Aphrodite's Kiss (14 page)

“You think he’ll agree?”

“Honey, I’m betting good money he’ll jump at the chance.” She wrapped the belt around her waist and fastened the clasp. “What do you think? Should I buy it?”

“Well... it’s incredibly ugly, but for some reason, I sort of like it.”

“Sold.” Deena smiled. “Now go hire yourself a man.”

The trip to Lane’s would have proved more productive had she been home. As it was, all Taylor did was sit in her living room for an hour watching bad television and wondering where she was on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

The day didn’t improve after he left. First, he ended up stuck behind a three-car pileup on the Santa Monica freeway. Then, when he finally managed to exit, it took him an hour on surface streets to get from her tiny Venice Beach apartment to Hollywood.

By the time he pulled Francis Capra into the pay-parking lot five blocks from his office, his already shaky mood had completely deteriorated. Even the possibility of ten grand wasn’t enough to put a silver lining in Los Angeles traffic.

The rain was falling with a vengeance now, turning the city eerily dark for early afternoon. Holding his empty briefcase over his head, he strode down the street and pushed through the revolving door into his office building, ignoring the hawkers trying to make a fast profit with cheap umbrellas.

He jabbed at the elevator call button. Nothing. He punched it once more. Again, nothing. The needle above the antiquated box showed it was stuck on the tenth floor.
Oh, well
. He hadn’t been to physical therapy in over a month. He could probably use the exercise.

Only silence greeted him as he stepped into the rundown office suite, his thigh throbbing. Not that he’d expected a rip-roaring welcome. Holding only two PIs, a part-time secretary, and a teenager who ran errands, the office was never exactly hopping. And on Saturday, the cockroaches even took the day off.

A vague noise floated from the back of the suite, followed by a crash, then a groan.

Hoop.

Taylor grinned. Looked like he wasn’t alone after all. He headed for the file room sandwiched between his office and Hoop’s, pitching his briefcase onto the reception desk as he passed by.

More of a storage area, really, the file room was chock-full of banker’s boxes piled ceiling-high, stacks of paper covering every surface, and surveillance equipment teetering precariously on the metal shelves that lined the back wall. A retro Formica table dominated the center of the room, complemented by vinyl-cushioned chairs. Boxes and papers littered the floor. And there was Hoop in the center of it all, rumpled and unshaven—as usual.

Taylor leaned against the door-frame. “I think the files are escaping into the hallway.”

“Just trying to make some room to eat.” Hoop swept his hand over the table, sending the last three folders flying. “Twinkie?”

“No thanks. I’m giving up health food.”

Hoop grimaced. “Hey, man can’t live on pizza alone.”

“I’m probably going out on a limb here, but maybe it’s time to organize the file room.”

Hoop twisted in his seat, surveying the mess. “Looks organized to me.”

In the six months since he’d subleased space from Hoop, Taylor had learned two important facts about his old academy buddy: One, Hoop was a slob. Two, he was one of the best investigators Taylor had ever known. All of which probably illustrated some huge cosmic principle, but Taylor was damned if he knew what it was.

“If you want to organize it, though, knock yourself out,” Hoop said. “Deena’s helping out around here next week. She can give you a hand if you want.”

“I’ve only met her once, Hoop. It’s bad enough she’s going to answer my phones for free. I’m not about to make her schlepp boxes.”

Hoop waved the thought away. “Oh, please. She likes to do stuff like that. I’m surprised she hasn’t already moved all the boxes to one side of the room and painted some frou frou mural on the wall.” He finished off his Twinkie, then washed it down with a slug of orange soda. “Trust me.”

Taylor shrugged. The file room was the least of his worries. “I’m mostly concerned about the money thing.” That was putting it mildly. “Between the two months’ rent I owe you and the rent on my apartment, I’m a little tight.” A lot tight, actually, but he didn’t need to share that little tidbit. Especially since that problem should be remedied soon.

“Parker screwed you for fees, huh?”

Taylor tapped the side of his nose. “Bingo.”

“What a horse’s ass.”

“I was using stronger language the other day.” He straddled one of the chairs, resting his arms on its back.

“Besides, it’s my own damn fault. You warned me.” He lifted a shoulder philosophically. “I would’ve done better to buy a lottery ticket than to bank on Harold Parker paying his bill.”

