Love Spell (16 page)

Still, no answers were forthcoming. He half shrugged and went on.

“I’ve never been to Seattle before. Have you?” Without waiting for a response he said, “I hear it’s nicer than Santa Monica. Sure, the Mariners might be a poor excuse for a ball club, but I’ve heard there’s plenty to do in town. Lots of character and all that. We really oughta check out the attractions while we’re there. You said you knew a good seafood place?”

The question hung in the air like a small, misshapen brick that Clint finally decided to let drop. This chick was harder to crack than Fort Knox when she clammed up. What happened to the bubbly woman who’d practically begged him to come with her in the first place? The silence stretched into uncomfortable minutes, but Clint found he really had nothing to say. Antagonizing her was only fun for so long, and considering that she might be his best—his only—chance to fix things, he reasoned that it was probably better to be on her good side. Clint examined her carefully, noticing that she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Now that he paid attention, she really did look pretty good.

At last, he yawned again, and when his stomach growled for the fourth time in as many minutes, he quietly said, “Sully? I know you’re seriously ticked off with me. I don’t blame you, but if you’re going to kill me, can you please
not
do it through starvation? Maybe one last meal before you take your vengeance out of my hide?”

Her answer came fifteen minutes later when they exited into Redding.

Clint had never had a better hamburger in his life. Maybe it was because of the idea that it might be the
last
hamburger of his life, or maybe he was hungrier than he realized. Either way, the way the beef patty melted in his mouth and flowed together with the barbecue flavor, sending shivers of joy down his spine.

For probably the fortieth time since they sat down, he flashed Sullivan a quick glance, daring no words. This time—finally!—he caught her actually looking. She averted her eyes hastily, blushing as she peered at the bottom of her empty glass of Coke. A waitress appeared moments later and placed another drink in front of the P.I. before whisking away the old one. Clint raised his eyebrows. Seven glasses of cola in under a half an hour. He imagined her bladder would hate her later, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about her falling asleep at the wheel anytime soon.

Habitually, he reached into his pocket to fish out his phone for a quick check of the time. He felt nothing but his keys. Reaching again, he confirmed that the phone wasn’t in its usual place. He stood quickly, and patted himself down, but to no avail.

Maybe I left it in the car?

Sullivan glared at him, and he decided that if the phone were in the car, it would still be there after the meal. Something told him Sullivan wouldn’t part with the car keys easily, so it was better to sit tight, and hope for the best. With a sigh, he dug out the spare phone Molly had insisted he carry, and was startled to realize it was closing on five-o’clock. The map Sullivan had purchased from the gift shop in this little cafe indicated that Seattle was a hair shy of six hundred miles from Redding. The idea of driving after midnight and then searching for a place to sleep didn’t appeal to him. He wondered whether Sullivan would be willing to stop for the night somewhere short of their destination, or whether she’d torture his gut with another long, foodless stretch of driving.

Eying her again, he swept his gaze from the red hair done up in a bun behind her head, and then down her face, lingering on this detail or that for a while. How would he paint her? Probably mid-stride, dressed in business formal, maybe holding a briefcase. No, better yet, he’d have her clad in the skin of a big cat—tiger or leopard probably—and wielding a club, an unconscious man at her feet. Yes. He found that mental image much more amusing.

He didn’t realize he chuckled aloud until he saw the annoyance in her eyes. Once again she turned away quickly, and downed her Coke in a long swallow. Impressed by the move, he revised the mental image of her to be slightly blurry, to capture the effect of the caffeine overload. Even hyper she was cute. He chuckled again, just to pester her, and then laid into his fries.

The meal may as well have taken place in a monastery for all the silence. When it ended, Clint gestured for his bill, thanked the waitress, and then took his ticket to the cashier. She rung him up with a polite smile, and he handed her his credit card. She swiped it, and waited for the receipt to print. It didn’t. She swiped it a second time with the same results. When she actually typed in the card number and it failed a third time, she looked up at him with faux dismay and said, “I’m sorry, but the system told me it’s rejecting your card. Have you checked on your credit limit recently?”

Clint frowned. “I rarely have anything but a zero balance on this card. Weird.”

