Close To The Edge. Kylie Brant
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and made a face, reaching for a ridiculously small purse. “I should have called for a cab, but it’s too late. And my mother is going to be impossible.”
“That goes without sayin’.” Impossible was a much more favorable description than any he would have come up with. He and Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler regarded each other with thinly veiled contempt.
“All right.” She gave a deep breath, smoothed her hair. “How do I look?”
With a critical eye, he surveyed her. “Prim as a librarian. A very dull librarian.”
“Why would I even ask you?” she muttered, opening her purse and taking out her lipstick. Crossing to a mirror on the opposite wall, she applied it carefully. “You’ve made your preferences regarding women’s attire all too clear.”
He slouched against the wall to watch her. “Low-cut top, short skirt, panties optional. Choices that never go out of fashion.”
“Any question about your fashion sense is answered by reading the shirts you insist on wearing.”
Offended, he looked down at his favorite black T-shirt, which proclaimed I love everybody. You’re next. “You’re just bein’ mean because you have to spend the evenin’ with your mother.”
She blotted her lipstick and dropped the tissue in the wastebasket. “I have to go. Lock up for me, will you? And don’t forget to set the alarm. And check the windows. And make sure the door closes tightly behind you. It kind of sticks, you know, and I’m afraid…”
He gave her a friendly nudge out the office door. “I know how to lock up. Go. Have as good a time as possible with the Witches of the South.”
He thought, he was almost certain, he heard a smile in her voice. “Sisters of the South. Thanks. And you get one of your girlfriends to look at that bruise. I’m sure, given your skills, you can appear pathetic enough to be plied with TLC all night.”
The thought was cheering. “If not, I’m losin’ my touch.” And there was no reason, none at all, to believe that was true. He stood watching while she dashed through the rain to the car she’d parked right in front of the business. It wasn’t until the taillights winked and she pulled away, that he turned back to the office, already flipping through a mental file. Who should he call? Desiree? Leanne? Monique? Reaching for the phone, he punched in a number. With a pitying look at the now-empty street, Lucky was certain of one thing. Whatever he ended up doing this evening, it would beat what Jacey had waiting for her, hands down.
Chapter 2
“I’ve made your apologies to the hostess.”
The first words Charlotte Wheeler spoke were delivered in her customary genteel voice, carefully modulated. But years of experience had Jacey reading the disapproval layered beneath. Your late arrival is insufferably rude. There is no reason, short of death, that could possibly excuse your tardiness.
And because no excuse would mollify her mother, least of all the truth, Jacey didn’t offer any. “Thank you. Have you found your table setting yet?”
Charlotte’s lips tightened just a fraction. “We’re seated together. I waited for you before dining. I didn’t want to disturb the others at our table by both of us holding up their meals.”
Years of practice had her skirting the verbal land mine. “Let’s sit then, shall we? You’re looking lovely tonight. I always like that color on you.”
That, at least, could be said honestly. Charlotte’s dress was the same bottle-green color as her eyes. She was sixty, and, thanks to a skilled and discreet plastic surgeon, looked fifteen years younger. Her brown hair was worn short, as Charlotte subscribed to the outdated belief that a woman of a certain age should never wear long hair. It wasn’t the only antiquated notion she clung to, nor the only one they disagreed upon.
Jacey followed her mother across the crowded room, stopping several times to return greetings and exchange pleasantries. The contrast between the staid dinner and the smoky bar she’d left less than an hour ago couldn’t be more stark. If her mother had her way, Jacey’s entire adult life would be filled with more of the same; an endless parade of boring functions, peopled by equally dull members of what passed for New Orleans’ high society.
A shudder worked down her spine at the thought. They were shown to their table by a white-jacketed waiter who seated them, then summoned another to bring their plates. Every time Jacey wearied of the constant battles with her mother over her choice of careers, she had only to think of events like this to feel her resolve stiffen. That strength was necessary. Battles with Charlotte Marie Pembrooke Wheeler could leave lasting wounds.
The upside of her tardiness was that she was still eating when the guest speaker was introduced, which gave her something to focus on besides what promised to be an excruciatingly long-winded speech. With an ease born of long practice, Jacey assumed a politely interested expression and tuned the woman out.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the plight of the walruses, which was the current issue of the moment for the Sisters of the South Auxillary. Jacey would be happy to write a check, which was the pitch the speaker was working up to. But it seemed like the venues selected for the fund-raisers—fancy dinners or formal balls—were a bit ironic. Why not spend the money instead on the cause itself, and eliminate one layer of cost?
Her mind drifted to her business. She needed more help. Not that there had been any truth to Lucky’s breezy assertion that he carried more than his share of the weight, but there was no denying that a third investigator would lighten the load for them both. It was a nice problem to have, especially since there had been a time a few years ago when she’d almost despaired of getting to this point. But her business had been self-supporting for two years now. She no longer had to dip into her trust fund to pay her bills. Joan, her secretary, had her hands full managing the office, but Jacey didn’t think they were yet at the place where they could keep another full-timer busy. She decided to advertise next week for part-time help, and have the new employee handle some of the research.
Twenty minutes later there was a burst of applause and Jacey joined in, already calculating how much longer she’d have to stay. She’d be required to mingle, of course. Her mother would insist on that. But with any luck she could fulfill her obligations and be home in an hour.
The thought of her comfortable home in the French Quarter beckoned. Once she got there she’d chase away the chill from the evening rain by wrapping up on her couch in a quilt, with a hot drink and maybe an ice pack for her knee. It still throbbed, just a bit from the blow she’d landed on the biker. She could only hope that he was nursing a far more serious injury.
She parted from her mother, making the rounds as quickly as she could manage. Jacey had just stopped to speak to Suzanne Shrever, a former classmate of hers, when she felt eyes on her. She turned around, scanning the crowd, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Honestly, Jacinda,” Suzanne was saying, “I’m so envious of you with your exciting career. Is it very dangerous?”
That question was difficult to answer, Jacey thought, knowing that Suzanne’s idea of danger was hiring a new caterer.
“I’m careful,” she said, “and most of my work is routine. Missing persons, serving summonses, theft detection.” She was careful to remain vague. Although most of her cases were just that unexceptional, all she needed was for her mother to get wind of details such as her experience earlier today. She’d learned long ago that skirmishes with Charlotte were safer when she didn’t provide her with ammunition.
“Well,” Suzanne tossed her artfully styled curls, “I just think you’re the bravest thing. Bitsy didn’t think you’d show up here tonight, but I said that very thing, I said, well of course she will, Jacinda is just so brave.” She nodded vigorously.
The sensation was back, as if eyes were boring into her. “Well, that’s nice,” Jacey said inanely, scanning the crowd over the other woman’s shoulder. She found the source of the feeling