Private Investigations. Jean Barrett

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      “Yes, baby, it kind of is. But you need a success and McFarland has what it takes to help you get it. Besides…”

      A sly smile had appeared at the corners of her father’s mouth. “What?” she demanded.

      “You might get close enough to learn just how he’s managed to steal all those clients from us.”

      Yes, she thought, there was that.

      “What do you say, baby?”

      Christy drew a slow, deep breath meant to steady herself. But with that breath came all the tantalizing aromas of New Orleans—the tang of the nearby river, the perfume of its flowers, the old, mossy smells of its damp earth, the odors of its famous cooking. They were all blended together on the warm, lazy air, and they made her ache inside, as did the sight of St. Louis Cathedral rising so majestically from the edge of the square where they stood. She couldn’t bear to surrender them.

      “All right, Pop, I accept your ultimatum. It stinks, but I accept it.”

      The crinkles deepened at the corners of Casey’s eyes. “Don’t think of it as an ultimatum, baby. Think of it as a challenge.”

      After putting her father in a cab, she went back to her office. “Call McFarland,” she instructed Denise. “Tell him I’ll meet him on the street outside the Claiborne and Hollister houses. He can talk to Monica while I interview Glenn. One hour and if he isn’t there the deal is off.”

      Denise had one of her all-knowing looks.

      “Don’t say it,” Christy warned her. “Not one word.”

      Denise didn’t, but it didn’t help. The idea of Dallas McFarland as her salvation was infuriating.

      THE TWO HOMES were situated side by side in the heart of the Garden District. Built by some eccentric Claiborne ancestor after the family had recovered its fortunes, they were something of a curiosity. Not just because they were identical, which they were, in nearly every respect, but because of their architecture. They were in the style known as Steamboat Gothic.

      And you didn’t have to wonder what that meant, Christy thought. Their galleries, embellished with elaborate scroll-work, were more like the decks of floating palaces than porches, while the cupolas crowning their roofs resembled wheelhouses.

      Christy never passed them without slowing down for a look, partly because she’d known that Glenn and his wife occupied one of the houses, and that Laura’s sister lived in the other. This morning, however, her attention was directed elsewhere.

      He was already there, his cream-colored convertible parked at the curb in the shade of a glossy-leafed magnolia. If he was conscious of her arrival when she pulled up behind his vehicle, he was much too occupied to be interested in it. He’d left his car and was standing at the low wrought iron fence that framed both properties. There was an odd intensity in his manner, in the way he was so completely absorbed with the Hollister house, his eyes searching the windows.

      What was he looking for? Christy wondered. What did he expect to see? And what was she doing sitting here at the wheel of her Escort watching him?

      But the answer to that one was obvious, much as she hated to acknowledge it. She was admiring him, that’s what she was blatantly doing. And, worse luck, there was a lot to admire.

      McFarland’s long, lean figure was clad in a trim, light gray business suit that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. And wouldn’t you know, she’d be dressed in her regulation knee-length shorts and baseball cap. Oh, they were going to make quite a team all right, a real contrast in styles.

      As a concession to the warmth of the morning, however, he did have the jacket off and slung over one shoulder, the knot of his tie loosened, the sleeves of his deep blue shirt turned back over a pair of strongly corded forearms. Unfortunately, the effect wasn’t as casual as it was downright sexy. Drat. Working with this guy was going to be even harder than she’d figured.

      Tugging grimly at the brim of her cap, Christy left her car and joined him at the fence. He turned his head, favoring her with one of his cocky grins.

      “So, grits, what’s your take on your new partner?”

      So he had been aware that she was checking him out. Great. “We are not partners,” she informed him brusquely. “Not even remotely are we partners. This is a temporary arrangement, McFarland, and when it’s ended—which can’t be soon enough for me—we go our separate ways.”

      “Right. Anything else?”

      “Oh, yeah. Rules.”

      One of those dark, aggressive eyebrows lifted. “Rules?”

      “Rules. And either you agree to them, or I walk.”

      “Listening.”

      Christy used the spikes on the top of the iron fence to count them off. “First, we split down the middle all fees and expenses. I don’t care what Monica Claiborne is paying you, it gets equally divided between us. Second, we share all information. No holding back and if I find out you have any hidden agendas—”

      “Such as?”

      “Just don’t have them.” She jabbed at the next spike. “Third, and this is very important, we stick to business. All business. No more touchy-feely stuff like up in that attic.”

      “Ow, that’s a sharp one, grits. Painful.”

      He didn’t know how painful. Those lethal green eyes of his were reminding her, all over again, of that brief, breathless intimacy they’d shared. Made it tough to concentrate on delivering her rules.

      “And that’s another thing. I want you to stop calling me grits.”

      “Well, now, see, that one might be a little difficult. It’s kind of gotten inside my head.”

      “Then get it out.”

      “Does it qualify as a spike?” Her expression must have warned him that her aggravation was at a dangerous level, because he added a hasty, “I’ll try. Is that all?”

      “For now.”

      “Then shall we go to work?”

      She watched him roll down his sleeves, button them, tighten his tie, slip into his jacket. And she wondered why she should be so annoyed that he was making himself gorgeous for Monica Claiborne?

      THEY MET AGAIN by their parked cars to share the information they had gathered in their separate interviews.

      “This could take a while,” Dallas said. “We might as well sit while we talk. Your car or mine?”

      Christy wasn’t certain that she cared to get comfortable with him in either car. She preferred a neutral ground for their exchange. Where? The clang of an approaching trolley on nearby St. Charles Avenue provided the answer.

      “How do you feel about streetcars?”

      “Streetcars are good.”

      “Then let’s ride one.”

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