Dawn Stewardson - Unexpected Outcome

Not Dana, though.

He had the distinct feeling that the less she discussed the finer points of her profession the happier she’d be. Which had him thinking…

Regardless of her Web site, he was back to suspecting his uncle and Larry had lied to him, that she was either a cop or a P.I.

Maybe it wasn’t much more than a hunch, but he’d learned not to ignore his hunches. And if he was right about her, why were those two keeping him in the dark?

Only one obvious answer came to mind and he really didn’t like it.

Larry might keep talking about how he suspected the warehouse guys. But when he was alone with Robert he had to be suggesting Noah could be behind things.

The thought his uncle would even consider that was… Yet what other explanation made sense?

Hell, that was probably the real reason Robert had him playing tour guide for Dana. It would give her time with him. Time to figure out if he was the guilty one.

Gazing at her reflection again, he decided he had to establish whether she was a phony or not—and fast.

As the old saying went, forewarned was forearmed, and it had occurred to him, right off the bat, that she might get in the way of what he was doing.

Now he was thinking that, unless his hunch was wrong, there was little doubt she would.

Casually, he turned from the window and started toward the others.

When Dana noticed him coming, he said, “You’re going to be here for a while, so I’ll head back. Do some work until you need me again.”

“Well…fine.”

“My office is to the right of the front door. Just down the hall.”

“Fine,” she said again.

After nodding to the three men, he strode out of the warehouse and up the pier to West Street.

Ten minutes later he was at his computer, reading through those quotes from “clients” on Dana’s Web site and thinking it was strange that she wouldn’t have included the names of the client companies.

Or maybe it wasn’t strange. If they weren’t for real, they didn’t have names.

He reached for his phone and dialed the number on the screen, then listened to her voice telling him he’d reached the office of Dana Mayfield, organizational design consultant, and asking him to leave a message.

He hung up, not even marginally convinced his hunch was wrong, then went into a database that gave him the options of searching the city by either address, zip or phone number.

When he typed in her number, there was no hit. Yet it was obviously assigned, which meant she’d intentionally had it blocked.

A blocked business number? That made him even more suspicious. But how was he going to find out for sure if his suspicions were right? Follow her home?

No, that didn’t strike him as much of a plan. He’d be smarter to try charm. Befriend her. Get her talking about herself. Then catch her off guard.

Uh-huh, that was a far better idea.

Except that he was kind of rusty in the charm department. He’d been so busy around here lately that his social life was nothing but a faded memory.

Glancing at Dana’s photo once more, he told himself not to worry about the rust. Being charming to a woman who looked like her wouldn’t be tough. No matter how high the likelihood that she was a phony.

On the other hand, he’d never been a good actor. So if she was a detective…

Well, he’d just have to be careful. And hope for the best.

IT WAS QUARTER TO TWELVE before Dana got back from the warehouse, and she headed straight down the hall next to the front entrance.

The door of the first office along it was closed, but its nameplate told her it belonged to Chris Vidal, director of logistics.

Noah’s was the one farther along—the corner one—and he was at his desk. Seeing her, he shot her another of his devastating smiles.

It reminded her she’d decided to work on developing immunity to them. Although she might not work too hard.

After all, she didn’t have a rule about mixing pleasure with ex-business. So once her job here was through…

Telling herself to leave contemplating that until she was a lot closer to its being through—not to mention until she was absolutely certain Noah was one of the good guys—she said, “I just wanted to check that you’ll still be available later.”

“Sure. How did it go at the warehouse?”

“Not badly.”

“Good. Hey, it’s almost noon,” he added, glancing at his watch. “There’s a deli on Gansevoort that isn’t bad. Want to try it?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to write myself some notes about this morning. And if I don’t do it now I’ll forget half of what I heard.”

“I can wait a bit,” he said casually.

“Well…actually, I’m going to skip lunch.”

“Ah.” He hesitated, then said, “Dana, if I just gave you the impression that… I was only talking about lunch.

“No, wait, I think that came out wrong. I didn’t mean to sound as if I might not be interested in…”

He shook his head and grinned. “I should probably stop before I get in even deeper. But what I was trying to say is that I didn’t have a hidden agenda. I just figured you might like someone to eat with.”

“Well, I appreciate that. And you didn’t give me the wrong impression. I’d decided to skip lunch before you said a word. I ended up spending a lot more time with Stu Refkin than I’d expected.”

“Ah,” he said a second time. “Okay, then. I’ll be back by one, so whatever works after that…”

“Fine. See you later.”

Starting for the stairs, she felt as if a little candle were glowing inside her. When a man stumbled all over his words talking to a woman…

Of course, she’d already been pretty sure the attraction was mutual, but “certain” was better than “pretty sure.” Much better.

THE SECOND FLOOR SEEMED deserted when Dana reached it, which was just as well. She had a feeling that Helen Rupert was a chatty woman—nice, but chatty. And she really did have to get those notes written.

Whenever feasible, she avoided using tape recorders. They often made people reluctant to speak freely. But the downside to relying on her memory was how quickly things began slipping from her mind.

She reached her own office and opened the door, thinking she should tell someone that the lock wasn’t working. Then she stepped inside and her brain shifted gears.

On the surface of her desk, to the left of the computer, lay a white, letter-size envelope.

Two disposable latex gloves were precisely positioned next to it, one on either side.

Untouched by human hands? No fingerprints? Was that their message?

Odds were, she decided. And odds also were that whoever had left this for her was a tad on the weird side.

She picked up the envelope, opened its unsealed flap—absently thinking no fingerprints or traces of saliva—and removed the single sheet of paper. She silently read the computer-printed message.

I know who you really are. And I know who set the warehouse fire. It was Noah Haine.

Her mouth a little dry and her heartbeat a little fast, she sat down.

What the hell was this? A joke?

If so, it wasn’t a funny one.

And who had left it here, anyway?

She had no way of knowing, of course. Using the back stairs, anyone could have come up without being seen.

Or maybe one of those ghosts Robert had mentioned had snuck down from the third floor.

But where had that thought come from? Was her subconscious trying to creep her out?

Reminding herself she didn’t believe in ghosts, she gazed at the words again.

I know who you really are.

Okay. That could mean exactly what it said, or could merely mean that someone suspected she wasn’t an OD consultant.