Deceived Read online

  No way was she going down that road again.

  Ignoring the tremble in her fingers, Kate wiped her damp palms down her slacks. If she left this minute, she could still make it back to the office in time for her one-thirty appointment. Never once, in her two years at the center, had she been late for a client meeting. Why break that record?

  She started toward the escalator, deliberately placing one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the picture of the little boy strobing across her mind.

  Halfway there, her steps slowed.

  Stopped.

  No matter how hard she tried to wipe it from her brain, the image wouldn’t go away. Nor could she tune out the echo of that poppysicle reference. And what about the momentary glint of what might have been recognition in his eyes when he’d spotted her?

  Was it all just coincidence?

  Squeezing her eyelids shut, she tightened her grip on the handle of the shopping bag.

  Dear God, am I crazy? Is this just a manifestation of grief and loneliness and desperate hope? Please . . . tell me what to do. Should I walk away and forget this ever happened, or should I—

  “Excuse me, ma’am . . . are you all right?”

  She opened her eyes to find an older man with a concerned expression appraising her.

  Somehow she managed a stiff smile. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “You sure? I’d be happy to get you a glass of water or help you over to a chair in the food court. You’re kind of white—almost like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Ghost.

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she swallowed. “I-I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Neither do I.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his baggy slacks and rocked forward on his toes. “Bunch of nonsense, if you ask me.” A rumble of thunder shook the building, and he glanced up at the skylights. “Sounds like we might be in for some rain.”

  She tipped her head back. Dark clouds were scuttling across what had been a solid expanse of blue fifteen minutes ago. How could the weather change so quickly? “It was supposed to be sunny and dry today.”

  “That’s God for you. He likes to throw us a few curves now and then, turn things upside down. At least he’s giving us a sign of what’s coming today, and I, for one, intend to heed it.” He dug out his keys and jingled them. “You take care, now. Don’t get caught in this storm those Doppler folks failed to predict.” With a lift of his hand, he headed for the exit.

  Kate watched him until he disappeared in the crowd, his warning echoing in her ears. Unfortunately, it had come too late. She was already caught in a storm, one far more unsettled than the St. Louis weather. But their brief conversation had served a purpose. All that talk about ghosts and signs and God turning things upside down had given her the guidance she’d sought.

  She wasn’t leaving without trying to locate that man and child.

  Even if people thought she was nuts.

  Taking a deep breath, she set her shopping bag on the floor, rummaged through her shoulder purse, and extracted her cell. Someone else would have to cover her one-thirty meeting. Because unless she saw that boy up close, talked to him, confirmed he wasn’t Kevin, she’d be spending a lot of sleepless nights wondering if maybe, just maybe, this was one of those times God had thrown her a curve that could have changed her life.

  “How can it be eighty-two degrees at eight o’clock in the morning?” James Devlin pushed through the back door of Phoenix Inc., then made a sharp left from the hall into the small kitchenette at the rear of the office suite. After dumping his jacket on the dinette table against the wall, he grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and swiped at the beads of sweat on his forehead. “And how can you drink hot coffee in this weather?”

  Connor Sullivan topped off his U2 mug and lifted it in salute. “Good morning to you too. And it’s never too hot for coffee—unless you grew up in Minnesota and never learned to take the heat.”

  “There’s heat, and then there’s heat.” Dev headed for the refrigerator. “You’d think after five and a half years here I’d be used to dealing with the atmospheric kind.” He extracted a Coke and released the tab.

  “Atmospheric. That’s a big word for you on a Monday morning.”

  As a female voice joined the conversation, Connor turned toward the hall door and leaned back against the counter. A verbal sparring match between his partner and their office manager/receptionist would be an entertaining way to kick off the week.

  “Don’t start, Nikki.” Dev took a swig of soda and strafed her a warning look.

  “My, my. Did we get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Or maybe Laura came to her senses and gave back that ring you persuaded her to take on the Fourth of July.”

  “As a matter of fact, we spent yesterday planning our wedding.”

  “Yeah?” Nikki propped a shoulder against the door and crossed her arms. “So what were you complaining about, then?”

  “The heat.”

  She tipped her head. “It’s July in St. Louis. Get over it.”

  Dev flexed his soda can while he gave her a slow once-over, the aluminum pinging like the bell for round two. “I see you dressed for the weather. New color in the hair too.”

  Hiding the quirk of his lips behind the rim of his mug, Connor gave Nikki a more discreet perusal. Dangling gold ice cream cones were a nice seasonal touch in her triple-pierced ears, and her Caribbean-turquoise tank top matched the swath of neon color in her spiky platinum-blonde hair. The shimmering mother-of-pearl belt buckle on her tropical-print miniskirt was a little over the top—but it went with the shell necklace she’d brought back from her Hawaiian honeymoon a year or so ago. At least she’d worn heeled hemp sandals instead of flip-flops.

  Still, Dev would have a field day with this outfit . . . and Nikki would match him barb for barb.

  Connor settled in for the show and sipped his coffee.

  “The color is called St. Bart’s Blue. And if you think cool and act cool, you’ll be cool.” Nikki smoothed a hand down her abbreviated skirt.

