Fat Girl (43 page)

“I believe it’s a convenient explanation that puts Joyce in a bad light and makes them appear to be good, concerned parents who deserve custody of their grandson—the heir to Franklin Farms. From meeting Charles Franklin, I know that is paramount to him.”

“But there must be some truth to their claims. All the Child Protective Services reports state that Dwayde was physically abused while in Joyce’s care.”

“I’m not saying she was a good parent. But she was on hard drugs by the time she ran—that can alter behavior. I’m more concerned about what happened to trigger such an extreme change. Something more than the grief over her horse.”

“And you have a theory?” Lena suggests.

“Suspicions, possibilities…nothing solid,” I say, not ready to share them without more information. “But my gut says Dwayde can connect the dots.”

“And he’s not talking to protect himself?”

“That or someone else.”

“Wow. It just keeps getting weirder. Should I put Coop on it?” she asks of Brian Cooper, the private investigator we use on occasion.

“Not yet. I need to talk to Calista. See what she’s turned up, if anything.”

“
Don’t worry, Dee,” Lena says. “It’ll all come together.”

I nod at the reassurance, though I don’t feel any better. There’s less than five weeks to trial and, looking down at the notes, I have more questions than answers.

The office line rings then, and Lena reaches over to pick up. “Deeana Chase, Child Advocacy Services. How may I help you?”

“Oh hello, Mick.” She sends me a knowing grin. “Let me check if Dee’s available.” Lena presses the hold button. “Well, someone’s sure changed her tune. I assume by the ear-to-ear smile that you’ll take it.”

“I most definitely will.” I don’t bother to hide my pleasure.

“When are you planning to tell me whether Mick and Micah Peters are one and the same?”

“It’s more fun to leave you guessing.”

“Evil,” she says, sulking. “I could just ask him, you know.”

“You could. But you respect my privacy too much to do that.”

“Ooh…so unfair.”

I blow her a kiss and head
to my office. After closing the door, my pulse leaping, I lift the receiver and slide onto my chair. “Hi.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The sexy rasp of his morning voice makes me wish I’d been there to wake up to him. “I know the feeling.”

“Do you?”

“Um-hm.”

“Good.” I hear rustling and picture him moving among the sheets we’d shared. “Take the day off and spend it with me.”

“Tempting. But I took yesterday off and can’t afford to miss another day.”

He doesn’t argue. “Any new developments in Dwayde’s case keeping you busy?”

“Nothing that seems relevant so far,” I hedge. Although I want to unload about Lena’s research and get his thoughts, because he is a witness and now my lover, it would be unethical.

“At least tell me what you’re wearing.”

“Mick…I have a conference call in five minutes.”

“Just quickly indulge me. What’s the suit of the day?”

“Gray and black tweed.”

“And your blouse?”

“White French cuff.”

“And what does Ms. Chase, attorney at law, wear under her clothes?”

“I plead the fifth.”

His low, deep chuckle works its way down my spine. “Then I’ll have fun finding out for myself. Satisfy my fantasies and do my research firsthand.”

“What research?”

“For my main character.”

“You mean you’re writing again?” I ask, delighted.

“Not exactly, but I have a story idea. How’s this? The female main character is a lawyer.”

I smile, pleased that he truly is thinking about me.

“Delayna. That’s her name. It means ‘noble protector.’”

“Nice. What’s the significance?”

“By day, she’s a serious and conservative—”

“Hey,” I interrupt. “I’m not that conservative.”

“Baby, in those buttoned-up suits, you scream
conservative
. But I know the wild woman beneath the tweed and the pinstripes.”

Oh my.

“But as I was saying,” he continues with amusement in his voice, “by day, Delayna is a straight-laced prosecutor who plays by the rules of the justice system. But at night, driven by a need for personal vengeance, she’s Dark Angel, a kick-ass vigilante who rocks tight leather and shows no mercy.”

Double oh my.
“I like the alter ego.”

“I thought you would.”

“And who’s the male main character?”

“No name for him yet, but he’s an investigative reporter assigned to uncover Dark Angel’s true identity. In the middle of his investigation, he ends up falling for Delayna. As they form both a professional and a personal alliance, she finds herself torn between confessing her secret and protecting it. To tell him could compromise her mission and might mean his rejection. But if she doesn’t, how can she allow him to get any closer? So what do you think?”

“It sounds great, Mick. I’m already drawn in.”

