Nadine Kimble watched as the office printer spewed out a
certificate proving she'd aced the online private
investigation course she'd been taking the past six months.
She knew her boss—Lindsay Fox, founder of The Fox
& Fisher Detective Agency—was in her office. It
was now or never, unless she wanted to be a receptionist for
the rest of her life. Which she didn't, since she was only
twenty-seven and the rest of her life would hopefully
involve many more decades.
With the certificate still warm in her hands, Nadine marched
up to Lindsay's office, rapped briefly on the door, then
opened it.
Lindsay wasn't alone. Her partner and fiancé, Nathan
Fisher, was sitting in the chair usually reserved for
clients, while she paced the room in bare feet, her high
heels, as usual, strewn on the floor next to her desk. They
were arguing in a civilized yet heated manner, and didn't
stop on Nadine's account.
"Printed invitations are classier than e-mail, Fox.
That's all I'm saying."
"I care about trees more than I care about 'class.' What
do you think, Nadine? Should we send out stuffy printed
invitations to our wedding—or speedier, cheaper and
more environmentally friendly e-mail invitations?"
"We're having such a small wedding, all we need is a
dozen invitations. What's that—a twig? Plus, we can
use recycled paper."
"Nadine?" Lindsay asked.
"Oh, no. I'm not falling for this again." Nadine
thought the printed invitations would be nice, but no way
was she stating her opinion. Getting between Lindsay and
Nathan in one of their "discussions" was never a
good idea.
While Lindsay and Nathan loved each other passionately and
made excellent business partners, they had opposite ideas
about many subjects…especially their upcoming wedding.
And both of them sulked like kids if she took one side over
the other.
"We've left this so late. The wedding is in two
months." Lindsay flipped the pages on her day-timer.
"Do we even have time to get something printed?"
"The only reason we're late is because you keep putting
me off." Nathan leaned forward in his chair, planting
both hands on his well-muscled thighs. "I have a friend
with a graphic-design shop two blocks from here on
Amsterdam. She said if we come over right now, she can help
us choose a design and have the invitations in the mail in
three days."
Lindsay made a face, then puffed out a sigh. "Fine. But
the wedding cake will be chocolate. No fruitcake. No fancy
white icing that tastes like plastic."
"What about carrot cake with thick cream-cheese icing?"
Lindsay's mouth tightened obstinately. "Chocolate."
Nathan looked as if he was going to argue some more. Then he
changed his mind and nodded. "Printed invitations and
chocolate wedding cake."
Lindsay reached for her shoes. "All right, then. I guess
we better go talk to this friend of yours."
Nadine realized her opportunity was about to be
lost—again. "Um, before you go, I wanted to
discuss something."
"What's up?" Lindsay asked as she slipped into her
heels. She was a practical woman with a weakness for
impractical shoes. One of several quirks to her character
that kept her interesting.
Nadine showed Lindsay her latest certificate. "I want to
start working on my own cases. I think I'm ready."
The two partners exchanged a quick look, and Nadine,
recognizing their skepticism, knew she had to speak fast.
"I know you did me a favor, hiring me as a receptionist
when I'd never held a job before."
She'd had only her liberal arts education, and a lot of
experience planning dinner parties and charity galas for her
wealthy parents. Her father had always planned for her to
work for the Waverly Foundation after graduation, but at the
last moment Nadine had rebelled.
She had a dream. Her parents thought it was silly, reckless
and potentially dangerous.
But Nadine still wanted to be a private detective.
"Despite my lack of experience, I think I've done a good
job."
"More like an excellent job," Lindsay said. "But
there's a world of difference between working in an office
and handling a case from start to finish."
"You already do a lot of our research and record
keeping," Nathan added. "Plus you handle the calls
from clients and keep track of us when we're out in the
field. We really couldn't operate without you."
Nadine heard what they were saying, but she wouldn't be
mollified. Not this time. "This is because I don't have
police training, isn't it?"
Lindsay, Nathan and their third partner, Kate Cooper, had
originally all worked at the Twentieth Precinct of the New
York Police Department. "I've asked around. There are
plenty of excellent PI.'s in this city who didn't start out
with the force."
