Dirty (16 page)

It felt weird...as if I’d unknowingly crossed some boundary line that made me the enemy in the least expected situations.

I climbed into my Jeep and poked around in my purse for my cell phone.
 
There was one person I knew without question I could expect the whole truth from.

“Hello.”

I frowned at the breathless quality of my mother’s voice.
 
“Hey, Mom, you busy?”

Silence.

My frown deepened.

“Actually I was just on my way out the door.
 
I ran all the way back inside to answer the phone.”

Well that explained the breathlessness.
 
“I need to talk.”
 
I started the Jeep.
 
“I’ll be there in ten.”

“Sorry, Jackie, but I have an appointment I can’t reschedule.
 
Maybe later?”

Well, damn.
 
Even my own mother was too busy for me.
 
That sucked.
 
“Sure...I...”
 
No, I couldn’t wait until later.
 
I had questions.
 
Questions that needed answers now.
 
“Look, Mom, do you remember a case Dad presided over about ten years ago called Disposable?”

More of that uncharacteristic silence.
 
What was up with that?
 
My mother, of all people, never, ever ran out of sassy retorts.

“Look, Jackie...”
 
Her tone sounded oddly serious.
 
“You know your father and I never discussed his cases.
 
Not really.”

I stopped at the edge of the driveway, before backing out onto the street.
 
One close encounter a day with another vehicle was plenty.
 
My face had rearranged into one of those
say what
expressions at my mother’s response.

“You were the one who talked shop with your father,” she reminded.

Remembered hurt stung through me.
 
“You’re right.
 
We did.
 
Until the divorce.”
 
I barely suppressed the bite in my next words.
 
“You know how it was after that.”
 
The incomparable Judge Jackson Mercer saw his only child in a different light after that.
 
I couldn’t do anything right.
 
Hell, he hadn’t even trusted me to start my own business without help from Hank.

My mother’s sigh echoed with aching familiarity.
 
She didn’t have to say a word.
 
I knew the routine by heart.
 
Jackie, your father only wanted to protect you.
 
You mistook those intentions for mistrust
.

“Your father only wanted to protect you...”

There she went.
 
Whatever else she said after that didn’t matter.
 
I wasn’t going to learn anything from my mother either.
 
The truth was that after the divorce my father no longer had any faith in me whatsoever.
 
It didn’t matter that it hadn’t been my fault.
 
We no longer talked about his cases or anything other than
was I okay
or
did I need anything
?
 
My mother could believe that my PI work had posed a possible conflict of interest for Dad if she wanted to, but I knew the truth.

I’d failed in his eyes.
 
I was no longer worthy of his intellectual discussions on the law.

I drove to the office and remarkably I didn’t even cry.
 
Yeah, I usually did that whenever I let myself dwell on how the divorce had changed my father’s concept of who I was.
 
He’d loved me, I knew that.
 
I had damn sure loved him.
 
But, like every man in my life, he’d left way before I was ready to let him go.
 
Maybe I never would have been prepared for that.

“Dammit.”
 
I clenched my teeth and forced back the tears.
 
I’d only thought I’d gotten by without the emotions that generally accompanied memories of my father.

I jerked the door open and stormed through the rear entrance with only one thing on my mind: biting off the head of anyone who dared say boo to me.

I’d almost made it into my office when Hobbs stepped between me and the door.
 
“You have messages,” he said pointedly, then his face morphed into one of those
oh my
expressions he was famous for.
 
“Never mind.”
 
He stepped out of my path and practically threw himself behind his desk for cover.

I went on into my office, tossed my bag onto my desk and rounded it.
 
I collapsed into my comfy exec chair and shoved my fingers through my hair.
 
Getting this frustrated right off the bat was not like me.
 
But this was different. This was personal.

I dragged the photo from my bag and stared at it.
 
Dark eyes stared back at me.
 
“Who are you?”
 
Why the hell can’t I find out anything about this case you want me to look into?
 
Did it have something to do with you?
 
Obviously.

Okay.
 
I’d really lost it now.
 
Asking myself questions was one thing, but when I started to answer I really got worried.

“You figure out who that guy is yet?”

My head came up.

Dawson
.

Just what I needed.

Damn.

There was no Ralph Lauren jacket today.
 
Just form-fitting, well worn jeans that instantly made me sweat and a white shirt that lay open one button too many and summoned my beleaguered attention there.

Double damn.

I felt my gaze narrow as rational thinking kicked in.
 
“Who told you about this?”
 
There was really no need to ask but the question charged out of my mouth before I could stop it.
 
Hobbs would not survive the week at this rate.
 
He was already high on my shit list.

Playing innocent, Dawson hitched a thumb toward reception.
 
“Hobbs brought me up to speed on all the ongoing cases.”

There was only one.
 
Disposable.
 
And it was mine.
 
Mine alone.
 
Any other files Hobbs had discussed with Dawson would be about bail jumpers or background searches.

Ever since Hank announced his retirement the Mercer Agency had suffered a drought.
 
It would pass...I hoped.
 
From out of nowhere Hobbs’ insistence that women wanted a strong, good-looking man to work their cases broadsided my thoughts, pissing me off even further.

“Well, this one is mine, Dawson, so back off.”

Our gazes locked, mine full of piss and vinegar and ready to do battle, his oddly calm and searching.

“I understand.”

Every damned tense, ready for battle muscle in my body went limp.
 
