Hot Property (5 page)

“Seemed like?” Michael asked.

“It’s not easy being the only poor girl at a rich girls’ school.” A shadow crossed her face, a memory of the adolescent pain of not belonging, Michael imagined. “But I compensated.”

“How?”

“I didn’t have much money, but I had taste galore. I would organize a group shopping expedition and help all the girls pick out new wardrobes. I got the vicarious pleasure of spending money on quality merchandise, my newfound friends got makeovers, and pretty soon every girl in the school wanted me to help her buy her clothes.”

“And you started charging a fee,” Michael concluded, thinking that her approach was pretty clever.

“Not right away. At first my only motivation was to be popular.” She blushed, turning her cheeks a lovely peachy-pink color that Michael found more than charming.

He’d never seen that kind of guilelessness in a grown woman. He felt a strong urge to kiss her, especially when she looked over at him through the veil of her long eyelashes, seeming to expect some reaction.

“All kids want to belong,” he said, hoping she would continue. “When did you start charging for your services?”

“Only after I was in college and I really needed the money. I read in a magazine about a personal shopper in New York, and I thought, ‘I could do that!’ It was an epiphany. My old high school friends were my first clients.”

She paused and took a sip of coffee from the foam
cup he’d purchased earlier for her. He imagined it must be stone cold. “Did you actually make money?” he asked.

“A little. Through word of mouth the business grew pretty quickly. I incorporated the Born to Shop name five years ago and expanded into running errands, meal planning, party planning. I started advertising on cable TV about six months ago, and I immediately had to hire three new people. Now the company is almost bigger than I can handle, and it’s actually supporting me.”

That explained her sudden prosperity, Michael thought, adjusting his thinking moment by moment. That would teach him to nurse preconceived notions. If this background spiel she’d just given him was true, why would she be tempted to trade stolen merchandise?

Granted, her business gave her a great front. She could easily manufacture a believable cover story for being in any part of town or talking to just about anyone. But if her business was finally taking off, why would she risk everything by fencing stolen merchandise?

She could have huge debts, he reminded himself. His investigation into her finances had only begun.

Wendy pulled the van into a parking lot of an old warehouse just east of downtown. The warehouse, once a paper bag factory, had been converted into posh apartments. After finding a spot to park, Wendy pulled out her electronic organizer, consulted some file, then riffled through her huge key ring until she
located a particular key. All of the keys had stickers with numbers printed on them.

She acknowledged his curious look with an explanation. “I don’t put clients’ names on their keys, in case the key ring should ever be lost or stolen,” she said. “So I number them all. The file with the numbers and corresponding names is in my organizer, protected by a password so that if
it’s
ever lost or stolen, none of the proprietary information can be accessed. I have clients’ credit card numbers, alarm codes, all sorts of things stored in here.”

She tapped the little black mini-computer, then tucked it into a pocket of her denim vest.

She was unbearably clever and efficient, he decided right then and there. “Do you ever take a breath?” he asked impulsively.

Wendy looked at Michael, blinked her big green eyes owlishly, then narrowed them. “Well. If I was talking too much, why didn’t you say so?” She opened the door and hopped out of the van.

He followed quickly.
Way to go, Tagg
, he congratulated himself. His job was to keep Wendy talking. That was how people incriminated themselves. Most suspects clammed up in the presence of a detective, because they knew the less said, the fewer lies they would have to weave. Now, when for once in his life he had a chatty suspect, he managed to insult her and probably shut her up for good.

“You weren’t talking too much,” he said when he’d caught up with her. In truth, he’d enjoyed her story a lot. Entrepreneurs had always fascinated him. He enjoyed his work, but he couldn’t imagine how anyone stayed motivated without a time clock to punch and a regular paycheck to look forward to. “I didn’t mean
that at all. I was in awe of your efficiency, all the work you accomplish in the same twenty-four hours the rest of us have. I was wondering how you have time to breathe, much less eat and sleep.”

She hardly looked mollified as she punched in a security code at the warehouse’s front entrance. Her pretty pink lips, which were naturally pouty, were now pressed into a firm line of grim determination.

