Chasing What's Already Gone (Second Chances Book 1) by Michael Ross Page B

that energy have appeared from? It is almost like something has infused life into your system.”
    JB understands that this is more than a throwaway comment. Gemma is gently prodding away at her, and JB feels herself on shaky ground. Gemma is more than an employee; she is, and has been for quite some time, a confidant. For one thing, she is the only person on earth who actually knows the truth about the horrendous episode with Paul Clement. But how does she answer her PA? Obviously, Gemma guesses that there is some sort of history between Danny and herself, but if she told her the truth, it would make JB out to be no better than a love-struck thirteen-year-old. I have not even spent an hour in the man’s company, for God’s sake, she thinks. The whole thing is preposterous and best forgotten.
    “No, not really,” JB finally says. “I slept well on the train down this morning, and the adrenaline kicked in as soon as the day started.”
    “Of course it did. So nothing to talk about then. Just another day at the office.”
    “Yes, of course. Just another day at the office.”
    “And just another three days before the weekend.”
    “Yes…?”
    “With no plans to do anything special this weekend?”
    “Special—what do you mean, special?”
    “I don’t know…how about, say, a bit of house-hunting?”
    “Gemma, don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Mr. Pearson can go and find his own home for all I care.”
    “Of course he can. I couldn’t agree with you more. I’m off home. Oh, by the way, do you want Finlay and Munro’s property list to read at home tonight?”
    “Gemma, are you winding me up?”
    “I certainly am. Oh, well, see you in the morning. By the way, you’ll find the Estate Agents Weekly is next to my desk.” The roll of thrown cello-tape comfortably misses Gemma’s back as she closes the door, leaving the mini-mystery behind her…for the present.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter
    Twenty-One
     
     
    I feel like a cross between a charity street-marketer and a strip club pimp. I’m standing on the corner, eyeing people up and down and estimating their possible reaction to my request. I do not think I’m being too critical, but most people do not pass my suitability test. Too young, too old, too ugly; this is not going well. Ideally, I’m looking for young professional women walking in pairs, but that hasn’t worked out too well. Both times, the suitable women have scurried away before I’ve been able to say anything more than “excuse me.” And the looks they give! You would think I was some kind of pervert. This is twenty minutes of my life wasted, but now I’m on a mission. Mm, maybe a different approach is needed. Two lads in school uniform. One is particularly tall and must be at least eighteen years old.
    “Excuse me.” Hang on, don’t look at me like that—I’m not a pervert! “Excuse me, but can you drive?”
    Tall boy gives me the strangest look before turning to his mate, who nods.
    “Yes. Why?”
    “Well, I was wondering if you could do me a favour.”
    “Mm…what?”
    “All I want you to do is go around the corner, into the car park, and drive my van back here.”
    “The car park to here. That’s what? Fifty, sixty metres?”
    “Yes, yes it is. Only sixty metres at the most.”
    “Why?”
    “Oh, that doesn’t matter. I’ll give you twenty quid.”
    “Twenty quid for driving your van from the car park back to here.”
    This is not the most stimulating conversation I have ever had in my life.
    “Yes. Twenty quid for driving my van from the car park back here.”
    “Why can’t you do it?”
    “I can. I just don’t want to.”
    “It’s your van?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Here are the keys.”
    “So it’s not stolen and you’ll give me twenty quid for doing it.”
    I think he is actually grasping the situation before his short-assed friend pipes up.
    “The DVD store are selling the new Call of Duty for twenty-five quid.” What’s that got to do with