But I also can’t help but look at my sandwich and note that today is Tuesday. I wonder if Luke Boone’s the one pulling the marionette strings around here.
My car is rolling backward out of the bay door as we approach the garage. A short, stocky mechanic in coveralls yells, “Just like you said, Boone. Small adjustment to the clutch.”
“Thanks, Tabbs.” To me, he turns and smiles. “See? Told ya.”
“Yes, you did.” What Luke hasn’t told me is whether I’m going to see him again. I trail him into the office. A grouchy Steve Miller sits behind the desk, hammering his meaty fist against a blue stapler. He makes a point of glaring at the clock on the wall. “Didn’t think you were coming back.”
“I knew you’d miss me too much if I didn’t,” Luke retorts, stepping around the desk. “You gonna move so I can draw up the invoice?”
“No need. I have it ready here.” His tone abruptly switches to something light and airy. “Miss, I pulled most of your information from your ownership papers. If you can just give me your phone number, I’ll get this all finished for you in a jiffy.”
I recite my new cell phone number and in less than a minute, Miller holds up a printout and thrusts it toward Luke, all pretenses of a man who would use the word “jiffy” gone.
These two don’t like each other; that much is obvious. Which means Miller may be a source of information for us down the line. I’ll have to flag that to Warner. Until then . . . I fish my credit card out of my wallet and hand it to Luke.
He smirks. “Don’t you want to see how much you’re being charged first?”
Smooth, Clara. “Of course.” I give the invoice the obligatory scan, not really seeing anything, not caring what he’s charging me because the Feds are paying. “It’s reasonable. Thank you.”
My card is processed, and then it’s time to leave.
“Let us know if you have any more problems.” Luke flashes that wide, charming smile that stalls my feet just a little.
Still no mention of connecting again. In fact, I’d say Luke has gone out of his way to skirt the subject. He’s just not interested. That’s all there is to it. Or maybe he’s waiting for me to bring it up again. But if he’s not, then bringing it up will make me look desperate. I’m guessing he doesn’t like desperate women.
Luke Boone has me in a tailspin. No target has ever had me second-guessing myself this much, this early. It’s just the pressure of the case, I remind myself. “I’m sure I will.” I take long, slow steps, ensuring my movements are sleek and appealing, the opposite of my frantic thoughts, and I desperately search for another hook, since nothing I’m casting has caught so far.
“So, when did you say you’re cooking dinner for me?”
I fight the urge to groan with relief but I can’t keep the smile from exploding across my face. “Whenever you call me.” I turn to regard him, to see his smug face—like he knew I was waiting for it all along, like he was toying with me—and nod to the sheet on his desk. “You have my number.”
“I do.” His eyes twinkle. “I’ll call you soon.”
Thank fucking God.
I wait until I’m in my car and around the corner before turning off my wire and squealing like a fourteen-year-old who just got asked out to the movies. I dial Warner to debrief, my heart still racing. It’s standard protocol to call in after every meeting with my target. Up until now, I’ve had nothing but failure to report. And, while this may not seem like much . . .
I think I’m finally in.
Chapter 5
LUKE
“Screwing the customers . . .” Miller grumbles, pushing the filing cabinet shut with a loud metal bang.
“Only the pretty ones.” And she is that. It wasn’t until she lifted her sunglasses that she had my undivided attention. Those big, blue eyes up against an olive complexion are striking. I wouldn’t have guessed Italian. Mediterranean, definitely.
Exotic, dark-haired, killer body—my type exactly.
“You’re going to lose business for the garage.”
“Relax. I wasn’t the one fishing.” And there was definite fishing on her part. For a long while there, I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the bait. Everything about her—her upscale style, her expensive car, her cool demeanor—says she’s my kind of girl, and therein lies the problem. My kind of girl is good for one thing, and it’s not having lunch over at the food carts of Portland. Or conversation, in general.
Give those kinds of girls more and suddenly they become work, and money. Endless streams on both accounts. Rust warned me about them years ago. Thank God I haven’t tumbled into any of their traps. Even Priscilla, my fallback lay, who I consider a friend, who knows exactly where we stand in terms of our “relationship” and that I don’t have the kind of money she wants—even she will occasionally try her hand at sucking more out of me. A new bracelet, cash for rent, a tank of gas for the BMW that her last sugar daddy handed her . . .
But Rain was cute today, in a feisty way, humoring me by taking a bite of that sandwich that she was so obviously not going to enjoy. Her nose crinkling up at the sight of it. Her witty little insult. The way she hung back, waiting, hoping for a chance to see me again but not willing to come right out and ask after already being so forward earlier. Girls like Priscilla would have kept pushing. But Rain obviously has some self-respect.