Courting Chloe Page 4

  “Damn,” said Matt. “We were both wrong. They’re getting engaged. What do you give the chances of that marriage? Getting engaged in a mall.”

  “No,” she said, satisfaction sluicing through her. “He’s giving her back the ring. It was in his pocket, not in a box. And she’s not at all sure she wants it back.” Instead of placing it on her ring finger, the man had offered it on the palm of his hand, like a supplication. After a long moment, where more than fifty dollars seemed to hang in the balance, the woman reached over and picked up the ring. She slipped the reasonably sized rock on her wedding ring finger, but Chloe could see she was uncertain. The young woman turned the sparkly ring around a few times on her finger. Clark Kent watched her as eagerly as a puppy watches his empty bowl at mealtime.

  “Not bad,” Matt said beside her in a low voice.

  “Not bad? Bloody brilliant detective work. Now do you believe that I am a private eye?”

  The tanned skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Not hardly.”

  “But you will pay me fifty dollars.”

  During the time it took Chloe to finish her coffee, she became completely convinced that the couple beside her was making a mistake. The young man rose and leaned over the table to kiss his fiancée. As he walked away, the girl looked after him, a frown marring her prettiness.

  “Follow him,” she said to Matthew, who blinked and looked after the departing suit.

  “Why?”

  “It would give you something better to do than following me, that’s why. Besides, I don’t like the look of him.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Tough to explain, really, but I have good instincts.”

  “You’re a case and a half, Chloe. And if you want my advice, you’ll leave that girl in peace.”

  She beamed at him, giving him her best smile. “Advice is such a fascinating thing, isn’t it? Everybody always trying to give it away, and nobody ever wanting it.”

  He rose, to a deliciously tall height. Pulled out his wallet and slapped three bills on the table. “Good-bye, Chloe.”

  Two twenties and a ten. Classy. She liked a man who paid his bills.

  She collected her winnings and waved him off, anxious to see the back of him before that girl moved. She hadn’t; she was still staring at the diamond on her hand as though it might bite her if she moved too quickly.

  Chloe leaned forward and assumed an excited tone. “Congratulations.”

  “Hmm?” The girl looked up and her big brown eyes were troubled. Bingo.

  Chloe was never wrong about who belonged with whom. With the extraordinary exception of herself and the men she chose.

  Since the girl seemed too stunned to move, Chloe slid from her own table and took the seat across from her, the one recently vacated by the young man.

  “I couldn’t help but notice—frankly, jewelry always catches my attention. Did you just get engaged?”

  The girl nodded slowly, looking far from deliciously pink with bridal delight. “Well, we got re-engaged, I guess you’d say.”

  “Ooh, I do love a good romance.” She put her chin in her palm and prepared to listen. “Tell all.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Of course you don’t. How rude of me. I’m Chloe.” She held out her hand and the girl shook it, albeit rather reluctantly.

  “I should probably…”

  “Sometimes I find it easier to tell a stranger my troubles. Odd, isn’t it? Mummy and Daddy always think they know best for me, of course, and frankly I think I shock them. I’ve got an older brother, Jack, who says I’m spoilt. He’s right, of course, but that’s not the point. Sometimes a girl needs to talk. The urge to unburden oneself is easier satisfied with a stranger.”

  The girl gave up and sighed deeply. “I guess you’re right. It’s not like my family would understand.”

  “When is the wedding?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to get married—not yet—but Derek really loves me and maybe my friends are right and I should just do this, you know?”

  Chloe knew all about friends and family trying to push one into marriage. “But do you love him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why on earth would your friends want you to marry him?”

  “Because I have lousy, rotten taste in guys and at least this one has a regular job, no tattoos, and he won’t get drunk and try and hit on other women all the time.”

  “Is that what your last boyfriend did?”

  “Pretty much all my old boyfriends.”

  Chloe thought for a minute. “But you have a tattoo. I couldn’t help but notice. I like it.”

  “Derek wants me to get it lasered off. He thinks it looks cheap.”

  “My dear girl—what is your name, by the way?”

  “Oh, sorry—Stephanie.”

  “Well, Stephanie, you cannot possibly marry a man you do not love and who wants to change you. It’s hopeless.”

  To Chloe’s alarm, Stephanie’s eyes suddenly filled. “I know it’s hopeless. I’m hopeless.”

  Chloe pulled out her pack of tissues with tiaras printed on them and offered it. “Of course you’re not hopeless. You’re simply a little confused. It happens to all of us.” She glanced at the ring. “At least he has nice taste in jewelry.”

  Stephanie dabbed at her eyes. “He’s the assistant manager at the jewelry store in the mall. We got forty percent off on my ring.”

  “I wonder if I could be of service.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Undaunted by the negative tone, Chloe pulled out one of her cards and slid it across the table. Stephanie picked it up and read it with a puzzled frown. “I don’t get it. You’re a matchmaking service?”

  “Oh, no. Quite the opposite. I end bad relationships. In complete confidence, of course. I do the dirty work so you don’t have to.”

  For a second, Stephanie’s eyes lit up, then they dimmed as suddenly. “I don’t make much money, and I have nothing saved. I couldn’t pay you.”