"That's true." Lindsay ran her fingers through her
delicately colored, blond hair. The blunt style ended at her
jawline, emphasizing her determined chin. "I'm just not
sure you're ready."
"But we're drowning in work," Nadine pointed out.
"And Kate will be taking maternity leave soon." She
and her commercial pilot husband, Jay Savage, were expecting
their first baby in four weeks.
"We've been gradually increasing your investigative
responsibilities," Nathan said.
"Yes. And I'm glad for everything you've thrown my
way." She knew how to do background checks now, and she
was often asked to do research for the others. "But I'm
always in the office. Always behind my desk."
"But who would deal with the calls and the clients if
you weren't there?" Lindsay asked.
Nadine swallowed. She wasn't quite brave enough to suggest
that one of them could man the lines if she was out.
Nathan glanced at his watch. "We've got to get going.
Let's talk about this later when we have more time, okay?"
Same old story. Nadine sighed as they left. She had no
illusions about what would happen later. More lip service to
the notion of allowing her more responsibility. Then, in a
couple of weeks, they would hire someone new, someone to
cover for Kate, and Nadine'd be back to the same
administrative jobs she always handled.
Nadine sank into her chair, frustrated. She loved working at
Fox & Fisher. Lindsay, Nathan and Kate were friends, not
just coworkers.
She didn't want to leave.
But at the same time, she had a dream, and she was ready.
She might not be a rabble-rouser like Lindsay, or steely
minded like Kate, but she had talents, too.
Nadine went to the coffee station to rinse out the pot and
start a fresh brew. Making coffee, answering phones,
checking stuff on the Internet and writing up
reports—yeah, she was great at that stuff. She wanted
more, though. And she knew she could do it.
But no one here was going to believe it because they all
thought of her as a receptionist. Worse than that, their
opinions were colored by her background—her rich
family and privileged upbringing.
She knew they all wondered why she bothered to work at a
"real" job. But Nadine had never been comfortable
with her family's wealthy status. Far from giving her added
confidence, the money had only made her less secure. She
wanted to be valued as an individual, not as an heiress.
That was why she used her mother's maiden surname at work,
and why she rarely spoke about her Waverly family connections.
She was determined to prove—to others and to
herself—that she could handle the job. But how could
she do that if they never let her try?
Nadine studied the calendar on her computer, where she kept
track of everyone's schedules. Knowing Nathan and Lindsay,
it would take a while to find something they could agree on.
Meanwhile, Kate had gone with Jay for her eight-month doctor
checkup.
She would be alone in the office for a couple of hours.
Supposing, just supposing, a client should walk in the door
during that time?
They didn't get drop-in business very often, but it did
happen. Usually, if the others were out, Nadine would book
an appointment and ask the potential client to come back later.
But what if, this time, she didn't?
Nadine put a hand to her chest. Her fingertips tingled with
a rush of adrenaline, and her heart raced.
Dared she do it?
She had to. There was no other way. The next client who
walked in the door was going to be hers.
Patrick O'Neil couldn't be bothered with umbrellas. He just
pulled his coat tighter against the cool November rain. Not
to protect himself—he didn't mind the damp and he
wasn't cold. Compared to Alaska, where he'd researched and
written his last book, this weather was balmy. No, it wasn't
his body he was trying to protect, but the letters.
He'd been watching the addresses of the brownstones as he
walked along, and now he stopped. The sign was discreet, but
it seemed he had arrived.
Feeling oddly self-conscious, he glanced left, then right.
No one even noticed him. Most of the passersby were huddled
under umbrellas. And, anyway, New Yorkers always minded
their own business.
He climbed six steps to a door that led to a small
vestibule. The Fox & Fisher Detective Agency wasn't the
only business housed in this building. He checked the signs,
then climbed more stairs, up to the next story.
A semitranslucent door had The Fox & Fisher
Detective Agency lettered over the glass. He checked
the hours, confirmed that it was open. Well, of course it
was. What business wouldn't be at three in the afternoon on
a Tuesday?
He went in.
