The South Beach Search. Sharon Hartley

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СКАЧАТЬ that in a long time. What’d you do to me?”

      “Nothing. You did it for yourself.”

      “Listen,” Reese said, rising and stepping beside her. “I need your cell number in case something comes up on the bowl.”

      “I don’t own a cell phone.” Taki rose and slipped on her sandals.

      “Seriously?”

      “Refusing to be at the mercy of a machine isn’t against the law.” She eased a loose gray sweatshirt over her camisole, feeling a slight chill now that she’d stopped moving.

      “Then give me your home number. You do have a landline, right?”

      Without replying, Taki removed her digital player from the spa’s sound system and stuffed it and other personal possessions into her class bag. She didn’t want to give him any phone number. She had good reasons to keep it private. Plus, it would be hard to avoid Reese if he could just call whenever he wanted.

      But what if, like he suggested, he needed to speak to her about the bowl? Well, if she gave him her number, he had to respect her privacy and promise not to share it. She needed to make that clear.

      When she faced him, his thick eyebrows were drawn together in puzzlement. No doubt he was used to women throwing their numbers at him without being asked.

      “Will you miss another meeting if we go upstairs for a cup of herb tea?” she asked. “Before I give you my number, I need to explain something to you.”

      He hesitated. “I don’t have a meeting, but...”

      “But you have work to do,” she finished for him. Of course. She should have known that he’d feel compelled to use every second of the day to work. Even at night. So Mr. Workaholic could just wait to learn her phone number until he had a spare second.

      He took a quick glance at his watch and sighed. “I guess I can make time.”

      * * *

      “THE PAWNSHOP DIDN’T have your bowl,” Reese told Taki as he relaxed onto a comfortable cushion. Until tonight, he’d never enjoyed this cozy nook of the spa where casual futon-style couches faced a picture window on the Atlantic Ocean. Five miles offshore, the lights of huge freighters glowed on the horizon.

      At the service bar, she examined various boxes of tea, selected one and poured steaming water over tea bags in two white foam cups. Always in a hurry to get somewhere else, on occasion he’d grabbed a cup of coffee at this free beverage station, but never knew they provided herb tea. No doubt Taki’s doing.

      “Lourdes promised she’d order biodegradable cups,” Taki said, frowning at the tea. “I’ll have to remind her again.”

      “All Jacques’s Hock had was a silver chalice from Hialeah Race Track,” Reese said. “Sorry.”

      She nodded. “I no longer believe my bowl is at a pawnshop. Honey?”

      “What?” he asked, startled.

      “Do you want honey in your tea?” She turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Or would you rather add another sweetener yourself?”

      They stared at each other across the tiny area, and Reese wondered at the uneasiness in her eyes. In the soft lighting, their startling blue color appeared subdued, but her fair skin glowed. What was she worried about?

      “Please,” he said. “And thank you.”

      “In fact,” she said, while dribbling the thick liquid into the cups, “I’m not at all certain that your bad guys even took my bowl.”

      When Reese accepted the tea from Taki, his hand brushed her slender fingers. She lowered her eyes at the contact.

      “Why is that?” he asked, enjoying the connection between them. Hell, for some demented reason he enjoyed himself whenever he spent time with Taki.

      “It’s a feeling I have,” she said. She parted her lips as if to say more, then pressed them firmly together.

      Wishing he knew what she was about to say, he said, “Do you always rely so heavily on your feelings?”

      She leaned back on the sofa. “What are you relying on to believe that Romero’s people took your briefcase?”

      “Clear, logical assumptions supported by indisputable facts.”

      “Well, my feelings may not be logical, but they’re usually right. Are your assumptions always correct?”

      “Not always,” he said, smiling at her perceptive question. “Okay. Then what happened to your bowl?”

      She stared into the white cup. “I don’t know yet.”

      “Well, I do. Believe me, Taki, I’m trying like hell to get my briefcase back. If I do, I’ll locate your bowl.”

      “Thank you,” she said.

      But Reese could tell she didn’t believe he would find her lost artifact. He looked forward to witnessing her pleasure if he did. He took a hesitant taste and found the brew sweet and refreshing.

      “What kind of tea is this?”

      “Rosemary. It improves the memory, so it’ll help you with your work later.”

      He stared into the amber liquid and shook his head at her constant attempts to help everyone. Then he grinned at her.

      “Maybe you drink too much of this stuff and that’s why you think you remember me.”

      “It doesn’t work that way.”

      “Do I still seem familiar to you?”

      “I don’t know.” Using her fingers as a comb, she absently swept her hand through her long blond hair. He wondered if the strands felt as soft as they looked.

      “Sometimes I tend to get a little carried away,” she continued, throwing him a quick glance. “Perhaps we did meet previously, and I just don’t remember.”

      “That’s much more likely than our introduction occurring in another life,” he said. Good to know she occasionally came back to earth.

      “But where?” she asked. She took another sip of tea, watching him over the rim of the cup.

      “In court maybe?” He raised his eyebrows, hoping she’d treat his next question as a joke. “Have you ever been up on federal charges?”

      “Heavens, no. Is federal prosecuting the only legal work you’ve ever done?”

      “Yes. I became an assistant U.S. attorney right out of law school.”

      “So you don’t take private clients?”

      “Never.”

      “Why is that?”

      Wondering where she was going with this conversation and why, Reese СКАЧАТЬ