The Private Concierge. Suzanne Forster

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СКАЧАТЬ be out on the street having that effect on grown men. That could be why he’d been a little rough on her when he put her in the cuffs.

      When she’d realized she was going to jail, the color had drained from her face. She’d begged him not to take her. She’d even tried to make him believe her sad story about a sick friend. Sad because they all had a sick friend. When she realized she couldn’t talk her way out of it, she’d put up one hell of a fight. Ferocious didn’t cover it, all the time shrieking that her friend was going to die. He used Tasers only to disarm kids with weapons, but he wasn’t sure a Taser would have contained her.

      Lane Chandler had grown up, but Rick’s brain had no trouble making that transition. She’d been thirty-five at fifteen. The changes he saw now were all physical. He remembered a lean, starved, ready-to-spring body and a thick mop of dark brown hair that completely covered her face when she looked down. She could have set up housekeeping under that curtain of hair. But when her head came back up and the curtain opened, her gaze had scorched him.

      Now, the mop had been brought under control. Sleek and glossy with mahogany hues, it curved toward her face like a whip, but it was still abundant enough that she had to comb it off her face with her fingers.

      He wondered what she looked like these days. Still as cold and forbidding as a mountain fjord? Swim at your own risk? Or had the icicles been reserved for him, her persecutor? And what was that music about? “Unchained Melody,” “Go Your Own Way,” “Everybody Hurts” by REM? She didn’t strike him as the type that would be heavily into heartbreak music, but those were the songs playing softly in the background. Did some guy just dump her?

      He closed the door on the personal questions, concerned where they were taking him. The only one that mattered was whether or not she could have pulled off the gruesome alleged murder-suicide at Ned’s place and escaped with the package. Rick had been working on a theory of his own about how Ned and Holly had actually died, and he couldn’t imagine a woman like Lane Chandler accomplishing what he had in mind. Too much physical force required, especially in dealing with a man as big as Ned…unless she had an accomplice.

      Lane’s chin came up, and she scanned the office windows the way an animal sniffs the air, sensing another presence. He could see her profile, and the beauty that had been nascent then was evident now. The contours of her face had filled out, softening the angles and hiding the raw bones, the desperation. Her lips were parted, glistening. He wanted to think he’d done her a favor by getting her off the streets. That had been part of his goal. But now it forced him to consider another question. What a grim twist of fate it would be if by saving her, he’d somehow allowed her to cross Ned’s path and be the instrument of his destruction. The thought made him ill.

      He must have moved because she sprang up from the chaise.

      “Who’s there?” She spotted him in the doorway and began stabbing at the buttons on her cell. One of them lit up, flashing.

      A panic button, Rick realized. She’d alerted security. The male voice coming from the phone’s mouthpiece confirmed his suspicion.

      “Ms. Chandler? Are you all right?”

      Rick was on top of her before she could respond. He grabbed the phone out of her hand and fired instructions at her. “Tell the security guard you hit the panic button by mistake. Tell him everything is fine.”

      “Fuck off,” she snarled under her breath. “Give me that phone.”

      He caught her as she lunged at him, spun her around and put her in an armlock. “Do it,” he warned, applying just enough pressure to make sure she cooperated. “Or I’ll tell him who you really are. I’ll tell everyone, Lucia.”

      “What?” She craned around, as if she didn’t know what he was talking about. Apparently, she didn’t recognize him, either. But when he released her, she didn’t hesitate. She took the phone from him and pressed the panic button.

      “Sorry,” she told the security guard. “I hit the button by mistake. Everything’s fine.”

      “You sure, Ms. Chandler?” the guard said. “We found an exit door ajar down here on the first floor. The alarm didn’t go off, which means there could be a problem with the system. Should I run up there, take a look around?”

      She assured him that wasn’t necessary, turned off the phone and tried to slip it into her jacket pocket. Rick took it away from her again, aware of the treasures it must contain.

      “Who are you? And why did you call me Lucia?” Haughty and unflinching, she seemed determined to brazen it out. The years had softened her facial features, but little else. Inside, she was probably still as tough as a wire cutter, but that had to be mostly facade. A woman who’d built a successful concierge service from the ground up knew what people needed, inside and out. She played on those needs, had to. She personified the private concierge. Lane’s early clients gushed her praises on the Web site, giving testimonials with the passion of religious converts. Apparently she’d saved them all in one way or another. Rick wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d delivered some babies.

      Her eye color seemed different than he remembered. It was still blue, but closer to royal than azure, and not nearly as sharp or crystalline. He wondered if this was part of her identity change, maybe contact lenses. But that could wait. Mimi hadn’t gotten back to him with the Nexus-Lexus results, so Rick had no proof of any adult priors. And this wasn’t the time to confront Lane about the murder-suicide or the package. But she was a woman under a lot of pressure—and he could apply more. Maybe she’d pop.

      “Because that’s your name, Lucia—Lucy—Cox. Is your mind racing yet? Just wait. If you’re telling yourself that your juvenile records were sealed and no one could possibly prove what you did back then, don’t be so sure. And in your case, it’s not going to matter, anyway. The rumors will be enough to muddy up your professional reputation.”

      She stiffened, caught somewhere between outrage and disbelief. He wondered how long it would take her to figure out that he wasn’t a robber, a rapist or a blackmailer. He was the cop who’d put her in juvie—and made sure she didn’t get out for a very long time.

      

      Lane touched the tattered rubber band on her wrist, knowing that nothing could jump-start her frozen heart. The intruder had her cell phone and it might as well have been a weapon. At first she’d detected something familiar about his brush cut and aviator sunglasses, but it could have been the military thing, which was burned into the American psyche and a staple in plenty of action movies. All the bad guys wore metal-framed glasses, rode motorcycles and looked like RoboCop.

      “Who are you?” she asked. “And what do you want?”

      He studied the cell’s display. “What kind of car do you drive?”

      “I prefer walking.”

      “I’m sure the security people know what you drive. Shall I ask them?” He held up the phone.

      “It’s a Lexus hybrid.”

      “Nice, a social conscience.” He nodded. “Where were you this afternoon at 4:00 p.m.?”

      She hesitated, wondering if had something to do with her visit from the police about Simon Shan, but no, that had been earlier, when she got back from lunch. “I was right here, working. Do I need an alibi for something?”

      “You might. Tell me about your clients—and start СКАЧАТЬ