The Client: Short And Steamy (12 page)

“
I
can tell you this
…” The slender, scholarly man sitting across from my desk placed a file down on the surface and shook his head.

Stanley Kowalski didn't look like much, but he was the best private investigator I’d ever worked with. He wasn’t always in the price range my clientele could afford, but, fortunately, Paxton didn’t seem to
have
a price range, so I’d gone for the best.

“While I’m not yet done collecting information, the past two days have already netted enough material, that if this woman was raising
my
child, I’d do everything in my power to keep her away.”

“Has she harmed the girl?” I asked, flipping the file open. My insides twisted at the thought. I'd worked some pretty nasty divorces, including some where the parents squabbled over kids, but I'd never had to work one where neglect or abuse had been involved.

“No. Not directly.” Kowalski grimaced and leaned forward, using a pen to tap somebody on the first picture. “However, she puts her in harm’s way. This here…she went out with her daughter and the girl’s nanny. While they were eating lunch, she got up to buy drugs from a known dealer. The dealer was fifteen feet away from her daughter.”

“A decent lawyer can argue that nothing happened.”

“Can’t argue with the evidence I got.” Kowalski’s serene smile had my eyebrows going up.

Intrigued, I flipped to the next picture and whistled sharply at the perfectly framed image of a bag being passed, then an envelope.

“How in the hell did you get a picture like this?” I asked, still gaping at it.

“I followed them into the bathroom. They never looked at me twice.”

Now my stunned surprise shifted to him. “If a man follows a woman into a bathroom, that usually catches attention, Mr. Kowalski.”

“I was dressed as a woman.” He sipped at his coffee. “A blind woman. I had a friend – a trusted one, confidentiality is guaranteed – acting as my escort. As I had a cane and shuffled around a bit, they were quite convinced I couldn’t see anything. They didn’t even wait until I went into a stall to finish. The camera on the outside of my bag caught every detail.”

“You’re a genius,” I said sincerely.

He gave a modest shrug and fixed his glasses. “I’m simply experienced, Ms. Calvin. Moving on…” He leaned forward and tapped the next picture. “At some point, she put the pills in her purse. I know this because when they left, I followed them. It was a simple matter of me shedding my skirt and losing the wig and cane. They were outside a toy store in Times Square when we saw this. It was very...troubling.”

He spread several images out and I had to look at them a few times before I pieced it together. “You were shooting video?” I asked quietly.

“Yes. I took the stills from the video. There’s a small unit of officers there at Times Square.”

“I know.” I studied the cute little kid Brinke had swept up to hug, wondered if she’d even noticed what her mom had done. If I hadn't seen the proof of it, I probably wouldn't have even believed it myself.

When the woman picked her child up, she’d been holding a small, silvery pouch in one hand. She’d transferred the pills into it, I’d bet anything on it. And when the nanny wasn’t looking, she’d tucked that pouch into her daughter’s backpack. There was a quick sidelong glance toward a cop standing a few feet away, his back to them. Then she took her daughter’s hand and led her right into the massive Toys R Us down on Times Square.

“She was using her daughter to carry the drugs.” I swallowed, feeling a little sick.

“Most cops won’t bother a child. She was definitely acting nervous. I could see it the moment she realized how many cops were there. She probably hasn’t gone down there much since she moved into the area. Maybe she’d even had a run-in with one of the cops before and was worried they'd recognize her.” Kowalski straightened the stills back into a tidy pile. “These images, while definitely damning, won’t be particularly useful on their own, but in just a few days, she’s already showed a…” He paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “She has a recklessness to her, perhaps an inability to think about how her actions affect those around her.”

“I’d say so.” I accepted the stack of images from Kowalski and tucked them neatly inside the folder. “Are these mine?”

“Of course. There are also duplicates of the photos and my initial report, in case the husband wants to be kept apprised.”

Personally, I didn't want to have to tell Paxton any of this. It knew it would kill him to know that the mother of his child was doing this, but I also knew that he needed to know how bad things had gotten. “Thank you, Mr. Kowalski. I appreciate the time you've put into this.”

We both rose, shaking hands over the table. “I expect I’ll have more than enough evidence within another few days, a week at most.”

“Thanks.”

Once I was alone, I went through the rest of the photos and the report. Then I did it a second time, letting my mind take in all the information.

