Bait & Switch (22 page)

He frowned as he approached G. Gaston Gibbs’s office at the back of the strip club. Unfortunately, Mitch hadn’t made much more progress toward rescuing his brother than he had the first time he’d been summoned to Gibbs’s office.

He’d been so busy working the two jobs and dealing with Peyton that he hadn’t spent as much time delving into Gibbs’s personal affairs as he would have liked. Sure, he’d staked out his real-estate office and his home, but he hadn’t noticed anything criminal going on.

In fact, Gibbs probably knew more about Mitch’s actions than vice versa. That was something the two of them were going to talk about.

Gibbs, however, started talking first.
 

“Do you have my money?” he asked in his smooth, refined voice when Mitch was barely more than a few steps inside his red-velvet sanctuary.

Gibbs was leaning over a pool table that hadn’t been there days before, lining up a shot.

“Sure do.” Mitch took the envelope Stu Funderburk had given him out of his pocket. He waited for the thwack of balls smacking into each other, but the cue ball rolled soundlessly to the other side of the table.

Gibbs didn’t seem to notice the ball had hit nothing but air. He walked around the table and made a show of lining up another shot. This time the cue ball grazed one ball, hit another and sent two more bumping off the cushioned sides of the table. The pockets didn’t see any action.

“Only the second shot I’ve missed all day,” Gibbs said before leaning the cue stick against the table.

“I hear they’re thinking about remaking
The Hustler
,” Mitch said lazily. “Maybe you could play the part of Minnesota Fats.”

Gibbs walked over to Mitch, dislike evident in his small eyes. “If I were you, Mitchell, I’d be careful what I said.”

Mitch bristled. It galled him that this man had snowed Peyton into believing he was a respectable citizen. “And if I were you, I’d be careful what I did and who I did it with.”

Gibbs laughed, which thrust his pointed features into prominence. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Mitchell. Especially because you’re fighting a battle you can’t win.”

“I am winning,” Mitch said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, really?” He raised his too-thin eyebrows. “So I suppose the McDowells asked you to the get-together they’re having tomorrow on their luxury sailboat? No? Oh, that’s right. Counting Peyton and me, there are already four of us. Wouldn’t want to have an odd number.”

Was he speaking the truth?, Mitch wondered as the smaller man took the envelope from him and started counting his money. Had Gibbs finagled it so Peyton would spend two days straight with him? Mitch wouldn’t put it past either Gibbs or the McDowells.

It wouldn’t matter for long, because Peyton would soon know what kind of a man Gibbs was underneath the smooth exterior. Once Mitch told her he wasn’t Cary, he’d explain why the masquerade was necessary. If she gave him the chance.

“Where’s the rest of the money?” Gibbs raised hard, mean eyes to Mitch. Once again, he was all business. “I told you to collect at least half of what Funderburk owed.”

Mitch shrugged. “I couldn’t collect what he didn’t have. He said he’d try to get the rest by next Saturday.”

“Try?” Gibbs’s eyes bore into his. “I don’t like the sound of that. If you’d done your job right, he wouldn’t have said he’d
try
to get the money. He’d have said he
would
get the money.”

“You know I did my job right.”

Gibbs walked back to the pool table and leaned against it. He crossed his arms over his chest. “And how do I know that?”

“Vincent Carmichael.”

Mitch let the name hang between them while he watched Gibbs for a reaction. The only expression that crossed the other man’s face was one of confusion.

“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

“He’s the P.I. you hired to have me followed. Has an office west of the Ashley in a strip shopping center. But you know that already.”

Gibbs’s short laugh sounded like a bark. “You think I hired a private dick to follow you? Why on earth would I do that?”

“To see whether I’m carrying out your orders.”

“If you bring me back my money, I can tell whether you’re carrying out my orders.”

“Maybe you wanted to make sure I made Stu Funderburk sorry he couldn’t repay all he owed.”

Gibbs’s arms uncrossed. He straightened. He did not look happy. “Are you saying this Vincent Carmichael, this
private investigator
, followed you to Funderburk’s place?”

 
Mitch nodded, and Gibbs muttered an oath. He rubbed his brow with a thumb and two fingers, crossed the room to his desk and sat down.

“What kind of a car does Carmichael drive?”

