Page 11 of Entranced
But the reports didn’t say that the dimple deepened so sweetly when he laughed. It couldn’t describe the engaging sound of that laughter, or how it felt when he pressed that soft, damp mouth to yours in a kiss. It didn’t say how his pretty brown eyes sparkled when you lifted him high over your head to play airplane.
She knew how empty she felt, how sad and frightened. Just as she knew that if she multiplied those emotions by a thousand it wouldn’t come close to what Rose was living with every hour of every day.
Mel opened the folder and drew out the formal studio shot of David at six months. It had been taken only a week before the kidnapping. He was grinning at the camera, his pudgy chin creased in a smile as he clutched the yellow bear she had bought for him on the day he’d come home from the hospital. His hair had begun to thicken, and it was the shade of ripening strawberries.
“We’re going to find you, baby. We’re going to find you and bring you home real soon. I swear it.”
She put the picture away again, quickly. She had to, if she was to have any hope of proceeding in a calm and professional manner. Mooning over his picture wouldn’t help David any more than hiring a psychic with a pirate’s mouth and spooky eyes would.
Oh, the man irritated her. Irritated her from the top of her head down to the soles of her feet and every possible inch between. That look on his face, that not-quite-a-smirk, not-quite-a-grin set to his mouth made her want to plant her fist there.
And his voice, smooth, with just a whisper of an Irish brogue, set her teeth on edge. There was such cool superiority in it. Except when he’d spoken to Rose, she remembered. Then it had been gentle and kind and unflaggingly patient.
Just setting her up, Mel told herself, and stepped over a pile of phone books to get to the doorway, where a refrigerator held a monstrous supply of soft drinks—all loaded with caffeine. He had just been setting Rose up, offering her hope when he had no right to.
David would be found, but he would be found by logical, meticulous police work. Not by some crackpot visionary in six-hundred-dollar boots.
She was just taking an angry swig when those boots walked through her door.
She said nothing, just continued to lean in the doorway, the bottle to her lips and her eyes shooting tiny green darts. Sebastian closed the door marked Sutherland Investigations behind him and took a lazy look around.
As offices went, he’d seen worse. And he’d certainly seen better. Her desk was army-surplus gray steel, functional and tough, but far from aesthetically pleasing. Two metal file cabinets were shoved against a wall that would have benefited from a coat of paint. There were two chairs, one in a lurid purple, the other a faded print, on either side of a skinny table that held ancient magazines and was scarred with sundry cigarette burns.
On the wall behind them, as out of place as an elegant woman in a waterfront dive, was a lovely watercolor of Monterey Bay. The room smelled inexplicably like a spring meadow.
He caught a glimpse of the room behind her and saw that it was a tiny and unbelievably disordered kitchen.
He couldn’t resist.
Tucking his hands in his pockets, he smiled at her. “Some digs.”
She took another drink, then dangled the bottle between two fingers. “Have you got business with me, Donovan?”
“Have you got another bottle of that?”
After a moment, she shrugged, then stepped over the phone books again to snatch one out of the refrigerator. “I don’t think you came down off your mountain for a drink.”
“But I rarely turn one down.” He twisted off the top after she handed him the bottle. He skimmed his gaze over her, taking in the snug jeans and the scarred boots, then moving back up, to the tipped-up chin, with its fascinating little center dip, all the way to the distrustful dark green eyes. “You certainly look fetching this morning, Mary Ellen.”
“Don’t call me that.” Though she’d meant merely to sound firm, the words gritted out between her teeth.
“Such a lovely, old-fashioned name.” He tilted his head, baiting her. “Then again, I suppose Mel suits you better.”
“What do you want, Donovan?”
The teasing light faded. “To find David Merrick.”
She was almost fooled. Almost. The simple statement sounded so sincere, so keenly honest, that she nearly reached out. Snapping herself back, she sat on the corner of her desk and studied him.
“It’s just you and me now, pal. So let’s cut to the chase. You don’t have any stake in this. I humored Rose because I couldn’t find a way to talk her out of going to you, and because it gave her some temporary comfort. But I know your kind. Maybe you’re too slick for the obvious con. You know the sort—send me twenty bucks and I’ll change your life. Let me help you obtain money, power, and great sex for only a small monetary contribution.”
She gestured with the bottle, then drank again. “You’re not the small-change sort. More the beluga and Dom Perignon type. I suppose you get your jollies by going into trances around crime scenes and spouting out clues. Maybe you even hit a few from time to time, so good for you. But you’re not going to get your jollies out of Rose and Stan’s unhappiness. You’re not going to use their little boy as an ego boost.”
He was only mildly annoyed. Sebastian assured himself that he didn’t give a tinker’s dam what this smart-mouthed green-eyed bimbo thought of him. The bottom line was David Merrick.
But his fingers had tightened on the bottle, and his voice, when he spoke, was entirely too soft.
“Have me all figured out, do you, Sutherland?”