In a few more days, I’d put in a call to Paxton.

I couldn’t decide if I was excited about the chance to talk to him, or dreading it, because while these things would be good for our case, none of them were really good news.

I
t took
a total of four more days, including the weekend.

The final report was left with Haley while I was in court, arguing for more child support from one of the biggest deadbeat dads I’d ever dealt with. Fortunately for my client, Kowalski wasn’t the only good private investigator I knew. Jeannie Graham was also one of the best – and cheapest – and she had a personal loathing for deadbeat dads, so she’d gone to the wall on this job, digging up all kinds of dirt.

Thanks to her, I’d left court feeling like a champion.

My client had been teary-eyed and sniffling, hugging me multiple times while her ex sent me threatening looks. I ignored him, but in a day or so, I would gently remind my client to be careful. Men like that didn't lose easily or well.

But for now, I'd take the win.

Paging through the final few photographs, I blew out a breath and leaned back in my chair. I had what I needed. Once, not too long ago, Brinke had gone out with Carter, and while they were at a restaurant, she’d gotten up and left the little girl at the table by herself while she slipped outside into an alley. Kowalski had gotten time-stamped images of both the girl and the mother. Carter had been left alone for more than twenty minutes, long enough that the manager had eventually approached. Kowalski had been seated at a corner table, and had asked about the 'pretty girl sitting up front alone.' The manager assured him he was keeping an eye on her and would call the cops soon if her mother didn’t return.

He’d made sure to take note of the manager’s name, and I’d just called and gotten a statement from him myself. While he was reluctant to confirm the name of the patron – he had recognized who Brinke was – he was willing to admit that yes, a young minor had been alone in his place for an unusual length of time, especially considering her age.

Kowalski had noted that the child colored throughout the entire episode, making him think that she wasn’t unused to that sort of thing. And I had the proof to support it. There were other times where the child’s mother had failed to supervise, but most often, the nanny had been around to step in and take care of everything.

We had enough, though. Between the earlier report, the incident, the restaurant, and how much Kowalski had on Brinke
away
from the child, no judge in his or her right mind would see the woman as a fit guardian for the little girl. The very most Brinke could hope for was eventually getting joint custody after a long time of supervised visits.

I started to read through the report a third time when I abruptly snapped the manila folder shut and slapped it with my hand. “Quit stalling already,” I muttered, annoyed with myself. “Just call him.”

Before I could find another way to delay, I punched in a number I’d memorized within minutes of him giving it to me. The studio first. I figured I wouldn’t reach him there right away, and I’d have time to prepare myself.

Nobody answered. I just left a simple message, as requested.

This message is for Paxton. This is Leslie calling. If you can get back to me, I’d appreciate it
. I gave him my cell number and disconnected, slumping back in the seat and staring up at the ceiling.

A light knock sounded at the door.

“Come in!”

Haley came in, carrying two cups of coffee. “I hear you kicked butt in court.”

“Grapevine news still travels fast.” I smiled at her and straightened, accepting the coffee gratefully.

“Think the bum will pay up this time?”

“If not, he’ll be in contempt, and he just might be looking at jail time. Since he got arrested for DUI, and that sentence was commuted to parole with community service, I don’t think he’ll want to risk it. If he’s found in contempt…”

Haley made a twisting motion with her wrist, then mimed throwing away a key.

“Yep. But damn, you should have seen the looks he was giving us.”

Haley’s response was cut off by the sound of my phone. I looked down and immediately, my throat constricted. It was one of the two numbers I’d memorized. Paxton’s cell phone.

“Ah…I need to take this. If you’ll excuse me?”

Haley didn’t bat an eyelash.

As I answered the phone, she was closing the door behind her.

“Hello.”

“Leslie, this is Paxton Gorham.”

“Hello, Mr. Gorham.”

“You know, you called me Paxton when you left the message,” he said, sounding amused.

My face went red. Shit. He was right. I’d also called him Paxton in several extremely hot and dirty dreams that I had absolutely no intention of talking about. That didn’t mean I was going to call him Paxton to his face. “Yes, well, that aside, I believe it’s time we set up another meeting. I’ve gotten a report back from the private investigator I hired.”

A taut silence followed and then he spoke softly, all humor gone. “Already? It’s barely been a week.”

“I’m aware.”

