him on top, and he’s
stretched out across me, just like old times, and much as I wish it wouldn’t,
my second brain is rising to the occasion. Are those deep-throated moans that I
hear? And are they really coming out of me?
I’m afraid so.
I should be pushing him off of me, telling him no,
reminding him he’s married… but I’m worse than a teenager in heat, and it’s a
bit late now to remember I haven’t had any in a while and I’m horny as hell.
Who am I kidding? I want him and I know it.
Thank heaven for divine providence in the form of a
cell phone’s insistent ring. It stops him cold—something I sure wasn’t capable
of doing—and he sits up, pulling it out of his pocket, glancing at it, then at
me.
I’ve managed to sit up and I’m working at catching
my breath, while trying to calm down my better half, who’s making my life
damned miserable at the moment, not to mention it’s making sitting mighty uncomfortable.
“Holden, I’m sorry, I have to take care of this.
Hotel business… you understand?”
That’s my cue and I take it. Hightailing it to his
desk, I pick up my hat and set it on my head, slide my gun back into its
holster, out of sight.
“Give me your card, why don’t you? I can always use
the services of a good PI.” He grins at me, not in the least bit sorry, or
ashamed, or any of the other feelings I think should be coursing through him
but aren’t. Without thinking, I reach for my wallet, pull out a business card,
and let it flutter down to his desk. It’s only got my business number and the
office address. Nothing personal.
“So we’re good, about this whole thing, right?” I’m
referring to the wedding incident, whatever else he may think. Let him make of
it what he will.
“I’ll call you,” he promises.
I can hardly wait.
“Keep me updated on that thing you’re investigating
will you? I mean, as much as you can. For the hotel’s sake.”
Sure
thing, Jeremy, let me just do that.
I give him a noncommittal and probably goofy grin as
I slip out his door and close it behind me, and for just a moment I lean
against it, gathering the energy to move on. It’s been one hellacious night and
I just want to go home.
But something inside of me, some gut instinct, tells
me not to go. Not yet. My intuition’s kicking in, and for what it’s worth, I’m
going with it.
I spot a door between me and the elevator and
without thinking hard about what I’m going to do, I head for it, praying it’s
not locked. It’s not, and I step inside. Just me and a bunch of cleaning
equipment. Makes sense. Must be one for every floor.
I close the door almost all the way, leaving it
cracked just enough for me to peer through. From where I stand, I have a bird’s
eye view of Jeremy’s office door. No one can go in or out without me noticing.
It’s the out part I’m particularly concerned with, though, if my idea’s
correct.
I have a hunch, one that I think I’m about to see
proven correct, that his phone call was from his bit on the side, probably
tired of having been tossed aside like yesterday’s news. Although I could be
wrong, and instead of watching her come busting out with a full head of steam,
maybe they’re making up and I’m going to end up standing here until my legs go
numb while they party just a few feet away. An unpleasant scenario at best.
No, wait, the door’s opening now. A figure slips
out, looks cautiously around, and proceeds toward the elevator. No sign of
Jeremy. Lover boy must have said his good-byes already. I know how sentimental
he isn’t.
The figure draws nearer, and I instinctively press
closer into the shadows, keeping the door cracked the minimum I can still see
through, but she never glances my way and as she passes by, I get a good hard
look, and holy cow… I didn’t see this coming.
This mystery woman of Jeremy’s is actually a mystery
man. Except there’s no mystery involved. I know exactly who he is—the cute
blond bartender with the friendly manner and the pretty blue eyes.
Well, well, well, the plot has certainly thickened. There’s
been an interesting development in a case that already began on the wrong side
of strong. And now I definitely have something to go on; just a matter of
following it up.
Looks like Mr. Daniels has reverted to his old ways—or
perhaps he’s always had it, and his wife is the exception to that rule, instead
of the other way around? That being the case, and if his preferences haven’t
really changed, then his wife is in for a very rude awakening, I’m afraid.
And how hard will it be for me to be the one to rain
on his parade?
to be continued
Until next time, take care!
♥ Julie
No comments:
Post a Comment