Ninja Soccer Moms by Jennifer Apodaca Page B

change our name to Heart Mates Private Investigations?”
    I draped my coat over a folding metal chair and turned back to my sarcastic assistant. “Good morning to you, too.” I took the clipboard, determined not to think about Gabe. All the lines were filled in with big thick printing. “Lionel Davis?” I looked up at Blaine.
    â€œThat’s him. Waiting to speak to you, and only you.”
    I narrowed my eyes. “What’s the matter with him?” I whispered, running my eye down the information sheet. Worked as some sort of biochemical tech at a big corporation in Temecula. That screamed nerdy scientist to me, but that’s what Heart Mates was for—to help those who might not be adept at romance on their own.
    So why was Blaine smirking at me?
    â€œI didn’t do the interview, boss. He’s waiting for you—that is if you’re not too busy, you know, nosing around someone’s life until they end up murdered.”
    I slammed the clipboard down on Blaine’s desk. The loud thwack felt good. “You got a problem with me, Blaine?” Okay, I was pissed. First Vance, then Gabe, now Blaine. What was it with all the men in Lake Elsinore today?
    Looking up from the clipboard, Blaine leaned back in his chair. “Roxanne Gabor is a mess. I could barely understand her. She wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong, wouldn’t tell me where she was. She just cried. Then Romeo comes in and insists on talking to you. No, I don’t have a problem with you, but maybe your clients do. Maybe they need you and you’re too busy trying to be Super Sleuth to worry about them.”
    Ouch. “Okay, I get it.” He was right. Blaine liked car engines. He understood them, and if they broke, he knew how to fix them. Crying women weren’t that easy. You couldn’t just feed them oil and tweak a part. Our deal was that Blaine dealt with difficult clients who got physical and I dealt with difficult clients who got weepy.
    Trying to gather some dignity, I picked up the clipboard. “I’ll be in the interview room with—” I looked down at the information sheet—“Mr. Davis.” I walked around Blaine’s desk and paused at the door to the interview room. Just to prove I was doing my job, I said, “Pull the file on Roxy’s date last night. I’ll call her as soon as I’m finished with this client.” I opened the door and slipped inside.
    Oh, boy. An overgrown cowboy, complete with a little string tie, sat at the oval oak table and fiddled with a palm-sized spray bottle of some kind. Pasting on my businesswoman smile, I strode forward and held out my hand. “Hello, Mr. Davis, I am—”
    He jumped up. “Samantha Shaw!” The spray bottle slid across the table and plopped onto the carpet at my feet.
    â€œOh! Sorry about that!” He came around the table.
    â€œNo problem.” I bent over to pick up the little bottle and smacked heads with Mr. Davis. “Ouch!”
    â€œOoof!”
    Forgetting the spray bottle, I slapped my hand over the right side of my forehead and stood up. Stars flashed over the romantic travel posters on the walls. It took me a few seconds to blink away the weird pops of distorting light.
    Then I noticed blood pouring from big boy cowboy’s nose. “Oh! Mr. Davis!” I looked around for something to staunch the bleeding.
    Oh, crap, was his nose broken? Hysteria pounded at my headache. All the blood made me think of Chad with his head bashed in. I hadn’t actually seen him, but my imagination vividly filled in the blanks. Closing my eyes, I struggled to breathe. The interview room felt hot, the air heavy.
    Get a hold of yourself! I had a bleeding client. I’d seen worse than this with my own kids. Opening my eyes, I saw Mr. Davis just standing there. Quickly, I ran over to Blaine’s cameras at the far end of the long interview room and grabbed a blue