Not so much at his statement, though the two simple words were sweet as hell, but more at the way he said them.
 
Low, husky, as if we’d just had eye sex and he’d wanted me to know it was as good for him as it had been for me.

Before I could snap out of the ensuing spell he turned to leave.

“Wait.”
 
I pushed out of my chair, propped one hand at my waist and massaged my tense neck with the other.
 
One way or another I had to get past this thing.
 
Had to give him a fair shot.
 
We were working together here.
 
I’d hired him.
 
He deserved an impartial opportunity to prove his worth.

He turned back to face me and I almost lost my nerve.
 
Me.
 
Jackie Mercer, the tough broad who took no crap from anyone.
 
It was insane.

“Sorry,” I managed to say without mumbling or chewing off my own tongue.
 
“I jumped you and my frustration this morning isn’t about you.”

That lopsided grin that made my heart skip at least two beats slid across his too handsome face.
 
“It’s okay.
 
I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have jump me.”

And just like that he had me back at square one.

He dropped into the closest chair, legs spread wide, offering me a bird’s eye view of the bulge at his crotch.
 
Oh hell
.
 
I felt my eyes widen and zoom like a Nikon loaded with a telescoping lens.

He held up both hands.
 
“Sorry.
 
I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
 
He sat up a little straighter and crossed one leg over the other.

Mortification slid from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet.
 
He’d seen me looking at his crotch
.

Oh, God.
 
Why me?
 
I dropped back into my own chair.
 
How could this cocky guy, this stranger, rattle me so?

“I mean,” he said, making me blink and jerking my gaze back to his, “I have to remember not to say things like that.
 
You know, double entendre stuff.”

“No,” I barked, then caught myself.
 
I squared my shoulders, adjusted my jacket.
 
“I...ah...haven’t identified the guy in the photo yet.”

Dawson nodded.
 
“Need any help?”

There was something about the cut of his jaw...square and yet somehow softened by the lean chiseled features.
 
Or maybe it was the perfect proportion of his nose or the irresistible sky blue color of his eyes.
 
God knew everything else about him was damned well proportioned and utterly irresistible.

I bolted back out of my chair like a Jack-in-the-box that couldn’t decide whether to stay up or down.
 
I could not do this right now.

He got to his feet in response to my move.

“I have a...”
 
I searched for an excuse to leave when I hadn’t been in the office all morning.
 
Then it hit me that I didn’t need an excuse.
 
I was the fucking boss.
 
“Lunch.”
 
I forced my lips into a smile.
 
“See you later.”

I snagged my Birkin and sauntered out of the room before he could decide what he wanted to say next.
 
I paused at my assistant’s desk.
 
“You have messages for me?”
 
I gave him a don’t-mess-with-me look that promised we would talk in the near future.

He canted his head as if miffed that I would dare speak to him in such a brusque tone much less look at him like he mattered little in the grand scheme of things.

He offered the stack of yellow call back notes.
 
“You should speak to your stylist about that,” he suggested with a glance at my shoulders.

I stared down at myself, a new burst of humiliation adding insult to injury.
 
A fine layer of sawdust clung to my navy clad shoulders just as I had suspected it would after my visit to Fred’s workshop, only I’d forgotten all about it.

Thankfully, the hazardous mixture of fury and humiliation kept my lips sealed tightly just long enough for me to grab back my composure.
 
“Thank you, Hobbs.”
 
I took the messages and turned without saying another word.
 
Incredibly I even managed to toss Dawson, who stood in the doorway of my office, a nod as I passed.

I walked out the rear exit, settled into my Jeep, started the engine, turned the radio’s volume to full blast and did the only sane thing a woman in my position could do.

I screamed at the top of my lungs.

CHAPTER TEN

If you’re a woman, you know that, as a female, you’re genetically designed to act as other women’s counselor, psychiatrist, surrogate mother or otherwise sounding board.
 
There is no subject too personal, too inflammatory, or too humiliating to dissect with your female friends, your support group.
 
We can be there for each other any time, day or night.
 
A single phone call was all it took.

Case in point, the fact that, like now, in public social situations we women gather like a posse straight out of
Gunsmoke
in the ladies room.

“I don’t see the problem, Jackie,” Donna said matter-of-factly as she artfully applied her liner and lipstick.
 
Donna was our high priestess of make-up.
 
At home her glamorous master bath looked like an Armageddon survival shelter for an Estee Lauder addict. No one knew more or stayed on top of the latest trends and retail offerings like she did. Not even Shari, she was more into the total body strength and beauty.

Lips shining with enough sex appeal to make Mona Lisa jealous, Donna turned to me and continued, “He’s young, handsome, and you’re attracted to him.
 
Take him to bed and get it over with.”

Before I could protest, Mary Jane jumped to my defense.
 
“Have you lost your mind?” she shouted over the dryer as she rubbed her freshly washed hands furiously beneath it.
 
“Dawson works for her?
 
She’s his boss.
 
They can’t...” she shuddered visibly “...do it!
 
That’s not proper.”

Donna peered heavenward and braced against the counter as if the whole concept made her feel faint.
 
“Please, this is the twenty-first century.
 
There’s nothing more dangerous to a woman’s well being than running around horny.”
 
She shrugged her Chanel tented shoulders.
 
“It’s like food, she’ll end up binging and waking up feeling guiltier than a priest who strayed and got caught.”