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the back of the store, disappearing into the storage room.
“Have a seat by the stove.” Russ nodded toward the cozy sitting area Bert had just vacated, figuring he might as well get this conversation over with. “I’ll bring the coffee. Cream? Sugar?”
“Cream, please.” Sydney made her way toward the two wooden chairs by the potbellied stove.
Russ kept a wary eye on her as he rummaged around for two clean cups. She was on her phone again, talking and nodding as she slipped her arms out of her jacket, revealing a silky green blouse that draped over lush, round breasts. She gazed at the wide array of camping gear. Because the store was small, Russ utilized every nook and cranny to display backpacks, sleeping bags, tents and all manner of gadgets. He hung kayaks, canoes and bicycles from the ceiling.
Finally she concluded her call, sliding the phone into a jacket pocket. “This is quite a place you have,” she commented. “You could buy just about anything—” Her voice broke off. “Oh, a dog.”
“He’s not for sale,” Russ said. But when he turned back toward Sydney with the coffee in hand, she wasn’t smiling. In fact, the supremely confident expression she’d worn earlier had fled and she was sitting stiff as a pine plank in her chair as Nero sniffed enthusiastically at her boots.
Russ brought the coffee over. “Nero, go lie down.”
The old dog looked at Russ with a surprised expression, then ambled over to his customary place by the stove and settled down with a huff. But he continued to watch Sydney with almost as much interest as Russ felt.
“Are you afraid of dogs?” Russ asked, handing Sydney a cup of coffee with cream. “’Cause old Nero here is about as vicious as a butterfly.”
“I’m not exactly afraid of dogs, I’m just not a dog person,” she said decisively, her enormous melted-chocolate eyes still fixed on the bloodhound. She was probably hoping Russ would send Nero outside, but Russ wasn’t about to submit the arthritic old dog to the chilly, damp weather when he didn’t have to. Not even for a pretty stranger.
Despite her denial, Russ knew the woman’s aversion to Nero was more than a simple preference. She was afraid. Probably afraid of bugs and snakes, too, and he was sure her dainty little hands had never baited a fishhook with a nice, fat, slimy earthworm.
Her cell phone rang, playing a snippet of something jazzy. She checked the caller ID but didn’t answer, choosing instead to turn her attention back to Russ.
He sat close enough to her that he could detect her surprising, spring-morning scent. He’d expected a woman like her to be wearing something stronger, one of those expensive designer perfumes that grabbed you by the throat.
Deirdre’s perfume had been that way. And why was he thinking about her all a sudden? Just because Sydney was obviously a sophisticated urban woman was no reason to compare the two. Deirdre was ancient history. Sydney was here and now, and he was more than curious about her reasons for seeking him out so persistently.
Sydney pulled off her beret and hung it on the back of the chair. A wavy strand of her hair fell across her cheek, and Russ felt the illogical urge to smooth it back from her face. Before he could do something foolish, though, she tucked the hair behind her ear.
Taking a sip of coffee, Sydney pulled her scattered thoughts together. She really wasn’t comfortable around dogs, especially big dogs like this one. They were dirty and smelly and noisy. She wondered how the health department would feel about one in a general store. But that wasn’t her problem.
Edward Russell Klein was her problem. Or maybe the answer to her prayers.
She studied him silently. He was about the right age, thirty-two. She hadn’t expected him to be quite so gorgeous, however. Even in a plaid flannel shirt and worn, soft-looking jeans that molded to his backside, he could put any of the Gucci-wearing men she knew in New York to shame. Being a wilderness outfitter must work the muscles, she mused, because he had firm, taut ones in all the right places.
She liked his hair—thick, wavy, a bit long, light brown and streaked by the sun. She couldn’t exactly see him visiting a salon for highlights.
Sydney’s face grew warm as she realized she’d been staring at him rather rudely.
“Is something wrong with the coffee?” he asked.
“Hmm?”
“You did say cream, right?”
“Oh.” She took another sip, wondering at her lack of composure. “It’s very good, thank you.” He was probably used to women staring. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t stare?
He took a long sip of his own coffee. “Well?” he said, sounding more bemused than impatient. He gazed at her, waiting. His eyes were a vibrant sky-blue, deep and unfathomable.
Wrap your mind around your business, Syd. “The firm I work for, Baines & Baines,” she began, “specializes in matching up unclaimed property with the rightful owners. I believe I’ve found a small sum of money that might very well belong to you.”
“Small, huh? Do you always travel all the way from New York for small sums of money?”
“Actually, I was visiting an aunt in Austin,” Sydney said smoothly even as she upped her respect for Russ Klein’s intelligence. He wasn’t some country bumpkin she could easily dazzle. “But I thought I could take care of this while I’m here. If you could answer a few simple questions, we might be able to settle this matter and you could have a check in your hands very soon.”
“What’s in it for you?” Russ asked. His tone wasn’t exactly confrontational, but neither was it warm and friendly.
“Baines & Baines works strictly on a commission basis, which means you won’t owe us any money until we recover funds for you. If you’re the person I’m looking for, you simply sign a contract authorizing me to claim the funds on your behalf and entitling the agency to a percentage of anything we recover.”
“How big a percentage?” Russ asked suspiciously.
“Ten percent. It’s actually quite low. Most other P.I.’s in this business charge far more.” In this case, Sydney had deliberately decided on a low commission, not wanting to take the chance of another investigator undercutting her.
Not that any other heir-finders were on Russ’s trail. She’d happened, quite by accident, onto the information that had led her here. A very different case had taken her to Las Vegas, where she’d been checking into the legality of a certain contested marriage that had taken place in a wedding chapel now known to have performed numerous fraudulent weddings. She’d nearly fainted when she’d stumbled across Sammy Oberlin’s name. For years, investigators had been trying to track down Sammy’s mysterious son, known only as Russell. But only Sydney had the lead—the name of Sammy’s first “wife,” Winnie, never legally married to him, who may very well have borne him a son.
The trail had led to Texas.
Russ made no comment. He simply studied her every bit as frankly as she’d done him. Her face felt warm, but maybe it was simply being too close to the stove. It wasn’t as if she’d never received attention from a handsome man before—though not lately. For the past few months, trying to take care of her father’s agency, as well as her own business, she’d barely had time to brush her teeth, much less nurture a social life.
Finally Russ spoke. “As far as I know, I haven’t misplaced any money.”
“That’s the thing,” she hurried to explain. “Most of my clients don’t realize they’re due some money. Sometimes it’s a bank account that’s been forgotten or a utility deposit. But most often, I search for missing heirs. Sometimes when people die with no will or an old or bad will, it’s a real chore to locate the heirs.”
“Are you saying someone died and left me some money?” He didn’t look as pleased by that possibility as most people were.
Sydney