The Kissing Game (2 page)

She stumbled, and he caught her easily, his arms solid around her.

“Whoa,” Simon murmured, his mouth mere inches from her ear. “Slow down, Francine. You're going a mile a minute.”

She was. Her heart was pounding, and she couldn't seem to catch her breath. The fact that she was pressed full against Simon's hard, lean body was making matters worse. Lord, save her from herself.

Simon didn't realize that he had the ability to make Frankie's pulse race, and she was damned if she was going to let him find out. She pulled free from his embrace. “You're supposed to be downstairs, distracting the client.”

“I left him in the outer office, sipping iced tea. You're supposedly on the phone long distance with another client, so you've got a few minutes at least. Oh, yeah, and he gave me this.” Simon held out a tastefully lettered business card.

Frankie took it from him. Clayton Alan Quinn, she read, Attorney at Law, from the firm of Quinn, Conners, Alberts & Maine, in Grosse Pointe, Mich igan. The jeans shorts and a T-shirt would definitely remain in the dresser drawer.

She pulled off her soil-streaked T-shirt. The blue-and-white tank bathing suit she was wearing
underneath was dry. It was scratchy from salt and sand, but she could live with that.

“Get my khakis and a white shirt from the closet, will you, Si?”

She crossed to the tiny adjacent bathroom and began washing the dirt from the garden off her hands and elbows. She glanced into the mirror as Simon opened her closet door. Instead of finding her slacks and shirt, he pulled out the dress with the blue-flowered print.

“Francine.” He held it up so that she could see it in the bathroom mirror. “Aliens have invaded your home, leaving behind strange garments—the likes of which your closet has never before seen.”

“It's a dress, Simon.”

“I
know
what it is. But barring Halloween, I don't think I've ever, in my entire life, seen you in a dress.” He reached back into the closet and took out her green dress. “Yo, and what's this? Another dress? Now I'm really confused. Paresky, have you been wearing women's clothing on the sly?”

Toothbrush in her mouth, Frankie stuck her head out of the bathroom, trying her best to wither Simon with a single look. But he was at his most obnoxiously wither-proof, so she took the toothbrush
from her mouth and explained. “I got the green dress three years ago for Evan Water's funeral. The blue was for Kim and Noah Kavanaugh's wedding—”

“Oh, man, what's
this?”
Simon lifted the protective plastic covering of the most decadent item in Frankie's closet—a dress that her best friend, Simon's sister Leila, had ordered her from the Victoria's Secret catalogue. It was minuscule and black and Leila had bought it despite the fact that Frankie had sworn up and down and over and across that she would never, ever,
ever
wear it.

Frankie quickly rinsed her toothbrush and her mouth, then hurried across the room, snatching the dress from Simon. “That's Leila's idea of a little joke.” She hung it as far back in the closet as she could reach, then quickly began the search for her slacks and shirt.

“Frankie, you know how you've been wanting to go up to Sarasota, to the ballet?”

“No one will go with me.” Frankie pulled her khaki slacks off their hanger and tossed them onto her bed. She glanced at Simon, who was leaning against the wall, watching her, arms and ankles
crossed. “Except for Leila, and she's not going to have any free time until after the wedding.”

“I'll take you to the ballet,” Simon said, “provided you wear that black dress.”

“No way!”

He was completely serious. “I'll even take you to dinner at Chez Jean-Paul. Five-star gourmet cuisine …. ?”

“That's a lot of trouble and expense to go to for a cheap laugh.”

“Who said anything about laughing?”

“Yeah, right.” Frankie found the shirt she wanted and pulled it on right over her bathing suit. She wriggled out of her shorts and stepped into the slacks, buttoning the shirt and tucking the tails in. She slipped her feet back into her sandals as she fastened the waistband and straightened her collar. A quick brush through her short dark hair and ….

“How do I look?”

Simon had an odd look on his face, and at her words he snapped to attention, then squinted slightly. “You need a belt.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do. For Clayton Alan Quinn from
Grosse Pointe, Michigan, you definitely need to wear a belt.”

“Then you better lend me yours, ‘cause I don't have a prayer of finding mine in the next few minutes.”

“It'll wrap twice around your waist,” Simon protested.

Frankie held out her hand. “Give it.”