“Yeah?”

“Your book has pathos, conflict, mystery, romance, and knowing you, it will be filled with fast-paced action and humor. A best seller in the making.”

“At the moment, it’s nothing more than an idea in my head.”

“I have faith in you and your talent. I’m so happy that you’re going to write again.”

“I’m happy too. Happy that you said yes. Until tonight, Dee.” His voice carries a note of seductiveness that has me biting my lip.

“Until tonight, Mick.”

WRITING AGAIN IS LIKE RELEARNING to ride a bike. The start is a little wobbly, but eventually the memory muscles kick in and before I know it, the day has passed and I have three solid chapters of
Dark Angel
drafted. I have Dee to thank for that. With her by my side, I can accomplish anything.

At four thirty, I don my cap and shades and walk into a jewelry boutique off Oak Street. I’m greeted by a blonde saleswoman, who offers to be of assistance. I decline. I’ll know it when I see it. I dismiss the rings as too soon and the watches as too practical. I glance at a number of gemstone bracelets and earrings, but none of them are right. I browse for another ten minutes before a necklace catches my eye.

Recognizing the signs of a potential high-ticket sale, she approaches the Piaget case. “See something you like?”

“Yes. This one.” I indicate my selection through the glass.

“You have exceptional taste. That’s a Possession pendant.”

“Possession.” I like it even more.

She explains the symbolism of the circles and opens the locked case, placing the necklace on the counter against a black velvet mat for my inspection. “The chain is 18K white gold and the pendant has forty-one cut diamonds.”

Despite its opulence, it isn’t showy. Dee wouldn’t be comfortable wearing anything overstated. I listen to the run down on the quality and hand craftsmanship, although I’m already sold on the piece. The saleswoman gift wraps the necklace, and I head home to get ready for my date with Dee—technically, our first.

AT 7:10, I’M EN ROUTE
to Brockville when the ring of my phone echoes through the car’s interior. I glance at the console and debate answering, not wanting to bring anything from
that
life into my evening with Dee. But to ignore my agent would only be to delay the inevitable.

“What’s up Mackie?” I answer, weaving into the next lane.

“I’ll tell you what’s up, Mick, the fucking bluest sky. And I’m not just talking about the weather here in Miami.”

“Think you can get to the point?” I ask. “I’m on my way somewhere.”

“Where’s that?”

Dee is none of his business, but I want this conversation over. “A friend’s celebrating her birthday at the Lemon Lounge. No one you know,” I add quickly. “So what’s the news that’s got you so hyped?”

“Hyped doesn’t even come close to covering it. ESPN wants to talk with you about having your own show. Your own show, Mick. Can you believe that shit?” He laughs and draws in hacking breaths, which means Mackie’s smoking again. He quits every other week. “They’re thinking that with your pretty face and charisma, talk show format. Pack your bags, buddy. Executives want us in Connecticut next week.”

Beckett MacAllister is one of the best sports agents around. He’s tenacious and scrappy.
No
is not in his vocabulary. I hired him ten years ago for those reasons, and we’ve both had a good, lucrative ride. But that trip has come to an end.

“I haven’t changed my mind. I’m not interested in television, coaching pro ball, or anything high profile.”

He coughs again, his lungs rattling like rusty pipes. “I’ve given you months to lie low, but popping O’Malley put you back in the public eye. You’ve got to strike while that iron’s hot.”

Something about what he says doesn’t sit right, but I shrug it off. “I’m done with the spotlight, Mackie.”

“I know you,” he rebuts, his aggressive energy charging through the speaker. “Another month of hibernation and you’ll be climbing the walls.”

Mackie doesn’t know dick about me. He knows my image. “I’m not hibernating. I’m tired of the fame and all the shit that goes with it.”

“What are you thinking?” he scoffs. “You’re Micah Peters. A celebrity. A sports icon. A normal, run-of-the-mill life would bore you to death. You wanted a breather. Fine. You got one. Now it’s over. Go get laid by one of your hot young models and come to your senses. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Before I can tell him just how far up his ass he can stick his suggestion, the phone disconnects. I make a mental note to send an official letter terminating our agreement. It’ll cost me to end the contract early, but I don’t care.

A normal, run-of-the mill life would bore you to death.

I think about the life I want—running Papa’s Kids, writing, being near my family, and most of all, building a future with Dee. Mackie doesn’t have a clue.