Hoop ripped open another package of Twinkies. “Maybe the check’s in the mail.”

“Nope. The bastard was just trying to screw over his wife. I told him to forget about paying me. Right after I told him to go hell.”

Hoop wiped a glob of Twinkie innards off his chin. “I knew you had a knack for client relations.”

“Very funny,” Taylor muttered.

“I know you’re good for it, but if your landlord’s getting antsy, you could always sell your Mustang.”

“In your dreams,” Taylor scoffed, forcing out a laugh. He’d spent four years rebuilding Francis Capra. If he had to choose between his car and his apartment, he’d be sleeping in the car.

“I’m pretty overloaded right now. I could use a second set of legs.”

Taylor shook his head. “Thanks, but no, thanks.” Playing sidekick wasn’t his style, and neither was taking charity. For half his life he’d been shuttled from foster home to foster home. The day they set him free and sent him out on his own, he’d made up his mind to take care of himself for the rest of his life.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting a little help, you know. You don’t have to be the lone wolf out fighting for truth and justice.”

Taylor brushed the comment away, trying to pretend Hoop hadn’t hit the nail on the head. “I’ll be fine. The fact is I just met a guy with a job that’ll refill my bank account.” He shrugged. “Ten thousand bucks, assuming I get the job done.”

Hoop took another slug of soda. “Can you?”

He laid the photo on the table and gave Hoop the rundown on Lane’s thrift-store necklace, ending with a shrug. “Piece of cake.”

Hoop’s eyes widened. “A guy hires you to find your foster sister’s necklace? What, are you leading a charmed life?”

“Dead broke with a bullet in my leg, and the only woman I’m interested in already is taken ...” He paused for dramatic effect. “Oh, yeah. I’m charmed.”

The corner of Hoop’s mouth raised. “Yeah, you’re right. Your life pretty much sucks.”

Taylor scowled.

“I’ll ask about that love triangle later. Right now, what’s the story with this trinket? Is it stolen? Is it the Hope diamond?”

“The guy says it’s a family heirloom. I made a couple of calls. Nothing like it has been reported stolen.”

“Lot of money just for an heirloom. Why?”

“I dunno. If I had a family memento that was centuries old, I might go a long way to get it back.” Of course, a thirty-four-year-old orphan who could trace his family tree back all of thirty-four years wouldn’t exactly be an expert in the family heirloom department.

“Ten grand covers a lot of sentimentality.”

“That’s just my finder’s fee. He’s still got to buy the necklace back from Lane. And if he’s throwing ten my way, I figure Lane can negotiate quite a deal.”

Hoop shook his head and let out a low whistle. “This guy look like he was rolling in the dough?”

Taylor remembered his finely cut clothes, his cultured way of talking. He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Well, hot damn, boy. I repeat my earlier comment— you’re charmed.”

Hell, maybe he was.

The phone rang, and Taylor scooped it up. It was Lane.

“I got your message,” she said. “What’s up?”

“You know that necklace you wanted to sell? I’ll take it off your hands after all.”

A pause, then, “Why?”

“Long story.” He couldn’t wait to see her face when she found out her thrift-store necklace was going to get them both out of debt. “Can you bring it over?”

“Um ... well, no.”

He heard Davy crying in the background. “Fair enough. I’ll come get it.”

“Uh, Taylor, I don’t have it anymore.”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Hoop was staring.

“Well?” Hoop hissed.

Taylor waved the question away. “How can you not have it anymore?”

“I gave it away. This woman saved Davy from getting hit by a car, and I gave it to her. Like a fee.”

“
Saved
Davy?” He tried to keep his voice calm as the rest of him wanted to crawl through the phone line. Across the table, Hoop tensed. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.”

Relief washed over him, and he nodded at Hoop, who relaxed.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“You worry too much. And it turned out okay. I told you, this woman saved him.”

“What woman?” He should find her. Thank her. Buy back the damn necklace.

“The one who jumped off the building.”

Whoa, there
. “What?”

“The one who saved us. I don’t know her name.”

“She
jumped
off the building?”

Hoop looked up from the Hostess package he was opening. Taylor lifted his free hand in an I-don’t-know sort of gesture.