Simon started to unfasten his brown leather belt. “If I lend you this belt, you have to promise to wear that black dress someday soon.”

“How about you lend me your belt and I promise I don't kill you?”

“I like my deal better.” Simon handed her the belt.

It didn't wrap quite twice around her, but even on the tightest setting it was loose. But it looked better than empty belt loops.

“Just out of curiosity, Francine,” Simon said, moving to block her way out of the room. “What
would
it take to get you to wear that dress?”

Frankie looked up into Simon's eyes. “Maybe not what. Maybe
who.”

“Not me, huh?”

Frankie snorted and pushed past him. “Defin itely not you.”

MR. QUINN, I'M
Frankie Paresky. Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.”

Simon watched as the big man pushed himself to his feet to shake Frankie's hand across her desk.

“You're
Frankie Paresky?” Clayton Quinn's mouth curved up into a smile.

“Is there a problem?” Frankie bristled slightly as they both sat down.

“I was expecting someone—”

“Taller?” Simon supplied, coming all the way into the room and sitting down in the chair next to Quinn.

“Older,” Quinn admitted.

Frankie turned to Simon. It was amazing how quickly the warm dark brown of her eyes could turn to ice. Even her warm southern drawl seemed chilly. “Simon, I'm sure Mr. Quinn would appreciate having a little privacy for this meeting—”

“Actually, it's okay by me if your assistant stays.” Quinn shot a friendly smile in Simon's direction. Simon had liked the man immediately, from the moment he'd first opened Frankie's door to him. “In fact, I'm here because I'm trying to track someone down, and the more people who know that I'm looking for this man, the better my chances are of finding him.”

Simon felt Frankie glance in his direction again, and he knew that she wanted him to leave. But now he was doubly curious. He wanted to know who Quinn was looking for, and he wanted to see Frankie Paresky, Private Eye, in action.

He had to admit that she looked good. If he had just walked into the room, he'd have no idea that she was wearing a Speedo bathing suit and probably a small truckload of beach sand underneath her neatly conservative clothing. She looked sun-kissed and gorgeous as usual—her cheeks and
delicate, slightly upturned nose a bit more rosy than the rest of her heart-shaped face.

Her short dark hair was probably salty from her trip to the beach, but it looked as if she'd spent quite a bit of time in front of the bathroom mirror with gel and a hair dryer to achieve that windswept look.

She looked every inch the professional, down to the yellow legal pad she'd pulled out of her desk drawer.

“Before we get into the details of your case,” she said, opening a file drawer in her desk and taking out what looked like a standard contract form, “I'd like you to understand what my rates are. Seventy-five dollars an hour, one hundred dollars for travel hours and time over twelve hours per day. Should you decide to sign a contract with me today, I'll require a thousand-dollar retainer. In return, I'll provide you with a full accounting of my time, efforts, and expenses, plus all information I uncover in the course of this investigation.”

Clayton Alan Quinn took out his checkbook, not batting an eye. “I'll write the retainer for five thousand,” he said, “because I suspect you'll need
more than a few days to find the fellow I'm looking for. In fact, if you can manage to get the job done in one week's time, I'll give you a ten-thousand-dollar bonus on top of your fee.”

Simon heard Frankie's voice shake only a tiny bit. In fact, Quinn probably didn't even notice. “And if I get the job done in less than a week?”

Quinn laughed. “We'll work something out.”

Frankie nodded. “Who exactly are you looking for, Mr. Quinn?”

“Clay,” Quinn corrected her with a smile as he tore the check from his leather checkbook and placed it on the desk in front of her. “Please, call me Clay. I'm looking for a man named John.”

Frankie slipped the check into the top drawer of her desk, not even glancing in Simon's direction. He knew that ten thousand dollars was more than half of her last year's earnings. How had she sat there with a straight face discussing ten-thousand-dollar bonuses?

Yet Clay seemed to believe that she was worth it. The real test was to come—when she actually had to solve the case. In less than a week's time.

Simon watched as she made a note on her pad.

John. She looked up at Clay Quinn, her bottomless dark eyes wide. “John …. who?”

Clay chuckled ruefully. “That's the problem. I don't know the man's last name.”

Frankie sat back in her chair. “Maybe you'd better explain.”