“I just wonder if you’re ever, you know, lazy,” Michael continued, trying to bail himself out of hot water. “Do you ever sit around and eat too much pizza? Do you ever channel surf? Do you ever linger over coffee at breakfast, reading the paper?”

She still didn’t respond, but she looked as if she might be thinking about it. The door buzzed, admitting them to the building’s cool interior. “I guess I don’t like to sit in one place too long,” she finally said. “Some people have referred to me as manic, but I like to think of myself as energetic. I have a TV, but I haven’t turned it on since Wimbledon last year. I like pizza, but it’s so high in fat, I try to limit myself to one slice at a time. As for lingering over coffee, not usually. Most mornings I brew it while I’m in the shower, dump it into a travel mug, and drink it on the way to work.”

“Not usually.” He followed her into the starkly decorated building, feeling a grudging admiration for the way she’d neatly put him in his place. “But every once in a while?”

She punched the elevator Up button, then glanced over at him. A mischievous smile took over her face.
“Sunday mornings. Sunday mornings are mine and mine alone, and I linger.”

The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside, leaving him standing stock-still for a moment, his overactive imagination building all sorts of pictures. The way she’d said the word
linger
, stretching out to four syllables, made him wonder, What exactly did she mean? He pictured her lounging on the sofa in a teddy, drinking cappuccino and leafing through a lingerie catalog.

“Are you coming?” she asked impatiently.

He practically jumped into the elevator, trying to bring his bodily reactions under control before he embarrassed himself.

Wendy was appalled at what she’d just done. She had actually flirted with the odious Detective Michael Taggert! She hadn’t set out to do it. But his acute interest in her background, her business, was flattering. He was a fantastic listener. And given that she was a gifted talker, a good listener was a rare treasure.

She realized now he hadn’t meant to insult her, and she wished she hadn’t been so quick to jump to conclusions. That was why she’d offered him a mild flirtation, she decided. To prove to him that all was forgiven.

But it wasn’t, she reminded herself. He’d horribly disrupted her life with his shoddy investigation, and it would be a cold day in hell before she forgave him anything. She’d better keep her mind firmly on her
priorities—namely, tracking down Mr. Neff and finding out what was really going on.

She found Mr. Damian’s apartment, knocked to make sure no one was home, then unlocked the dead bolt with her key. She didn’t open the door all the way, however. She pushed it open only a crack. “Yoda? Where are you, puppy?”

A low, menacing growl issued from inside the apartment.

“It’s me, Wendy, remember? I’m the one who gives you yummy treats.” She pulled an extra-large-sized Milkbone from her skirt pocket and pushed it through the crack.

The growling stopped, replaced by snuffling and crunching.

“Good Lord, what’s in there?” Michael asked. “Sounds like one of those brontosauruses from
Jurassic Park
.”

“It’s Yoda. He’s a rottweiler with a self-esteem problem. He thinks he’s not lovable, so he hates everyone first before they can hate him.”

“You’re a pet psychologist too?”

“I’m just repeating what his owner told me.” She opened the door wide enough to reveal Yoda’s big black face. His ears were perked, and he looked up at Wendy hopefully. She could see that his nub of a tail was wagging. “Good boy.”

The rottweiler allowed her to enter the apartment without a whimper of protest. But when Michael started to follow, the dog whirled, bristled, and growled, challenging.

“I’ll just wait out here,” Michael said, retreating to the safety of the hallway.

Wendy stifled her laughter. “Ooooh, big brave cop. You’re not afraid to slap handcuffs on a five-foot-two woman, but you back off quick at a real threat.”

“Five-foot-two women don’t bite,” he pointed out. “At least, not usually.”

“Are you sure?” She was doing it again. Flirting. She had to stop. This man was not her friend! If he got the idea she was coming on to him, he would think she was trying to seduce him so he would use his influence to get the charges against her dropped.

Jeez, if she thought it would work, she might try it. Given a choice between prison and a night of passionate lovemaking with Mr. Law-and-Order … Hmm. She’d best not even go there. She’d already determined he didn’t need to get his kicks through nefarious channels.

