On the Hook (2 page)

As she let herself into the office, she imagined his reaction to these circumstances. And if she defended herself against the allegations, he’d laugh and chant, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” He’d get the Shakespearean quote exactly right. In that way he was just like school chum Westen Hughes. All through school she’d been the mistress of useless information.

KJ’s desk was on the far side near the windows. She’d chosen the spot because she loved views of the city, but right now KJ wished she’d gotten stuck with a rookie desk near the bathroom. Easier in and out.

Thankfully, the office was empty. Around here, the place didn’t stay empty for long; NHPCIC was one of the busiest insurance companies in the state. Phones rang twenty-four seven. As the thought left her brain, the phone did indeed ring. She didn’t touch it; the call would be picked up by the operator.

She snatched the briefcase and laptop from the floor beside the desk and spun around to leave. KJ locked the door and raced toward the elevator, which was just arriving. Damn, no time to hide. The door whooshed open. Out stepped the one person she’d prayed not to see.

“Well, Kendra Jean”—Cliff Barnett always called her that no matter how many times she asked to be called KJ—“returning to the scene of the crime?”

“This isn’t the scene of a crime and I didn’t do anything wrong.”

He stepped close; the scent of cheap cologne stung her nostrils. KJ moved back a step.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Of course. I merely—” Why was she defending herself to this moron? No words could change things. Even if he
thought
she was innocent, no way would he admit it. One of these days, KJ hoped he’d find himself in a position where he needed her support. Then they’d see how the tables could turn. She took another step away.

Cliff didn’t take the hint. He pressed closer. She moved back till she was against the smooth, cool wall. Cliff leaned on her. Dark, curly hair had come loose from its gelled confines and hung over his brow. KJ hoped those were keys in his pocket—and that they’d stay there. “You have to admit, things don’t look good for you.”

She didn’t bother speaking.

“Wanna know what the cops told me?” He waited. KJ didn’t look into his face. From here, all she’d see were untrimmed nose hairs anyway. “They said they’d have you locked up by the end of the week.”

Oh God.

Don’t show emotion; he’s probably lying.

What if he’s not?

“I know how you can get out of this,” he crooned.

She doubted it but a small part of her wondered if he somehow knew something she didn’t. Maybe he’d talked, or more likely, eavesdropped on their boss Sam Carter.

“I’m not kidding.” Cliff pressed closer. No, those definitely weren’t keys in his pocket.

“All I have to do is meet you later, right?”

Her one encounter with the man two years ago—between marriages—had been more than enough. She’d made the grievous mistake of calling him Limp Cliffy. Which triggered the problems she now had with him. KJ had tried apologizing, but the words didn’t ease the fact that she’d told the truth. Most likely his biggest fear was her spreading the news. Sure be fun to hear twenty co-workers chanting Limp Cliffy, Limp Cliffy. The mantra would probably end up with a full range of lyrics. But if he thought she’d tell, his brain wasn’t working right. No way would KJ Valentine admit to a relationship, however abbreviated, with him. And no way would she buy her way out of this problem with another huge mistake.

Right now, the only thing on her mind was getting the heck away. “It’s not happening, ever. See you around, Limp Cliffy.” KJ slammed the briefcase against his chest and forced him away.

He tripped on the toe of her shoe, stumbled backward and landed on his ass. “You’ll be sorry. I’ll use every bit of information to make it look like you’re guilty.”

“Knock yourself out.” KJ punched the elevator button so hard her knuckle cracked. “And I mean that with all my heart. Knock. Yourself. Out.” The door opened. By now he was on his feet. He lunged for her. The door slid shut. KJ waited for it to open back up, but nothing happened.

She held her breath during the entire ride down—surely he’d be waiting in the lobby. KJ sprinted, squeezing through the doors, brushing past somebody who called to her. She probably should’ve stopped; the voice sounded friendly. But any minute Cliff would shoot out of the stairwell and accost her again.

Outdoors, KJ gave the cabbie the address of the coffee shop where her meeting with Westen Hughes was to take place. KJ dreaded this meeting. Till today, her dealings had been with Westen’s husband Ben, a gentle and personable man. KJ hadn’t seen Westen since graduation when she went on the arm of the team’s star quarterback, Westen’s boyfriend. At the time, she’d felt pride in stealing him away; if Westen couldn’t hold onto him it was just too bad. KJ shook her head to dislodge the barrage of memories.

