Rising Heat (62 page)

I had given him a body check, so it seemed only fair that he did the same to me, I supposed. I had always wondered about the expression ‘undressing someone with their eyes’ and now I knew exactly what that meant. I felt butt naked standing here in front of him, and to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have minded getting naked with him at all.

Before you judge me, I should let you know that I don’t usually have this reaction to men. I don’t sleep around. I don’t have the time, or the inclination. Not that I don’t have a sex drive, because I do, it’s just that I don’t have a lot of time to indulge it. But this guy? Boy, did I indulge.

“What can I help you with, Ms…?”

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “My name is Tracy Whitcomb. Detective Cutter recommended I come see you.” His face remained expressionless.

“He did.”

It came out more of a statement than a question. I decided I’d better tamp down my sexual urges and get to the point. I was here for a reason. “Yes, I have an issue, but the police said they couldn’t help me.”

“And they suggested me.”

Again, it was more of a comment than a question.

“Yes, I talked to Detective Cutter and his partner Detective Westin—”

For the first time I saw an expression on Hawk’s face. A sardonic grin. “Was Westin in the room when Cutter recommended me?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“If we’re going to work together, I require total honesty from you,” he said.

I swallowed. “I understand.”

“So what did Westin say?”

“Why does that matter?” I asked. I certainly didn’t want to tell him what I had heard Detective Westin mumble under his breath. “What makes you think he said anything?”

“I know Westin.”

“Does it matter?” I repeated. “If I hire you it’s not because you’re popular or unpopular. I want to know if you’re good at what you do. The point, Mr. Hawk—”

“Just to get it straight, I’m not a half-breed. I’m a full-blooded Iroquois except for a tiny, and I mean tiny, drop of French blood from way back.”

I stared at him. “Okay…” I didn’t really care what he was as long as he could help me and as long as it wouldn’t cost me an arm and a leg.

“And before you decide to hire me, there are a few things you should know—”

“I haven’t decided anything,” I said. I began to stand. “I’m not sure if this was a good idea—”

“Sit down, Miss Whitcomb,” he gestured.

I slowly returned to my seat. “Mr. Hawk—”

“You can drop the mister.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Hawk, I’m not even sure if you can help me or even if you would want to. To be frank, I don’t care what Detective Westin thinks of you, your ancestry, or anything else. I just want—”

“This is a small town, Miss Whitcomb,” he gently interrupted, leaning back in his chair. “People talk.” He shrugged. “If you hire me, I’m going to get personally involved in your case… in your life. People may question you and your decision to hire someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” I frowned. “I don’t understand. Because of your heritage?”

He laughed, well sort of. It came out more like a chuckle. He shook his head.

“Not because of my heritage, but because of my background. My… questionable background.”

My eyes widened. “You have a criminal background?”

He shrugged. “Nothing serious or I wouldn’t have been able to get a P.I. license. Like I said, I insist on honesty from the get-go. Let’s just say I have the reputation of being somewhat of a rebel… a bad boy if you like, although most of that occurred when I was younger and sowing wild oats.”

What did he mean,
most of that?
I wondered. Nevertheless, I shrugged. “We all have a past, Mr. Hawk… Hawk,” I amended.

“Got in with a bad crowd when I was younger. Long story short, I acquired a reputation, and got into a bit of trouble before Grandfather stepped in and cleaned up my act. He encouraged me to see the error of my ways. After that, I got interested in criminal justice, but nevertheless sometimes have problems following rules, which is the main reason I never joined law enforcement. Despite my efforts, my reputation often follows me.”

What could I say to that?

“I moved away for a while, worked with a private investigator out in Minnesota, and then when Grandfather died, came back home to help provide for the family. I eventually got my P.I. license.” He held up a hand. “And before you ask, I met the qualifications and requirements. My past does not interfere with my capacity to perform my duties as a private investigator.”

