Fiancé at Her Fingertips (22 page)

Logan wheeled and confronted Jane Bond. “What the hell were you thinking back there?” Logan always prided himself on never being rattled, but this woman had put him off balance. Out of kilter.

“I was thinking I wished the elevator door hadn’t opened, and was thinking you were wishing the same thing,” she said.

“Don’t be absurd.” Logan took his handkerchief from his back pocket and began wiping his face. “Are you crazy?” Which should have been more than obvious by now.

Her startling blue eyes glowed with fierce intensity. “If I am, you’ve made me that way. I was quite sane until you came along.” She took the hankie from him and proceeded to wipe the lipstick off his face.

“You’ve got me mistaken for someone else,” Logan said.

“Someone who cares, right?” she said.

“I don’t even
know
you,” Logan said, and grabbed his hankie back.

She sighed. “If I didn’t know better, that could hurt, Logan,” she said. “So, tell me. How long are you going to carry on this little drama? One more day? Two? How long until you’ve decided I’ve paid my penance?”

“Miss Bond—” Logan began.

“I told you to stop calling me that!”

She was becoming agitated again. Logan tried to recall what other name she had given to Mickey. Some kind of candy bar. He had it! “Uh, listen, Butterfingers—”

“That’s Snickers, you oaf!”

“Oh, yes. Listen, is there someone I can call to come and get you—some family member, some rational family member?” “Oh, so they can deny knowing you again? More ‘Logan who?’ No, thank you. And I don’t need anyone to pick me up.”

“Should you be driving in your condition?”

“Condition?” Her eyes narrowed, and Logan took a step back. “Did my mother tell you I was pregnant?”

“Pregnant? Hell, no! I don’t even know your mother! What am I saying? I don’t even know you!”

She inclined her head to the side and observed him as if he were a portrait on display. “Methinks thou dost protest too much,” she said.

Logan ran a hand through his hair. “Listen, lady, I should apologize. I almost never swear in front of a woman. Normally I would apologize. But in your case I’m going to make an exception, because I don’t feel a damned bit sorry for swearing. You’ve driven me to it. I’m leaving now, Miss Bond, Snickers, or what ever you want to be called. I have a piece of advice for you. I suggest you remove yourself from these premises before I return, or I will have no choice but to call the police and have you charged with criminal trespassing.”

Her mouth flew open, and he caught a peek of straight white teeth.

“Excuse me? Criminal trespassing!” She crossed her arms and surveyed him. “You aren’t going to make this easy for me, are you?” She tapped her foot.

“Easy?” he echoed.

“You ever heard the term, ‘turnabout’s fair play,’ Lawyer Logan?” the blonde asked. “Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet, buster.”

And Jane Bond stuck a pair of sunglasses on her pert, turned-up nose and strolled out of Logan’s office building before Logan realized he still didn’t have a clue who the devil she was.

He set his briefcase down again, tightened his shirt collar, and straightened his tie. Thoughts of the kiss Ms. Bond had surprised him with in the elevator flitted into his mind. Disturbing thoughts. Downright demented thoughts. He had to be mistaken. No way, José. There was no way her kiss could be even remotely familiar. No way in hell.

But it was.

She wasn’t a raving lunatic, after all. Not officially, anyhow. Her name was Debra Daniels. Debra
Josephine
Daniels, and she was clean as a whistle. No wanteds or warrants. She’d never been sued, and there were no outstanding liens against her. She was a homeowner. Her driver’s license was an insurance company’s dream.

If that wasn’t a kick in the head, the fact that she had earned a bachelor’s degree in social work and held down a very respectable job for the Victims Assistance Bureau of the attorney general’s office was enough to make him question his own recollection of their brief meeting in his office.

Her parents were upstanding members of the community; her father was a retired history professor, and her mother was well-known in charity circles for her abundant energy and unflagging enthusiasm for community activities. Her brother was a high school principal, and her sister-in-law was a teacher. She had two young nephews. In short, his blonde bombshell of a stalker didn’t have the personal history he’d expected to find.