As the car sped through workday traffic, KJ sank against the seat cushion. She put the encounter with Cliff and memories of high school out of her mind. That problem could be dealt with at a later time. Now she had to meet with Westen Hughes. Surely she’d have to listen quietly while the woman nagged her over their shared pasts. She’d been Westen Thomas at the time. Thin, pretty, athletic, with a full scholarship to someplace—KJ couldn’t remember where. By the age of seventeen, Westen had the world at her feet.

On second thought, maybe it would’ve been better to stay and deal with Limp Cliffy.

At 9:52, KJ Valentine fell into the booth farthest across the diner, and ordered a double-size hot chocolate with whipped cream and a bagel smeared with cream cheese—things that definitely weren’t in her diet. Right now she didn’t give a fig.

She distracted herself with thoughts of Theo. Naturally, after the debacle at the museum, they hadn’t gone for dinner. Probably he’d returned to Chicago as soon as police released him. If she were him she’d get out of Dodge as fast as her steed would gallop too. Especially if the woman you’d spent the past two days with, talking about everything under the sun, and just asked on a date, had been accused of a very costly crime. KJ used a napkin to dab some tears. More tears. Seemed she’d cried an ocean of them in the past twelve hours.

Would she have gone out with Theo? Probably. Which led to another question: Didn’t she place enough value her relationship with Brett Hartshorn? The honest answer was, KJ didn’t know. They’d been together a year. Most of the time, things were great. The sex was awesome, but sex wasn’t everything, as she’d learned in her first marriage. It was only a buffer that softened the pain from the rest of the relationship.

Chapter Two

Westen Hughes dumped a scoop of parrot droppings into the trash bin. It landed with a thump and shot up a dusty cloud that made her sneeze. Man, she hated animals.

No, not right. She only disliked the ones with claws or teeth. As if reading her mind, the yellow crowned Amazon on the perch flapped its wings and screeched. Westen managed not to clamp her hands to her ears. The metal edge of the glass enclosure dug into her ribs as she stretched for another scoopful.

The bell over the pet shop door jangled and she straightened up, a hand massaging the small of her back. Had to be Grady, the shop’s sole employee. Why on earth was he late this time? She should fire him. The thought brought a laugh and she flung the scoop into the bin. Another puff of dust flew up. Sure, fire Grady. Then you’ll have to do
all
the work yourself.

Westen didn’t mind the scrubbing and scooping; she liked things clean and so did the Board of Health. It was the perpetual threat of being chewed up and spit out that sent goose bumps bursting through her skin. Westen brushed her hands on her slacks and peered around the shop to see that a woman had come in. Not Grady. No such luck. Drat. She should fire him anyway.

Great idea. Cut off her nose to spite her face just to make a point. Westen straightened her blouse, raked a hand through hair that was in desperate need of a cut, and stepped from the bird room, wincing at the squeaky glass door and the blast of cool air.

The customer, who carried a little extra weight, probably worked at a desk job, emitted a mass of conflicting images. The serious expression reminded Westen of her elementary school librarian, a squish-faced woman who never had a good word to say.

The brightly colored clothes should’ve been on a circus clown—the baggy t-shirt was mottled with red, yellow, and neon blue tie-dyed swirls. The jeans were electric blue, baggy like rap kids wore. The woman lifted thick-framed glasses and peered through deep brown eyes rimmed in red. Clearly she’d been crying. Westen prayed she wouldn’t cry now. Westen didn’t deal well with tears. The slightest drip from even one eye would have her balling like a colicky baby.

A person who comes in a pet shop crying has one of two things going on: a dying or a dead pet. Whichever it was, the tears usually came with a detailed story about the pet’s illness and subsequent demise. Not that she minded listening, it had to be hard losing a pet, though all the pets she’d known during her childhood had either bitten or otherwise tried to maul her. Leaving them behind when she moved from her childhood home had not been a problem.

Westen slapped a smile on her face. “Good morning, may I help you?”