  “Thinking cool doesn’t change the outside temperature. Neither does wearing beach attire to the office.”

  Nikki raised an eyebrow. “You have a problem with my clothes?”

  “Problem?” Dev took another swig of soda. “Nah. They’re very . . . colorful. And tropical. But you forgot the hat with fruit on top.”

  Connor covered his snicker with a cough.

  Ignoring him, Nikki patted her hair. “You know, that’s a thought. After all, Carmen Miranda was once the highest-paid female entertainer in Hollywood. Not a bad role model.” She let a beat of dramatic silence pass, then delivered her zinger. “And I know just where to get the lemon for the hat.”

  Connor almost choked on his coffee.

  A faint flush that had nothing to do with the outside temperature suffused Dev’s face as he conceded the bout. “How come you never pick on Connor or Cal?”

  “It’s more fun to make your face match your hair.” Nikki folded her arms and smirked at him.

  “Ha-ha.” Dev drained his soda and tossed the can in the recycle bin. “Well, some of us may have time to stand around all day and gab, but I have work to do.”

  As he disappeared through the door, Connor refilled his mug. “It sure would be boring around here without you two.”

  “Hardly, considering some of the dicey cases you guys handle. But I’m happy to do my part to liven things up on the duller days—and Dev’s easy to rile.”

  Only by her—and that was all show. If Dev didn’t like their sassy receptionist, he wouldn’t have offered to take in her teenage brother while she went off on a two-week honeymoon.

  But Connor kept those thoughts to himself as he pushed off from the counter. “You know, if you’re not careful, he might stop bringing you those lattes you like.”

  “Not if he wants me to tackle those mountains of files in his office, he won’t.”

  “Good point. Did you want some coffee?” Conno
r inclined his head toward the pot.

  As he expected, she wrinkled her nose. “I’m not as desperate for caffeine as you guys always are. I’ve got some herbal tea at my desk—and a new client waiting. Yours, by the way.”

  “Why don’t you give this one to Dev or Cal? I’m beat after that weekend executive security gig.”

  “Sorry. No can do. Cal’s meeting off-site with our favorite defense attorney to talk about some witnesses he wants tracked down, and Dev’s going to be starting surveillance for a workman’s comp case this morning—as soon as he finishes the two employee background checks buried somewhere in that mess on his desk.”

  So much for his hope of a quiet Monday morning. “Fine. What’s the deal?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not talking—to me. But she seems nervous.” Nikki shook out Dev’s jacket, picked off a piece of lint, and hung it on a hook by the door.

  “How long has she been here?”

  “She was waiting at the door when I went out front five minutes ago.”

  “Anxious.”

  “That would be a safe conclusion.”

  “Tell her I’ll be out in a couple of minutes. I want to straighten up my desk first.”

  “It won’t take you that long. There’s not much to clean in your office . . . unlike our red-haired friend’s work space.”

  “Maybe Laura will whip him into shape now that they’re engaged.”

  Nikki snorted. “Fat chance. He’s a lost cause, if you ask me. That pile of files in the corner of his office is higher than ever.”

  “More lattes for you.”

  With a nod, she started for the door. “I like the way you think.”

  Mug in hand, Connor followed her out of the kitchenette and crossed the hall to his office. A quick survey confirmed Nikki’s assessment; there wasn’t much to clean up. Pitch last Friday’s Wall Street Journal and the empty bag of pistachios from that child custody case stakeout last week, put away the files on the skip trace and corporate fraud cases he’d planned to review this morning, slip on the jacket he kept handy for new-client meetings—he’d be set. Sixty seconds, tops.

  And if fate was kind, perhaps this case would be straightforward, simple, and easy to solve so he could go home early and catch up on the shut-eye his two partners never thought he needed—no matter how many consecutive hours he worked.

  2

  This was a mistake.

  Kate fidgeted in the upholstered seat and glanced around the Phoenix Inc. lobby. The place might be classy, with its nubby Berber carpet, glass-topped coffee table, comfortable chairs, and artsy still-life photos on the walls. The location, in the heart of one of St. Louis’s nicer suburbs, might give the firm an added luster of legitimacy. The rectangular wooden plaque on the wall, emblazoned with the brass-lettered words Justice First—the same motto featured on the Phoenix website—might be admirable.

  But no matter how professional these PIs were, she still had a sinking feeling they were going to discount her claim, just as mall security and the local police had after they’d listened to her story and done some research into the events of three years ago.

  Why set herself up for another round of humiliation?

  Because you’ve spent three sleepless nights revisiting your brief encounter with the little boy . . . over and over and over again. Because each replay grew more vivid . . . and more urgent. Because now there’s a tiny flicker of hope burning in your heart.

  All true. But surely she was fooling herself. Blowing the incident out of all proportion. Letting herself get carried away in search of a miracle that had no more chance of being granted now than it had been three years ago.

  Wasn’t she?

  Kate rubbed her right temple, where a headache was beginning to throb. At this point, she had no idea. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost perspective on the whole thing—if she’d ever had it to begin with. Maybe she needed to give herself another twenty-four hours to reason this through before she made a fool of herself yet again. More time and space might restore her usual clear thinking. And if the urge to seek help was as strong a day or two down the road, she could always return.

