Love Spell (8 page)

Lindsay didn’t actually remember passing out. She’d only gone to the ladies room for Heaven’s sake.

Prior to that, she’d sent a small print job to the communal copier/scanner/printer down the hall from the ladies’ room, where she took a few, luxurious minutes to freshen up. There was no way she’d admit that she had nothing better to do than print various cheesecake recipes scoured from on the Internet; she had simply been… preparing herself for the time she’d entertain clients, whereupon she’d wow them with her culinary prowess rivaled only by her investigatory skills. It was all perfectly legitimate.

Lindsay had pictured herself wearing an apron that flattered her figure, working miracles in her office-turned-kitchen there on the twelfth floor. Of course, even with flour smeared across her face and her hair tucked up in the tall, white cap, she would still look stunning. She had practically tasted the fresh strawberry topping that would make her dream cheesecake perfect.

Perfect. Beautiful. Just like the smoky, gray-blue eyes in the expertly-crafted face, topped by lazy, blond hair of the man who had suddenly stepped in front of her.

She’d jumped back instinctively, scattering papers scattered everywhere, and sending her her heart rate soaring. She’d made to reprimand his carelessness, only to have a new realization dawn on her: Clint Christopherson had been a whisper beyond arm’s reach.

Lindsay woke to find herself leaning painfully against a cream-colored office wall, surrounded by familiar tiled flooring, and posh light fixtures. The smell of printer toner and the sound of phones were immediately disappointing—she’d so hoped she was waking up to a Saturday morning.

“You okay?” a man asked her.

Surely she wasn’t hearing
that
voice. It wasn’t real. It belonged in dreams buried under scars that had been plastered over by years of actually growing up and finally getting over feeling any need for the opposite sex. This voice should not be talking to her.

“Did that fall hurt as much as it looked?” Apparently, he wasn’t aware that he didn’t exist. “I mean, that wall isn’t actually padded is it?”

Who asked that kind of thing? This was an office building, not an insane asylum.
Of course
tumbling into the wall hurt. Meanwhile, pretty boy sat there in a stupid crouch, staring at her like an idiot.

Not even offering to help her up.

What did you expect, Lindsay? This is him
, she thought.

Mustering all her remaining dignity, she collected her legs beneath her, and reached to gather the explosion of cheesecake recipes. To her surprise, he actually reached for them as well. As soon as her hand neared his, however, he jerked his arm back as if she’d dumped a pan of scalding water on the limb.

Don’t tell me you still think girls have cooties
, she wondered bitterly. She savored the bitterness; it helped keep her mind off the fact that she couldn’t quite breathe properly.

Her papers gathered, she sucked in a breath that sounded too ragged to belong to any real woman, and charged around the corner and into her office. Shame scorched her face, and she unintentionally slammed the door behind her. She dropped back against the door and switched to “hyperventilation mode.” Dealing with yesterday’s eviction notice was easier than handling the sudden reappearance of… that man. No, he wasn’t a man. Men helped fainted women from the floor, and didn’t leave them to pick up the mess they’d caused.

Oh, heaven forbid that a woman’s hand might ever touch yours
, she thought.
Not as if you even deserve it.

There would be no thinking about the smile he flashed when he first locked his eyes on her. No thinking about the eyes at all. Or that light touch of cologne, the same he’d worn even back in high school.

The rap on the door made her jump.

“Hello?” came his muffled voice. She pressed a hand to her chest to see if she could still feel her heart.

“I’m not here!” When had her voice begun to sound like a rat’s?

“Er… yeah,” he said. “Well, can you tell me when someone
might
be in? I was hoping to hire them.”

Lindsay’s eyes widened at the word “hire,” and a strange demon possessed her to whirl around and fling the door open. There he was, staring quizzically at her. Without the slightest bit of permission, her eyes traveled the length of his frame, from the shockingly shredded Giants t-shirt (do not look at the face!) to the matching jeans over… worn loafers? With one blue and one khaki sock.

Still cannot dress himself. Check
, she thought.

And yet, she must treat all clients in a professional manner.

