Higher Than Eagles (Donovans of the Delta) by Peggy Webb Page A

truth of that statement, but now was not the time for sharing confidences of that sort. “It’s what she’s hiding.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Damned if I know. That’s why I called you down here. In spite of your flighty personality, you’re the best investigator I know.”
    “Flighty, huh? I resemble that remark.”
    “You sure as hell do.” They laughed together, then Jacob leaned across the small table toward his friend. “I want her investigated, Rick.”
    “There are better men for the job. I haven’t done any serious investigation in seven years. My skills are rusty.”
    “You’re the only man I trust for this job.”
    “It’s done. Tell me what you want.”
    “I want to know every move she’s made in the last six years, where she’s lived, where she’s worked, where she’s played. And I want to know about her son. Hell, I don’t even know when and where the boy was born.”
    Rick’s brown eyes lit with interest. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
    Jacob leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. All I know is that Rachel is extraordinarily determined to get me out of her life, and I intend to find out why.”
    “I’ll do what I can.”
    “Take the Mustang. It’s faster than the Baron.”
    They ordered sandwiches, then settled back to talk. Both men had the same passionate approach to business that they had to pleasure. They were intense and serious as they talked, generating so much high-powered energy, the waitress speculated to another customer that the two men in the corner booth were secret agents on a government mission.
    When Rick left, Jacob’s adrenaline was still high. He felt the same readiness as when he faced a raging old field fire. But Rachel Windham Devlin was a fire of a different kind. And he would subdue it, just as he had all the others. Even if it took the rest of his life.
    On the way out of the airport, he picked up the afternoon paper. The item he was looking for was in the social column. He scanned it with interest, then glanced at his watch. He still had time, he thought, time for one more surprise for Rachel.
     o0o
    Rachel usually loved parties of this kind, small intimate gatherings of people who had much in common—a love of music, art, theater, an interest in politics, and heightened social consciousness.
    She stood on the fringes of the small group, surveying the scene with the eagle eye of a hostess with a reputation for excellence. That afternoon the decorators and caterers had transformed the first floor of her house into a veritable sea of flowers and food. Now gardenias, white roses, and white orchids bloomed from the tops of polished tables. They floated in front of the French doors, suspended by baskets on golden cord, and they festooned the bandstand that had been erected at one end of the ballroom.
    The band was playing a sad song, and guests dressed in satin and sequins and in tuxes glided across the marble floor. It was a beautiful party, but Rachel wasn’t enjoying it. Not tonight. Not after spending the morning in the park seeing her son play ball with his real father.
    “It’s fabulous, Rachel. And so are you,” said Louie Vincetti, owner of the Blue Bayou, the ritzy club where she sang. As civic-minded as he was sharp in business, he’d closed the club for the weekend in order to devote time to his favorite charity.
    “Thanks, Louie.”
    Louis looked at her with his sharp black eyes, pulled out a cigar, and stuck it, unlit, into his mouth. “Tell Uncle Louie what’s bothering you, babe. A beautiful thing like you should be wearing a smile to go with those sapphires and diamonds.” He patted her shoulder as he talked, his square little hand almost keeping rhythm with the band.
    Coming from any other man, that kind of familiar language and attention would have offended Rachel. But it didn’t coming from Louie. He was her friend, her adviser, and her surrogate father.