couldn't possibly be as perfect as Frankie remembered. No way. The flowers and poetry had to be part of some cheeseball act designed to make it easier to worm his way onto a young girl's beach blanket.
She glanced at him, her dark eyes unreadable and finally dry. Man, when he'd come back into the parlor to find her crying, his insides had twisted, and all thoughts about the incredible antiquetreasures he'd found throughout the entire house had fled.
“So what if I am?”
So what, indeed? Jazz
was
going to be a disappointment, and Simon was going to be there to pick up the pieces.
Frankie finished her perusal of the bookcase and headed out of the room toward the stairs leading to the second floor of the house. Simon trailed after her.
Clay Quinn was still on the telephone, his voice muffled behind the closed kitchen door.
“What's the furniture like in the dining room?” Frankie asked, climbing the stairs, pointedly changing the subject.
“Perfect. It's all red-seal Stickley oak too. In fact, I've been searching for a dining room set just like it. I have a client who has an end-of-the-month deadline, and if I don't come up with something, he's going to go with inferior pieces from another broker.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Isn't the end of the month—”
“Next Monday. We need to find this John guybefore next Monday, or you don't get your bonus and I don't make this deal.”
Simon followed Frankie into a room that must have been Alice Winfield's bedroom. The heavy curtains were drawn and the room was only dimly lit by the light from the hall.
“I don't think we should count on my friend at Boston University coming through with a current address for Jazz,” Simon continued. “I think we need to go through those rental records we copied and try to find John's last name that way.”
Frankie turned to face him, her delicate features mysterious in the gloom. “We?”
“Let me help you find this guy,” he said.
She didn't say anything. She just looked at him.
“All private eyes have sidekicks,” Simon continued. “Sherlock Holmes has Watson. Spenser has Hawk. Rockford has his dad. Inspector Clouseau has Kato …. “
She finally spoke. “You don't think I can find John on my own.”
“No! That's not true! That's not what this is about at all,” Simon hastily assured her.
“What
is
it about?”
“It's the old two-heads-are-better-than-onething. My schedule is light for the next few days, and”—she was still watching him, her face damn near expressionless—”and I have to confess, Francine, I'm still holding out hope that I'll be able to get you into bed with me.”
She looked surprised for the briefest fraction of a second, and then she laughed. “Finally, something that rings with truth.”
Simon lowered his voice, suddenly aware of the quiet dimness of the room, of the big antique bed in the corner, covered by a protective sheet. “Just think how incredible it could be.”
Something shifted in her eyes, something that told Simon that she, too, had imagined the nuclear heat the two of them could generate. “You're probably right.” She turned away from him and crossed to the windows, pushing aside the curtains. “But I can tell you right now, Si, it's not going to happen. So if that's your motivation for helping—”
Simon squinted slightly in the sudden brightness. “I'm having fun, Francine. That—and the thought of making a very important client happy—is my motivation.”
“I was serious about what I said before, about you and me being a bad mistake.”
“I know. And you're probably right.”
“I'm definitely right. No means no. And if you repeatedly overstep those bounds—”
“I won't. I promise.”
“I'm really sorry,” Clay Quinn said from the doorway, and Simon nearly jumped with surprise. “But the manure has hit the fan back at my office and I've got to go. I've called the airport, and my charter flight is ready to leave as soon as I can
She glanced at him, her dark eyes unreadable and finally dry. Man, when he'd come back into the parlor to find her crying, his insides had twisted, and all thoughts about the incredible antiquetreasures he'd found throughout the entire house had fled.
“So what if I am?”
So what, indeed? Jazz
was
going to be a disappointment, and Simon was going to be there to pick up the pieces.
Frankie finished her perusal of the bookcase and headed out of the room toward the stairs leading to the second floor of the house. Simon trailed after her.
Clay Quinn was still on the telephone, his voice muffled behind the closed kitchen door.
“What's the furniture like in the dining room?” Frankie asked, climbing the stairs, pointedly changing the subject.
“Perfect. It's all red-seal Stickley oak too. In fact, I've been searching for a dining room set just like it. I have a client who has an end-of-the-month deadline, and if I don't come up with something, he's going to go with inferior pieces from another broker.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Isn't the end of the month—”
“Next Monday. We need to find this John guybefore next Monday, or you don't get your bonus and I don't make this deal.”
Simon followed Frankie into a room that must have been Alice Winfield's bedroom. The heavy curtains were drawn and the room was only dimly lit by the light from the hall.
“I don't think we should count on my friend at Boston University coming through with a current address for Jazz,” Simon continued. “I think we need to go through those rental records we copied and try to find John's last name that way.”
Frankie turned to face him, her delicate features mysterious in the gloom. “We?”
“Let me help you find this guy,” he said.
She didn't say anything. She just looked at him.
“All private eyes have sidekicks,” Simon continued. “Sherlock Holmes has Watson. Spenser has Hawk. Rockford has his dad. Inspector Clouseau has Kato …. “
She finally spoke. “You don't think I can find John on my own.”
“No! That's not true! That's not what this is about at all,” Simon hastily assured her.
“What
is
it about?”
“It's the old two-heads-are-better-than-onething. My schedule is light for the next few days, and”—she was still watching him, her face damn near expressionless—”and I have to confess, Francine, I'm still holding out hope that I'll be able to get you into bed with me.”
She looked surprised for the briefest fraction of a second, and then she laughed. “Finally, something that rings with truth.”
Simon lowered his voice, suddenly aware of the quiet dimness of the room, of the big antique bed in the corner, covered by a protective sheet. “Just think how incredible it could be.”
Something shifted in her eyes, something that told Simon that she, too, had imagined the nuclear heat the two of them could generate. “You're probably right.” She turned away from him and crossed to the windows, pushing aside the curtains. “But I can tell you right now, Si, it's not going to happen. So if that's your motivation for helping—”
Simon squinted slightly in the sudden brightness. “I'm having fun, Francine. That—and the thought of making a very important client happy—is my motivation.”
“I was serious about what I said before, about you and me being a bad mistake.”
“I know. And you're probably right.”
“I'm definitely right. No means no. And if you repeatedly overstep those bounds—”
“I won't. I promise.”
“I'm really sorry,” Clay Quinn said from the doorway, and Simon nearly jumped with surprise. “But the manure has hit the fan back at my office and I've got to go. I've called the airport, and my charter flight is ready to leave as soon as I can
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