The cashier shrugged sympathetically, but in her eyes he could see a hint of incredulity. “We take cash or in-state checks as well. Or debit.”

Clint shook his head. “Not a big fan of cash, sorry. Or checks. My other card is at home.” He gnawed on his lower lip, mulling the unexpected misfortune. He forced a grin and thanked the cashier. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

She smiled and thanked him, and with a nod, he turned back to his table. Sullivan was gulping down another healthy helping of cola, her salad only half eaten. Clint turned his chair backward and sat across from her, resting his arms on the backrest and staring. She lightly set her glass down and focused her attention on her salad, not once peering up at him. He didn’t mind, however. It gave him time to really get a good look at the girl. He’d seen her plenty today, but until this late-lunch-slash-early-dinner, he hadn’t paid any close attention to her. Setting his artistic self aside, he studied her the way a man would study a woman. And he liked what he saw.

Pound for pound, she wasn’t
quite
as attractive as Jane or Molly, and her fiery temper would surely burn him if he pushed far enough. There were plenty of reasons to keep her at a professional distance, and then forget her when it was over. Yet, for the ire she’d shown him, he could still detect that little-girl sensitivity right below the surface. Vulnerable, scared, but very well masked. That could be fun. He wondered what it would take to pry that thick, Clint-hating carapace from her and convince her to trust him on a deeper level. But, eh. It probably wasn’t worth it. He’d tried that with too many girls, only to fail miserably every time. Just when he thought he had their confidence, he’d either screwed something up, or find they’d been lying to him all along. That made it so much harder to risk opening up himself; committing to failure was always a mistake, in his mind. Besides, she too was now infected; any kind of relationship would be one more painful lie.

Sighing, he leaned back, but kept her pinned with his eyes. There was something strangely familiar about her. In a way, looking at her was like coming home, but coming home as a prodigal son instead of as a kid away at college for a semester. That vague sense of unease nibbled at his consciousness, and he wondered if maybe he owed her some money from sometime in the past. Had he met her at one of those frat parties, and forgotten her in the haze of the night and its revelries? Heaven only knew he’d done his share of stupid things the first couple of years of college.

Pushing the discomfort aside, he turned his attention out the window, and shifted his thoughts to Molly. Molly may be more… self-assured and assertive now than when he’d last seen her, but she was still mostly a known quantity. Not only that, but their first date had been more than a little encouraging. It was as though he weren’t cursed. It was unusually thrilling to not have to constantly be on guard against so much as brushing up against her, let alone holding her hand or kissing her goodnight. Clint glanced back at Sullivan, and realized that as great as she might be, Molly represented a very real opportunity
right now
, even if it might still take some time to get to know her. Chasing Sully was a good idea under the right circumstances. Pursuing Molly was
already
a good idea; he made a mental note to call her as soon as he got back from Seattle. If nothing else, he’d have to apologize for disappearing for a few days. An apology would be the perfect excuse to take her to dinner.

Speaking of dinner…“Hey, Sullivan. Bug you for a favor, maybe?”

She swallowed the final bite of her salad and glared at him as if challenging him to a duel.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll spit this out. My card was declined. I need you to pop for my meal. You can put it on my tab.”

Her jaw clenched beneath slightly bulging eyes, and for a moment, Clint actually feared she might come over the table. Eventually, she inhaled deeply, nodded abruptly, and then stormed to the cashier.

Clint sighed. It was going to be a long drive to Portland.

THIRTEEN

Clint was grateful for the back seat of his car; it meant room to stretch, and room to draw. It also meant he was out of easy reach in case his chauffeur flipped out and decided to assault him again. Reporting to Sullivan that he needed to live on her dime because his card had been cancelled for fraud was… memorable. After the dinner and credit card fiascoes, she’d evicted him to the bench seat, and hadn’t spoken a word since. The drive to Seattle had been punctuated by an overnight stop in Portland (she got a hotel room; he got the car), and they were on their way again before breakfast had even started digesting.

