Dangerous Deception. Kylie Brant
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through her veins. Her heart was beating a rapid tattoo in her chest, but her mind was cool as she flipped the lamp in her hand so the heavier base would be at the top. She’d feel more comfortable under a cloak of darkness, but the switch was at the base of the steps and out of reach.
The first step squeaked under the weight of the tread on it. Whoever was climbing the stairs now blocked her only exit out of the attic. There was another telltale sound. Another step upward. Options limited, Tori melted back into the shadows afforded by the stacked furniture and waited, weapon in hand.
Chapter 3
“You know some people content themselves with a simple hello.” James eyed the lamp clutched in Tori’s fist, deciding she looked more than capable of wielding it.
“And most consider it rude to walk into people’s homes without announcing themselves,” she countered, setting the lamp on a nearby table. “How did you know I was here?”
“I went by your place. A rather unkempt individual by the name of Joe, informed me that you might be at your father’s.” When she didn’t respond, he continued helpfully, “Ribbed undershirt? Uncertain hygiene? Pants riding low enough to show far more than most would care to see of his choice in undergarments?”
She made a face that was half recognition, have irritation. “My neighbor’s son. He takes an annoying interest in my comings and goings. Must have heard me talking to his mother earlier today.” She dusted her hands on her shorts as she approached, cocking a brow at him. “I have to say, when I heard someone moving around downstairs, I considered it might be the real estate agent or a neighbor. But I never thought of you.”
Since she was heading toward the stairs, he turned and preceded her down. “Which one were you going to smack with that lamp, the agent or the neighbor?”
“There was an equally good chance it was a street punk looking for an easy score.” The words, as much as the matter-of-fact way she uttered them, caused him to pause for just a moment. “It never hurts to be prepared.”
“No, it doesn’t.” He turned, once he’d reached the open door, and studied her. She snapped off the light switch before following him into the upstairs hallway. He wondered how many women in his acquaintance would have dealt with the possibility of a stranger in her house with such cool calculation. There was no evidence of alarm in her demeanor, just a certain competency that was at odds with the unmistakable femininity of those long legs and lean curves. The observation was undeniably chauvinistic, so he wisely refrained from sharing it.
“I did telephone,” he offered, surprising himself by making the explanation. “There was no answer at your house, and apparently you’ve had the phone here disconnected. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to swing by and see if I could catch you. You didn’t answer the doorbell, but I heard music from somewhere in the house and followed it.”
She brushed by him, sending him a sidelong glance before she led him toward the steps to downstairs. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow.”
“I had business in the city, so I decided to drop off the contract I had my lawyer draw up.” He held up the hinged file he carried. “As well as a complete copy of the old investigative report.”
If truth be told, his business in the city could have waited or could at least been delegated. But he’d found it strangely difficult to focus once she’d left his office that afternoon. They’d decided upon a course of action, and now he was anxious to see it through. Anxious to see what answers, if any, her investigation would supply.
“I thought if you had some time tonight, you could go over the contents of the file and decide where you want to start.” He followed her into a small downstairs living room and, waiting until she’d seated herself on the sofa, sat in a nearby chair. He looked with interest around the room he’d merely glanced at his first time through. There was a battered recliner in one corner, facing a TV and stereo setup. It didn’t take much imagination to figure that the chair had been well used by the man who had lived here. Above it hung a sampler, on which someone had painstakingly embroidered the words Integrity Above All Else.
He gestured to it. “Your work?”
“My one-and-only attempt. It was my dad’s favorite saying. He had what some might consider an outdated code of honor.”
James thought of the family crest that hung above the doorway in his family home. Honor. Duty. Devotion. It was the creed that his father had lived by. He and his brothers had grown up attempting to do the same. “Not everyone,” he murmured.
When her gaze turned quizzical, he opened the file he carried, took out the contract inside. Withdrawing a gold pen from his suit jacket, he handed both to her. “I had my lawyer draw up this contract. The terms are outlined clearly in it, and they’re not negotiable. We already discussed this, but you’ll want to read the confidentiality clause near the bottom. If you or anyone in your employ violates it in the slightest, I’ll direct my attorney to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law. Am I understood?”
“As you say, we discussed that earlier.” Her voice was cool. She scanned the rest of the document, and he used the time to watch her. It was no hardship. She’d tamed that unruly tangle of hair by hauling it up in a knot and securing it somehow. The simple cotton shirt she wore was marred with dust, no doubt encountered upstairs, as were her shorts, which showed an intriguing length of slender thigh.
Not for the first time he noted that she didn’t fit his notion of a private investigator. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t fit anyone else’s, either. Once she’d left his office, he’d been plagued by doubts about the wisdom of his choice. The feeling was too foreign to be borne comfortably. He could put an army of more experienced investigators on the matter, but she might be able to provide the one thing that no one else could—a direct line to her father’s old contacts. It was possible that one of them knew something about the case he’d worked that hadn’t been contained in the man’s report. That, coupled with his reluctance to spread the word of these threats, had cemented his decision. He could spare a week. And if she failed to come up with anything new— He gave a mental shrug. Then there would be time enough to select another individual.
When she was finished, he took the contract, studying the signature with a sense of amusement. “Your full name is Victoria?”
He noted her barely concealed wince. “Use it at your peril. And be warned that the last guy to call me by it lost his right front bicuspid.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that. Do you have a cell?” When she rattled off a number, he jotted it down on the top of the contract, before setting it aside and handing her the hinged portfolio he’d brought with him. “You’ll find mine on the outside of the top file folder. Don’t hesitate to call, regardless of the hour.”
“Are you sure?” Her tone was light, but the expression in her eyes was speculative. “I don’t want to be responsible for interrupting business. Or whatever.”
“Business will take a back seat to your reports, and ‘whatever’ will have to wait until we get this—” he nodded toward the portfolio she’d set on the table beside her “—taken care of.” Upon reflection, a personal life of any type hadn’t been a priority for much too long. Few women tolerated being set aside once he became embroiled in a particularly challenging contract. He tried, and failed, to recall the last time he’d been involved in a halfway serious relationship. If he was actually spending time wondering if his P.I.’s legs were as silky as they looked, perhaps his sister, Ana, was right, and he was becoming too focused. Not that he’d ever admit as much to her.
“As long as you’re here, I did think of a question earlier.” She slid to a more comfortable position in her seat and crossed one long line of leg over the other. “Who was the third person in the car with your parents?”
It took a moment for him to switch mental gears. “Lucy Rappaport. She was the young wife of our production manager and a good friend of my mother’s. They’d been on their way to New Orleans, where my father