I stared at him in amazement. He wasn’t kidding about honesty. While I appreciated that, I wasn’t sure if all of this was necessary. I hadn’t even told him my story. Even if he agreed to help me, I wasn’t sure I could afford him.

As I sat there considering his words, I felt the blood thrumming through my veins. My God, he was so handsome, so… what was the word I was looking for? Mesmerizing? I wanted to get to know him and run away from him at the same time. He was foreboding and intimidating, but there was also something about him that evoked a sense of security.

“Why don’t you tell me why you came to see me?”

I sighed and related my story from the beginning. The flower on my doorstep. The flower that mysteriously moved from my office into the kitchen. The note in my mailbox. My concerns.

After I finished relating my story, which took all of about five minutes, he sat silently, staring at me. His gaze was unwavering and I began to grow uncomfortable. Would I get the same response from him as I had gotten from the police? Would he think me silly?

“The police pretty much have their hands tied when it comes to stalker cases,” he commented.

My eyes widened. “Is that what you think this is about? A stalker?”

He offered a slight shrug. I could hardly ignore the ripple of muscle I saw through his T-shirt.

“It’s doubtful that it was a prank by a teenager who would take the chance of going into your house. And what would be the point of moving the flower from your office to the kitchen?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think this is a teenage prank. And most secret admirers do so from afar. What you’ve described to me is a little blatant, don’t you think?”

I nodded. I certainly did. “But what can I do about it? The police intimated that since I hadn’t been threatened or accosted, there wasn’t much they could do.”

“They’re right. Unfortunately, in your case, there is very little they can do. Other than the flower and the note, neither of which are threatening per se, there’s little to go on as far as launching an investigation.”

“I’m watching you
doesn’t sound threatening?” I exclaimed, my eyes wide as I stared at him. He lifted a hand and made a calming gesture.

“I didn’t say that,” he said. “I can try to find out who’s watching you, Miss Whitcomb, but I can’t guarantee where this is going to lead.”

“I understand, but I want this settled. I just moved here. I live alone and I work from home, and to be quite honest, I’m frightened. I’ve never felt like this before.”

“I understand,” Hawk said.

He leaned forward in his chair and placed his arms on his desk. It was hard not to notice the play of muscles and tendons in his forearms. I swallowed. “I hate to ask, but can you tell me what you charge? Like I said, I’m self-employed so I don’t have a lot of money, but I can make payments, if your fees are reasonable.”

My heart thudded dully in my chest. I had no idea how much private investigators charged. I knew they typically charged by the hour, but we weren’t in Boston. We were in rural Vermont. Surely he wouldn’t charge—

“Let me do an initial investigation and then we can work something out,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to follow you back to your house, take a look around, and get a sense of where you live. I would like for you to take me into the woods where you heard the noise and saw the shadow. I might be able to find some tracks to determine whether they were left by an animal or a human being.”

I couldn’t believe how relieved I felt. He was taking me seriously, and he wasn’t going to charge me right away. Still, I had to worry about what would happen if he
did
decide to take my case. Again, it was as if he could read my thoughts.

“Let me take an initial look,” he said. “If I decide to take your case, I promise you, we can work something out.”

*

He told me he would follow me out to my place, and I agreed. I turned to leave the office and before I even had the door open, he was right behind me. Above me. Warmth emanated from his body and enveloped me. I didn’t dare glance over my shoulder for fear he would see the heat flooding into my face. I don’t know what it was about this guy, but every nerve in my body was responding to him. If he touched me, I wouldn’t be responsible for what happened.

I quickly headed down the stairs, cast a quick glance at the quilt shop owner, who watched curiously and with what I can only describe as a smug expression on her face. I had a feeling that she didn’t mind watching Hawk either. Who would? As I opened the door to go outside the bell once again tinkled. I stepped onto the sidewalk knowing that Hawk would be right behind me. I pointed to my pickup truck, parked several spaces down.

“That’s mine.”

“I’m parked around back,” he said, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m driving a Jeep Cherokee. Dark blue. Go ahead and get into your car. I’ll catch up with you on Main Street.”

