opened.
Alex Crew stepped out.
At his desk, with the TV muttering in the background for company, Max reviewed his notes and wrote up his daily report. He left out a few things, it was true. There was no point in documenting that he’d played with the dog, kissed Laine, or that he’d tucked a blanket over her then stood watching her sleep.
None of that was salient information.
He did detail the extent of the damage to her property, her actions and reactions and his opinions on what he observed to be her current lifestyle.
Simple, small-town, successful. Knowledgeable about her profession, cozily dug into her hillside home and the community.
But where had she gotten the funds to buy that home, to start up her business? The business loan and the mortgage he’d accessed—not in a strictly legal manner—didn’t quite add up. She’d put down sizable deposits—more than it logically seemed possible for a young woman who’d earned a steady but unremarkable salary since college.
And still not an exorbitant amount, he reflected. Nothing showy. Nothing that hinted there was a great big money tree somewhere dripping with millions.
She drove a good, middle-of-the-road car. American made and three years old. She had some nice pieces of art and furnishings in her home, but she was in the business, so it wasn’t remarkable.
Her wardrobe, what he’d seen, showed good classic taste. But it, too, wasn’t exorbitant, and fit very neatly into the image of the single, successful antique merchant.
Everything about her fit that image, down to the ground.
She didn’t live rich. She didn’t look like an operator, and he could usually spot one. What was the point of buying a house in the woods, getting an ugly dog, opening a Main Steet, U.S.A., business if it wasn’t what you wanted?
A woman with her attributes could be anywhere, doing anything. Therefore, it followed that she was doing exactly what she wanted to do.
And that just didn’t add up either.
He was messed up about her, that was the problem. He tipped back in his chair, stared up at the ceiling. Every time he looked at her, his brain went soft on him. There was something about that face, the voice, Jesus, the smell of her, that was making a sap out of him.
Maybe he couldn’t see her as an operator because he didn’t want to see her that way. He hadn’t been this twisted up in a woman since . . . Actually, he’d never been this twisted up in a woman.
Practically then, professionally then, he should back off a bit on the personal contact. Whether or not she appeared to be his best conduit to Jack O’Hara, he couldn’t use her if he couldn’t get over her.
He could make an excuse, leave town for a few days. He could establish a base nearby where he could observe and record. And use his contacts and connections, as well as his own hacker skills, to dig deeper into the life and times of Elaine O’Hara aka Laine Tavish.
When he knew more, he’d decide how to handle her and come back. But meanwhile, he’d have to maintain some objective distance. No more dinners for two, no more spending the day with her at home, no more physical contact that couldn’t lead to anything but complications.
He would check out in the morning, give her a quick call to tell her he’d been called back to New York and would be in touch. Keep the lines open, but ease back on the personal front.
A man couldn’t do his job efficiently if he was wandering around in a sexual haze.
Satisfied with the plan, Max got up. He’d pack most of his things tonight, maybe go down afterward for a night-cap, then try to sleep off the feelings for her that were building much too quickly and much too inappropriately inside him.
The knock on the door distracted him. They’d already done the turndown, little chocolate mints on the pillows included. He half expected to see an envelope sliding under the door. Though he preferred all communications via e-mail, his clients often
Alex Crew stepped out.
At his desk, with the TV muttering in the background for company, Max reviewed his notes and wrote up his daily report. He left out a few things, it was true. There was no point in documenting that he’d played with the dog, kissed Laine, or that he’d tucked a blanket over her then stood watching her sleep.
None of that was salient information.
He did detail the extent of the damage to her property, her actions and reactions and his opinions on what he observed to be her current lifestyle.
Simple, small-town, successful. Knowledgeable about her profession, cozily dug into her hillside home and the community.
But where had she gotten the funds to buy that home, to start up her business? The business loan and the mortgage he’d accessed—not in a strictly legal manner—didn’t quite add up. She’d put down sizable deposits—more than it logically seemed possible for a young woman who’d earned a steady but unremarkable salary since college.
And still not an exorbitant amount, he reflected. Nothing showy. Nothing that hinted there was a great big money tree somewhere dripping with millions.
She drove a good, middle-of-the-road car. American made and three years old. She had some nice pieces of art and furnishings in her home, but she was in the business, so it wasn’t remarkable.
Her wardrobe, what he’d seen, showed good classic taste. But it, too, wasn’t exorbitant, and fit very neatly into the image of the single, successful antique merchant.
Everything about her fit that image, down to the ground.
She didn’t live rich. She didn’t look like an operator, and he could usually spot one. What was the point of buying a house in the woods, getting an ugly dog, opening a Main Steet, U.S.A., business if it wasn’t what you wanted?
A woman with her attributes could be anywhere, doing anything. Therefore, it followed that she was doing exactly what she wanted to do.
And that just didn’t add up either.
He was messed up about her, that was the problem. He tipped back in his chair, stared up at the ceiling. Every time he looked at her, his brain went soft on him. There was something about that face, the voice, Jesus, the smell of her, that was making a sap out of him.
Maybe he couldn’t see her as an operator because he didn’t want to see her that way. He hadn’t been this twisted up in a woman since . . . Actually, he’d never been this twisted up in a woman.
Practically then, professionally then, he should back off a bit on the personal contact. Whether or not she appeared to be his best conduit to Jack O’Hara, he couldn’t use her if he couldn’t get over her.
He could make an excuse, leave town for a few days. He could establish a base nearby where he could observe and record. And use his contacts and connections, as well as his own hacker skills, to dig deeper into the life and times of Elaine O’Hara aka Laine Tavish.
When he knew more, he’d decide how to handle her and come back. But meanwhile, he’d have to maintain some objective distance. No more dinners for two, no more spending the day with her at home, no more physical contact that couldn’t lead to anything but complications.
He would check out in the morning, give her a quick call to tell her he’d been called back to New York and would be in touch. Keep the lines open, but ease back on the personal front.
A man couldn’t do his job efficiently if he was wandering around in a sexual haze.
Satisfied with the plan, Max got up. He’d pack most of his things tonight, maybe go down afterward for a night-cap, then try to sleep off the feelings for her that were building much too quickly and much too inappropriately inside him.
The knock on the door distracted him. They’d already done the turndown, little chocolate mints on the pillows included. He half expected to see an envelope sliding under the door. Though he preferred all communications via e-mail, his clients often
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