Nothing but Trouble (17 page)

Anders gave her a dark look.

“Listen, what if I told you that I’m not a thief? that I am trying to keep an innocent man out of jail, and borrowing your truck was really a good deed?”

His expression didn’t change.

“And that Connie will have a big tip for you next time because of your gracious lending of your vehicle to help humanity?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. But his expression softened. “You’d better get out of here.” Then miraculously he winked. “See you in two weeks.”

As she drove away, she saw Boone in the rearview mirror as he turned to watch her retreating Bug.

PJ had sorely misjudged Baba Vera. Not only did she return to find Vera in the backyard with Davy replanting gladiolas, but she was teaching him Russian and he was laughing.

She watched, feeling a strange curl of affection for Vera as the older woman guided Davy’s hands, helping him grip the gladiola bulb and put it in the ground, then pat the dirt around it.

When Vera glanced up, PJ gave her a smile, a single nod.

Yes, she could watch the fish.

Boris had commandeered Connie’s computer, so PJ grabbed her keys and headed for the library.

Housed next to a coffee shop in a shiny, modern concrete building with sleek lines, square pillars, and a fountain spilling over what looked like building blocks, the library contained a hush of quiet contemplation that made PJ feel like a felon, her mind too easily venturing back to the days behind the
reference section, pressing both hands over her mouth to stop laughter from spilling out. Boone had been notorious for landing them both in detention, thanks to his stupid attempts at humor.

She took a chair in the computer section and began to google Nero and his madness.

“They’re excavating an ancient palace in Italy that belonged to crazy Nero,” said a voice in her ear, and she nearly flew out of her skin.

She turned, and there was the guy she couldn’t seem to shake. Her new
partner
.

“They’re keeping the coins in a museum in Venice.”

“You
are
stalking me.”

“Hey, I was here first. I’ve been here for an hour, at least.”

“I think I would have noticed you when I came in.” Oops, that was the wrong thing to say.

“Really,” Jeremy said.

“I never agreed to help you.”

“Yes you did. Our mutual sharing of information constitutes a tacit verbal agreement.”

“Are you a lawyer now? I knew you didn’t deliver pizzas.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” he said, pulling up a chair.

“Hey, I’m working here,” PJ said, clicking on a link.

“Me too.” Jeremy rolled his chair over to the neighboring computer and googled the site. “Did you know that ten years ago, a collection of recently excavated Nero-minted coins was stolen en route to Venice? Their collected value was a cool million.”

“Listen, you do your sleuthing; I’ll do mine.”

He leaned back, his smile fading. “I really am on your side.”

She had to admit he did seem genuine. “Fine. But don’t lean over my shoulder.”

Jeremy apparently shared the same lack of reverence for the posted quiet signs as Boone had, because in between surfing for information on ancient coins, he unearthed imperative information about how to dismantle a nuclear bomb, how to fly a Nighthawk, and how to make the best pizza.

PJ, meanwhile, rabbit-trailed down a conspiracy theory site. “The ancient coin world reads like a 007 novel. Here’s a conspiracy site with bad guys named ‘the Turk’ and ‘Dragonov.’” She pointed to the screen. “Just the look of the site has my skin crawling, let alone the stories. The credits say the designer’s anonymous. Figures. This story should be made into a Robert Ludlum novel. According to this guy, a Bond-type from Scotland Yard went undercover a number of years ago as a black-market dealer and helped put a smuggler by the name of Rembrandt into prison
 
—a French prison, no less.”

Jeremy nodded.

“Rembrandt’s been in prison for about eight years, and recently they convicted him for ten more years for attempted murder on the agent, whom they call the Doc. Apparently, even behind bars, a guy can hire an assassin, and said assassin botched the job.”

“That’s gotta hurt the old résumé.”

“They say the Doc’s in hiding. Hasn’t been seen for years. But rumors are that the hit is still out, with a new assassin on the job. More than that, the Nero coins were never recovered.”

“Aha! Your fast brain is thinking that Ernie is the Doc.” Jeremy angled his head at her.

“Yes! I mean, what if, right under our noses, Ernie Hoffman was living a double life? By day, history teacher handing out Cs and chasing potheads through the halls . . . by weekend, he’s the Doc, master sleuth, hunting down diabolical international thieves
 
—”

Uh-oh. By the look on his face, clearly she’d misread his statement as agreement.

