Private Investigations. Jean Barrett
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agreed that McFarland’s proposal didn’t make sense. “Yeah, what’s a hotshot P.I. like him need with you?”
“Thank you, Denise.”
“Well, sure is funny.”
On the other hand, Christy decided, they were probably assigning dark motives where none existed. And what did it matter, anyway, since she wouldn’t be working with McFarland? No sir, she worked alone and starting tomorrow she was going to be much too busy helping Glenn to worry about anyone else.
However, at this moment, it was a little hard to concentrate on Glenn and her feelings for him with the memory of Dallas McFarland’s hot eyes haunting her. And that was another thing. How could green eyes be hot? She didn’t know, but his were.
THE OFFICE SUITE of the McFarland Detective Agency was located in a high-rise overlooking the Mississippi. Dallas’s private office, as classy as his cream-colored convertible, had floor-to-ceiling windows that commanded a sweeping view of the New Orleans harbor, one of the busiest in the country with its barges, tugs and freighters.
At this moment, with a flaming sunset gilding the river and its traffic, the scene was particularly impressive. Dallas paid no attention to it. Tilted back in his comfortable chair, he occupied himself with something far more absorbing. His yo-yo.
Dallas was very good with the instrument, able to execute intricate loops that had been the envy of every kid on his block. Hell, he could make the thing actually sing when he tried. Right now, though, he was simply sending it out and back at a horizontal angle, an activity that permitted him to think. Unfortunately, whenever his frustration was considerable and he shot the yo-yo too far, it left marks in the designer wall covering.
That covering was taking a real beating this evening. The subject of his thoughts was Christy Hawke. Or, to be more accurate, how Christy Hawke had felt when she’d been plastered against him up there in that attic this afternoon.
Good. That’s how she’d felt. Damn good, with those luscious little breasts of hers squeezed against his chest, that honey-blond hair all fragrant under his nose. The crazy thing was, he’d never thought of her before as anything but a small nuisance in a baseball cap and running shoes. Never found her remotely alluring. But up there in that attic, he’d just about lost all self-control.
So how smart was it that he wanted to hook up with her, place himself in a situation where he would be close to her on a daily basis? Not smart at all. He didn’t need that kind of distraction.
The yo-yo in his hand flew out and back, out and back.
On the other hand, he did need what she was in a position to offer him. Needed it badly. Yeah, no choice about it. So all right, he would just have to resist temptation while he worked with her. He could do that. He could also live with the guilt of what amounted to using her. Couldn’t he? Hell, he had to. There was no way he could reveal this secret that was eating him up inside.
The yo-yo bounced off the wall. He refused to see that as a sign of any dangerous emotion. But, just as a precaution, he rewound it and laid it aside.
Of course, she had no intention of working with him. None whatever. But Dallas had the solution to that. Not that it was something he wanted to do. She’d call him conniving, blow that baseball cap right off the top of her head. No choice about it.
Swinging around in his chair, he reached for the telephone on his desk.
CHRISTY WAS grabbing a quick breakfast in her apartment the next morning when Denise hollered to her from the office below.
“Girlfriend, you up there?”
Bowl of corn flakes in hand, she went to the top of the stairs. “I’m here. What is it?”
Denise stood at the bottom of the flight, hands planted on her ample hips. “You got you a surprise waiting down here. Want me to send it on up, or are you comin’ down?”
“A delivery?”
“Uh, sorta.”
“I’ll be right down.”
What now? she wondered, not certain that she cared for the ambiguous tone in Denise’s voice. Spooning up the last mouthful of corn flakes, she dumped the bowl in the sink, snatched up her bag and flew down the stairs. As it turned out, straight into the outstretched arms of Denise’s surprise.
“Pop!”
Christy was the only member of her family who shared her father’s diminutive height. But what Casey Hawke lacked in size, he made up for in strength. She was reminded of that when he folded her in a hug that crushed her shoulder bag into her ribs.
When she was finally released, he demanded, “How are you, baby?” And before she could answer him, he turned to Denise. “How is she, Denise?”
“Got herself a case.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.”
How had he heard? What was he doing here? “Pop, what are you doing here?”
“On my way to help Roark with a client,” he said, referring to one of Christy’s brothers. “Didn’t your mother mention that when you called?”
Had she? Christy didn’t think so, but she kind of remembered Moura starting to tell her something about her father when she had to hang up on her. “Pop, this isn’t San Antonio.”
“Right, but I couldn’t get a direct flight.”
#8220;So you’re just here between planes?”
“That’s all.”
“Uh-oh,” Denise mumbled ominously.
Christy didn’t think she trusted her father’s explanation either. “Have you had breakfast?”
“On the flight down. I could stand to stretch my legs though, before I grab a cab back to the airport.”
He wanted to talk. He could have done that over the phone. This was beginning to sound more serious by the moment. “Let’s go, Pop.”
They left the office and crossed the courtyard, passing in the carriageway the side window of St. Leger’s Antiques. Her friend, Alistair St. Leger, was arranging a display of snuff boxes and waved to her. Out on the street, carriages conducted tourists through the Quarter, and around Jackson Square, where Christy and her father ended up strolling, street artists set up their wares for the day. It was Christy’s adopted city and she loved it all, even its seedier aspects, but her father’s presence had her fearing she might be forced to say goodbye to it.
“All right, Pop, let’s have it.”
He wasn’t gentle with her about it. Where business was concerned, he never was. “Your lease on the office comes up for renewal in ten days. We’re not going to pick it up, Christy. The agency can’t afford to carry you anymore.”
She stopped and turned her head to look at him. He had dark hair, liberally streaked with gray and a pair of blue eyes that at the moment were uncompromising. Beloved daughter or not, he was shutting her down. He was the senior member of the Hawke Detective Agency, who got tough whenever it was necessary. It was how Hawke’s had been able to survive and prosper all these years.
Christy understood that even while she hated it.
“I’m sorry, baby. Maybe you just weren’t meant to be a P.I. Anyway, it isn’t as though you don’t have a career waiting for you.”
Teaching. He meant she could come back home and go into the classroom. Never. Not without a fight. “Pop, I have a case. Let me solve it. Let me prove to you that I am a good P.I.”
She started to tell him about it, but he held up his hand. “I know all about Glenn Hollister and what you’re trying to do for him. I heard it last night.”
Christy had another bad feeling. Very bad. “How? Who?”
“Our competitor, Dallas McFarland, phoned me.”