Drama aside, the drive had provided plenty of time to work on the portrait of Molly he’d been sketching since that lovely lady had tried incarcerating him in that hotel. He’d drawn her before back in high school, but she had
definitely
grown up since then. It was time to replace the old image with one that reflected her new, more desirable self. So far, she was looking good, but not perfect. The nose was a tad off, but Clint couldn’t quite figure out why. He closed his eyes and concentrated on her face until, at last, he found the solution. Examining the drawing again, he immediately spotted the error and carefully dabbed away a line with the tip of his eraser. A few, gentle pencil strokes later, he was looking at a most impressive rendition of Molly Weatherpound, if he did say so himself.

Smiling, he looked up at his surroundings. Downtown Seattle dominated the view. To his left was Safeco Field, home of the hated Mariners. Beyond that, an amusingly small cluster of skyscrapers blossomed from the center of downtown Seattle. The docks, however, were impressive. Not that Clint hadn’t seen docks before, but there was something awe-inspiring about cranes the size of small office buildings casually picking seventy-ton cargo trailers from aircraft carrier-sized freighters and depositing them on mountains of steel. Just for fun, Clint rolled down his window a little and leaned forward, to see whether Seattle’s sea air (or would it be “sound air”?) smelled anything like the Bay Area’s ocean fragrance. Somewhat surprisingly, he liked it better than his native salt scent; the pines lining the freeway definitely helped.

“So,” he started without preamble, “since we’re going to spend a bit of time together, how about we call a little truce and do what normal people do. Like getting to know one another?

“Let’s start from square one. I should have done this a few days ago when I hired you.” Sitting up straight and clearing his throat he politely said, “Hello. I’m Clint Christopherson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The rearview mirror gave him a peek at Sullivan rolling her eyes.

“No,” he said, “the correct response is, ‘Hello, Clint. My name is Miss Sullivan. It’s nice to meet you as well.’”

She shook her head slightly.

“C’mon, Sully. I know you can do it. Humor me.”

A heavy sigh came from the front seat, followed by a sullen mutter of, “Hello, Clint. I’m Lindsay Sullivan.”

The name sounded oddly familiar, but he’d worry about that later. “It’s nice to meet you too, Clint,” he prompted.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Clint,” she echoed, clearly frustrated.

“Why thank you, Miss Sullivan. So, what do you do for fun?”

Clint watched her massage the side of her head.

“Well, while you’re thinking about it…” and he spread before her the details of his life. Oldest of three kids (and he was a twin); lived in the Bay Area since he was two. Got a bachelor’s in graphic design and yet he still drew for fun, along with playing the guitar. Spilling his guts to her felt so natural. He realized that Sullivan probably already knew most of the details because of the little search she’d conducted on him, but that was irrelevant. Already, he could feel cracks in the iceberg of their “working relationship,” and with some more work, he could melt that iceberg entirely.

“And that,” he concluded, “is Clint Christopherson in a nutshell.

“So,” he said, leaning forward to rest his head on the passenger’s seat, “what about you?”

She shook her head slowly. Her initial response was reluctant, plodding. Clint responded by discussing each point with animation, and tied it into his own life. Sullivan finally warmed to the approach, and he smiled inside. By the time they exited the freeway into the suburbs of Seattle, she was even starting to laugh at some of his lamer quips.

After a little searching, they found an inexpensive motel a few miles from the freeway. Clint hustled to the front door to hold it for Lindsay. Her surprised smile and thanks warmed him. He bowed graciously, and then followed her inside, silently noting that she was actually
more
attractive when pleasant.

Check in was a simple affair, and Lindsay even insisted on Clint having his own room. After a quick lunch they were off for the headquarters of the Seattle Police Department. A quick chat with Seattle’s Finest, and Fey would finally be in the bag.

It was all Lindsay could do to not kick the front door of the police station off its hinges. No, the only thing that… person… at the SPD would see was her politely (if very quickly) stepping out of their headquarters, and gently brushing the door out of her way as she left them in her metaphoric dust. Treat her like some ignorant civilian would he? Fine. She didn’t need Officer What’s-His-Face anyway. The most infuriating thing, however, was how he’d blown her off despite her credentials and connection to Uncle Tom.