Rachel Gibson - It Must Be Love

He listened to the soft tap of Gabrielle's retreating sandals as she walked from the room, and the annoying click-click-clicking of Kevin Carter's pen as his thumb pumped the end of his Montblanc. When Joe had first walked in, he'd noticed two tall file cabinets, two narrow floor-to-ceiling windows on Gabrielle's side of the room, and a stack of assorted junk on her desk. On Kevin's desk sat a computer, wire in basket, and a payroll book. Everything on Kevin's side of the room looked like it had been strategically measured, then placed with a ruler. A real uptight control freak.

When he finished with the W2, Joe handed it to the man sitting directly across the desk. "I don't usually fill one of these out," he told Kevin. "I usually get paid in cash, and the government never has to know."

Kevin glanced over the form. "We do everything nice and legal around here," he said without looking up.

Joe leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. What a lying little shit. It had taken him about two seconds to determine that Kevin Carter was guilty as hell. He'd arrested too many felons not to know the signs.

Kevin lived way beyond his means, even for the got-to-have-it-now nineties. He drove a Porsche and wore designer everything, from his shirts to his Italian loafers. Two Nagel prints hung on the wall behind his desk, and he wrote with a two-hundred-dollar pen. In addition to Anomaly and his appraisal business, he had several enterprises around town. He lived in a chunk of the foothills where a man's value was judged on the view of the city through his living room window. Last year he'd reported a combined income of fifty thousand to the IRS. Not hardly enough to sustain his lifestyle.

If there was one common thread that pointed to criminal behavior, it was excess. Sooner or later all crooks get cocky enough, doped up enough, or in debt enough to ignore moderation.

Kevin Carter was a living poster boy for criminal excess, and he might as well be walking around with a neon sign pointed at his head. Like the many others before him, he was foolish enough to flaunt his excess and cocky enough to believe he wouldn't get caught. But this time he was in over his head and had to be feeling the pressure. Fencing antique candlesticks and gravy boats wasn't quite the same as fencing a Monet.

Kevin set the form aside, then looked up at Joe. "How long have you known Gabrielle?"

Now, Gabrielle Breedlove was a different story. At this point, it didn't matter if she was guilty or as innocent as she claimed, but he would like to know what made her tick. She was much harder to peg than Kevin, and Joe didn't know what to make of her-other than the fact that she was nuttier than a jar of Skippy. "Long enough."

"Then you probably know she's too trusting. She'll do just about anything to help the people she cares about."

Joe wondered if that help extended to helping those she cared about fence stolen property. "Yep, she's a real sweetheart."

"Yes she is, and I'd hate to see anyone take advantage of her. I'm a pretty good judge of character, and I can tell you're the kind of guy who works just enough to get by. Probably not a lot more."

Joe tilted his head to the side and smiled at the little man with the big complex. The last thing he wanted was to alienate Kevin. Just the opposite was true. He needed to get the guy to trust him, convince him they were buddies. "Oh yeah? You can tell all that after knowing me for five minutes?"

"Well, let's face it, there can't be a lot of money in being a handyman. And if your business was doing well, Gabrielle wouldn't have fabricated a job for you here." Kevin wheeled his chair backward and stood. "None of her other boyfriends have needed jobs. That philosophy professor she dated last year could have used a personality, but at least he had money."

Joe watched Kevin walk to a tall file cabinet and open a drawer. He kept quiet and let Kevin do all the talking.

"Right now she thinks she's in love with you," he continued as he filed the W2. "And chicks don't think about money when they've got it bad for your body."

Joe stood and crossed his arms over his chest. That wasn't exactly what he'd been told by the lady herself. So much for her claim of never lying.

"I was a little surprised when you walked in here this morning. You're not the kind of guy she usually dates."

"What kind is that?"

"She usually goes for the squirrely New Age type. The kind of guys who sit around meditating and discussing crap like the cosmic consciousness of man." The drawer slid shut, and he leaned a shoulder into it. "You don't look like the kind of guy who likes to meditate."

Now there was a relief.

"What were you two talking about in the alley?"

He wondered if Kevin had listened at the back door, but he supposed if he had they wouldn't be having this conversation. Joe let a smile slowly curve the corners of his mouth. "Who said we were talking?"

Kevin smiled back, one of those I'm-in-the-guys-club-too smiles, and Joe left the office.

The first thing that Joe noticed when he walked to the front of the store was the smell, It smelled like a head shop, and he wondered if his confidential informant took frequent trips on the ganja train. It would explain a lot.

Joe's gaze roamed the room, and he took in the odd assortment of old and new. In one corner, fancy pens, letter openers, and boxes of stationery sat on a pigeonhole desk. He glanced at the center counter and a display of antique jewelry in a glass case next to the cash register. He took a mental note of everything before his attention was drawn to the ladder placed by the front window and the woman standing at the top.

Bright sunshine lit her profile, filtered through her long auburn hair, and turned her yellow gauzy shirt and skirt transparent. His gaze slid down her face and chin to her slim shoulders and full breasts. Yesterday, he'd been mad as hell, and his thigh had ached, but he hadn't been dead. He'd been very aware of her soft body pressed tight against him. Of her breasts as he'd checked for concealed and a few minutes later as they'd walked to his car, the cold rain drenching her T-shirt, chilling her flesh and hardening her nipples.

His eyes moved to her waist and the flair of her hips. It didn't look like she was wearing anything beneath her skirt but a pair of bikini panties. Probably white or beige. After tailing her for the past week, he'd developed an appreciation for her nicely rounded behind and long legs. He didn't care what her driver's license said, she was close to six feet tall and had the legs to prove it. The kind of legs that just naturally hooked around a man's waist..

"Do you need some help?" he asked as he moved toward her, raising his gaze up the lush feminine curves of her body to her face.

"That would be great ," she said, pulling her mass of hair over one shoulder and looking down at him over the other. She selected a big blue-and-white plate from a stand in the window. "I have a customer who will be here sometime this morning to pick this up."

Joe took the plate from her, then stepped back as she climbed down the ladder.

"Did Kevin believe you're my handyman?" she asked barely above a whisper.

"More than just your handyman." He waited until she stood before him. "He thinks you want me for my body." He watched her run her fingers through her hair, tangling all those soft curls like she'd just got out of bed. She'd done the same thing yesterday at the police station. He hated to admit it, but it was sexy as hell.

"You're kidding."

He took several steps toward her and whispered in her ear. "He thinks I'm your own personal boy toy." Her silky hair smelled like roses.

"I hope you set him straight."

"Now, why would I do that?" He leaned back and smiled into her horrified face.