Once Logan recovered sufficiently from their elevator encounter to put one foot in front of the other, he had hoofed it out of the building in time to see her pull away in a Pontiac. He’d jotted down the license plate number and given it to a very discreet private investigator the firm used, with a generic request for routine information. The PI’s
brief report yielded nothing questionable, nothing the least bit negative. Nothing at all. No evidence of a drug problem. Nothing to indicate she’d ever experienced any kind of psychological problems. Jane Bond was so clean, she probably squeaked when she walked.

Of course, a person’s mental state could alter dramatically within a short period of time. Considering the way she’d carried on in his office, there was every reason to believe she was experiencing very real problems now.

And there was that kiss. That damned familiar kiss.

Delusions were clear manifestations of an underlying serious condition, and Miss Debra Daniels sure as hell appeared to be having the mother of all delusions. At least where he was concerned. Over the course of the last several days, the extent of her obsessive fantasy had become glaringly apparent.

On Wednesday evening he’d hit the health club for a game of racquetball and discovered his racquetball partner, Rich, laughing and sharing an orange juice with Ms. Bond, aka Ms. Daniels. Though she hadn’t approached Logan, Rich had slapped him on the back and murmured, “You lucky devil, you,” throughout their match, and when Logan attempted to explain that he didn’t know the woman from Eve, Rich had just smiled and nodded.

When Logan left the racquetball court, he’d seen her jogging around the indoor track. He’d tried to look away before she could see him staring at her long, gorgeous legs, but he hadn’t succeeded. She’d caught him ogling and blown him a kiss.

On Thursday, while waiting for a traffic signal to turn, he happened to glance to his right and there she was, in her little red car that hadn’t seen a wash in weeks. She’d toasted him with bottled water. He’d had to sit through three more lights with her in the lane next to him and listen to her stereo blast out “To Know You Is to Love You” before he was able to speed off.

It was getting so his concentration was compromised.
Every time the phone rang he jumped. Each time he got in his car he’d look around for Little Miss
Fatal Attraction
. Hell, he’d even caught himself looking for her in the jury box the other day!

Logan checked his watch and pulled into a parking space near Judge Roy Bean’s, a favorite hangout for courthouse employees, cops, and attorneys. He checked the parking area but did not see the red car, Logan headed into the restaurant. He was hailed from a booth by Melanie Reynolds, an assistant district attorney he’d only started dating when he’d found out she was a bicycle enthusiast and had the thighs to prove it. He tossed his briefcase across the padded bench and took a seat opposite her.

“I’m glad you could make it, Logan.” Melanie greeted him with a smile, and tossed her long, dark red hair over her shoulder in a gesture more reminiscent of a high school coed than a seasoned prosecutor. “Long time, no see.”

Logan smiled and picked up his water glass. “I was glad you called and suggested lunch. I’d been meaning to get in touch, but I’ve been swamped.”

“So I heard. Congratulations are in order on the bar association award. I couldn’t let that pass without acknowledging it. Too bad it’s the middle of the workday, or we’d tip a bottle of bubbly and celebrate in a style more befitting such an auspicious occasion.”

“Thanks, Melanie, but lunch is fine,” he assured her. “How have you been?” Logan took a sip of his water.

She stuck her lower lip out in a pout. “Lonely,” she said. “I saw your picture in the paper receiving your award. I must say, the woman who presented the award was very beautiful, if the picture did her justice. I was under the assumption that you weren’t seeing anyone.”

“Oh, please!”

Logan flinched at the sound of a voice he was beginning to know—and dread. He couldn’t manage the simple task of swallowing the water in his mouth. To his monumental embarrassment he coughed, and water sprayed across the table
and into his lunch date’s face. “Melanie, I’m so sorry!” he said, and began pulling out great handfuls of napkins from the dispenser and handing them over, scanning the room for the owner of that voice.