The woman dropped the glasses back onto the bridge of her nose, adjusted them with a tweak of a finger and nodded. “My snake died.”

God, did it have to be a reptile? Sure, they didn’t have claws and pet shop specimens didn’t have much in the way of teeth, but still…

“Got up this morning and found him deader ’n a doornail.” The woman’s nose wrinkled and she broke into a grin. “Not sure what a doornail is though.”

“It was a large-headed nail used in the 14
th
century.”

“That right.”

“Yes. They hammered it in then bent over the end to secure it in place.”

“Really.”

“Which might be why they called it dead because the nail was unusable afterwards.”

“My, aren’t you a bundle of useless trivia.”

Westen couldn’t help grinning at the forthright comment. When she went on a tangent, most people smiled politely and nodded a lot. Her husband had always said “is that right” too. “I assume you didn’t come here to report the demise of your snake.”

The woman gave a vigorous head shake. “I want to replace him…with a juvenile. The other was given to me as an adult. I want one I can train.”

“Why not just get married and train a man? As I recall, they have a lot more qualities, useful appendages
and
abilities. On second thought, men’re probably harder to train.”

The comment brought a snort that turned quickly into a guffaw. The woman threw back her head and let it go. Westen, rather than laugh too, felt a little sad. She’d never had the confidence to let loose like that. To not care how things appeared to onlookers.

“What do you train a snake to do?” Westen asked once the woman sobered. “Can it fetch your slippers? I’d like someone to fetch slippers for me. When I get home after a long day here, my feet hurt like—”

The woman focused a scowl on Westen that suggested she needed something above the neck examined. Westen inhaled long and let it out slow. “Let’s step to the reptile room.” Where the heck was Grady?

Fire him, shouted a bold voice in her head.

Westen pulled open the door to the well-heated room. It hadn’t been cleaned yet. Thankfully, no foul odors erupted out. She waved a hand at the wall of aquarium-type cages. “The snakes are in those four on the left.”

“May I pick them up?”

“Sure. We just need to stay in this room so we don’t have any accidental escapes.”

The woman laughed. “Wouldn’t pay for you to have to chase one around the store.”

“You got that right.”

“But it’d be worse if you actually had to touch it.”

“You
really
got that right!” They shared a laugh. “Where are you from?” Westen asked.

“Originally Delaware. Now I live a few blocks from here. You?”

“I’m a southern girl. Atlanta.”

“Thought I could hear it in your voice.”

“And I thought I’d lost it.”

While they talked, the mousy-haired woman was reading the tags on the reptile tanks. She pushed aside a vented top and reached for a young ball python. Westen couldn’t stop the shiver that shot into her nerve endings.

The snake curled a route around the woman’s hand. In a way, the movement was sensual, almost as if the creature was hugging, but that wasn’t possible. Snakes didn’t have feelings, did they?

“Wh-what do you do for work?” Westen asked.

“You sure ask a lot of questions. Do I have to give my life history if I buy one of these?”

“Of course not, I was just making conversation.” Westen heaved a sigh that cleared her lungs. “My husband always said I needed help in that department. Guess he was right.”

The woman tilted her head and gave Westen a critical gaze. Westen felt glad when, for once, she didn’t voice an opinion.

The door opened, nudging Westen in the backside. She stepped aside then realized the long-lost Grady had finally put in an appearance. “Boss-lady,” said the tall twenty-something with the blond mustache, “phone call for you.”

From his tone, Westen inferred it wasn’t a call she’d want to hear. Normally she’d tell him to take a message, but if it meant escaping this room… “Thanks. Excuse me, won’t you? Grady will help you from here.”

She hurried to her office, the sound of the snake lady’s laughter following all the way. What an odd woman. Not because of her penchant for snakes. Well, yes, because of that, in part. But you didn’t meet many people these days who came out and spoke their mind. Most people had a filter that kept the words locked behind their teeth. As Westen switched on the cordless phone, she smiled. She’d bet that outspoken manner got the woman in trouble from time to time.

“Hello.”

“Good morning Mrs. Westen, this is Henry from the collection agency.”

She managed to keep herself from asking which agency. “I thought I told you not to call me here anymore.”

“Well, Mrs. Hughes, you stopped answering your home phone.”