“I think you’re the one living the double, diabolical life.” Jeremy quirked one of his dark eyebrows. “Maybe
you’re
the Doc.”

PJ rubbed her hands together and manufactured her sinister look. “Maybe I’m the assassin,
heh heh heh
.”

He rolled his eyes. “I think you need a coffee.”

She bit back a retort. But wow, she suddenly didn’t want to look the fool in front of him. Perhaps she did need coffee. “You buying, Pizza Guy?”

“Coffee? For you, a grande double-shot macchiato. I’ll even throw in a biscotti on the side.”

He followed her out of the library to the adjoining coffee shop. She took a seat in one of the leather chairs near the fireplace while he ordered, letting the conspiracy theories run through her mind.

Yes, in the light of day, maybe she did need a strong dose of caffeine clarity.

“Miss me?” Jeremy said, returning.

PJ answered with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Here’s your coffee.” He repositioned next to her and handed her her order
 
—a latte with a shot of vanilla and hazelnut.

“Where’s my biscotti?”

“Sorry, they’re clean out. But I got you a cookie.” He handed over a chocolate chip cookie and she had no words.

“So, I think it’s time to tell me the truth.”

She nearly spit out her coffee, coughed, wiped her mouth. “The truth?”

“Yeah. About your name. Your real name. The one that shortens to
P
and
J
.”

For a long moment she simply stared at him. She hated her full name. Always had, always would. It just didn’t seem to grasp her . . . essence, for lack of a better term, an argument she’d been making with her parents since around the age of three. Since then, her father had indulged her, calling her PJ. She’d had it officially changed on her eighteenth birthday, two months before her infamous escape, and wild, starving goats couldn’t chase it out of her.

“Peanut Butter and Jelly,” she offered.

He narrowed his eyes. “Not telling?”

“Not in this lifetime. Especially to a pizza guy without pizza.”

“I bought you coffee.
And
a cookie.”

“It’ll take a lot more than a grande latte to coax that secret out of me.”

“What if I guess? Will you tell me?”

“Maybe.”

“Patty Jane.”

“Nope.”

“Patricia James.”

“That’s the same as Patty.”

“I just got chased by a goat. I’m not thinking clearly. How about Petunia Joyce?”

“Please.”

“Penelope.”

She shook her head.

“Portia, Paula, Polly, Pearl.”

“Nada, nil, nyet.” She couldn’t stop her grin, and he matched it.

“Princess . . . Jacqueline.”

“I like the Princess part.”

He pursed his lips, shaking his head. “I’ll get it, you know.”

That’s what she was starting to fear.

He’d ordered a cookie too and now broke it into pieces before eating them slowly. Up close and in good light, PJ saw that he had a small scar above his left eye. On his right arm, as his sleeve stretched up his shoulder, she made out a tattoo of what looked like some kind of Celtic symbol.

Jeremy chased his cookie with a sip of coffee. “Were you a PI in a former life or something?”

If only. “No. I’m just . . . well, I have a few hidden talents.”

He wore a question on his face.

“Don’t jump to any conclusions. I just have rather a long and varied résumé.”

“Oh. Is lawn care on that list?”

Heat pressed her face. “No.”

“How about librarian?”

“Used-book store clerk count?”

He nodded slowly, as if digesting that tidbit. “How long is that résumé?”

“Let’s see. I worked for the San Diego Zoo feeding the animals.”

“Seriously?”

“And I worked as a wrangler for a dude ranch.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I was a hot dog vendor, a pool lifeguard, a house painter, a locksmith’s apprentice, a UPS girl. I made cotton candy and I worked as a clown, making balloon animals
 
—mainly wiener dogs, but I was also really great at pirate hats. I’ve worked as a makeup assistant, learned how to do nails, and for two very exciting years, I worked as a stunt girl.”

Jeremy had leaned back, his arms folded across his chest, his face stuck in a permanently openmouthed expression. PJ held up her hands, as if saying,
What’s a gal to do?

“You were not a stunt girl.”

“Was. I started out answering the phone, and then they sent me to stunt school
 
—”

“There’s a stunt school?”

“Yes
 
—it’s a two-week intensive course. By the end of the year I was jumping off tall buildings, doing some fight scenes and even some high-speed driving.”

“Like Supergirl.”

PJ wrinkled her nose at him. “Yep, just like. That’s me. Super. Girl.”

He nodded, a terrible grin on his face. “I think you’d look really great in tights and a cape.”