“Logan, are you all right?” Melanie asked, and mopped her brow. “Is something the matter?”

“Very likely,” he said.

“Logan, what is it?”

“That has yet to be determined.”

The fake greenery that separated their booth from the adjacent one began to rustle and move. A head appeared in the midst of the foliage. Melanie screamed, falsetto-style, bringing more curious looks to their table.

“Why, Logan, I thought that was you,” the voice said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Logan groaned. This wasn’t happening. Not again.

The head in the greenery disappeared. Logan looked around, uneasy. The only thing worse than knowing where Debra Daniels was, was
not
knowing where she was. He moved the waxy plants aside and peeked into the floral partition. “What a coincidence!”

The booth seat squeaked and moved beneath his bottom. He turned back and stared at the uninvited guest beside him.

“Logan?” Melanie looked at him, napkin stalled in mid-wipe. “Do you know this woman?”

“Know me? Of course he knows me, but he still won’t admit it, will you, Logan? Not yet, at least. He has to make me squirm for a while longer, don’t you? Or are you getting bored yet?”

“What is she talking about, Logan?” Melanie put her napkin down. “Who is she?”

“A state worker,” Logan said, as if that would explain everything.

The blonde stuck her hand out. “Debra Daniels,” she said. “Crime Victims Assistance.”

The two women shook hands, and Logan could only sit and wonder how in God’s name he had lost control of his life.

“Melanie Reynolds, since Logan won’t do the honors. I’m an assistant DA. I’m surprised we haven’t met before, considering your occupation. Of course, I’ve been working juvie cases the last couple years.”

“Nice to meet you, Melanie. I couldn’t help but overhear you two discussing Logan’s award.”

Logan snorted. Couldn’t help overhear, his eye. He’d lay bets she’d had a glass stuck to the partition with her ear against it.

“I was asking Logan about the woman who gave him the award.”

Logan duly noted the feral gleam in Melanie’s eye.
Uh-
oh
.

“Oh, that’s Catrina.”

Logan stared at the woman next to him in the booth. “How the hell do you know that?”

She patted his hand. “Oh, Logan, of course I know all about your old college sweetheart. And it’s not an issue between us.” She leaned across the table toward Melanie. “Logan’s mother, Ione, would love to have had Catrina as a daughter-in-law,” she said, “but Catrina had a rather inconvenient judgment lapse and married that dreadful Travers fellow instead and spoiled everything. She’s in the middle of a separation now, poor dear, and Logan here has been so supportive. Very inconsiderate of her. A remarkable girl, you know. Three masters degrees—or was it four?” She looked at Logan, who was still trying to process everything she was saying, and shrugged. “She’s no bigger than a minute. A size two, if you can believe it! I don’t think I was ever a size two. Maybe when I was six or seven. Imagine, a grown woman wearing a size two!”

“Just a goddamned minute!” How the hell did she know all these things about him? About his mother? About Catrina? “What the hell is going on here?”

“That’s what I would like to know,” Melanie interjected. “Logan, are you dating this woman too?”

Logan put a hand through his hair. “Of course not. I don’t even know her.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know her?”

“Just what I said. I never laid eyes on her before she came to my office two days ago acting like a candidate for a ten-day psych evaluation, claiming she knew me and maintaining that I was just pretending I didn’t know her. It’s the craziest thing.”

“You don’t know her?” Melanie repeated, skepticism apparent in her tone. “And I suppose you don’t know Catrina, either?”

Logan frowned. “Well, of course I know Catrina.”

“So, Debra was right.”

Ah, so now it was Debra. This was not a good sign. “Well, yes—”

“Catrina was your college sweetheart?”

“Yes, but—”

“And your mother’s name is Ione and she would have loved to have little Miss Size Two become Mrs. Logan Alexander?”