“I'm the executor of my great-aunt's will. She owned a vacation home here on Sunrise Key.”

Frankie shot Simon a quick look, and he knew what she was thinking. They both knew everyone who owned property on the tiny island, and all of the homeowners were alive and healthy. Except for one ….

“Is your great-aunt Alice Winfield?” Frankie asked, sitting forward.

“Yes, that's right.”

“But she died more than eight years ago. We'd assumed her property here on the key had simply changed hands—”

“Eight years ago she had a massive stroke,” Clay told Frankie. “She never fully recovered, and last month she finally died.”

“She was alive until last month?” Frankie stared at Clay Quinn as if he were evil incarnate instead of the man who'd just handed her a
five-thousand-dollar retainer. “Why was no one on Sunrise Key notified? Alice Winfield had friends here, Mr. Quinn—friends who would have written to her at the very least!”

Clay held up his hands as if to ward off a potential physical attack. “I'm sorry. I didn't even know Great-Aunt Alice had a house down here until after she was gone.”

Frankie turned to Simon, and he saw that she actually had tears in her eyes. Man, she was an emotional fireball. She always had been. Quick to accuse, quick to throw down a challenge, quick to the defense, quick to attack. But also equally quick to forgive and forget.

Gazing into her emotion-moistened brown eyes, Simon found himself wondering not for the first time what Frankie would be like in bed. Not for the first time? Hell, not even for the first time today. What it would be like to make love to Francine Paresky was something that he'd wondered almost every single day for the past twelve years. And lately it seemed as if he were wondering it with more and more frequency. Like when she startled him by stripping down to her bathing suit right in front of him, the way she had upstairs
not more than a few minutes earlier. Like when he saw her walking toward him on Ocean Avenue. Or when she smiled. When he heard the husky sound of her laughter or the velvet-soft rise and flow of her southern accent. When he woke up in the morning. When he fell asleep at night ….

“You remember Alice Winfield, don't you, Si?” she asked.

He could picture her in that sexy-as-hell black dress, the soft fabric clinging to her lithe body— an incredible body she was careful always to keep hidden beneath baggy T-shirts, loose shorts, and utilitarian bathing suits. He could picture her without the dress—her mouth hungry, her fingers in his hair, her body eager beneath his ….

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat. “Alice Winfield. Of course I remember her.” More precisely, he remembered that she owned that huge Victorian house on Pelican Street, the one he'd suspected was loaded with the kind of well-cared-for, impeccably made old furniture that was the staple of his diet as an antiques dealer. He'd been dying to get inside that house for years. He should be thinking about
that,
not focusing on insane sexual fantasies. “She used to be a schoolteacher, right?”

“I used to go over and help her weed her garden,” Frankie said. “I took care of it for her in the summer, when she was up north. She was the sweetest, kindest lady. If I had known she was still alive, I would have kept in touch.”

“I didn't know her that well myself,” Clay Quinn admitted. “But her husband apparently left her quite a fortune when he died, and she invested it well. Her estate is substantial, and she's been quite generous in distributing it among her relatives. She had no children of her own, you know.”

Frankie nodded, her full attention on Quinn.

Simon caught himself staring at her again. Man, what was wrong with him? Sure, she was extraordinarily pretty—despite the fact that she usually dressed like a longshoreman. But so what? Hundreds of pretty women were walking up and down Sunrise Key's crescent-shaped beach right that very moment. And maybe that was his problem. Maybe it had simply been too long since he'd wined and dined—and seduced—one of the lovely visitors to this island. Tonight he'd go to the restaurant up at the resort, find himself a dinner
date, and he wouldn't give Francine Paresky another thought.

“Alice wrote in her will that the property here on Sunrise Key be given to a man named John,” Quinn was saying, “who vacationed down here for two weeks each spring for a period of about seven years in the late 1970s, early 1980s. Ac cording to Alice, he rented one of the cottages near her house on Pelican Street. Apparently, while his wife spent time on the beach, he helped Alice with odd jobs and repairs. She wrote that he never took a dime for all the work he did for her, and that he used to drop by in the evenings and play gin rummy. Alice wasn't sure she ever even knew his last name. She thought his wife's name was something like Lynn or Lana, and he had a son with some kind of slangy nickname. Biff or Buzz or—”