Looking for You (5 page)

"I know you were born into being
a private investigator, with your dad in the business. I'm just saying that
maybe you need to be less suspicious of people."

It was in his blood. There had never
been any question about what he'd do once he graduated from college. The only
way he'd defied tradition was by moving to San Francisco from Boston. His mom
still chewed him out over that. "I'm not suspicious of people. I just have
a healthy caution for what they say."

Treat grinned. "Uh-huh."

"And Gwen doesn't add up.
Gwendolyn Pierce has only existed for the past seven years. There's no record
of her before then. No school records, no college."

"She's an artist. A lot of
artists don't go to college."

"But there's no record of her
even graduating from high school. It doesn't make sense. She's educated. You
can tell from the way she speaks."

"You're looking at this the
wrong way," Treat argued. "She doesn't have a criminal record either,
right?"

"Not as Gwendolyn Pierce."
He leaned forward. "She lives on Ashbury, close to Haight."

"Nice neighborhood. Perfect for
an artist."

"But not an artist who doesn't
have money."

"Doesn't she make money at her
store? Rent is expensive in Laurel Heights. She wouldn't be able to survive
there long without turning a profit."

"Exactly. But she has two steep
rents: the store and her apartment. Based on her taxes, she's making good
money, but not enough to cover both rents."

Treat groaned. "You checked her
taxes?"

"It's all part and parcel."

Shaking his head, his friend said,
"You're over-thinking this. Her apartment is probably rent
controlled."

"She's only lived there two
years."

Treat stared at him incredulously.
"Why do you care?"

"I'm curious."

"This goes beyond curiosity.
This borders on obsession."

Ever since he kissed her, he
felt
obsessed—and he didn't like
it. "She's not what she seems. If you listen closely, sometimes she has a
little bit of an accent."

"What sort of accent?"

"French."

"Gwen is the least French of any
person I've ever met." Treat leveled a serious look at him. "Maybe
you should back off and leave her alone."

Rick wished he could do that, but
that was like telling the moth to leave the flame alone. He had to know.

Sliding off the bar stool, he downed a
swallow of beer and pushed the rest across the countertop. "I should head
out."

"So soon?" Treat asked.
"You haven't even finished your pint."

He didn't have the patience to sit
there long enough to finish it. He felt antsy in a way he didn't understand. So
he stood and dropped enough money to cover their drinks on the counter.
"Go home to your woman. I'll see you later."

Treat grabbed his arm before he could
leave. "You aren't going to do anything stupid, are you?"

"Would I do that?" He
clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder and walked out.

Normally, he walked home from Durty
Nelly's. He owned a house just four blocks away. Tonight, he headed that way,
only as he approached the driveway and saw Lance parked there, he bypassed the
front door and headed straight to his car.

Just a quick check, he told himself
as he pulled out.

It was past nine in the evening, long
past the time all the stores were closed. Meaning Gwendolyn was probably
already ensconced in her Narnia.

"Narnia." He shook his head
as he turned onto Lincoln Avenue and headed toward the Haight.

Since there was no available parking
on the same block as her apartment, Rick drove up the street a couple blocks
until he found a spot. Locking Lance, he put his hands in his pockets and
strolled toward her home.

What was he doing? This was insane.
Treat was right—Rick was entering stalker territory. Being paid to hunt
down information on someone was one thing; doing it because you couldn't help
yourself was quite another.

He blamed Gwen. She was an enigma. Contradiction
upon contradiction. Heaven and hell in one package.

"I'm definitely losing it,"
he muttered, looking at the outer gate to her building.

As if conjuring her, the gate swung
open and she walked through. Head down, she closed the gate and walked down the
street away from him.

Irritation surged through him. She
didn't even look around to see if there was anyone else on the street. Where
was her sense of preservation? What if he were a thug, out to mug her? Or worse?

And what was she wearing? He
squinted, trying to see in the dim streetlight. Not even she would wear a robe
out in public, would she?

But that was exactly what she had on:
a short robe with bare legs and, seemingly, nothing on underneath.

That wasn't an image he need in his
head.

Drawing himself in to be less conspicuous,
he followed her. She turned left and walked down to another couple buildings
before she stopped and peered through the bars of a gate.

Who was she going to visit? In a
robe? With—he squinted—a towel around her neck?

"Booty call?" he asked himself.
Feeling a wave of anger, he stopped behind a tree and waited to see who'd come
out to meet her.

He never expected her to scale the
iron gate and drop inside the yard, showing a whole lot of pale leg in the
process.

Shaking off the shock, Rick hurried toward
the gate and peeked in, just in time to watch her skulk around the corner to
the back of the house. He looked at the gate, then back at where she'd
disappeared, and shrugged. Grabbing the spokes at the top, he anchored himself
on a foothold and hauled himself up and over.

He landed on his feet, jarring his
knees. Cursing under his breath, he hobbled down the path Gwen had taken. The
other half of the path branched to the front porch, which led to an ornate
Victorian entrance.

It looked like a single-family
house—a rare thing in San Francisco, where most of the old houses had
been renovated into flats. When these old Victorians were kept intact, it was
because the original family still owned them or because someone rich had bought
it from the original family.

Did Gwen have a sugar daddy?

The thought disgusted him. Picturing
an old guy touching her, siphoning off her youth and vitality for himself...

Rick wouldn't stand for it.

He stopped where the path ended,
where the backyard began. Hiding next to the house, he peered around the
corner.

The backyard was lush with greenery.
There was a cushion-covered bed to one side, draped with gauzy curtains and
stacked with pillows. Unlit tiki torches stood at intervals all over. Through
the thick canopy of trees that protected the backyard from being viewed by
neighbors, there was the thinnest glimmer of moonlight.

It reflected on the surface of the
pool. He looked at it at the same moment he heard a gentle splash.