“Well, yes, Mother has always been rather fond of Catrina, but—”

“Logan’s father, Warren, is a dear,” the uninvited guest offered. “He owns an auto dealership in St. Louis. If you’re looking to buy a new automobile, I’m sure he could fix you right up. A few miles to travel, but well worth the trip. Isn’t that right, Logan, dear?”

Would it be poor form to choke the daylights out of a woman in a public restaurant filled with cops and across the table from an assistant district attorney? Logan wondered this as his mystery date continued to spout off facts she had no way of knowing. No way in hell.

“Why ask me? You seem to know it all. I suppose you even think you know what kind of underwear I’m wearing,” he snapped.

She leaned toward him, and once again the familiar scent of peaches caught him off guard. “Boxers, of course,” she
said. “But, really, Logan, I don’t think we need to tell the whole world. You’re hardly Michael Jordan.”

Logan clenched his teeth and balled his fists at the same time. How the hell had he gotten to this point? Here he was, a respected attorney and all-around nice guy, and he now found himself in a public restaurant, sitting across from a petulant prosecutor and next to a deeply disturbed victim’s advocate. Talk about your psychological thrillers.

“Your father owns a car dealership?” The DA proceeded with her questioning.

“Chevrolet,” the woman next to him chirped.

Logan gave her a grim look. “Anyone could find that out.”

“And what about your boxers? You are wearing boxers, aren’t you? You always do. Could just anyone know that?”

Melanie’s eyes were tiny slits when they settled on him.

“Are you wearing boxers, Logan?” she asked, her voice devoid of emotion.

“This is ridiculous—”

“Answer the question!” The DA shifted into hostile witness mode. “Are you or are you not wearing boxers as opposed to briefs?” She pounded on the table.

Logan gazed at her in disbelief. “Melanie, that’s none of your business!” he said, trying to choke down his fury at being made the target of this absurd dialogue.

“Goes to credibility!” she shouted.

“For God’s sake, Melanie, get a grip, would you?”

“Me?
I
should get a grip?” She started gathering her things. “You should get a conscience. How many women besides Catrina, Debra, and me are there, Logan?”

“Gee Gee adores him, and his buns, of course,” the blond birdbrain next to him remarked. “Gee Gee always was one to go for the buns.”

Logan stared at her. “Who the hell is Gigi?” he asked. “I don’t know anyone named Gigi.”

Melanie stood. “I think I’ve heard enough,” she said.

“Mel, wait—”

“Oh, should I take a number? Let’s see, there’s Catrina,
Debra, Gigi—and Melanie would be number four. Thanks, but no, thanks. I never was one for sharing.”

“But you haven’t had your celebratory lunch!” the Daniels wench shrieked.

Melanie threw a five down on the table. “I’ll host my own personal celebration tonight, complete with champagne to toast my narrow escape from sure and certain heartache at the hands of a womanizing, two-timing jerk!” she snapped, and stomped away.

“Melanie seems very nice,” the woman next to Logan said.

“Nice, hell. She’ll try to chew me up and spit me out when we meet next in a court of law. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” It seemed to Logan that he’d been asking that question a lot.

“Say the word, Lawyer Logan, and I’ll cease and desist,” she said.

“Word, what word? Abracadabra? Bippity-boppity-boo? Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious? Tell me the word and I’ll say it. Anything to get you out of my hair.”

“Ah.” She slid closer to him. “Then we’re in agreement?”

“Agreement? What are you talking about now?”

“Are you ready to end this madness?”

The sweet scent of peaches filled Logan’s nostrils, and he caught himself thinking that it was the perfect scent for her. Her complexion was as close to peaches and cream as one could get, and her shiny hair with the perky blond highlights made her look fresh and young and oh, so desirable.

Desirable? Dear God, what was he thinking? She couldn’t be desirable. She was a stalker. His stalker.

“I am more than ready to end this lunacy,” he said. “I thank God you’re ready to put an end to it as well.”

Her hand rested on his forearm. “I’d much rather get back to where we were before this whole mess began,” she said.