A few more moments of quiet tension pulsed between us and then he blew out a breath. “Yeah, okay. Look, things are at a crucial point here at the studio. I’m working ten, twelve, fourteen-hour days right now. Brinke…hell, she oughta be, but she’s blowing us off so she might not even show up in this album at all. I can’t risk her waltzing in and me not being here, though – hey, I know lawyers don’t really work on holidays, but is there any way we could meet on the Fourth?”

“The Fourth?” Blankly, I stared at my desk calendar. It hit me a second later. “The Fourth of July?” Today was the first, so that'd be this Friday.

“Yeah. Brinke’s promised she’d take Carter to go see a Broadway play earlier in the day, then hit some sort of street festival before heading down to where a friend of mine lives on the river. I’m meeting them in the evening for fireworks, but she'll be busy all day, so I know she won’t show up here. I’ve got to get some work done – can you just meet me here?”

My head was still spinning with all the information he’d just thrown at me and I rubbed my temple, processing it.

“Or you might already have plans.”

“No,” I said absently. In the past, my friends and I usually spent the day together, but this year, they were all busy with their significant others. I'd toyed with the idea of going to a club, but I hadn't made any decisions. “I don’t have plans. I’m just…thinking.”

“I know we need to get this done, but I’m needed at the studio too much right now.”

Grimacing at the phone, I looked down at the neatly written out schedule on my calendar that Haley always kept up to date. It wasn’t like my days were exactly
open
. If he was going to push for me to come to him, then actually, the Fourth of July was probably the best bet anyway.

“If you can’t make it to my office between then and now, I believe that’s probably the best solution,” I said after a moment. Grabbing a pen, I asked for the address.

He gave it, and then ended the call with a terse, “See you then.”

I was torn between irritation and the anticipation I knew I shouldn’t feel. The last thing I needed to feel was excitement over seeing him again, but there it was.

A
bsolutely nobody
but me and my mirror would ever know that I’d spent nearly an hour picking an outfit that wasn’t too casual or too dressy. Since it
was
the Fourth, and I didn’t plan on going to the office, I’d gone for a ‘casual Friday’ sort of feel, a pair of white capris and a dressy red camisole with a white waist-length jacket for when I was inside.

It was cute, comfortable and casual – and the capris showcased both my legs and my ass.

Not that I wanted Paxton to notice my ass.

He’d already noticed it
.

Ignoring that voice, I turned my keys over to the valet, muttering a quick
hallelujah
that there
was
valet service available today. Trying to find a place to park on the Fourth was nightmarish.

Paxton had given me a code and told me to ask the valet for the studio entrance. There was an elevator that would take me straight up to the floor where the studio was, and I wouldn’t have any trouble getting inside. I punched it in, and the door opened without a hitch.

Parking had been a breeze. Getting inside had been a breeze. I could only wish that someone had told my body. My nerves were going haywire, jumping and jittering around inside my belly. I hadn't felt this on edge about a meeting with a client since my very first one, and
that
case of butterflies had been for an entirely different reason.

The elevator had a second, separate code, and I punched it in, then stepped inside and closed my eyes.

I’m meeting a client. That’s it. Just a client
. I wasn't going on a date. So far, he was oblivious to me as anything other than a lawyer. Well, other than the time I'd caught him checking out my ass. But that just meant he had a pulse.

I'd almost talked myself down when the elevator doors slid silently open, and I stepped out to find Paxton in the wide-open hallway. He was alone, or at least it looked like it.

He looked like he was waiting for me too.

“I'm not late, am I?”

Before a new set of nerves could settle in, Paxton shook his head. “No. Security is set up to alert me when somebody gets in the elevator. I heard you coming.”

His eyes swept over me, seeming to linger in certain places, before moving to rest on the bulging file that I had tucked up against my side. I thought he was going to ask something, but instead, he abruptly turned on his heel, jerking his head to indicate that I should follow.

“I need coffee. You drink coffee?”

“Who doesn't?”

His response was a short laugh, and the sound of it warmed something inside me. I tried not to look at his ass as he turned the corner. When I caught up with him, I found myself in a bright, open kitchen area. I stared, feeling more than a little off balance. I’d had more than a few well -off clients, but Paxton Gorham wasn’t well off.

He was
loaded
.

Half my apartment could fit in the spot alone. “Do you…
own
this studio?”