  “Ah,” Chloe said. The hard-nosed businesswoman in her knew she should walk away. She couldn’t afford to take on free cases when she didn’t have many that paid. However, she also felt very strongly that Stephanie shouldn’t marry a self-important twit in a bad suit.

  She had a brilliant idea. People called her impulsive, but her opinion of impulses was that if she didn’t grab onto them in the moment, they would pass. “I know—why don’t you come and work for me?”

  “I thought you wanted me to hire you.”

  “Well, that would be preferable, of course. But, since you don’t have any money and you obviously need a change, it seems obvious to me that I shall have to give you a job.”

  “In your matchbreaking company?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What would I do?”

  “I need a secretary. Receptionist. Someone to answer the phone when I’m away from the office and to do—” She stopped to think for a moment. “—all the jobs I don’t like doing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can you type?”

  She received a look of astonishment. “How do you think I message all my friends?”

  “Right. Of course. Good.” She was really warming up to her idea. When she’d awakened this morning she’d had no idea she needed an assistant. Now she could see it was critical to her future. “You’ll know all the places where I should be advertising my services.” She smiled, full of excitement. “Our services. You can screen the customers, make up files, do the billing.” She screwed up her face. “I hate boring things like paperwork. When can you start?”

  The bright face dimmed. “I can’t.” Stephanie looked down at that ring as though it contained a genie and three wishes. “I couldn’t. I have to marry Derek. You don’t understand. He’s perfect for me. My family says so, my friends say so. I know he is.”

  Chloe felt a chord of sympathy chime through her in response. “God, yes, I know exactly what you m
ean.”

  She looked up. “You do?”

  “Every time I got engaged it was to a man who was perfect for me.”

  The girl in front of her blinked slowly. “Every time?”

  “Mmm. I’ve been engaged three times. But everybody was wrong. None of those men was right for me.”

  “I bet you never had your wedding stationery already ordered.”

  Chloe chuckled. “The last time, I had the estate booked, the catering paid for, the prettiest dress.” She sighed. “It did give me a pang not to wear that dress. It was antique silk with rows of tiny pearls on the bodice. Really lovely. Anyway, it caused the most fearful row when I canceled.”

  “What about…” She threw up her hands. “Everything.”

  “Oh, well, it worked out rather well in the end. The Earl of Ponsford, whose estate we’d booked for the wedding, took the spot himself and married a darling girl. An American, actually. So nothing went to waste, you see. Well, except the dress. I gave it to charity. I like to think some poor girl was able to wear a really smashing dress because of me.” She beamed suddenly. “So, you see, there’s nothing that can’t be undone. One simply needs resolution.”

  For a moment the girl bit her lip and looked hopeful. Then she shook her head. “No. I can’t do it.”

  “All right.” She wasn’t about to beg. “Still, if you change your mind about the job, or know of anyone who might need my services, do let me know.” Impulsively, she leaned forward and put a hand over the girl’s newly beringed one. “Good luck.”

  Chapter 5

  Stephanie watched the English girl walk away. She walked quickly, as though she had a lot to do and no time to waste, but there was also something about that walk—Steph would have guessed she’d been a model if she’d been taller. She was gorgeous. Like a perfume ad come to life. Elegant and expensive looking. But there was something that was almost childlike about her. Imagine offering a job to a total stranger.

  She picked up the card, tapped it against her palm, put it back down on the tabletop, rose, and walked away. She didn’t even make it to the edge of the food court before quickly turning tail and retrieving the card. She might know someone, after all, who needed help breaking up.

  She stood there, the ring weighing down her hand like a diamond anchor, holding her in place. That was good, she reminded herself. Marriage was steadying. Good.

  She had about twenty minutes before her shift started. She’d go look at china, she decided, start getting ideas for the gift registry.

  She walked to the rail of the gallery level of the shopping center, and gazed down. There was a lone man riding up the escalator. He wore jeans that were ripped at the knee—obviously from impact rather than design. His leather boots were scruffy and worn, as was he. His hair was a too-long dark brown streaked with blond, which made her think the guy worked outside in the sun without a hat. His face was weatherbeaten, and careless stubble shadowed it. He wore a battered leather jacket open over a black T-shirt and from his hand swung a black motorcycle helmet.

  He glanced up as though he felt her watching him and the dark Latino brown of his eyes saw right inside of her. The impact thudded into her chest and she knew he’d felt it too. He had a poet’s eyes, she thought, which was ridiculous. What would a poet’s eyes be doing in a thug’s body? Those eyes held hers, practically speaking to her of hidden things, secret things, that made her body long instinctively for his. He was coming closer, floating up on a mechanical staircase. Soon they’d be level and she had the craziest idea that she’d be lost.

  With a gasp, she blinked and turned away.

  What was she doing? She’d been engaged for fifteen minutes and she was making eyes at one of her usual no-good types. She had to get a grip.

  She walked quickly toward the department store, trying to ignore the awful itching that started deep in her belly where she could never scratch it.

  She knew what this was. She understood it, recognized it, could control it.

