Fay Robinson - The Notorious Mrs. Wright

Emma watched, as entertained by him as by the trip. He seemed to find everything interesting and asked a million questions.

She was having fun. She’d started to worry about the storm, though. Lightning zigzagged over the town. The rain fell in a wide, blue sheet in the distance, but was much closer than before.

They made a circle of the bay, then went up toward the island’s lighthouse, painted like a barber pole and topped with a red housing. Whit pointed his camera at the structure. “Great lighthouse.”

“Isn’t it? Abby and I have done a few parties there.”

“Wish we were closer so I could see it better.”

“You have to be on foot to get right up to it. There’s a little park around it.”

“Too bad the boat doesn’t go nearer to shore. The scenery here’s pretty, though.” With the viewfinder still to his eye, he turned the camera toward her and snapped a photo. “Very, very pretty.”

“Why did you do that?”

In rapid succession, he took several more shots.

Exasperated, she held her hands in front of her face. “Whit, would you stop it, please?”

“Okay, sorry.” He put down the camera. “I only wanted to show the men in Michigan what they’re missing.”

“I’m sure they have women in Michigan.”

“Not like you.”

She rolled her eyes at his outrageousness. “Are you flirting with me?”

Before he could answer, thunder boomed overhead. Rain began to pelt them as if a heavenly hand had opened a faucet. Everyone on the top deck squealed and scrambled for the cover of the lower one.

“Come on,” he called out, ushering her down the narrow metal steps. They were among the last people to exit, and all the seats were taken. People crowded between the tables. Whit and Emma could barely get inside.

“Here,” Whit said, pulling her against the back wall. He shifted his hanging camera to his side to keep it from digging into her. His muscular arm came to rest above her head.

Very conscious of his impressive chest, Emma felt intoxicated. The man’s body was made of steel. He smelled good, too. Fresh, like the rain. Little droplets still clung to his long eyelashes. Goodness! Even soggy he looked great.

Bending down, he whispered playfully, “The answer is yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I’m flirting with you.”

“Oh.” She stifled a grin. “I’m glad we cleared that up.”

“Me, too.”

“By the way,” she whispered back, feeling very at ease with this man and a bit playful herself. “Your…um…crotch is vibrating.”

“That’s my phone. It’s letting me know I have a message.”

“Ah, and here I thought you were just excited about being close to me.”

He chuckled low. “Well, that, too.”

EVERY WORD THAT CAME OUT of her mouth was probably a lie, but it was such a pretty mouth that Whit had almost convinced himself not to care.

His first priority was to his client, getting what he needed to prove the lady either was or wasn’t Emma Webster, but he found himself forgetting that when he looked at her. She had eyes the color of fine aged whiskey and a perfect little body that, at the moment, was so close he could feel the wrinkles on her shirt.

He wasn’t sure who was emanating all the heat—him or her—but they were in danger of setting the boat on fire.

Needing a distraction, he got his phone out of his pocket and punched in an encrypted password. The call a moment ago had come from his assistant, Deborah. The message on the small display said: Morrow is hinky.

Ah, hell. Hinky was Deborah’s slang for fishy. Apparently something about Allen Morrow of California hadn’t checked out.

He dialed Deborah’s cell phone. “It’s me,” he told her when she answered.

“Can you talk?”

“Having a wonderful time. Thanks for asking.”

She chuckled. “Apparently not. Why don’t I give you the highlights?”

“That’ll do.”

“I talked to one of my contacts in the D.A.’s office in Los Angeles and she’s never heard of an Allen Morrow or an upcoming case involving a cop killing. He’s bogus. The phone number where you reached to him last night is a nonworking one this morning. I had someone check out the location. Vacant office. A guy rented it for a week and paid cash. This joker went to a lot of trouble to talk to you, Whit. Any idea why?”

“I’m thinking.”

The firm had its share of phony calls every month—convicts posing as legitimate clients, stalkers trying to locate victims in hiding, nuts wanting information for one reason or another. More than once he’d had people try to hire him to track down the home address of a movie star or musician. They were convinced the star would become as enamored of them as they were of the star….

Whit always had his staff investigate their respective clients before they agreed to take a case. While it was impossible to be completely certain about anyone through a cursory background check, his prerequisites for acceptance were simple: clients had to be reasonably sane, able to afford the hourly fee of four hundred dollars, not desirous of causing damage to another’s life and they had to be telling the truth.

He personally had three cases going at the moment in addition to this one—two witness traces for a defense attorney and a missing heir for a multimillion dollar estate. Morrow had obviously been hoping to get information on one of those. But which one? And what info?

The last one most likely, because it carried a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar finder’s fee. Morrow could be another P.I. trying to beat him out of the money.

Whit couldn’t think of anything he’d told him, though. In fact, Morrow had done most of the talking; he’d offered information instead of soliciting it. He’d been polite, open, professional. Nothing the man had said or wanted had raised the “hinky radar,” as Deborah called it.

“At the moment, I don’t have a clue,” he told her.

“Goldblum case, do you think?”

“That’s the most probable, but I don’t want to make assumptions and miss anything.”

“Then let me follow up and see what else I can find out.”

“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Deborah.”

He signed off and returned the phone to his pocket.

“Problems?” Susan asked.

“No, nothing major. The office manager needing advice on some claims.”

“Ah, I thought maybe it was one of your sisters missing you.”

“I’ve only been gone a few days.”

“I’d miss you after a few days.” She turned red. “If I was your sister I’d miss you. If I was close to you and I was your sister and you went away for a week. Oh, you know what I mean.”

He chuckled. She was even lovelier when she got flustered.

She moved to get more comfortable in the cramped space, and he groaned inwardly as damp fabric slid against damp fabric. Lord! he deserved a medal for good behavior. He’d had a hell of a time keeping his hands to himself today.

“The rain seems to be easing up,” he pointed out.

She craned her neck to peer out beyond the couple next to them. “Yes, it does. At least it won’t be so hot now. Oh, look, we’re coming up to the marina. Darn it, I guess the ride’s almost over.”

Thank God. He couldn’t take much more of this.

Someone bumped him from behind, pushing him even closer to her. She put her hand against his chest to keep from getting crushed. He looped his free arm around her back.

If they’d been in private and horizontal rather than in public and vertical, he’d be in big trouble right about now. Only sheer will kept his lower body from reacting to the intimate contact.

Oh, hell, he was going to do something crazy. He felt the question rising in his throat. Even though he didn’t want to ask it, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.