“Wow, thanks. I do have Superman pants.”

“I should have guessed. Better than Lawn Girl, although that was an okay look.”

“Please stop.”

“Okay.” He leaned forward, dark eyes on her. “So why so many jobs?”

PJ rubbed her arms, wondering if she could start the fireplace. “I was . . . well, I left home the night of graduation and never really found my groove.”

Jeremy said nothing, his smile slowly dimming.

“What?”

“That’s the shortest backstory for the longest résumé I’ve ever heard.” He considered her for a moment. “I would love to spend about two weeks figuring out exactly what makes a pretty lady want to feed animals at the San Diego Zoo.”

Pretty lady.
Yes, she heard that. “I like gorillas. And new experiences. And I adapt well to . . . challenging situations.”

He said nothing.

“Maybe I just wanted to see what else there was out there. I didn’t want to forever be defined as a . . . stunt girl. Or a house painter. There was just so much more
 
—”

“Of you.”

She looked up. “I was going to say of life, but . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I didn’t want that to be all I was.”

“I don’t think you’ll ever have that problem, Princess.”

She looked away. “I take it back
 
—I don’t think you should call me that. Believe me, I’m not a princess.”

He said nothing for a long time. Finally, “Okay, for now I’ll buy your explanation. But no promises on the Princess.”

She gave him a tight smile. “What about you, Pizza Guy, Jeremy Kane. Why aren’t there any pizzas in the back of your car?”

“I delivered them all.”

“Right. Have you always been a pizza guy?”

“I’ve done a few other things. Never found
 
—how did you put it?
 
—my groove.”

“So pizza delivery is
 
—”

“A short-term gig.” He finished off his coffee. “Until I find what I’m looking for.”

“Which is?”

He crumpled up the napkin, put it inside the cup, and peered at her with dark, even eyes. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

Oh.

“I should get home. I left my nephew with his Russian babushka, and you never know when she might start cooking pancakes.”

“I don’t follow,” Jeremy said as he stood.

“Never mind. Thanks for the coffee.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’s been enlightening . . . Princess.”

She glowered at him, not sure how she felt about the smile she hid as she left the shop.

PJ drove back to Connie’s and was taking it as a good sign that the house still stood when she spotted the mailman pulling up. She hiked across the grass to the mailbox. “Thanks, Colin.”

“You in some sort of trouble?”

He motioned with a nod of his head up the street.

Boone. Sitting in an unmarked car. Even from here, she could see his arms folded across his chest, lying in wait like a cheetah. The guy couldn’t change his spots.

“Yeah.” She nodded at Colin as he pulled away.

Boone got out and slammed the door. It echoed down the street. “PJ Sugar, you get back here.”

She didn’t stop her beeline for the house. “Go away, Boone. Don’t you have a job to do?”

“I’m on the job.”

Of course he was. Still, she didn’t slow, and he caught up to her at the door just before she slammed it in his face.

“Davy?”

Boone grabbed her arm, turning her.

“Ow, Boone, knock it off.” She twisted out of his grip and took a step back.

His blue eyes flashed. His shirt looked rumpled and sweaty, as if he’d been parked out front, staking out her house, for hours . . . perhaps all afternoon. His voice grated out between nearly clenched teeth. “PJ, did you steal a lawn truck?”

Steal
was such a strong word. She’d . . .
moved
it . . . with permission, no less. “Did someone say it was stolen?”

“We found it. The guy said he’d forgotten where he parked it.”

Good old Anders. Tips galore in his future.

Boone narrowed his eyes and leaned down, an inch from her face. She narrowed
her
eyes, lifted her chin.

“I’ve been at the library all afternoon,” she said, smiling sweetly. She hollered again over her shoulder. “Davy!”

Footsteps pounded through the house. “Auntie PJ!”

She caught him as he flung himself into her arms; emotion exploded in her chest. He wrapped his legs around her waist and she squeezed tight, ignoring Boone. “Did you have a good day with Baba Vera?”

“We had fun! We planted flowers and played in the sandbox. And I petted the goat.”

Oh no, they still had the goat.

“Goat?” Boone echoed, as if he might be an extension of her thoughts.

She put Davy down. “I’ll be right out, pal. We’ll run through the sprinkler.”

He charged off to his magnificent backyard while PJ turned back to Boone. “Unless you have something to accuse me of, you’d better leave. Never know when my mother might show up.” She let the bad girl inside have her smile.