Linda Warren - The Wrong Woman

ETHAN DID a background check on Serena Farrell. He wanted to find out as much as he could. She was a schoolteacher, as she’d said. He would never have guessed that. She seemed more the executive type. Everything else was pretty much as he’d expected. She came from a wealthy family and lived in an affluent neighborhood. Polished and sophisticated—exactly as she appeared. She was unmarried and lived with her grandmother. That was a surprise, but then, he had a feeling there were going to be lots of surprises with Serena Farrell.

He called her and they made plans to get together on Saturday of the following week at the café where they’d first met. He didn’t have to see her, he could get most of what he needed on the phone. But he had an urge to spend some time with her. Try to figure her out. Maybe get another read on the situation.

Ethan left Pop and Cole to their own devices, but he knew what they’d be doing. Cole was smitten with the Dawson girl, and after they finished work for the day, he’d drive over to her house. Pop would be playing dominoes with his buddies. He promised them both that he’d check in on Molly.

He arrived at the café early and sat watching the door—a habit that sometimes proved valuable. He saw her through the window. Her red hair was coiled at the nape of her neck. As he watched, she removed her sunglasses and put them in her purse. She wore a cream pantsuit that enhanced the red of her hair. When she entered the café and glanced around, he immediately got to his feet. She came toward him, and Ethan realized again how beautiful she was. She moved with a grace that had several men turning their heads. All of a sudden the stripper’s almost-nude body flashed in his mind and he knew exactly what lay beneath the pantsuit. The vision startled him, but his body reacted instinctively—in a way it hadn’t responded the night he’d seen the stripper. Damn, he was too old for this. Or did men ever get too old to respond? Especially when they were two feet away from a woman like Serena Farrell.

She offered her hand and he shook it. Her skin felt just as soft and smooth as it looked. A delicate fragrance drifted to his nostrils.

“I’m glad you came, Mr. Ramsey,” she said as she sat down.

“Please call me Ethan,” he invited as he resumed his seat.

“And please call me Serena.”

“Well, Serena,” Ethan said, “you mentioned on the phone that you want me to find the stripper.”

“Yes.” She set her purse on the table, then glanced at his face. “You sounded surprised when I called you, but I have my reasons.”

“Do you mind sharing them with me?”

She shifted slightly in her chair. “Can I see some sort of identification?” She didn’t know Ethan Ramsey and she thought it best to get some facts about him first. He had one of those faces that suggested real strength of character and she’d love to paint him, but she couldn’t let feminine instincts overrule common sense. She didn’t need another mistake in her life.

Ethan pulled out his wallet and PI badge and laid them on the table in front of her. He admired her astuteness. She should learn something about him.

“After high school I joined the army,” he told her. “I got into intelligence work and liked it. After my tour of duty, I joined the FBI and was a member of a covert intelligence team. I traveled all over the world, but the time away became hard on my wife. When our son was born, I asked to be reassigned. My request was granted, and I became a special agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. I was there until I was shot in the line of duty. Now I’m a private investigator. Does that answer your questions?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly. He was married. She didn’t understand why that bothered her. Of course he wasn’t single. A man like Ethan Ramsey was hard to find—reliable, honest and straightforward. It wasn’t something she really knew about him because they’d only just met, but it was something she instinctively felt. She’d sensed it that day his brother had confronted her about the stripper. In Ethan’s eyes there was no judgment—just a desire to help. Studying him from beneath her lashes, she wondered where he’d been shot. It must have been in the leg. She wouldn’t mention his limp; she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate it.

He picked up his I.D. from the table. “So why do you want me to find the stripper?”

Daisy came to take their order, and they both asked for coffee. After she’d left, Serena said, “It’s a long story, so I’ll try to make it short. My parents died the day I was born. My mother had the same red hair and blue eyes as I do, and so does my maternal grandmother. It’s a family trait. So when you said the stripper looked like me, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I have to know who she is.”

“Have you asked your grandmother?” he inquired, watching her face and trying to gauge her sincerity. So far he couldn’t detect anything off. She was as sincere as they came.

“Yes, and she says it’s ridiculous. That no one looks like me.”

“But you have your doubts.”

She waited until Daisy had placed coffee in front of them and walked away. “Yes.” She touched the warm cup, then added milk and stirred it. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? The woman does resemble me? I mean, this isn’t a come-on or something? That’s why I asked about your credentials. I have to be sure.” What was she saying? Serena chastised herself. The man was married, but the words seemed to emerge of their own volition. In truth she didn’t believe for a second that he was coming on to her.

“That happens a lot?” he asked, his eyebrow raised. “Guys coming on to you?” He startled himself with his response. For one thing, she was beautiful; of course guys came on to her. For another, this wasn’t his normal interview. He didn’t get personal.

“Sometimes,” she admitted.

He noticed a tinge of pink in her cheeks. “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “This isn’t a line. Like I told you before, the woman is a dead ringer for you.”

She clasped her hands in her lap. “Then please find out who she is.”

Her heartfelt words moved him, but something didn’t seem quite right. Why didn’t she ask where the stripper worked? She could easily find the woman herself, but then, strip clubs probably weren’t to her taste. Still… He had to put his suspicions aside. For once he was anxious to see how a case turned out. If there were two of Serena Farrell, he wanted to see them both.

He got to his feet and picked up his Stetson. “I’ll call when I have any information.”

She grabbed her purse. “Shouldn’t I pay you? You said you take a retainer.”

“We’ll settle up when I find the stripper.” Why did he say that? He always took a retainer unless he knew the client, but nothing about this case was going according to form.

She stood. “Mr. Ramsey…I mean, Ethan.” She smiled as she said his name and he felt a moment of exhilaration. “I can only afford two days.”

“I’ll try to get it done in that length of time,” he replied, placing his hat on his head. “Good day.”

Outside in his truck, Ethan took a long breath. What was wrong with him? He was acting like Cole—like a teenage boy—and he’d left those feelings behind many years ago. Serena Farrell was just another client, he told himself, but it was good to know that a beautiful woman could still move him. He wondered why the lookalike stripper didn’t have that effect on him, which only triggered more confusion. Were Serena and the stripper the same person? Did he believe Serena’s story? He honestly didn’t have an answer, but he would find out—and soon.

DAISY GATHERED the coffee cups. “So you’re seeing the cowboy again?”