Armed With Steele (15 page)

“Which is?”

“Your appearance.”

Fire flashed to my cheeks. “What about it?”

“You need a disguise.”

“A disguise? But, I’ve never met anyone from Maxwell Office Solutions! I’ve never even talked to anyone there on the phone.”

“Excellent. But we can’t assume anything at this point. For all we know, Grace could have had photos of the two of you plastered all over her office.”

For once I couldn’t argue—I knew for a fact that she’d framed and taken in at least one picture with me in it. A snapshot Matt had taken of the two of us right after graduation. I squirmed in my seat. “So, what are you proposing we do?”

Nate leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “How would you feel about becoming a brunette?”

“A brunette?”

“Or red, perhaps?”

“You…you want me to color my hair?”

In all my life I’d never veered from my natural shade of dirty blonde. Never had the courage to risk experimenting with something so…so out there for all to see. And now here was Nate, throwing the idea out like it was as easy a decision as whether or not my lunch combo should come with a side of fries or onion rings.

“That, and maybe update the style a bit.”

I grabbed my long locks protectively. “I am not going to let you cut all my hair off!”

“Oh, no!” he said quickly. “I just meant getting you a cut that’s a little more stylish.”

I looked down at a fist full of split ends, self-confidence dwindling. “What’s wrong with the style I have now?”

He walked over to stand behind me. Two warm, strong hands perched on my shoulders, and a pair of thumbs begin to knead my over-tense muscles. Damn, he was good. In an instant I was putty in his hands.

“Nothing. We just need to make sure there’s no way that anyone will be able to make the connection between you and Grace.”

“Oh.”

The mention of Grace’s name snapped me out of backrub la-la land. I stared out the window and tried to convince myself that a hair overhaul was no big deal. That fudging my resume, applying for a job I didn’t want, and working undercover, were also no big deals.

“You having second thoughts?”

“No,” I lied, thankful he couldn’t see my face. Afraid I’d look weak. Or worse—vulnerable.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, his voice soothing, confident. “All of this—the job, the hair, the clothes—it’s just temporary. Once you get in at Maxwell, and we figure out who tried to hurt Grace and why, we can bag our villain and then you can go back to being the cute, blond, computer wiz everyone knows and adores.”

Tension reclaimed its stake on my back but I said nothing, my mind too busy trying to process the fact that Nate had just called me cute.

His hands gave my shoulders one last little squeeze, then stepped to the side, reached down and gently lifted my face toward his. “Okay?”

I nodded. Fought the sudden urge I had to stand, wrap my arms around his waist, and rest my head on his broad chest. It surprised and scared me both. I found myself wondering why this handsome, compassionate…

“Perfect.” He gave my chin a quick rap with his knuckle and walked back over to the table. “My sister works at a salon near the mall. I’ll give her a call tomorrow, and then let you know what time she can get you in. Once she’s worked her magic, you can head on out to Maxwell to apply for that job.”

…bossy, obnoxious, pushy cop was any different from the rest.

Chapter 11

“Are you ready to see the new you?”

I clamped my eyes shut, afraid to see what the last two hours of color, foil, trimming and clipping had done to me. “No.”

“Oh, come on now, honey. You look amazing!”

I opened my eyes a fraction of an inch. Nate’s sister Marissa stood before me, looking every bit a salon owner. Thin, tan, perfect nails, and with blonde hair that had so many different highlights and lowlights they blended into a perfect shade all its own. Not that she needed the salon to make her beautiful—Marissa was of the rare breed who never had to worry about her looks, because her beauty came naturally. Me? I’d always had to work for it.

“You aren’t just saying that?”

Her musical laughter filled the room. “Silly girl. You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit. You’re a looker, you are. And though you were cute before, now you’re
sexy
.”

That’s twice I’d been called cute in the past twenty-four hours. It was a conspiracy, for sure.

Before I had a chance to try and delay her any longer, my chair spun around. A large mirror came into view, and along with it, my reflection. I did a double-take at the stranger peering cautiously back at me.

My dishwater-blonde hair was now a rich dark brown with subtle auburn highlights, a perfect match to my always slightly darker eyebrows. Gone also was my previous long, simplistic hairstyle. Now my hair sat just below my shoulders, sporting layers upon layers which Marissa had carefully curled and twisted every which way. The cut gave my hair a fullness I’d never known before. I couldn’t help but reach up and touch it, astonished at how great it looked.

I looked from my reflection in the mirror to hers. “You’re a miracle worker.”

Her musical laughter rang out once more. “I knew you’d love it.” She ran her hands skillfully through my new, beautiful auburn waves. “Wait until Nate sees you!”

My gaze shifted back to the new me. There was no denying it—my cut had gone from low maintenance to, well, downright
sexy
.
It’s a good thing he’s seeing someone.

I hopped down out of my seat, and threw my arms around his sister. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re very welcome, sweetheart.” She led me to the front counter then, and helped me into my jacket.

“So, how much do I owe you?”

“This one’s on the house.”

“It’s what?”