“Yeah. It’s been all over the news. Happened right by your office.”

“Who is she?”

“Nobody seems to know. Some mystery woman.”

“Well, hell.”

“She told me she was filming a movie or something.”

“What movie? Think, Lane. It’s import—”

“I gotta go,” she said. “Davy’s crying.”

“Wait, Lane,” he said, but she’d already hung up.
Damn
.

“Did you say some chick jumped off a building?” Hoop asked.

“I didn’t say it. Lane did. And she gave the necklace to this mystery woman.”

“I was wrong, man. You’re not charmed; you’re S.O.L.”

Taylor sighed. “So much for an easy ten grand. I guess tomorrow morning I start looking for the mysterious flying woman.”

“Hello? Mr. Bailey?”

At the distinctly feminine voice, Taylor jumped, then looked at Hoop, who shrugged. “A client?” Taylor whispered.

“Not for me. I don’t work on Saturday.”

Taylor considered arguing—after all, Hoop was at the office, and it was Saturday—then decided not to split hairs. If Hoop wanted to hand him all the Saturday walk-ins, so be it.

“Have a seat,” he called out, plucking at the damp slacks clinging to his legs. So much for an aura of professionalism.
Oh, well
. If Saturday didn’t qualify as casual day, nothing did. “Be right there,” he added, calling toward the main room.

He stepped into the reception area, then stopped short.

Zoë Smith
. She was standing right in front of him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, looking every bit as surprised and delighted as he felt. For just an instant, he allowed himself the pleasure of seeing her again.

His Zoë.

Another man’s Zoë.

Her lips thinned and she lifted her chin. Behind those lenses, her eyes flashed lightning, the quiet joy he’d just seen replaced by anger.

“George Bailey, I presume.” One eyebrow lifted, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Or am I mistaken,
Buster
?”

“Buster?” Hoop repeated from behind him. Taylor whirled to see his friend leaning in the doorway to the file room, an amused expression playing across his face. “She’s pissed at you, man,” he said under his breath. “Buster’s the polite girl’s word for
asshole
. ‘Or am I mistaken,
asshole
?’ ” he said, mimicking her. “See how that works?”

“Got it,” he said somewhat ungratefully and shot Hoop a look.

“Why shouldn’t I be mad?” she asked. “He told me it was his name.”

“Asshole?”

“Buster,” Taylor corrected.

“Right,” said Hoop. “Why?”

“Funny, I was going to ask that very thing.” Zoë put one hand on her hip and waited.

Taylor opened his mouth to say something clever and pithy, but nothing came out.

He tried again, finally managing an “Uh ...”

She scowled.

“Look,” he said. “Pretend I said something so incredibly clever that you were blown away by my wit and charm.”

Her smile was reluctant, but it was still a smile, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to run around the room doing a victory dance. Instead he just grinned like an idiot. “Maybe we should do it right this time,” he finally managed. “I’m George Bailey Taylor.”

“Nice to meet you, George. I’m Zoë Smith.”

“He prefers Taylor,” Hoop said from behind him.

Zoë gave Hoop a smile—did they know each other?— and a nugget of something remarkably close to jealousy rattled around in Taylor’s gut.

“Good to see you again, Hoop,” she said, answering his question. He frantically tried to figure out how on earth she knew Hoop. Then he put it all together. Deena volunteered at the school. Zoë knew Hoop through Deena. The bead of jealousy melted.

She trained her eyes on him. “So,
Taylor
, you want to tell me why you lied?”

“Yeah. Explain to the lady.” Hoop hooked a leg over the reception desk, apparently enjoying the show.

“Twice,” she said.

“Twice?” Hoop repeated, before Taylor could get a word in.

“At the school, and then last night.”

“Last night?” Hoop’s voice rose, and a devious grin spread across his face. “And so the pieces of that triangle we were discussing fall into place....”

“
Hoop
,” he said in what he hoped was a threatening manner.

His friend held up his hands. “I’m not saying a word, buddy. You’re the one who’s supposed to be doing the talking.”

“Talking?” he asked dumbly.

“The lie?” she said. “Your explanation.”

“Oh. Right. Well, I didn’t exactly lie.”

Her eyebrows rose above her glasses. “You said your name was
Buster
.”

“I was undercover.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly.”