front door to the mansion opened, and a young woman walked out. Jenna Aldridge was taller, more mature than she’d been in the last photo Sam had seen of her. Still, she was twelve years old. A child. A long black car crept slowly around the circular driveway, momentarily blocking Sam’s view of the girl. The driver, a large man who probably also served as a bodyguard, left the driver’s seat to open Jenna’s door. The two exchanged a few words. Both smiled. So far so good.
The car headed Sam’s way. There was a collection of survey equipment and a stack of very official-looking forms in the backseat, in case anyone decided to question Sam’s right to be here. He even had a very fine fake ID that would get him past a quick inspection.
But none of that was necessary. The long car transporting Jenna Aldridge to school drove past, and neither of the occupants gave Sam more than a passing glance.
Jenna Aldridge had everything any child could ask for, and to pop in and turn the girl’s world upside down with news she didn’t want or need would be devastating. Still, Lizzie needed to see what Sam had just seen; she needed to see with her own eyes that this child who might be her half sister was in good hands.
He took a quick picture of the house, not for a moment thinking it would be enough to make Lizzie back off.
Sam had pulled away from the curb and made it to the next corner when a white Jaguar convertible passed him. The blonde at the wheel was heavily made up and dressed in a snug-fitting lightweight sweater that matched her car. Jewelry flashed in the sunshine; bracelets, a gold necklace, a huge ring on the hand that rested on the steering wheel. He watched in the rearview mirror as she pulled into the driveway Jenna Aldridge’s car had just exited.
Curious, Sam turned around at the corner and slowly made his way back down the street. The Jag pulled up to the front door, and the blonde exited the flashy car with a bounce in her step. Before she could reach the front door it opened, and Darryl Connelly greeted her with a wide smile and open arms she rushed into with eagerness. Feeling as sleazy as he had in the early days when he’d had to take a lot of unsavory divorce cases in order to pay the bills, Sam lifted his camera and snapped a quick photo.
Interesting.
Lizzie arrived at Sam’s office bright and early on Saturday morning, a few minutes before the agreed time of 7 a.m. Sam was already there, going over paperwork, looking much too fresh and chipper for the hour. When had Sam Travers become a morning person?
No suit today, she noted. He looked more like the Sam she remembered, in jeans and a plain gray T-shirt. So where was the gun? She was quite sure it was handy. It was sad, that he felt he always had to have that weapon close. When he’d said he slept with the gun under his pillow, had he been exaggerating?
“Good morning,” she said as she rushed into his office with her toolbox and gigantic tub of putty and a roll of plastic. She was dressed for the job in an ancient pair of baggy jeans and an old tee that advertised a local bank. Both were paint splattered, revealing an array of colors she’d used in the past year. She was a walking advertisement for her own work.
Sam glanced up, took in her attire and smiled. “Did you manage to get any paint on the walls?”
“Very funny.” She carefully placed her things on the floor and surveyed the office, trying to decide where to start. The walls really were awful, with dings and dents and holes where pictures had once hung. Sam’s office wasn’t only dull, it was imperfect. It was seriously flawed. This she could fix.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked when Lizzie began to move the chairs on the east side of the room away from the wall.
“I’m paying for your investigative services,” she said, not bothering to look his way.
“You’re not moving furniture,” he insisted, and she could hear his chair scrape back as he stood.
“I am,” she said.
“You are not,” he replied.
Lizzie turned to stare at the stubborn man for a long moment. “Do you expect me to paint around the furniture?”
“I’ll move the furniture,” he said, almost, but not quite, clenching his teeth.
“It’s part of the job, part of my payment for your services. Geez, Sam, I work alone more often than not, and I’ve moved my fair share of furniture. It’s not like you have an armoire or a sleeper sofa. This I can handle.”
He stepped away from the desk. “Let me…”
“Am I going to have to ban you from your own office for the duration?”
He stopped short. “What duration? You’ll finish today, right?”
Lizzie grinned. “No way. I don’t just slap paint on a wall and call it done. This is at least a three-day job. Maybe four.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Five days minimum if you don’t let me get to work.”
He didn’t like the idea, but he did finally return to his desk, sit and grudgingly allow her to do what she’d come here to do. The east side of the room didn’t have a window, which made it a good place to start. She moved the furniture away from the wall—nothing heavy, just a small table with an artificial plant sitting on it and an uncomfortable-looking chair—and laid out her drop cloth. The putty she used wasn’t horribly messy, but sometimes she got carried away. Better safe than sorry. She tried to ignore the fact that Sam was in the room, but it wasn’t easy. She was going to have to tell him that he didn’t have to stay here and watch her the whole time. She liked to work alone. Usually she set up her portable CD player and popped in some music and got lost in her work. With Sam around, she couldn’t get lost in anything!
She took down the framed photograph of Sam and her dad after a long-ago fishing trip, as well as a generic landscape. When she started to remove the nails with the grooved end of her favorite hammer, he stopped her with a chilling question.
“What are you doing?”
Hammer in hand, she turned to face him. “I’m working. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“You don’t paint with a hammer and I have nowhere else to be but right here.”
She curled her lip, slightly. “Must I explain myself step by step?”
“Apparently so.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and there was something about the stance he took that made Lizzie’s heart skip a beat. When it came to men, she wasn’t exactly a novice. She’d dated guys in the past, one or two fairly seriously. She knew quite a few boys, some as friends, some as more than friends—though she’d been without a more-than-friend for a while now. She’d had a few boyfriends, some serious and some not so. Sam was no guy and he was no boy. He was one hundred percent man, and he affected her differently than any other man or boy or guy she’d ever known. He made her stomach turn over and her mouth go dry. He made her tremble deep down and crave things she should not, could not crave. Suddenly she felt a little defensive, as if she needed to build a wall between her and Sam just to protect her sanity.
“If you don’t understand the importance of prep work then I’m not surprised that you don’t have a girlfriend.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, Lizzie felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. When was she going to learn to think