He shot me a look over his shoulder. “Partially. The guys who play with me, and a few other groups, we all went in together and bought it. We prefer to be in charge of our own music.” He stopped at the counter and reached for a pot of coffee. It was half-full, and he lifted it to his nose, sniffed it, before lowering it with a shudder. “I'm making fresh. This stuff could power a diesel engine by now.”

As he dumped it out, I said gamely, “You should probably just give it to me. I need the charge.”

“Nobody should do that to their stomach.”

I sat down at a table, watching as he went about making coffee with the competence of a pro. He didn't look uncomfortable with the task. It was surprising, I had to admit, but then I wanted to kick myself. Just because he was a mega-rich rock star didn't mean he couldn't take care of basic tasks by himself. Besides, he hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I'd done my research on him as well as Brinke.

It paid to do that when you were a lawyer. Cut down on the surprises. He’d grown up rough, both parents getting in trouble for possession and assault – on each other more often than not – plus resisting arrest and the typical petty criminal’s laundry list of crimes. Paxton had a few issues of his own, some of them the same as his parents, including assault and drug charges, but he’d straightened his act up seven years ago. Right about the time he would have found out he was going to be a dad, if my calculations were correct. He’d gone in for rehab and when he'd come out, he hadn’t gotten in any trouble, period. He was like an after-school special on turning your life around.

No, I shouldn’t be surprised that he could fend for himself with typical things, like making a pot of coffee. He probably lived on the stuff, especially since he didn't do drugs anymore.

It didn't escape my notice that while he was comfortable with the task, he wasn't relaxed. There was a fine tension to his body, something that kept his shoulders rigid, and while he kept his face averted, I could see how it kept clenching and clenching his jaw.

“If you're not ready to do this, or if you're having second thoughts, we can reschedule this.”

Paxton shook his head. He shifted, reaching into a cabinet. With almost deliberate care, he took out a pair of mugs and set them on the counter. Once that was done, he braced his hands on the surface next to them, lowering his head. His wide shoulders strained the faded material of his t-shirt as he took one, then another, deep breath.

“I'm not going to change my mind, Leslie. I should've done this a long time ago. But that doesn't mean any of this is easy. Brinke and I have been together a long time.”

I couldn't say that I understood. I'd never had a relationship longer than a couple of months. Ever.

“Okay.” Looking away from him, I reached into my bag and pulled out the information Kowalski put together for me.

The woman must've been crazy, I couldn't help but think, to throw away a life with that man and a beautiful little girl. A part of me wondered how long he'd been trying to make it work, but it wasn't my place to ask. My job was to facilitate a divorce and make it as smooth as I could for him.

And make sure his crazy ex didn't get custody of their daughter.

The scent of coffee filled the air after another moment, and I kept myself busy organizing, and then reorganizing everything I brought with me. By the time I finished, Paxton came over and placed a mug of coffee in front of me.

“You drink it black or do you take anything with it?”

“Black. I used to drink it loaded, but law school pretty much help me kick that habit. Cramming and a tight budget doesn’t always…” I stopped and shrugged, forced a laugh. “Well, college students and budgets. Familiar story.”

What was wrong with me? When had I developed the habit of running off at the mouth like that? I liked to talk, but it was never babbling. Chatting with a client to make them feel more comfortable was one thing, but telling one of them bits and pieces of my life was a different matter altogether. I needed to pull myself together.

“Why don’t you sit down so we can get started?”

“I don't do well sitting still. If you don't mind, I'll move around.” And he proceeded to do that, moving over to the window that faced out over the city.

In his defense, it was one hell of a view, but it wasn't going to shield him from the nastiness he was about to see. It would be easier if he’d sit and read the report, look at the pictures, so I didn't have to say any of it.

“Of course.” I took a sip of coffee, finding to my delight that it was extremely good. After putting it down, I reached for the report from Kowalski. “I have a pretty thorough report from the private investigator I hired. It might be easier if you just read it.”

Paxton lowered his head, and I had a feeling he didn't want to know what was in the report. I didn't blame him.

“Can you just cut to the chase and make it short?” He sounded so tired.

So much for hoping for the easy way.
“Yes.”
I needed to make it fast, like ripping off the Band-Aid. “The investigator's findings support my original opinion that it’d be best to immediately pursue full custody and request that the court limit her mother’s rights to supervised visits,
only
after she’s gone through a court-mandated, supervised drug rehabilitation program. After she's proven herself responsible, you can revisit the custody agreement.”