  She breathed slowly and while her mind told her to use the card she always carried in her wallet and make the emergency call, her feet didn’t falter on their way to the store.

  By the time she got into the department store, her heart was doing a bump and grind in her chest and she felt like there were hot embers in the pit of her stomach.

  When she entered the store, she immediately began to settle. This was her place. She loved shopping, loved everything about it. The smell of new goods, the colors exploding everywhere, the fresh fashions, trendy shoes, the purses, scarves—oh, those darling earrings—and the watches. So many watches.

  Her mother could use a new watch. Her mother, who’d had so little all her life, and who was so happy that Stephanie was breaking her bad pattern and marrying a nice, steady man who didn’t drink or do drugs and had a steady job, who would be there for her.

  Thinking of her mother’s delight in a new watch filled her with contentment. The green leather strap was nice. Snazzy. And the face was big, with easy-to-read numbers. But she knew her mother would want something more practical, a watch that would match many outfits.

  She browsed through several, liked the one with the cream leather band the best, but maybe the gold and silver would be more versatile. Her elbow nudged a Timex so that it fell to the floor. She bent to retrieve it and when she rose again, she returned two watches to the display. The one with the cream leather band was safely in her bag.

  The thrill that coursed through her was close to sexual, and the deep itch inside her began to dissipate. She headed over to the scarves and then had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. A casual glance over the Italian silk scarf she was inspecting showed that the scruffy biker guy from the escalator was checking her out.

  He’d followed her.

  Her breath caught. Now that he was closer, his impact on her was even stronger. His espresso eyes seemed to see all the way into her, where she didn’t want anyone seeing.

  Had he noticed her slipping the watch into her bag? A badass like that—and he had badass written all over him—would think a little shoplifting was pretty juvie stuff, and it was. She lifted her chin at him. So what?

  She drifted from scarves to earrings, from earrings to sunglasses. She slipped on a pair of huge, Jackie O dark glasses and as she pretended to check out her reflection, she checked out the guy. He was still there. Not following her exactly, but not leaving her vicinity either.

  Now she felt the thrill of the chase, the danger of playing cat and mouse with a very large, feral, scruffy wildcat.

  From the sunglasses, she moved to the makeup counter. He drifted to the men’s watches, always keeping her within sight.

  She spritzed a little cologne on her wrist and was shocked at how cold it felt against her overheated skin. She browsed, vaguely wondering what pop singers, clothing designers, or novelists were supposed to know about blending scents.

  A salesclerk asked if she needed help and with a polite smile, she shook her head and moved away. The Latino guy seemed absorbed in women’s purses. She was delighted to see that he was getting a lot more suspicious glances from the store clerks than she was.

  There was something intoxicating about this unspoken game she and motorcycle guy were playing, but she did have to get to work. She hesitated. She was pretty sure he was more interested in hitting on her than on whether she’d paid for the items in her bag. But she wasn’t completely sure. For all she knew, he could be a new brand of store detective, one she’d never come across before.

  She tried a tester of lip gloss, decided it was too pink, and reached into her bag for a tissue to wipe off the residue. When she left the counter, a watch with a cream leather band was wedged between two bottles of lavender bath oil.

  She felt all the frustration of an addict denied her fix as she stalked out of the department store knowing that, on top of not getting her mother that watch, she was going to be late for work. She moved as fast as she could, feeling the heat burn within he
r. Her heels clacked on the ceramic tile as she hurried.

  “Good decision,” a deep, lazy voice, with only the tiniest Spanish accent, said behind her.

  Startled, she turned and found motorcycle boy at her heels. She didn’t bother playing innocent. She knew he wouldn’t fall for it and she didn’t feel like playing any more games. She scowled at him. “You wouldn’t know a good decision if it bit you in the ass.”

  He chuckled, falling into step with her and making the pace seem slow and easy. His teeth were very white in his tanned face. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  She glanced at him. She couldn’t help herself. She had to know. “Are you a security guard?”

  When he shook his head, that mess of hair swung. “No.”

  “Then why were you following me?”

  His gaze seared through her when their eyes met. “You know why.”

  Her gaze dropped to the tiled floor. The heat between them was amazing. She’d never known anything like it. Yes, she knew why he’d followed her.

  “I could give you a lift.”

  Her body—her wretched, weak, always drawn to the man who was so bad for her body—wanted to crawl on the back of his motorcycle and let him take her anywhere. Everywhere. But the semblance of good sense she’d worked so hard to cultivate dragged her back from the brink.

  “No thanks.”

  “Okay.” He looked at her as though memorizing her features. “Take it easy.” And he headed down the very escalator she’d watched him ascend a quarter of an hour ago.

  She stopped and breathed, holding on to the faint smell of leather and danger that clung to him. Then she dug out her wallet with hands that weren’t quite steady. She was already late for work; one more minute wouldn’t make a difference. And this was a call that might save her, once more, from ruining her life.

  She clutched the business card to her even though she’d memorized the number long ago. And then she made the call.

  Rafael Escobar didn’t like puzzles. Puzzles could get a man killed. That chica with the wide eyes and the great walk was a puzzle. As was his behavior. What had made him follow her into the store like that?