Gwen. He could see her silhouette,
skimming under the water like a mermaid. She came up for air and then submerged
again, like she was born a water creature.

She stopped suddenly, bobbing in the
center of the pool. "Are you going to lurk all night?"

He shrugged and stepped out from the
shadows. "How did you know I was here?"

"Did you really think I wouldn't
notice a large man following me on an empty street?" She wiped the water
from her eyes and looked at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you
that." He walked to the edge of the pool and squatted down. "This
isn't your place."

"You really are brilliant at
your work, aren't you?" she asked sarcastically, treading the water.

He stayed silent, watching her. Waiting.

She heaved a sigh. "This is my
friend's home. She's gone most of the time but she lets me use her pool."

She
. The
relief was instant and staggering. Later, he'd analyze it. For now... "If
she lets you use her pool, why do you have to break in?"

Gwen frowned. "I didn't break
in. I hopped the fence."

He arched a brow.

"I couldn't find my key."

Instinct told him she was telling the
truth. His dad had taught him the value of listening to instinct, and he never
doubted his. But it was tempting to start now. "So you walk here in your
robe and go swimming?"

"Pretty much."

"At night? In the cold?"

"It's heated. Do you think I'm
crazy?" She shook her head. "Don't answer that. I know exactly what
you think of me."

That she was a temptress? What other
explanation was there? She turned him on despite himself, no matter how hard he
tried to resist her. She was trouble and he should run away, but there he was,
standing by a pool at night, wondering what she looked like in her swimsuit.
"I think you should come out."

"Why?" She smirked at him.
"Are you going to arrest me, Officer?"

"Is that a veiled way of asking
me to cuff you?"

Her eyes widened but she turned her
head so her face was obscured. "You
would
take an innocent comment and turn it into something sordid."

"Princess, there's nothing
innocent about you."

"Don't call me that." She
ducked into the water, a glimpse of creamy skin before she disappeared under
water. She surfaced at the edge and hauled herself out.

Water sluiced down her body, but it
didn't distract him from the view. He'd have expected her to wear some
old-fashioned, granny-style swimsuit—an ugly one-piece at the very least.

She wore the tiniest bikini he'd ever
seen. Bright yellow. Small triangles pieced together by string. Lithe body,
slim shapely limbs. A whole lot of wet skin.

"Holy..." he said, trying
not to swallow his tongue. He gave himself props for not drooling visibly.

"What?" she asked
suspiciously, grabbing the towel she'd left at the side of the pool.

He waved at her, head to toe.
"It's a crime against nature to hide that under the hideous clothes you
wear."

"If that's a compliment, you
need to work on your delivery."

He wasn't sure what it was. All he
knew was that he felt like he'd been clobbered over the head. 

She picked up her robe, shaking it
out before she slipped it on. "I don't know why you're so stuck on proving
that I'm nefarious, but you're wasting your time."

"You're hiding something."
The least of which was that killer body. He pushed his hands deeper into his
pockets. They were safer there.

"Everyone hides things."
She pointed at him. "You just assume everyone has dark secrets."

"In my line of business,
everyone does have dark secrets."

"Your business sucks." She
yanked the sash of her robe tight and walked past him. "Creating gourd art
may be different, but at least I'm adding something beautiful to the
world."

Before he could figure out what to
say, she lifted her elfin chin and said, "I entered my art in the contest
at the de Young. I'm going to win."

When she said it like that, he
believed her. Still, he couldn't help goading her. "It's a long way to
winning the coveted spot in the museum's permanent collection."

She leaned toward him. "Want to
bet that I'll win?"

A drop of water trailed down from her
wet hair into the vee of her robe. He wanted to follow it with his tongue,
burrowing his head in her chest and inhaling her scent. She'd smell like
teenage summer—of chlorine and innocence. His chest ached with need and
something unfamiliar.

"Well?" she said, poking
him in the middle of his chest, where he felt the weird ache most. "How
about a bet?"

He shook off the ache and focused.
"What stakes?"

"A hundred dollars if I
win."

"A hundred bucks?" He'd
been thinking along the lines of a kiss—deep, passionate, and
encompassing, maybe with a little groping. A hundred bucks was a lot of money
for most people. He'd think doubly so for an artist with two expensive rents.
He frowned, feeling that nagging suspicion that something about Gwen didn't add
up. It eclipsed some of the arousal he was feeling.

Oblivious of his doubts, she gave him
a cocky smile that made him want to wrestle her to the ground and kiss her.
"You losing confidence?"

Confidence was the least of his
problems. Gwen was the main one, and he was determined to figure out what she
was about. So he stuck his hand out. "You've got a deal."

The bed was heavy.

Camille tried setting her weight
against it, but it wouldn't budge. Maybe if she took the mattress off?

She shoved it off the ancient wooden
frame, propping it against a wall. She anchored her feet against the wall, with
her butt on the frame, and pushed.

Nothing.

Dropping to the floor, she sat there
and wondered what to do.

She could not move her bed. But she'd
been reading up on feng shui for that article she needed to turn in at the
beginning of the week, and she realized that her career was in tanker because
her living space was completely wonky. Her helpful friends spot was a mess of
dirty clothes, her relationship corner held a paper shredder, and there was
absolutely no prosperity anywhere to be found.

No wonder she'd been struggling so
much at work.

She thought moving things around
might help. It certainly couldn't hurt.

But her bed was being difficult. And
if she couldn't move her bed, there was no way she could move the behemoth
dresser.

Not by herself, at least, but if she
called someone like Dylan then it'd be a piece of cake.

Okay, maybe she was looking for a
reason to talk to him. The way they'd left things the last time had left a
bitter taste in her mouth. She didn't like feeling like she'd disappointed him.

Impulsively, she picked up her phone
and called him.