Even if they’re scum in loafers. Even if I don’t want them.

And so she pasted on her most professional mask, complete with a wan, but welcoming smile. Her posture auto-corrected itself, and her head tilted slightly to the side, and back. He looked better seen down the length of her nose. In return, he put on a stupid half grin. He posted a hand on the doorframe and leaned slightly toward her as he engaged her eyes. Several seconds passed. Or was it twenty minutes? She had no idea. Did it matter?

He wiped at the corners of his mouth. “Do I still have lunch on my face?”

She ignored the question and retreated to the comparative safety of her desk. Battling to maintain steady breathing and a semblance of professional composure, she flew through a mindless checklist of activities: quickly login to the computer; pointedly ignore the scum client; bring up her official case tracking forms.

“Please, sit—” she began to say. But he was already perched in the chair opposite her, seeming to fill her office ominously as he reached across the desk and took a mint from the candy dish. She pursed her lips at his audacity in taking free candy without asking. Never mind that it was there for guests. Never mind she was being silly. Lindsay would ignore his rudeness. This would be an excellent test of her professional mettle. If she could treat this… person… with maturity and courtesy, she could do it with
anyone
.

“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Miss Sullivan, chief investigator here at Sullivan and… Self… Private Investigators. May I ask what brings you here today?”

He flashed a goblinesque smile. “Is ‘Self’ a partner, or do you multitask that well? Pretty efficient to be both the boss
and
the secretary. I’m impressed.”

That remark was allowed to pass. She knew better than to expect intelligence and grace from him.
Carry on, Lindsay
, she calmly told herself.

“And how did you learn of our services, Mister…?”

“Call me Clint. I don’t go by ‘Mister’ anything, unless you want to call me ‘Mister Awesome.’ Or maybe ‘Mister Master of the Pencil.’”

Lindsay groaned inside, and typed a few notes before hopping on the Internet. She let the client—yes; she could call him that—stew in his chair while she scowled at her computer screen and hammered away on the keyboard. Some minutes later, she had everything she was looking for. She smiled to herself, vindicated.

“How was it, again, that you learned of our services?” she asked, still looking at the information she’d quickly dredged up.

“Well, Miss Self…”

“Sullivan.”

“Whatever. I saw an online ad. Free consultations are nice, and it seemed you might offer a good deal. I’ve never been a huge fan of paying for name brands if I don’t have to.”

Lindsay turned back to glance out the window to hide her crestfallen look. It wouldn’t do to let him see that, nor would it do to admit how much it hurt to think that he didn’t even recognize her. Of course, she
had
improved with time, so perhaps his ignorance was a good thing?

The question now was whether to kill it here, where it was easy, or to take the case and the risks that came with it. Mrs. Ashworth’s polite rejection passed through her mind, and a downward glance caught a glimpse of the stack of bills from Monday. Still unpaid.

Was there really any choice but to bite the bullet? Sigh.

“Yes, Mister… um, Client.
Clint
,” she hastily corrected. “That’s correct. We offer the most competitive prices in the industry. Now, what is the nature of the work you would like to hire us for?”

“Before I get into that, since you’re cheap…,” he started.

She resented the remark instantly.

“…Could you maybe present some kind of credentials? Something to help convince me you’re worth the cost?”

Forcibly swallowing a glower, she turned back to the work she’d done online. This was perfect. “Your last name, sir?”

“Christopherson. Spelled s-o-n.”

She glanced at him, and then back at her screen. A few more keystrokes, and she pivoted the monitor to where the client could see it. With the barest of effort, she was able to set before him his entire life profile, complete with the mug shot taken after he was arrested during a party for UCSF’s Delta Sigma Pi.

“This is you? Clint Christopherson?” she asked.

The dumb, bug-eyed look was adequate retribution for his remarks. His date of birth, home address and phone number were easy finds. His driver’s license—not much harder. Just to prove herself, she’d pulled his social security number, bank account information, all four of his e-mail addresses (including one he hadn’t used since high school), photographs of him from as far back as thirteen years ago, his job history, and a list of his residences since he moved out of Reseda in the late ’90s. Last was a list of at least a dozen online dating sites he was registered with. And that wasn’t even the most intimate information she knew she could get.