Without another word, he turned and moved around the side of the building. I watched him go, my eyes riveted to his tight ass as he walked away, and that long stride that, like the rest of him, was so mesmerizing.

Stop it! I needed to stop crushing on this guy and get serious about my problem.

If it really was a problem.

I couldn’t help it, the self-doubt was back.

Was all this really necessary? Was I overreacting? My fear was real, but rationally, was this the only way to deal with it? A private investigator? I didn’t know anybody in my life who had ever hired a private investigator.

I made my way to my truck, climbed in, and slowly pulled out of my parking space. Before I got to the first stop light at the intersection, I saw Hawk pull his Jeep Cherokee behind me.

I felt nervous.

Of course he made me nervous, not afraid nervous, but tingly nervous. I was sexually attracted to him. There, I said it. Might as well be honest with myself at this point. Was I going to do anything about it? No. A relationship or even a one night stand was the last thing I needed. And he probably felt zero attraction for me.

What would I do if Hawk told me he couldn’t do anything to help me? What options what I have? Should I consider buying a gun? And even if I had one, I would have to learn how to use it. It seemed rather drastic, but then again, someone was watching me. That note I have found in my mailbox this morning said so.

Hawk maintained a safe distance behind me, but I found myself continually glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure he was still there. Best case scenario, he’d get to the bottom of this, find out who was watching me, and it would all be over. I couldn’t think of details. I couldn’t imagine how he would take care of something like that.

Worst case scenario, he would tell me he couldn’t help. And that’s one thing that I was dreading more than anything else. Never having been in this situation before and never knowing anyone who had, I felt helpless, at the mercy of some stranger who was either playing a not very funny prank on me or at the worst, one who meant me harm.

Of course, I had not been threatened, physically or otherwise. But I knew it didn’t take much to turn affection into jealousy. In fact, that’s why I had called it quits with my boyfriend back in Boston. If there was one thing I couldn’t tolerate it was someone telling me what I could or could not do, who I could be friends with, where I could go, or how I could spend my hard-earned money.

It didn’t take long for me to pull into my driveway from the highway. I slowly bounced over the gravel road until I reached my front yard. I had just turned off the engine and stepped out of the truck when Hawk’s Jeep pulled up behind me. He got out, looked carefully around, his eyes squinting against the morning sunlight as it made its way over the treetops. His black eyes turned to me.

“First, show me the flower and the notes.”

I nodded and without saying anything, turned to enter the house. I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, gesturing for him to follow. He did. He stepped no further into the house than the small hallway-foyer. I gestured toward the kitchen.

“You can come in and sit down at the table if you’d like.”

He didn’t move an inch. “I’ll wait here.”

“I put the flower in a plastic gallon bag in the freezer. The other note is still in my pocket.” I pulled the postcard out of my back pocket and handed it to him. While he looked at it, I walked to the refrigerator and opened the freezer compartment. I removed the plastic bag containing the flower with the attached note and then handed it to him as well.

He looked at the flower and the note tied to it, then the postcard. Only then did he move into the kitchen, placing both items down on the kitchen table. The morning sunlight bathed the table in a warm glow. He turned the cards so that the writing was visible on both.

“Same style of writing on both of these. Not quite calligraphy, but it looks like it was done with a fountain pen. How many kids do you know these days have access to fountain pens?”

I wasn’t sure if he was asking me that question or just talking to himself. I hadn’t even noticed that. Those notes had not been written with a ballpoint pen. “Could they have been printed on a computer using one of those old-fashioned fonts?”

He shook his head. “No, look at the edges. You see where the ink bled a little bit into the postcard paper? A printer wouldn’t do that.”

For the first time, I realized he was right. Why hadn’t either of the detectives noticed that? Maybe they had and just didn’t mention it. Then again, maybe they weren’t that interested. Maybe somebody had to get seriously hurt or murdered before they took interest. No, that wasn’t fair.