Clutches and Curses (12 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

BOOK: Clutches and Curses
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C
HAPTER
12
J
ack is hot. Really hot. Tall, dark hair, gorgeous eyes, great build. He's got a way-hot job as a private detective, and he's hooked into most everything that's happening in L.A.
I met Jack back in the day when I worked for the mega-high-power law firm, Pike Warner. I toiled away in the accounts payable unit and he investigated cases for the attorneys handling rich and famous—and infamous—clients.
Jack also did side work. I've helped him out at times, and he's done the same for me. Strictly professional, of course, though I admit at times I've been tempted by his good looks and toe-curling voice.
Jack's been tempted, too—that's what I'm telling myself, anyway—but he knew I was with Ty Cameron. Plus, Ty's family had been represented by Pike Warner for decades. Jack was too smart to create a conflict of interest that would call his integrity into question.
Jack answered on the third ring.
“What's up?” he asked.
Sitting in Starbucks, staring out the window at the traffic passing by, it hit me that involving Jack in this might not be my best move—for Jack, anyway. A lot of bad stuff had happened. I didn't want to bring anything down on him.
But I couldn't see Jack believing in a curse, or shying away from something because of one. That's not how hot L.A. private detectives roll.
“I'm in Vegas,” I said.
“Behaving yourself?” he asked.
I smiled. “You know the old saying: what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
“If you're trying to get me to come up there, it's working,” Jack said.
He used his Barry White voice.
My toes curled.
“I just want you for your mind,” I told him. It came out sounding sort of breathless but, jeez, I couldn't help myself. I'm defenseless against the Barry White voice.
“My mind, huh? Not my best asset, you know,” he said.
I'd figured that, but I decided to ignore it.
“I need info on a guy named Mike Ivan,” I said. “Have you heard of him?”
“What's the deal?” Jack asked.
His normal voice was back now, which was good. I guess.
“He's in L.A. somewhere,” I said. “A friend of mine, Courtney Collins, was involved with him somehow.”
“Somewhere? Somehow?” Jack asked. “That's all you've got for me?”
I could have given him all the info I had but decided not to. I wanted Jack's take on him, untainted by Courtney's murder.
“You'll figure it out,” I said. “I owe you.”
“Damn right you do. I'll let you know what I want, when I want it,” he said, and hung up.
Jack had given me that line before, but he'd never followed through. It made my toes curl again, like always.
I finished my mocha frappuccino and went to my car. As soon as I got in, my cell phone rang. I figured it was Jack calling back, but my caller I.D. screen said Ty.
Ty? Ty was calling?
Finally?
My heart took off, working faster than a cash register at a sample sale.
Oh my God. What did he want? What would he say? Was he about to tell me to forget the whole we're-moving-in-together thing? Or would he profess his undying love and insist we go curtain shopping for our new place?
Where was Marcie at a time like this?
“We need to talk,” Ty said when I answered.
I couldn't tell from his tone if he wanted a we-need-to-talk-because-I'm-breaking-up-with-you kind of talk, or a we-need-to-talk-because-it's-too-important-to-say-over-the-phone kind of talk.
I played it safe and said, “Okay.”
“Good.” He sounded relieved. “I'll swing by your place and pick you up in about an hour.”
Okay, this was weird.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“My office.”
His office is in downtown Los Angeles.
My heart rate slowed down.
“Didn't you listen to the message I left you?” I asked.
He paused. “Well . . . uh . . .”
“I'm in
Vegas
,” I told him. I said it kind of loud.
He didn't respond.
“I've been here for
three days
.” I shouted that.
Still nothing.
“You are the
worst
boyfriend in the history of boyfriends!” I screamed that. “Don't ever, ever,
ever
call me again!”
I hung up and started driving.
 
