he’d said originally. “I believe in minding my own business.”
“I still need your place of business.” He indicated an empty line on the form. “For the record. Humor me,” he told her when she didn’t respond.
With a sigh, she gave him the address of the store where she worked in Newport Beach. It didn’t matter really. As soon as she got Vinny back, Dakota already knew she’d be clearing out. Maybe even leaving the country this time, although she hated the thought of doing something that drastic. But to keep her son safe, she was willing to do anything, to go to any lengths. Nothing meant anything to her without Vinny.
Rusty looked down at the name and address he’d just jotted down.
“Neiman-Marcus department store.” It was a store he considered too expensive for even window-shopping. The one in Newport Beach had three stories. “That’s a lot of people to not talk to.” His expression was affable as he asked, “What do you do there?”
“I’m in sales.” It wasn’t what she’d wanted to do with her life, but it was the best she could get under the circumstances. Thinking that he probably thought the job beneath him, she added, “The position of Philosopher King was taken.”
Rusty was surprised at the Aristotelian reference. He didn’t take Dakota for someone who read such dry material. It had put him to sleep that one semester in college. “Don’t you mean Philosopher Queen?”
“No,” she contradicted. “King. A king’s higher.” Her mouth curved just the slightest bit. “I always aim for the best.”
He didn’t doubt it for a moment. She’d struck him as a class act the moment he’d seen her, someone who was accustomed to, and who got, the best. Which had made him wonder what she’d been doing living in his complex. It was a pleasant enough place in which to live and the surrounding area was nice, but there was nothing upper echelon about it. And neither was there about the job she had. Yet she read or at least was familiar with Aristotle. The woman was an enigma.
Rusty moved on to the next item. “I’ll also need a list of friends.”
Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Don’t you have any of your own?”
She was sharper-tongued and less frantic than she had been last night or even this morning. Had the kidnapper contacted her? And if so, why wasn’t she saying anything?
“Mine won’t help, yours might,” he said dryly.
There weren’t any friends, not here. She couldn’t allow herself to get close to anyone anymore. The woman at the day-care center where she left Vinny had tried more than once to get her to open up, or at least to get together with some of the other mothers, but she had steadfastly remained distant. It was safer that way.
“I told you, I’m a private person.”
His expression was innocent as he studied her. “No friends?”
“No need.”
It was a lie. She had a very real need to share, to lean, and there were friends, but they were all back in Las Vegas and she couldn’t risk contacting any of them. It was like being in the witness protection program without the comfort of safety.
Rusty didn’t buy that answer, either. No one was an island, even if they thought they were. Because of what he’d gone through, his brother Chad had been distant, like Dakota, but even Chad had eventually recognized his own need for contact, for warmth. Rusty reasoned that it would be the same for Dakota.
“Has there been anyone you noticed hanging around in the area lately? Anyone unusual?”
One side of her mouth raised a fraction of an inch as she looked at him. “You mean, other than you?”
She was referring to the times he had tried to get a conversation going with her. “I live there, remember?”
The hint of a smile faded and she shook her head. “No, no one unusual.”
He looked at her steadily. “And no one’s contacted you?”
Her impatience surfaced again. “I already told you they hadn’t.”
Rusty sighed inwardly. He felt like a lawyer with a hostile witness on the stand. It wasn’t usually like this. Most of the time the parent was only too eager to keep talking, hoping that something would lead to their child’s recovery. Doggedly, he pressed on.
As he continued asking questions, he noted that Dakota vacillated between being wary, snappish and wry. Writing down her answers in his own brand of shorthand, Rusty continued to wonder why she would behave in such a fashion, considering the circumstances.
He had no way of knowing that the woman sitting so rigidly in front of him was wrestling with her thoughts and her conscience. Throughout the questioning, she kept trying to decide whether or not to be completely honest and tell Rusty who she believed had abducted her son. But each qualm of conscience brought fear with it. Fear that if Rusty knew who he might be facing, he would back away. And she did need him.
But not telling him might delay finding Vinny. In addition, keeping Andreini in the dark might also prove dangerous to him, if not fatal.
The man had a right to know who he was up against.
But, she insisted silently, she had a right to get back her son.
Dakota played with the tips of her nails and decided, for the time being, to keep silent about the identity of the man who’d cast such a dark shadow over her life for the past two years.
Half an hour later, she saw Rusty close his notepad and hit the stop button on the tape recorder. For now, the questions stopped.
She had a question of her own.
“You haven’t talked about payment.”
He’d never been good when it came to talking about money. As a teenager, because he had always been naturally handy, he had worked on neighbors’ cars to earn spending money. But he had always had trouble asking for what was due him. Exasperated when she thought people were taking advantage of him, Megan had taken over the financial end of his business.
“You can stop at Carrie’s desk on your way out, she’ll be happy to go over everything with you. If there’s any problem,” he said, anticipating that there would be strictly because of what she’d said in her apartment last night, “it can be worked out. The main thing is to find your son.”
She was starting to believe that he believed that. “Yes, it is, but I don’t intend to do that on credit.”
Dakota dug into her purse, searching for what she’d slipped inside just before she’d left. Her fingers curved around the multifaceted surfaces.
She tossed the item on his desk with a carelessness that surprised him. He’d thought that every woman revered jewelry. The diamond necklace sitting on top of his papers would have inspired reverence in a Spartan.
The sparkle emanating from it was almost blinding. “Is it real?”
“As real as you are.” She tried to not think about when she had received it from Vincent. He’d made her close her eyes