Finally, he found his tongue. “You don’t know what kind of boxers I wear, too, do you? That’s… scary… that you can find out so much about me in five minutes or less.”

She merely smiled. “Your underwear is of no consequence to me. I do hope, however, that this convinces you that I may have some clue about what I’m doing.”

A nod.

“And so,” she began, not bothering to hide a note of triumph, “what is it that you need me for?”

A flash of worry flickered through his eyes (don’t look at the eyes Lindsay!), and she felt a pang of fear tinged with scandalous curiosity. Had he gotten himself into some kind of trouble? How satisfying would it be to stick it to him by leaving him to broil in his own juices? She could simply pronounce her judgment here and now, and he would be cut adrift to sail the stormy seas of his own problems. The thought made her feel a little guilty however, so she settled back into her proper, business-like mindset.

“Well, it’s… complicated,” he began, looking everywhere but at her. “Oh, and are your eyes normally that blue, or do you wear those cosmetic contact lenses?”

Her heart fluttered, and she spun her monitor back toward her and pretended to examine some minutia, hoping to hide the unwelcome blush.

“In a nutshell,” he said, “I’m looking for someone.” The moment passed.

“Very good,” she said, trying desperately to keep things on track. “Tell me about this person of interest you seek.”

He reclined in his chair, rubbing at his chin. “Where would you like me to start?”

“A name and basic physical description would be good.”

Clint chewed his lower lip. “Fey. Ancient. Certifiable.”

“Fey what?”

“Aunt Fey.” He shrugged.

Lindsay frowned again. “You are familiar with the concept of surnames, correct?”

The client sat back in his chair, looking slightly offended. “She didn’t tell me, okay. She only said ‘Aunt Fey, with an e.’ That was it. We didn’t exactly discuss life, the universe and everything.”

Lindsay entered additional notes. “How long have you known this ‘Aunt Fey’? Is she from your father’s side, mother’s side, or your aunt through marriage?”

“Whose marriage?”

“Yours.”

The jerk laughed. “Look, Self…”

“I’ve already asked you to please call me Miss Sullivan.”

He waved it away. “Look, I’m not married. Your search should have made that pretty clear.”

Lindsay growled at herself, angry for already losing ground against him so soon.

His left hand came up, fingers spread. He pointed at his bare ring finger to make his point. “Why do you think I even made that wish in the first place? Your snooping makes it pretty clear that women don’t exactly flock to me. They really don’t know what they’re missing, though.”

Focus on typing case file notes, girl
, Lindsay commanded herself. “What about this ‘wish’ you mentioned?” she asked flatly.

In an instant, he looked like a caged animal. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

How strong is his will, these days?
she wondered with an internal smirk. If she could make him squirm a bit…

She drilled her gaze into his (Lindsay,
don’t look at the eyes!
) Mercifully, he glanced away. After a long, awkward pause, he cracked.

Score another for Lindsay!

“Fine, fine,” he said. “You want to know? Here’s the whole story. I was walking along the bay one Saturday night, after a Giants game. I tell ya, they
slaughtered
the Padres.”

“Relevant facts only, please.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever. So I’m minding my own business, walking through a parking lot, when out of nowhere, this… chicken… fireball… thing nearly takes my head off.”

Excitedly, she started taking notes.

“What? You’re not even going to ask?”

She shrugged. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

“In this case, definitely,” he said with a snort. “So after barely dodging death by poultry, I figured someone might need to chat with my fist, and then see about getting their food handler’s permit.

“All I saw was some old tour bus painted up like an alley wall in Compton. I knocked on the door until some freaky woman finally answered. I don’t know where she escaped from, but I know better than to mess with people who look like that.”

Ah! Something useful. “People who look like what, exactly?” Lindsay intoned carefully.

He shrugged again. “Maybe four-nine. Might have gone to school with your grandma. Ratty, braided hair, weird clothes—I think she even had a couple of bells sewn on. And she had these wild, red eyes.”