There was nothing to do but go shopping. I headed for the Galleria Mall.
This was my second trip to the Galleria—I really hadn't done it justice the first time, concentrating as I was on finding a Delicious handbag—and I needed to give all the stores my undivided attention.
Maybe that would help me get over that awful conversation with Ty.
Hot weather called for beach attire and I found plenty of it at the stores in the Galleria. In Macy's I bought three bathing suits. New bathing suits were useless, of course, without accessories, so I also got myself matching coverups, sandals, and totes.
Standing in the dressing room, looking at myself in the mirror, I'd decided more emphasis on exercise would be good—not that I looked bad in my bathing suits, of course—but a workout more enjoyable than the monotonous grind of exercise machines at the gym would be fun.
In-line skating came to mind. It seemed perfect. Firming my thighs as I glided along the bike path at the beach, the wind in my hair, the sparkling Pacific at my fingertips.
I needed the right type of clothing, of course.
I rushed onto the sales floor and picked up shorts, tank tops, and T-shirts in a beach-worthy pallet of colors. While ringing up my sale, the clerk and I spent several minutes discussing necklines—scoop, V, crew, turtle, boat—and which sleeve length looked best with each—long, three-quarter, short, cap—and I realized I didn't have nearly enough of each. I hit the racks again.
I left the mall feeling good about my new and improved exercise program. I vowed to get right on it as soon as I got back to L.A.—and as soon as I got some in-line skates. In the meantime, I figured it was okay to go ahead and wear the shorts and T-shirts.
After hours at the Galleria Mall, I returned to the Culver Inn. I'd set a quick pace for myself in an effort to burn off my anger at Ty, and kept my energy up with a stop at Ben and Jerry's for ice cream and a couple of mocha frappuccinos from Starbucks.
Without Marcie here to talk me down, I could have done a lot worse.
Yeah, okay, another credit card was now maxed out, but sometimes that's what it takes to put things in perspective. Not that I'd come to terms with the whole Ty-didn't-know-I-was-gone, what-am-I-going-to-do thing, but regardless, I was keeping the clothes.
I gathered my shopping bags out of the trunk and made my way into the lobby of the Culver Inn. The desk clerk called to me—guess everyone here knew me on sight thanks to that whole I-got-Amber-fired thing.
She pointed to a huge arrangement of flowers sitting on the desk.
“These came for you,” she said.
I put down my bags and opened the envelope almost hidden in the greenery. The card read:
I'm sorry.
No name. But I knew who they were from.
Ty.
A lot of women would probably be flattered to receive a gorgeous bouquet of flowers from a good-looking, well off, really hot man.
Not me. Not if they were from Ty.
I grabbed the arrangement and stuffed it into the trash can, then picked up my shopping bags and stomped over to the elevator. I jabbed the call button six times. While I waited, I fumed and stared at the ruined flowers.
The elevator dinged. I rushed back to the trash can, pulled out the card, then got into the elevator.
 
A noise distracted me from my laptop.
I'd been thoroughly engrossed in plotting a search pattern for the Delicious handbag. Vegas teemed with shopping opportunities and I'd hit a few, but the mother lode lay on The Strip.
The Fashion Show Mall, City Center, Caesars Palace Forum Shops, Planet Hollywood's shops plus many more abounded with high-end merchandise. But these places weren't for the casual shopper, or the faint of heart—or someone wearing uncomfortable shoes.
I glanced at the clock on my night table. A little after one in the morning. Yeah, okay, I knew it was too late to be up when I had to go to work in the morning, but I couldn't sleep.
The noise sounded again. I realized it came from the hallway outside my room.
I put my laptop aside and sat up.
Ty flew into my head—which didn't suit me. I'd spent the last seven hours—and maxed out a credit card—trying to forget about him.
Was he outside? Had he dropped everything and rushed here to beg my forgiveness?
Somehow, I doubted it.
Another thought hit me: maybe motel guests were outside, the ones the oh-so-delightful desk clerk Whitley had claimed weren't booked into a room up here. Well, I'd show her. I'd prove they were here and get Amber's job back.
I jumped off the bed and jerked my door open.
A man stood in my doorway—tall, square shoulders, looming over me.
Yikes!
I hopped back to slam the door. He caught it before it latched and threw it open.
“Not exactly the reception I'd hoped for,” he said.
I gasped as I realized it was Jack Bishop.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“You shouldn't open your door without knowing who's out there,” Jack said.
“Thanks, that's so helpful,” I told him.
He stepped in and closed the door. “Is that any way to treat an invited guest?”
“I don't recall inviting you,” I said, though, honestly, I wasn't sorry to see him—which is awful, I know, but there it was.
“I've got the info you asked for.”
“On Mike Ivan?” I asked, my heart rate finally slowing. “Already?”
“When called upon, I can deliver,” Jack said, and his gaze dipped.
I had on sweatpants.
Jack didn't seem to notice.
I also had on a T-shirt and no bra.
Jack definitely noticed.
I yanked a sweatshirt out of my suitcase and pulled it on.
He walked to the window and peeked out, then turned to me again.
“Nice place,” Jack said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “Is this the best your boyfriend could do for his employees?”
Just how Jack had found out I was in Vegas to help open a new Holt's store and was staying at this particular Culver Inn, I didn't know. Nor did I waste my breath to ask. Jack never gave away his sources.
“I doubt Ty checked out the motel personally,” I said, then was annoyed with myself for defending him.
“You could move to a better place,” Jack pointed out.
I'd thought of that. But since Holt's was picking up the tab and my funds were limited, I was stuck here.
“Want something to drink?” I asked, opening the little refrigerator wedged under the TV. “I have soda and bottled water.”
When Jack shook his head, I said, “We could go out and get something.”
“I like it here,” he replied.
So did I—which was really awful of me, I know. Ty was my boyfriend—my official boyfriend. We'd done the bedroom bop on two continents, numerous times, numerous ways. We were a couple.
But Jack was
here
. I'd called, he'd dropped everything, and here he was. No ignored voicemail, no floral arrangement stand-in. Just him, here when I needed him. And Ty wasn't.
Still, Ty and I were officially a couple. I'm a stickler for things like that.
It's how I roll.
Jack must have read my reluctance because he pulled out the desk chair and sat down.
“So you're a murder suspect again, huh?” he asked.
How did he know these things? It's so cool being a private detective.
I hate my life.
It wasn't difficult to figure out how he knew most of it. I'd given him Courtney's name; the Internet had done the rest. And, of course, he'd probably made a couple of logical assumptions—I am, after all,
me
.

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