Mitch told him, and Gibbs fell into a deeper silence. “I haven’t noticed a green car but then I wasn’t looking for one,” Gibbs finally said.

“You think this man is investigating you instead of me? Is that it?”

“Of course he’s investigating me. If you weren’t working for me, you wouldn’t be important enough to follow.” Gibbs pointed at Mitch. “I need you to find out if he has anything on me.”

“How do you expect me to do that?”

“Break into his office and go through his files.”

Mitch put both hands up palms out. “I’m not breaking into anyone’s office. That’s against the law.”

“So is stealing money from the cash register.” Gibbs paused to let his words sink in. Mitch schooled his expression to remain neutral but inside he was damning his brother.

“Yeah, I know you’ve been stealing from me, Mitchell,” Gibbs continued. “The only reason I haven’t had Millie call the cops is because I’ve found it handy to have you around. If you cease to be handy, I could change my mind.”

“You can’t prove I stole from you.”

“Do you really think I couldn’t get an employee to say she saw you stealing? Do you really want to bet a jail sentence on that?” Gibbs stroked his jaw. “Because if you don’t break into that office and get those records, that’s exactly what you’ll be doing.”

When Mitch didn’t answer, Gibbs opened his desk calendar and flipped through it. “Let’s see, it’s Saturday night so that gives you all day tomorrow to figure something out. That way, you can have the information to me by Monday.”

“I don’t work on Monday,” Mitch said.

“You do now.”

The notion of breaking and entering was so distasteful that Mitch couldn’t trust himself to say anything else. He simply turned and started to leave.

“Oh, and Mitchell,” Gibbs’s voice trailed after him, making Mitch stop in his tracks. “If you have any notion of telling Peyton what I do when I’m not buying and selling real estate, I’d get rid of it right now.”

Mitch turned and felt as though he were staring into the face of evil.

“If anyone in Charleston society, especially anyone so prominently associated with the preservation league, got wind of my, uh, extracurricular activities, I’d have to make sure they didn’t spread ugly gossip.”

A chill settled over Mitch, because it occurred to him that this man was capable of anything. “Is that a threat?”

“A threat?” Gibbs leaned back in his desk chair. “I prefer to think of it as advice on how to keep someone you care about safe.”

Mitch whirled and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him with a resounding bang. Now it was himself, and not Cary, who was in a jam.

He wasn’t sure how to get out of it, but he was certain of one thing. For Peyton’s sake, he had to keep quiet about his true identity until Gibbs was safely behind bars.

The sun had barely begun its fiery descent into the horizon, but that didn’t matter to the throng that had converged on Mallory Square for the nightly sunset celebration.

The party was already in full swing.

Tourists rubbed elbows with souvenir vendors, street entertainers and locals out to make a buck selling conch fritters and cold beers from mobile carts.

Lizabeth kept her hand securely in Grant’s as they wove a path into the heart of the square. A sense of anticipation pulsed below the surface of the crowd, anticipation that Lizabeth could identify with.

But Lizabeth was looking forward to something far more exciting than a sunset, no matter how glorious. She was impatient to dive back in bed with Grant and make love again. And again. And again.

A shadow fell over them. Lizabeth looked up to see a gorgeous face made up so expertly she’d have guessed she was looking at a supermodel if the body that went with the face wasn’t about six feet three and two hundred forty pounds.

The drag queen didn’t make any secret of the fact he was eyeing Grant instead of Lizabeth. He took a pull from his cigarillo and blew out a plume of blue-gray smoke before finally turning his attention to Lizabeth.

“Some girls have all the luck,” he said with a petulant frown before thundering away on a giant pair of women’s platform shoes.

“Remind me not to come here alone,” Grant said with a raised eyebrow.

Lizabeth giggled. She knew giggling was undignified but she couldn’t help herself. Everything about the last few days seemed magnified. Comments struck her as funnier, the sun seemed brighter, the air sweeter.

And it was all because Grant Mitchell was her lover.

As little as two weeks ago, the prospect of any lover seemed a distant possibility. Let alone Grant Mitchell, the star of her youthful daydreams.

“What are you smiling about?” Grant asked.

“Nothing,” she fibbed.