She quickly located Yoda’s leash and collar. He poked his head through the choke chain, eager for his walk.

“You okay in there?” Michael called. “Still have all your appendages?”

“Yoda’s a pussycat once you get to know him.” She came back to the door with an enthusiastic Yoda in tow. Once they were out in the hallway, Yoda no longer considered Michael a threat. While Wendy locked the door, the dog sniffed Michael, thigh to ankle on both legs, then licked his hand.

“Hey, you’re not such a brute after all, are you, buddy?” Michael crouched down and scratched the
dog behind his ears. Yoda licked Michael on the face, and Michael let him do it.

Somehow the sight of the big bad cop sharing a moment of male bonding with Yoda gave Wendy a catch in her throat. She never imagined Michael could have a softer side, or that he would even like dogs.

“How far do you have to walk this beast, anyway?” he asked, straightening.

“For about fifteen or twenty minutes. There’s a little park down the street. We usually go there.”

“You know, you could have warned me your little ‘stops’ were going to add over an hour to our trip downtown.”

“An hour? Really?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he scoffed. “You know down to the second how long each errand takes. I’ve seen you making notations in your organizer.”

He’d caught her there. “Yeah, okay. I guess I knew I was pushing your goodwill. But you could have objected earlier. I really need to take care of these tasks, and I didn’t think the delay was bothering you too much, especially since you were sort of interrogating me along the way.”

He laughed. “That wasn’t an interrogation, and you know it. That was raw curiosity about what makes you tick. I thought you were exactly like my ex-wife. But you’re not, thank God.”

She tried to picture him with a wife. The image wouldn’t come into focus. She couldn’t imagine him in a state of domestic bliss. “You were married?” she blurted out, curious herself.

“Eight long years. Faye was a semiprofessional shopper.”

She had no idea what he was talking about. “Semiprofessional?”

“Yeah. Like you, she loved to shop and she loved to spend other people’s money. Unfortunately, she only bought things for herself, and she spent all of
my
money plus a lot I didn’t have.”

Ah. A lot of things fell into place. No wonder he’d been so hostile to her at first. Not only did he believe she was a felon, but he thought she had a despicable vocation as well.

Even as an unwelcome tendril of envy wound its way into her psyche, Wendy found herself wanting to defend the hapless Faye. “She must have had other qualities that compensated.”

“She was always well dressed,” Michael said dismissively. “Sorry I can’t be more charitable, but I’ve spent the last seven years paying off the debts she incurred—fifty-four thousand dollars’ worth.”

“Ouch.” Wendy no longer felt like defending the woman. As much as she loved nice things, she was excruciatingly responsible with her own meager funds. Although she used credit cards for everything, she always paid her bills in full when they arrived.

Michael grew silent as they walked the three blocks toward the park. Wendy noticed that he paused often, surreptitiously glancing behind them.

“Don’t look now,” he said, “but there’s a brown Caprice behind us. It circled the block once already.”

“It’s probably only someone looking for a parking
place,” she said, unconcerned. “Parking is hard to come by in this neighborhood. You really are a suspicious type, aren’t you?”

“It’s my job to be suspicious.”

They walked on in surprisingly companionable silence until they reached the park. Well, “park” was stretching it some. A patch of grass, a couple of scraggly trees, and a peeling bench was the best that could be managed in this concrete-bound part of town.

“I’m going to run with Yoda a little ways,” she said. “You can run with me if you want, or wait for me here.” She nodded toward the park bench.

He looked down at his lizard boots. “I’m not exactly dressed for jogging, so I’ll wait here. Don’t leave my sight, though,” he cautioned. “I don’t like the looks of this neighborhood, and that car bothers me.”

She looked around. The brown car was nowhere in sight. Still, the idea that someone might be stalking her gave her an unpleasant shiver. More than once in her life she’d been the victim of persistent, unwanted advances from men.

“I plan to stay right here in the park,” she said. “But really, who would mess with me when I’ve got this beast attached to me?” She gave Yoda a pat before starting off at an easy jog. Yoda broke into a trot and quickly outpaced her, straining on the leash.