The Notorious Mrs. Wright

He was a toucher, too, and that heightened her sexual awareness of him, and her awareness of her own body. Climbing the steps, he’d put a steadying grip on her elbow. Crossing the busy street, he’d held her hand. She’d never known that elbows and hands could be erogenous zones.

Each contact had sent an electrical current racing through her nervous system. Right now that current pulsed between her legs.

Lord! She tried to redirect her focus away from what his nearness was doing to her, but the pull—female to male—overpowered logical thought.

What had he asked? Oh, about her birthplace.

“I’m, uh, from Virginia originally, but I’ve lived different places over the years.”

“And how did you wind up in Saint Augustine?”

“Abby’s responsible for that. We worked together as waitresses a few years ago in a horrible place. The management was crooked. The food was awful. Only two good things came out of that job—becoming friends with Abby and hearing her talk about her hometown. I fell in love with the city sight unseen.”

“So you moved here?”

“Not right away. The opportunity to own my own place only came open for me last year. I wanted to locate somewhere with a moderate climate and thriving tourist trade, but I also wanted a safe, family-oriented community for my son, and preferably something near the ocean, since he loves the water. So, I thought…here’s your chance to live in the town of your dreams. I called Abby and asked if she’d like to help me run a business.”

“She’s your partner?”

“Legally, no, but we’re inching toward that. For now she oversees the catering and she’s fabulous at it. She works with the local bridal consultants and party planners to give customers an event they’ll remember all their lives—costumes, props, scenery, the works. You pick a theme and we can do it. We can dress the staff, dress the customer, dress the guests. We use live centerpieces instead of ice sculptures, too, which is unique.”

“Like what?”

“Oh…models dressed as mermaids reclining on a half shell in the middle of a seafood buffet—that sort of thing. No one else around here goes to that extreme.”

“So these aren’t specific characters like you do in the restaurant?”

“Some are. Some aren’t. It depends on what the customer requests. People love themed parties, especially brides. We can whip up anything, given enough time. I have a whole third floor packed with props and costumes.”

“What are some of the weddings you’ve done?”

“Well, we haven’t done too many yet because we only opened six months ago and weddings take a lot of advance planning, but we’ve done several mystery parties. Those are great fun.” She thought about what else. “Oh, and we did a Gone With The Wind anniversary celebration for an older couple. The hosts dressed as Scarlett and Rhett, and we had a replica of the front porch of Tara. They gave an elegant ball with an orchestra and period dancing and all the guests came in costumes.”

“Not exactly my kind of party.”

“Too cutesy?”

“Yeah. No offense.”

“None taken. My son said the same thing, that it sounded like a ‘chick party’ to him.” They both laughed. “But that’s usual for this kind of event. The woman plans it and the man goes along with it because he loves her.”

“Makes sense.”

“The guests did have fun at that one, though. We got a lot of referrals from it.”

“What kooky ones have you done?”

“Mmm, in October a couple plans to be married in one of the local haunted houses. They want me to dress them as Herman and Lily Munster.”

He grimaced. “That’s way too weird for me.”

“Me, too. It doesn’t fit in with the elegant atmosphere I maintain for the restaurant, but for private parties I try to be more flexible. Besides, it should be fun getting them ready. I haven’t done monsters before. We get a lot of calls for parties with ghost themes, since the city is known for its haunted buildings, but monsters aren’t my specialty.”

“Can you do it?”

“Oh, sure. No problem.”

“Where did you learn your craft?”

“The costumes and makeup?”

“Yes. Where did you study that?”

“I’ve picked up things here and there. I haven’t been to any kind of school, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re really good for someone who’s not trained.”

She shrugged. “I suppose it’s all that experience playing dress-up as a child.” She realized her unintended pun and almost choked.

“What about your family?” he asked. “Are they still in Virginia?”

“My stepfather, yes. He raised me after my mother died.”

“You’re close?”

“Not much anymore. I visit him a couple of times a year.”

They passed a sandbar where big, brown pelicans sunned themselves.

“Oh, look!” she called out. “How pretty.”

The boat was fully under way now, and the captain had begun his monologue. The star-shaped Spanish fort, or castillo, on the left bank had once helped protect the town from invaders. Whit took photos of the birds and then the fort, moving from one side rail to the other for a better view.

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.

“How about when we dock we ride out to the lighthouse or to the beach?”

Damn, now he’d gone and done it. He wanted to kick himself.

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

“We can have dinner later and you can check out your competition. We could even see a movie after, or go on one of those ghost tours.”

“That sounds wonderful, but I’ve never taken a whole night off before.”

“Then you’re due one. They can get along without you for a little longer, can’t they?”

Whit was walking a fine line. Spending more time with her meant additional opportunities to get information. But it also meant increasing difficulty in retaining his objectivity, already on shaky ground. But a few more hours together probably wouldn’t hurt…maybe.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “At least help me shop for presents for my nieces and nephews. Otherwise my sisters will be mad and they won’t spoil me anymore. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then come with me. And let me take you out to dinner. We’ll have a night on the town. Whatever you want to do.”

“All right, but I’ll need to call in and leave word for the manager. Do you think we’ll be back by midnight?”

“What happens at midnight? Do you lose a slipper and turn into Rodney Dangerfield?”

“Maybe,” she said with a giggle.

Lord, it was a sweet sound.

“Late date?” he asked.

That really got her tickled. “Yes, fifteen of them. But they don’t have to wait until the stroke of twelve to turn back into mice, unfortunately.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. I’m being silly. But I really do need to be back by then to make sure everything’s properly closed up.”

“Scout’s honor, I’ll have you home whenever you want.”

“We’re you ever a Boy Scout?”

“Not even close.”

CHAPTER FOUR

TOM WRIGHT loaded the microfilm reader with a roll carrying the April 17, 1984, edition of the Los Angeles Times and fumbled around trying to figure out how to work the machine. He didn’t like hiding what he was up to from his mom or lying about his whereabouts, but she got so freaked out when he asked questions about his dad that he’d decided he’d get his answers another way.

As he’d told her, the bike rental shop had wanted him to come in today and work four hours. But then he’d read an article in the newspaper about this place, a Family History Center they called it, where you could find out about your relatives. He’d asked his boss for the day off and told his friend Tony Parker what he was doing, in case he was late getting to Tony’s and his mom called.

Tom fiddled with the knobs. If he could figure this out, he might actually find something.

He asked one of the workers for help. She showed him how to fast-forward, focus on the pages and move them up and down. The name index didn’t list William Wright, but Tom hoped to find a news story on his father’s accident. The worker suggested he look ahead two weeks in case the navy had delayed reporting it.

He found nothing, not even an obituary.

“Are you certain the date of death is right?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am. My mom gave it to me years ago, but I wrote it down.”

“Do you know what your father’s date of birth was or his social security number? A middle initial would be good, too.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t, but I might be able to get them.”

“That would help. Meanwhile, I know of a couple of databases we can check and some online sources. Let’s see what we can find.”

An hour later, they still hadn’t come up with anything. Tom’s disappointment grew.

“That’s odd,” the lady said. “I would’ve thought we’d at least find newspaper articles. Well, here’s what we’ll do.” She went and got a booklet and handed it to him. “In here you’ll find instructions for requesting your dad’s military records. Those may or may not have the details you want about his death, but they should give you something. One little tidbit often leads to another. Try to fill out as many of the spaces on the form as you can and indicate you want information under the Freedom of Information Act.”

“How much will that cost?”

“The search is free, but they’ll charge you a fee per page for photocopying. They’ll notify you of how much it is before they send the records, though.”

“How long will all this take?”

“Honestly, it can take months.”

“Months?” He slumped in the chair.

“I know that’s discouraging, but they get several million requests every year.”

Tom nodded. Whatever it took, he’d do it.

“Meanwhile, I suggest you talk with your mom and surviving members of your family to see what news clippings and documents they already have. That’s the best place to start with a genealogy project. What about your grandparents, your dad’s parents? Are they still alive?”

“No, ma’am. At least I don’t think so.”

“Did your dad have brothers or sisters?”

“Not that I know of. My mom’s never talked too much about her people or my dad’s. She told me once that her and my dad got married real young and their families didn’t like it too much. They stopped talking to each other. I never met my grandparents. I don’t even know their names.”

“That’s too bad. But much of this information is readily available if you know where to look.”

Tom perked up. “Really? Tell me how.”

EMMA WOULD REMEMBER this afternoon as close to perfect. After the boat ride, Whit retrieved his rental car from his motel and took her out to Anastasia Island. He made her climb all one hundred and ten of the circular steps of the lighthouse, and then coerced another tourist into taking a photograph of them together at the top.

After, they visited the public pier, since he said fishing was one of his favorite pastimes. They sat on the concrete seawall and talked. She asked if he’d been out on one of the charter boats yet.

“A few days ago.”

“Which one?”

“Uh…The Blue…something or other.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

“I don’t know of one with blue in its name.”

“I could be wrong.”

A couple of hours later, they drove back to the mainland and parked behind the restaurant, then strolled Saint George’s pedestrian walkway, shopping for gifts for his seven nieces and nephews.

Ignoring her pleas not to, he picked a hibiscus flower to put behind her ear and bought silly matching T-shirts with cartoon fish on them that read I’m Hooked on Saint Augustine. He insisted they both had to put them on over their clothes and have another photo taken.

After dark he fed her ribs and took her on a carriage ride through downtown. The slow clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the street as they rode along was as soothing as soft music.

“You’ve asked about me,” she said, “and now it’s my turn. You’ve told me hardly anything about yourself.”

“Not much to tell. I was born in Lansing. I work with my dad in the office. My sisters live nearby so weekends tend to be a family affair with all of us getting together at my parents’ house. I like to play golf and watch football.”

“And fish.”

“Yeah, and fish. I inherited that gene from my dad.”

“Tell me about your mom. What’s she like?”

“She’s great. She sells real estate, loves antiques and asks me at least once a day when I’m going to do my part to add to her pool of grandchildren.”

“You’ve never been married?”

“No, and I can’t say I’ve ever even been serious about a woman. I work long hours, and it’s hard to sustain a relationship. What about you? Why haven’t you remarried?”

“I never met anyone I liked well enough to spend my life with. And I have a son to consider. His welfare and happiness always come first with me.”

“He’s a lucky kid.”

She smiled. “I’m the lucky one. Being both mother and father has been hard at times, but having a child has been the best part of my life.”

“Can I ask how your husband died?”

“His unit was training off the coast of California at night. The navy said his equipment must have malfunctioned, because he didn’t make the rendezvous. They never found his body.”

“Damn, that’s rough.” He smoothly put one arm around her shoulder and reached over with the other to take her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. Emma didn’t mind.

“How old was your son when his father died?”

“Tom wasn’t born yet. I’d only just found out I was pregnant.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Tell me about your son. How old is he and what’s he like?”

“He’s talented, smart, handsome and inquisitive, but I guess all mothers think that about their children. For a seventeen-year-old, he’s also remarkably self-sufficient. I guess he’s had to be, with me working nights most of his life. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about leaving him alone anymore, now that we live above the restaurant.”

“His name is Tom? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, John Thomas. He’ll be a senior in high school this year.”

“So you named him for his father?”

The question confused her for a moment. Memories of her little brother nearly closed up her throat. She wondered if J.T. thought of her as often as she thought of him.

“No, my husband’s name was William. I named Tom for…well, a little boy I cared very much for as a child.”

“A relative?”

“No, a friend.”

“Where’s Tom tonight? Will he worry about you not being at work?”

“No, he’s with his friend Tony Parker. I’m sure they’re off somewhere attempting to woo women. That seems to be their primary mission this summer.”

He chuckled. “I remember those years well. Wooing women was always my goal on a Saturday night.”

“How old are you, Whit?”

“Thirty-six.”

Oh, dear. He was even two years younger than her real age.

The carriage finished its loop and dropped them off at eleven-thirty on the bay front across from Illusions. Whit walked her around back, where the double doors were still open and the light barely illuminated the small parking area for staff. The restaurant had closed at eleven but, from inside, the clash of dishes and voices signaled that everyone was still cleaning up.