A woman was sitting at a reception desk. She was petite,
with dark hair, darker eyes and pretty red lips. Her smile
was meant to be welcoming, but she seemed slightly nervous
about something.
"I don't have an appointment," he said. "Is that
okay?" Up until three seconds ago, he hadn't been sure
he would go through with this. He wasn't the kind of guy who
hired other people to solve his problems.
Then again, he'd never had a problem quite like this one before.
"That's fine. I can fit you in without an appointment."
"Good. I'm in luck then." She had a beautiful,
refined way of speaking. Well educated, he could tell.
He wasn't. He'd learned about life the old-fashioned way,
through work and experience, and the lack of a college
education had never stood in his way. He slipped his fingers
inside his jacket, reached past the book he'd just received
in the mail, to the manila envelope. Still dry. Good.
He removed his coat and folded it carefully over one arm, so
the envelope wouldn't fall out.
"Would you like to hang that in the closet?"
He shook his head, the muscles in his arms tightening
reflexively. "I'd rather keep it with me."
"Fine." The dark-haired woman picked up a stack of
files, and for no reason that he could tell, moved them to a
different corner of her desk. "How can I help you?"
He was standing there like a dolt, trying not to feel
absurd, yet the situation was so surreal. He'd certainly
never dreamed that he would have reason to seek out the
services of a private investigator.
Yet here he was.
"I'm Patrick O'Neil. I'd like to speak with one of your
investigators. I—I need to find someone."
"Locating missing persons is one of our specialties. And
I'd be glad to help you. My name is Nadine Kimble."
"You? But—I assumed you were the receptionist."
Those pretty dark eyes blinked. "She's on a break. I was
just filling in for a few moments. We can continue our
discussion in the boardroom. Would you like a coffee?"
He nodded. This situation was just getting stranger and
stranger. Coffee would help. He let her pour him a cup, then
added his own cream before following her down a short hall
to a room on the left.
Like the reception area, the conference room was decorated
in a modern, minimalistic style. He squinted at the odd
black-and-white photos on the wall.
"Close-ups of paper clips," the woman explained,
which really explained nothing, as far as Patrick was
concerned. Why put paper clips on your wall when you could
have something truly beautiful, like a photograph of
mountains, or the ocean or even one graceful tree?
"Please sit down and make yourself comfortable."
Nadine Kimble opened a notebook and pulled out a pen.
"Now—who would you like us to find?"
He had an urge to question her credentials, but he supposed
that was sexist of him. Just because she was little and cute
and extremely feminine didn't mean she couldn't be a
kick-ass investigator. Plus, this was the place that had
been recommended.
With care, he removed the items in his coat pocket, first
the book, then the package. Her eyes fell on the book. It
was upside-down and his author photo was clearly visible.
"Is that you?" She reached across the table.
"May I look?"
Action and Adventure in New Zealand was his sixth
book. This ought to be old hat to him by now. But he still
felt a rush of pride at seeing his picture, and his name,
right there on the cover.
"By all means. I just received that copy from my
publisher. The book won't be available in stores for another
month."
"So, you're an author. Of travel books."
She sounded impressed.
Many women were.
This is not some girl you're trying to chat up at the
bar. Still, he found himself giving her his regular
spiel. "I prefer to think of it as adventure travel. For
people who are fit and up for a challenge and want to
explore new places in ways that most tourists never
experience."
"That sounds wonderful." She flipped through the
pages, stopping to look at some of the pictures. Then she
gave him a rueful smile. "I'm sorry. I'm getting
distracted, aren't I?"
She set the book to the side, then folded her arms on the
table and leaned in toward him. "Tell me why you're
here." She glanced expectantly at the manila envelope
he'd placed on the table.
He covered the envelope with a protective hand. He felt as
if something thick and hard had suddenly lodged in his
throat. Even though he'd already decided this was the most
expeditious solution, he suddenly wasn't sure he could share
his very personal situation with a stranger.
But what choice did he have? The revisions on his Alaska
manuscript were due at the publishers in three weeks. He had
no time to handle this himself. Wasn't even sure how to go
about it, truth be told.
"I need your help to—" His voice cracked. He
took a sip of coffee, then managed to get the rest out.
"To find my son."