  Yes. Good plan.

  Decision made, she rose—just as the beach-party-babe receptionist reentered the room through the door behind her desk, the unicorn tattoo on her forearm front and center as she pushed through. If the rest of this place hadn’t been so tasteful, and if the police detective, undercover ATF, and Secret Service credentials of the PIs on the website hadn’t been so impressive, she’d never have stepped foot inside when the twentysomething woman released the security locks on the front door promptly at eight o’clock.

  “Did you need to use the ladies’ room?” The platinum blonde indicated the door behind her. “Or I’ll be happy to get you a beverage, if you’ve changed your mind.”

  “No. I . . . uh . . . think I’ll just come back later.” Kate made a pretense of consulting her watch as she edged toward the front door. “I have a meeting this morning and I still . . . I have a few things I need to pull together for it. This stop might delay me too much.”

  “Of course. Why don’t I take your name and a phone number so I can pass it on to Connor Sullivan, the PI who was planning to speak with you?” The receptionist moved behind her desk and rummaged through a drawer.

  As the woman made a project out of retrieving a pen and piece of paper, Kate bit her lip. She’d prefer to slip away anonymously, but what could it hurt to provide some basic contact information? All she had to do if the PI followed up was say she’d changed her mind.

  After spending an inordinate amount of time shuffling through the drawer, the receptionist withdrew a pen, sat, and aimed an expectant look across her desk.

  “The name’s Kate Marshall.” She edged closer to the exit. “My cell number is—”

  The door to the back offices opened again. This time a raven-haired man in a tie and subtly patterned sport jacket stepped through, his assertive, take-charge air softened by a killer dimple.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” His gaze dropped to the keys she’d dug out of her purse, and he exchanged a glance with the receptionist.

  “Ms. Marshall was concerned that meeting with you would make her late for a prior commitment. I was just taking her contact information.” The woman inclined her head to the pad of paper in front of her.

  He scanned it, then walked across the waiting area, hand extended. “Connor Sullivan. I don’t want to delay you, but if you have even a few minutes to spare, a quick conversation now might save you a trip back later.”

  Cornered.

  She eyed his lean, powerful-looking fingers as he paused in front of her. Short of being rude, she couldn’t ignore his polite, professional overture.

  So much for her fast escape.

  Stifling a sigh, she transferred her keys to her left hand and placed her fingers in his. They were instantly swallowed in a warm, firm grip that somehow, with one squeeze, conveyed strength, competence, and integrity.

  How had he done that?

  She looked up—and up again—into his face. The Phoenix website hadn’t identified which PI held which credential, but based on this guy’s polished, clean-cut appearance—not to mention his authoritative bearing—she’d be willing to bet he was Secret Service.

  As for her plan to bolt . . . she wavered as his eyes sucked her in. Dark as obsidian, they searched, discerned, and reassured, all in the space of a few heartbeats, prompting her to draw three rapid conclusions.

  This was a man who would listen, evaluate, and come to sound conclusions.

  This was a man who would treat her story with respect.

  This was a man she could trust.

  The silence lengthened, until the receptionist hidden from her view behind the PI’s broad shoulders cleared her throat.

  A fleeting frown marred the man’s brow, then he released her hand, took a step back, and waited.

  The ball was in her court.

  Without overanalyzin
g her change of heart, she took a deep breath and tightened her fingers around the handle of her briefcase. “I can spare a few minutes.”

  Those dark eyes warmed like the volcanic origins of the black glass whose color they mirrored. “Good. Let me show you back.”

  Moving aside, he gestured for her to precede him.

  As she prepared to pass the receptionist’s desk, the woman looked up from her computer screen, toward the man behind her. A spark of . . . amusement? . . . glinted in her eyes.

  Odd.

  “Give me a sec to release the security lock.” She angled into her desk, and a moment later Kate heard a distinctive click.

  Connor stepped to her side, leaned around her, and reached for the handle, his solid chest mere inches away. He was close enough for her to get a whiff of his understated aftershave—which caused an uptick in her pulse.

  Also odd.

  “Second office on the left.”

  A tiny whisper of warmth tickled her cheek as he pulled the door back. Somehow it found its way to her heart.

  What in the world was going on?

  And why did she suddenly have the same off-balance feeling she’d experienced on Friday at the mall, when she’d spotted that little boy and the world seemed to shift beneath her feet?

  No time now to figure it out, though. She had a story to tell, and despite her sense that the man following her down the short hall would respect her tale, it was possible she’d read him wrong. That he’d write her off as a wacko and escort her out before she even warmed a chair.

  “Have a seat.” Connor gestured to a small round table off to one side in his neat-as-a-pin office. “Would you like something to drink? We have plenty of cold beverages if tea or coffee don’t appeal to you on this scorcher.”

  She inspected the half-full mug on this desk. Apparently this man didn’t shy away from the heat.

  And she wasn’t going to, either.

  “Coffee would be fine. Black.”

  “My preference too. Hang tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Once he disappeared into the hall, she eased back in the chair and expelled an unsteady breath.