to use her, it was better to dislike her. Better not to feel a thrill of challenge when she gave back as good as she got.
He switched the conversation to business. “You understand my own accountants will present whatever deal you work out to the market.”
“Of course.”
However much Holly got on his nerves, as they talked through some of the projects she’d handled, Jared could see why her clients loved her. Animation lit her face, adding to her feminine appeal. Had Fletcher really been attracted to her, before greed overtook him? Or had he been fooling her from the start, setting her up to take the fall? Jared may not be pure as the driven snow, but he was no Dave Fletcher.
Holly struggled to keep her mind on what Jared was saying, but his insinuations about Dave ate at her. She wanted to trust Dave. It galled her that she could have been wrong about him, when every day she relied on her instincts to steer her. Those same instincts warned her now to be wary of Jared. Yet here she was, working for him, confiding in him. Holly sighed as she licked the last of her roasted strawberry crème brûlée off her spoon.
“Coffee?” Jared asked.
She shook her head. “I have to get back to my friend’s place and wash my blouse for tomorrow.” She wished AnnaMae wasn’t a petite size two. It would be so much easier if Holly could just borrow her clothes.
He gave her a pained look. “You mean, you’re going to wear this outfit every day?”
“It’s practical.” She glared at him. “I don’t dress to vamp up the office.”
“Obviously.”
“Do you want to give me an advance on my fee,” she said, “so I can buy some clothes?” She could pop into Nordstrom for a new blouse and some underwear, at least. Beyond that, she’d need every penny she earned for those college fees.
He snickered. “Are you saying this is a cash job?”
“I will, of course, declare any cash advance for tax purposes,” she said stiffly.
Jared got to his feet and waited for her to do the same. “I never doubted it.” As they left the restaurant another idea struck him. “The FBI might let you collect a few things from your condo if a lawyer asks them. I could get my attorney to—”
“I’m in enough trouble as it is.” