Deceived (Private Justice Book #3): A Novel (2 page)

Still, Dev would have a field day with this outfit . . . and Nikki would match him barb for barb.

Connor settled in for the show and sipped his coffee.

“The color is called St. Bart’s Blue. And if you think cool and act cool, you’ll be cool.” Nikki smoothed a hand down her abbreviated skirt.

“Thinking cool doesn’t change the outside temperature. Neither does wearing beach attire to the office.”

Nikki raised an eyebrow. “You have a problem with my clothes?”

“Problem?” Dev took another swig of soda. “Nah. They’re very . . . colorful. And tropical. But you forgot the hat with fruit on top.”

Connor covered his snicker with a cough.

Ignoring him, Nikki patted her hair. “You know, that’s a thought. After all, Carmen Miranda was once the highest-paid female entertainer in Hollywood. Not a bad role model.” She let a beat of dramatic silence pass, then delivered her zinger. “And I know just where to get the lemon for the hat.”

Connor almost choked on his coffee.

A faint flush that had nothing to do with the outside temperature suffused Dev’s face as he conceded the bout. “How come you never pick on Connor or Cal?”

“It’s more fun to make your face match your hair.” Nikki folded her arms and smirked at him.

“Ha-ha.” Dev drained his soda and tossed the can in the
recycle bin. “Well, some of us may have time to stand around all day and gab, but I have work to do.”

As he disappeared through the door, Connor refilled his mug. “It sure would be boring around here without you two.”

“Hardly, considering some of the dicey cases you guys handle. But I’m happy to do my part to liven things up on the duller days—and Dev’s easy to rile.”

Only by her—and that was all show. If Dev didn’t like their sassy receptionist, he wouldn’t have offered to take in her teenage brother while she went off on a two-week honeymoon.

But Connor kept those thoughts to himself as he pushed off from the counter. “You know, if you’re not careful, he might stop bringing you those lattes you like.”

“Not if he wants me to tackle those mountains of files in his office, he won’t.”

“Good point. Did you want some coffee?” Connor inclined his head toward the pot.

As he expected, she wrinkled her nose. “I’m not as desperate for caffeine as you guys always are. I’ve got some herbal tea at my desk—and a new client waiting. Yours, by the way.”

“Why don’t you give this one to Dev or Cal? I’m beat after that weekend executive security gig.”

“Sorry. No can do. Cal’s meeting off-site with our favorite defense attorney to talk about some witnesses he wants tracked down, and Dev’s going to be starting surveillance for a workman’s comp case this morning—as soon as he finishes the two employee background checks buried somewhere in that mess on his desk.”

So much for his hope of a quiet Monday morning. “Fine. What’s the deal?”

“I don’t know. She’s not talking—to me. But she seems nervous.” Nikki shook out Dev’s jacket, picked off a piece of lint, and hung it on a hook by the door.

“How long has she been here?”

“She was waiting at the door when I went out front five minutes ago.”

“Anxious.”

“That would be a safe conclusion.”

“Tell her I’ll be out in a couple of minutes. I want to straighten up my desk first.”

“It won’t take you that long. There’s not much to clean in your office . . . unlike our red-haired friend’s work space.”

“Maybe Laura will whip him into shape now that they’re engaged.”

Nikki snorted. “Fat chance. He’s a lost cause, if you ask me. That pile of files in the corner of his office is higher than ever.”

“More lattes for you.”

With a nod, she started for the door. “I like the way you think.”

Mug in hand, Connor followed her out of the kitchenette and crossed the hall to his office. A quick survey confirmed Nikki’s assessment; there wasn’t much to clean up. Pitch last Friday’s
Wall Street Journal
and the empty bag of pistachios from that child custody case stakeout last week, put away the files on the skip trace and corporate fraud cases he’d planned to review this morning, slip on the jacket he kept handy for new-client meetings—he’d be set. Sixty seconds, tops.

And if fate was kind, perhaps this case would be straightforward, simple, and easy to solve so he could go home early and catch up on the shut-eye his two partners never thought he needed—no matter how many consecutive hours he worked.

T
his was a mistake.

Kate fidgeted in the upholstered seat and glanced around the Phoenix Inc. lobby. The place might be classy, with its nubby Berber carpet, glass-topped coffee table, comfortable chairs, and artsy still-life photos on the walls. The location, in the heart of one of St. Louis’s nicer suburbs, might give the firm an added luster of legitimacy. The rectangular wooden plaque on the wall, emblazoned with the brass-lettered words
Justice First—
the same motto featured on the Phoenix website—might be admirable.

But no matter how professional these PIs were, she still had a sinking feeling they were going to discount her claim, just as mall security and the local police had after they’d listened to her story and done some research into the events of three years ago.

Why set herself up for another round of humiliation?

Because you’ve spent
three sleepless nights revisiting your brief encounter with the little
boy . . . over and over and over again. Because each replay
grew more vivid . . . and more urgent. Because now there’s
a tiny flicker of hope burning in your heart.

All true. But surely she was fooling herself. Blowing the incident out of all proportion. Letting herself get carried away in
search of a miracle that had no more chance of being granted now than it had been three years ago.

Wasn’t she?

Kate rubbed her right temple, where a headache was beginning to throb. At this point, she had no idea. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost perspective on the whole thing—if she’d ever had it to begin with. Maybe she needed to give herself another twenty-four hours to reason this through before she made a fool of herself yet again. More time and space might restore her usual clear thinking. And if the urge to seek help was as strong a day or two down the road, she could always return.

Yes. Good plan.

Decision made, she rose—just as the beach-party-babe receptionist reentered the room through the door behind her desk, the unicorn tattoo on her forearm front and center as she pushed through. If the rest of this place hadn’t been so tasteful, and if the police detective, undercover ATF, and Secret Service credentials of the PIs on the website hadn’t been so impressive, she’d never have stepped foot inside when the twentysomething woman released the security locks on the front door promptly at eight o’clock.

“Did you need to use the ladies’ room?” The platinum blonde indicated the door behind her. “Or I’ll be happy to get you a beverage, if you’ve changed your mind.”

“No. I . . . uh . . . think I’ll just come back later.” Kate made a pretense of consulting her watch as she edged toward the front door. “I have a meeting this morning and I still . . . I have a few things I need to pull together for it. This stop might delay me too much.”

“Of course. Why don’t I take your name and a phone number so I can pass it on to Connor Sullivan, the PI who was planning to speak with you?” The receptionist moved behind her desk and rummaged through a drawer.

As the woman made a project out of retrieving a pen and piece of paper, Kate bit her lip. She’d prefer to slip away anonymously, but what could it hurt to provide some basic contact information? All she had to do if the PI followed up was say she’d changed her mind.

After spending an inordinate amount of time shuffling through the drawer, the receptionist withdrew a pen, sat, and aimed an expectant look across her desk.

“The name’s Kate Marshall.” She edged closer to the exit. “My cell number is—”

The door to the back offices opened again. This time a raven-haired man in a tie and subtly patterned sport jacket stepped through, his assertive, take-charge air softened by a killer dimple.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” His gaze dropped to the keys she’d dug out of her purse, and he exchanged a glance with the receptionist.

“Ms. Marshall was concerned that meeting with you would make her late for a prior commitment. I was just taking her contact information.” The woman inclined her head to the pad of paper in front of her.

He scanned it, then walked across the waiting area, hand extended. “Connor Sullivan. I don’t want to delay you, but if you have even a few minutes to spare, a quick conversation now might save you a trip back later.”

Cornered.

She eyed his lean, powerful-looking fingers as he paused in front of her. Short of being rude, she couldn’t ignore his polite, professional overture.

So much for her fast escape.

Stifling a sigh, she transferred her keys to her left hand and placed her fingers in his. They were instantly swallowed in a warm, firm grip that somehow, with one squeeze, conveyed strength, competence, and integrity.

How had he done that?

She looked up—and up again—into his face. The Phoenix website hadn’t identified which PI held which credential, but based on this guy’s polished, clean-cut appearance—not to mention his authoritative bearing—she’d be willing to bet he was Secret Service.

As for her plan to bolt . . . she wavered as his eyes sucked her in. Dark as obsidian, they searched, discerned, and reassured, all in the space of a few heartbeats, prompting her to draw three rapid conclusions.

This was a man who would listen, evaluate, and come to sound conclusions.

This was a man who would treat her story with respect.

This was a man she could trust.

The silence lengthened, until the receptionist hidden from her view behind the PI’s broad shoulders cleared her throat.

A fleeting frown marred the man’s brow, then he released her hand, took a step back, and waited.

The ball was in her court.

Without overanalyzing her change of heart, she took a deep breath and tightened her fingers around the handle of her briefcase. “I can spare a few minutes.”

Those dark eyes warmed like the volcanic origins of the black glass whose color they mirrored. “Good. Let me show you back.”

Moving aside, he gestured for her to precede him.

As she prepared to pass the receptionist’s desk, the woman looked up from her computer screen, toward the man behind her. A spark of . . . amusement? . . . glinted in her eyes.

Odd.

“Give me a sec to release the security lock.” She angled into her desk, and a moment later Kate heard a distinctive click.

Connor stepped to her side, leaned around her, and reached for the handle, his solid chest mere inches away. He was close
enough for her to get a whiff of his understated aftershave—which caused an uptick in her pulse.

Also odd.

“Second office on the left.”

A tiny whisper of warmth tickled her cheek as he pulled the door back. Somehow it found its way to her heart.

What in the world was going on?

And why did she suddenly have the same off-balance feeling she’d experienced on Friday at the mall, when she’d spotted that little boy and the world seemed to shift beneath her feet?

No time now to figure it out, though. She had a story to tell, and despite her sense that the man following her down the short hall would respect her tale, it was possible she’d read him wrong. That he’d write her off as a wacko and escort her out before she even warmed a chair.

“Have a seat.” Connor gestured to a small round table off to one side in his neat-as-a-pin office. “Would you like something to drink? We have plenty of cold beverages if tea or coffee don’t appeal to you on this scorcher.”

She inspected the half-full mug on this desk. Apparently this man didn’t shy away from the heat.

And she wasn’t going to, either.

“Coffee would be fine. Black.”

“My preference too. Hang tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Once he disappeared into the hall, she eased back in the chair and expelled an unsteady breath.

Relax, Kate. What’s the worst that
can happen? If he thinks you’re crazy and shows
you the door, so what? You’ll never see the
man again.

While that possible outcome bothered her more than seemed warranted, her respiration did even out.

Better.

Setting her briefcase on the floor beside her, she wiggled her
fingers to get the blood flowing again as she did a sweep of his office. The mahogany furniture was nice—much more upscale than the mismatched stuff in her own work space—but standard issue. The framed family pictures on the credenza behind his desk yielded far more clues about the PI’s personality.

In the first shot, two preteen boys were flanked by a pleasant-looking man and woman, a panoramic view of the Grand Canyon behind them. Based on the clothing, it had been taken decades ago.

The closer-up picture beside it was more recent, though still at least fifteen years old. A grinning high-school-age Connor stood beside a slightly older version of himself, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders while the older boy balanced a basketball on his finger.

Kate scanned the rest of the office. There were no recent photos anywhere; just these two from the past.

Interesting.

No evidence of a wife or children, either. And he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

Also interesting.

The U2 mug on Connor’s desk tipped her off to his taste in music—and reinforced the Irish heritage implied by his name—but she was more curious about the small, three-sided wooden object on the far corner. Its oblong shape suggested it was a nameplate, but the side facing the door was blank.

With a quick glance toward the hall, she rose and crossed to the desk, leaning sideways to see the slanted face. A star-shaped logo with a blue and red emblem in the center occupied the left side, the words United States Secret Service circling the emblem. So her conclusion about his credentials had been sound. To the right were five words: Worthy of Trust and Confidence. The Secret Service motto, perhaps?

Returning to her seat, she inspected the citations on the walls.
Lifesaving Award. Congressional Commendation. Valor Award. Impressive—and reassuring. A man who was worthy of trust and confidence in one life, whose exemplary service had earned him these kinds of honors, wouldn’t leave his core values behind when he moved on to a new profession.

Connor Sullivan was the real deal.

The throbbing in her temple dissipated as her last reservations vanished. She’d see this through, for better or worse. Connor Sullivan would give her as fair and impartial a hearing as she was likely to get anywhere. If he punched holes in her story, if he told her it was impossible to track down the little boy and to give it up, she’d take his advice.

Because if this man couldn’t help her, she had a feeling no one could.

Connor filled one of the sage-green guest mugs, set the coffeepot back on the warmer, and smiled. A great cup of coffee, an entertaining joust between Dev and Nikki, and now a beautiful blonde in his office.

Not a bad way to start a Monday.

She’s married, Sullivan. You
saw the ring.

Yeah, yeah. He didn’t need a reminder from his conscience to know she was off-limits, married or not, given Phoenix’s unofficial no-fraternizing-with-clients rule. But there was no law against appreciating beauty—and Kate Marshall had been blessed with more than her share. Tall and lithe—at least five-seven or five-eight—she had the build and classic features of a ballerina. Throw in shoulder-length wavy blonde hair parted to the side, jade-colored eyes, and the barest hint of a Southern accent . . . female beauty didn’t come any finer.

But she was also in some kind of trouble or she wouldn’t be here.

Connor tapped a finger against the mug balanced in his hands. Curious that she’d come alone—unless her husband was the cause of her distress. Yet he concurred with the word Nikki had written on the pad of paper at her desk. Kate Marshall seemed spooked, not angry or fearful. The absent husband likely wasn’t the problem.

He pushed off from the counter and strolled toward the door. If she was half as sharp as he suspected, she’d used her three minutes alone to case his office. Hopefully the awards had served their purpose and reassured her he was competent and legit. Without her trust, they’d get nowhere.

As he retraced his steps down the hall and rejoined her, she gestured toward the walls. “Impressive.”

Yep. One smart cookie.

Better yet, mission accomplished.

He lifted one shoulder and deposited her coffee on the table. “Just doing my job. Let me grab a notebook and pen.” As he moved behind his desk and she took a sip of the brew, he cast her an apologetic look. “I hope that’s not too strong for you.”

She cradled the mug in her hands, her features softening. “No. My husband liked it this way, and he eventually converted me.”

Liked. Past tense. But not a divorce, based on her tender expression. A widow, perhaps?

Connor took one of the two remaining chairs, uncapped his pen, and sent her an encouraging smile. “All right, Ms. Marshall. How can I help you?”

As she tucked her hair behind her ear, his gaze flicked to her hand. The tremble in her fingers didn’t surprise him, given her obvious tension—but his sudden urge to give them a reassuring squeeze did.