Barbara Dunlop - Thunderbolt over Texas

When she was sure he was sound asleep, she carefully inched out of the cradle of his hug and slipped from beneath the covers.

It was 8:00 a.m. in Miami, five in California and seven in Texas. She could only hope that Cole’s late night and all those time zone changes would keep him unconscious a few more hours.

She tiptoed into the living room, carefully clicked the French door shut behind her and turned on a small lamp on the desktop. Then she opened her purse and retrieved the number for the Miami fashion show. Hopefully, they’d have contact information for Rupert Cowan.

She dialed the number, spoke to a show coordinator who had Rupert Cowan’s business phone number and address. She jotted it down on the hotel notepad, peeled off the sheet and tucked the slip of paper into her purse.

She had no way of knowing if he was the right Rupert Cowan. Heading down there might be a waste of time. But she couldn’t for the life of her come up with a way to broach the subject with him on the phone.

She had no choice but to approach him in person and keep her fingers crossed.

She might have one heck of a lot of explaining to do once she got back. But it was time to pull out all the stops. If Rupert Cowan did have the brooch, and if she could get her hands on it, Cole would probably be grateful enough not to question the details.

She unzipped her garment bag, retrieved a blazer and skirt that were only slightly wrinkled, then dressed and headed for the lobby.

When Cole woke up, Sydney was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t in the suite. She wasn’t in the hotel restaurant. And she wasn’t in the lobby.

He knew he had to stop being suspicious of her, but it was unnerving to have her just up and disappear. They were supposed to be working together. Even though he’d promised to give her the benefit of the doubt, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was up to something.

Okay, so there was every chance that she was investigating antique dealers, or maybe she’d just gone around the corner. She could easily show up any minute with coffee and bagels.

Still, he glanced around the suite, taking inventory. Her suitcase was open on the sofa. Her toiletries were in the main bathroom. She’d opened a bottle of water at the bar.

What else?

He glanced around for clues.

A pen lay haphazardly across the oak desk next to a hotel note pad. Nothing to say the housekeeping staff hadn’t set them out crooked, but nothing to say Sydney hadn’t used them, either.

Cole held the notepad up to the light, staring across the fibrous surface. There were a few indentations in the paper, so he took a trick from a television crime drama and shaded across them with a pencil.

Rupert Cowan-2713 Harper View Road. Didn’t sound like a deli or a coffee shop to Cole.

Didn’t sound like anything, he told himself. She could have a perfectly legitimate reason for writing that down and leaving.

After last night, he was giving her the benefit of the doubt if it killed him.

He crumpled the shaded paper in his fist.

It might even be left over from the last guest.

They’d probably laugh about it later.

He tossed the note into the wastepaper basket and sat down on the couch, bracing his fists on his knees.

He couldn’t wait to laugh about it later.

Sydney stepped cautiously into 2713 Harper View Road. Unlike the other commercial businesses on the block, this one had a solid gray door that was tucked into an uninviting little alcove.

Inside, hanging fluorescent lights buzzed in the cavernous space. The shoes of unseen employees shuffled against the gritty concrete floor between rows of beige, Arborite countertops and fabric-filled shelving. A few voices sounded in the distance, and a lone man paged through sketch sheets a few counters back.

“Hello?” Sydney ventured.

The man glanced up, pushing his long, graying hair back from his forehead. “Hey there.”

She took a couple steps toward him. “I’m looking for Rupert Cowan?”

The man straightened to about five feet seven. He wore black slacks and a black, ribbed-knit turtleneck. “You found him.”

Butterflies pirouetted in Sydney’s stomach. “Oh, good.”

He braced his hands against the countertop. “Something I can help you with?”

She moved forward and stretched out her hand. “I’m Sydney Wainsbrook.”

He shook. His hand was pale and his grip noncommittal. “Nice to meet you, Sydney.”

“I was wondering-” she glanced around, swallowing against her dry throat “-is there somewhere we can talk?”

He laced his fingers in front of his chest. “About?”

“It’s a personal matter.” Her heart rate was going up, and her palms were getting sweaty.

Thank goodness they’d already shaken hands.

“You looking for a job?” he asked.

Sydney shook her head. “It’s… I’d feel better if we could sit down somewhere.”

Rupert glanced at his watch. “Well, I’m a little-”

“Please?”

He hesitated. “We could go next door for coffee.”

She nodded eagerly. “Perfect.”

“Patrice?” Rupert called over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” came a woman’s gruff voice from the back of the shop.

“I’m out for a bit. If the agency calls, tell them we’ll need all ten girls there by Sunday for rehearsal.”

“Okay,” came the voice.

Rupert gestured to the door with an open palm.

Sydney gave him a shaky smile, then led the way outside and around the corner, into a small, glass-fronted coffee bar.

“Frappachino? Mochachino?” asked Rupert.

“Let me,” said Sydney, pulling out her wallet.

Rupert addressed the clerk. “Small half-caf, two sugars, extra foam.”

“Just black for me,” said Sydney as she pulled out a few bills.

They took a corner table with a checkered plastic tablecloth and a metal napkin dispenser. The whine of the coffee machine filled the silence.

“Are we through being mysterious?” asked Rupert.

Sydney took a bracing breath. Then, making a firm decision, she opened her purse and took out the picture of the fake Thunderbolt.

“Do you recognize this?” she asked Rupert.

Rupert took the picture between his fingers and sat back in his red leather seat. “You must be one of the Ericksons.”

Sydney’s stomach bounced clear to the floor.

He knew about the Ericksons?

“So, you recognize it?” she asked, struggling to recraft her approach. She hadn’t counted on him knowing the story. Did he know about Grandma? About his father? About his mother’s extortion?

“It’s the heirloom brooch,” said Rupert, dropping it on the table top. “My mother warned me you’d come looking for it one day.”

If he’d known about the Ericksons, why hadn’t he come out of the woodwork before now?

“What, exactly, did she tell you?” asked Sydney.

He stroked his chin as if he’d once had a beard. “You know, you’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

The waitress set their coffee cups in front of them, and Rupert shrugged. “Someone a little less classy, a little more West Texas.”

“I’m not an Erickson,” said Sydney.

“Ah-hh.”

She resented his tone. Cole had looked damn classy in his suit yesterday.

“I’m a…friend of the family,” she offered. She wouldn’t mention the Laurent if she could get away with it. If he thought there was interest from a museum, his price would probably go up.

“And you want the brooch.”

She nodded. “I’m prepared to pay.”

He shook his head. “Not for sale.”

Damn. He was sentimental.

She kept a poker face. “You don’t know how much I’m offering.”