As he turned to stare at me, his eyes hard, I looked down. In this job, I often had to speak hard truths, but this was harder than usual.

“Mr. Gorham, I'm sorry, and I'm sure you're aware of this, but your wife has a serious problem and she's placing your daughter in jeopardy.”

“Look,” he said, his voice rough. “Brinke loves our daughter. Yeah, I know she's got a fucking problem. Why else do you think I'm divorcing her? I already said I should've done it a long time ago. But she wouldn't do anything intentionally to hurt Carter.”

“In all likelihood, you're right.” I needed to be careful here. “The problem is, your wife's problem has made her reckless, very reckless. I’m not sure she even understands how careless, how thoughtless she has become.”

As his eyes continued to flash, I took a deep breath and reached for the pictures from the day at the toy store. “Perhaps you should look at this. Would you please sit down? Even just for a few moments? You need to understand what I'm talking about.”

Ten minutes later, the silence was starting to get to me. I'd explained everything that Kowalski had detailed in his report, everything he had explained to me. Paxton had gone through the pictures now three separate times. Now he held one. His fingers had brushed over the little girl’s face before he'd plucked the picture up and now he was staring at it, a muscle pulsing in his jaw.

I knew exactly which image it was – the one where Brinke had picked up their daughter and hugged her, the silver pouch clearly visible above the partially opened zipper of the backpack. The picture that had showed his wife using their daughter to commit a crime.

As I watched, he slowly crumbled the photo in his fist. When he relaxed his fingers, the image fell to the floor and his gaze slid to mine.

I needed to fill the silence. Opening my mouth, uncertain what was going to come back out, I started with just his name.

That was where I really screwed up. I shouldn’t have used his name. “Paxton...”

His pupils spiked, flared. “See. That wasn't so hard. You can say my name just fine.”

The sudden rush of color that flooded my cheeks was humiliating. I wasn't some naïve, inexperienced kid fresh out of high school. Although sometimes he made me feel like one. “Whether or not I can say your name isn't the point.”

“Trust me, I know what the fucking point is.”

He shot up, shoving a hand through already tumbled hair. His booted foot kicked something, the picture. He bent down and grabbed it, hurling it across the room. It didn’t go far.

“Where was Alex when all this was happening?”

Alex? Right, the nanny. “My PI said that these were times when Brinke sent Alex out to do something. That picture,” I gestured toward the floor, “was taken after Alex was sent back to get something for Carter that was left behind.”

Paxton started to pace. “So Brinke could put drugs in Carter’s backpack without Alex seeing.”

“More than likely. A good lawyer could argue that – ”

“Fuck arguments.” He turned, his eyes narrow. “That little silver clutch? She calls that her party bag. She’s had it forever. There were a few times when we both got wasted on the shit she’d have tucked inside there. I know damn well what she carries in it.” He shook his head, the pain obvious in his eyes. “I kept hoping after Carter that she’d get clean. I did. I wised up, knew I couldn’t live like that with a kid. But Brinke…”

He stopped and spun away, slamming a fist on the counter.

The ferocity of it startled me, but I understood it.

Using a child that way...your own child...

Even as I was trying to figure out something to say to him, he came back to the table and pulled out the chair, sitting back down. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice flat. “None of this is your fault. I just…”

Unable to stop myself, I reached out a hand.

Touching him would be a mistake, and I knew it even before I did it.

I did it anyway.

Brushing my fingers down his wrist, I tried to smile, to make it a harmless gesture, but it was too late. I’d already touched him, and the shock of it went through me like lightning.

Slowly, I withdrew my hand and busied myself with reorganizing the photos, hoping my face didn't show what I was feeling. “You don’t need to apologize. I don’t have children myself, but I can’t imagine how outraged I’d be if I were in your shoes.”

He didn’t say anything, and when I looked up, he was staring at me.

Look away.

I couldn’t do it though. Just like I hadn’t been able to not touch him.

His gaze lowered to my mouth.

My heart skipped a beat – then a few more. Again. As it started to race away inside my chest, I sucked in a deep breath.

Was he –?

The phone rang and the moment fractured, then splintered into a hundred pieces.