“You heard me.” She fluffed my hair one last time and spun me around to face the glass storefront. “Now why don’t you go out and make sure this is what he had in mind.”

It took only a second for me to spot the police cruiser parked along the curb. And there on the sidewalk, leaning against his white and blue Impala, with arms crossed and sporting his usual pair of stylish shades, was Officer Steele.

“Thanks, Marissa. You’re the best.”

“You be sure to tell all your friends exactly that.”

I grinned, knowing the minute any of them witnessed my transformation, they’d spread the word and be turning out to her salon in droves. “You’re on.”

I slid my own shades into place and stepped outside.

Nate let out a long, slow whistle. “Damn!” He lowered his sunglasses. “I ask my sister for a simple make-over, and she turns you into a runway model! The guys at Maxwell won’t get any work done with you strutting past their doors.”

“You really think so?” I reached up to touch my new ’do.

“Baby, I don’t think so, I
know
so.”

Baby?
“Alright, so I got my disguise. What’s next?”

He checked the time on his watch. “You in a hurry to get home?”

“Nope. I don’t have any appointments today.”

“Good. Get in. I’d like to scope out Maxwell and go over some information with you before you go drop off that application.”

My stomach growled. I quickly moved a hand over it to try and muffle the sound.

“And we can pick up some lunch on the way,” he added with a grin.

“Thanks. You fly, I’ll buy.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is necessary. Someone just spent a fortune on me this morning, and I feel the need to pay them back.”

He slid his shades back on. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever. You gonna to let me spring for lunch or not?”

“If it’ll help you sleep better tonight.” He shrugged and rounded the front of his car.

“It might,” I said, trying to keep myself from thinking about
other
things involving Officer Steele that might help me sleep better that night.

Or not.

* * * *

Half an hour later, Nate and I sat in his cruiser, parked on a gravel access road just to the east of Maxwell Office Solutions. We each held a pair of binoculars in one hand, and a burger in the other. A folder sat in Nate’s lap, topped by several sheets depicting crude sketches of the building.

He seemed perfectly at ease with me in the car. I, on the other hand, was still trying to settle in. To say I found the car intimidating—what with its gun racks, a laptop on a bulky swivel bracket, a two-way radio, a radar gun, a movie camera, and a dashboard covered with dozens of switches and buttons—would have been an understatement.

“So,” I said, wiping a stray glob of ketchup from the corner of my mouth, “did the sketches come from your inside source?”

“Something like that,” he mumbled from behind his binoculars. “You got something to write with?”

I dug around in my purse for a pen and piece of scrap paper. “Yeah.”

“Good, jot this down: XB111.”

“XB111? What’s that?”

“The license plate on the Bimmer that just pulled into the lot.”

I scribbled the plate down and looked over, confused. “The what?”

Nate lowered his binoculars and threw me a look. “The BMW.”

“Bimmer? Around these parts we call ’em Beamers.”

“Then around these parts you’re all wrong. A Beamer is a type of motorcycle. A Bimmer is a car.”

“Whatever. So, why’d you have me write down the Bea—I mean, Bimmer’s plate, anyway? Was the driver cute or something? Big Mister Policeman always on the lookout for the next best thing?”

He rolled his eyes and lifted the binoculars back into place. “Not my usual MO. Besides, I think the driver’s more your type than mine.”

I raised my eyebrows, then my binoculars. Focused on the man wearing a charcoal gray suit and red power tie stepping out of the black BMW in the front row of Maxwell’s parking lot. “A little too old for me, cupid. Thanks, anyway.”

Nate glanced over at the chicken scratch in my hand and typed the plate’s number into his laptop. “It appears that the BMW is owned by one Michael P. Frankston.” Pages shuffled. “Looks like he’s the VP of—”

“Marketing.” I lowered my binoculars and met Nate’s gaze. “That’s Grace’s old boss.”

“You mean your future boss.”

Future boss. I scowled and brought the binoculars back to my eyes. I liked being my own boss.

Mr. Frankston moved toward the front door across the lot, his stride even and sure. I found myself remembering how Grace had always raved about the man. She’d said he had it all—looks, money, a loving family. As he stepped into the building and disappeared from my view, I couldn’t help but wonder just how loving that family of his was, or if any of them were responsible for what had happened to Grace.

A little red sports car came flying into the lot next. The type of car that screamed for attention. We both watched as a slender brunette, her hair the color of dark caramel, oozed out of it a moment later.

“Hello, beautiful,” Nate murmured.

I shot him a dirty, sideways glance.

Ms. Brunette straightened up, smoothed her tight-fitting black skirt back into a more appropriate position, and clicked her keyless entry. Sunlight danced off her abundant jewelry as she tucked her keys back into the large designer handbag hooked on her elbow.

Fingers clicked on Nate’s keyboard.

“And that would be?” I asked.

He raised the binoculars back to his face, clearly enjoying the view. I watched as well, hating her more with every prissy little step she took. Once the woman had passed through the front doors, we both glanced down at the laptop.

“Vanessa Smith.”

“That was Vanessa?”

“Grace mention her before?”