Quick as a cheetah, he turned her into his arms and gave her a swift kiss. Her toes curled in her safari-print sandals.

“What was that for?” she asked when she had her breath back.

His blue eyes twinkled. “Just thought I’d give you something to smile about.”

She giggled again. He put an arm around her and steered her through the crowd. When she’d had her desperate crush on him in high school, she’d never have guessed he was the sort of man who’d kiss a woman in public.

Lizabeth had only known Grant from afar, but he’d seemed much too strait-laced for public displays of affection. He’d seemed like a man destined to become, well, a cop.

She’d been attracted to his air of seriousness when she was a teenager, but now that she was an adult his playful side most appealed to her. She only wished he’d show her more than glimpses of it.

They stopped beside a small crowd that had gathered to watch a short, stout, bearded man who resembled an undersized sumo wrestler. He wore a black T-shirt and shorts and loudly proclaimed in broken English, “I am the Balancing Bob. You give it to me, I balance it.”

A ponytailed young woman in a headband, tank top and long, tight shorts offered him her bicycle. Balancing Bob didn’t hesitate. He had two volunteers heave the bicycle overhead by its wheels, then proceeded to balance the bike from a contraption he held in his mouth. He extolled the crowd to cheer him by raising his hands.

“Is magnificent, eh?” asked Balancing Bob when the bicycle was no longer airborne. He was breathing hard, telling Lizabeth that balancing was as hard as it looked. “I balance a motorcycle, an oven, a kitchen table. Who has something else I balance?”

Grant laughed, put a few dollars in Balancing Bob’s tip can and slung his arm around Lizabeth again. By mutual consent, they moved away from the balancer and toward another small crowd gathered in front of yet another street performer.

This one wore something even more brash than Lizabeth’s safari-print mini dress: A billowing purple shirt paired with yellow-and-purple striped pantaloons that ended at his knees. He’d paired the whole shebang with yellow knee socks.

“Nice outfit,” Grant whispered. Before Lizabeth could giggle again, she put her hand against her mouth to stifle the sound. Enough giggling was enough.

With rare panache, the street performer juggled a trio of two-toned clubs that mimicked the colors of his outfit. Double flips, triple flips, between the legs, behind the back, four clubs instead of three. He could do it all.

“I’d regale you with passing tricks now,” the juggler said, tossing back his mane of long, blonde hair, “but my partner spent all afternoon at Sloppy Joe’s and passed out an hour ago. So I’ll get on with the show unless. . .” He cast a laughing glance around the audience, “anyone here can juggle like me.”

Lizabeth remembered a captivating performance at a long-ago school talent show. Her hand shot up. “My boyfriend can juggle,” she announced.

Grant’s shocked blue eyes swung to her face, probably because she’d called him her boyfriend. How unsophisticated was that?

“I would have called you my lover, but I wanted to keep it G-rated,” she whispered an aside to him. “There are kids around.”

Wearing a disbelieving look, the juggler pointed to Grant. His narrow nose pointed skyward. “You claim you can juggle like the master?”

“I’m not claiming anything.” Grant shook his head in an adorably modest way.

“I did not think so. Juggling takes great skill and coordination, not to mention a flair for entertaining.” The juggler puffed out his purple-draped chest. “Many pretenders brag of their so-called juggling expertise but few can deliver.”

Lizabeth stepped forward, her hackles raised. Who gave this arrogant juggle-it-all a monopoly on tossing things in the air and catching them?

“Grant can deliver,” she stated firmly.

“Leeza, what are you doing?” Grant tugged at her hand, trying unsuccessfully to draw her back to his side. “I can’t deliver.”

She didn’t miss the frantic note in his voice but that was probably because he was shy about showing off his talent. But she’d seen him juggle five balls at once and flip clubs with the best of them. He could teach this big-headed juggler a lesson.

She gave Grant an encouraging look over her shoulder. “Don’t be modest. I know you can do it.”

“How can you know that?” he asked, but Lizabeth didn’t have time to tell him how awed she’d been as she sat in the darkened auditorium watching his unexpected talent. The juggle-it-all was laughing at them.

“I do not believe this man is a juggler,” he stated.

Lizabeth raised her chin and jerked a thumb at Grant. “I’d put his juggling up against your juggling any day.”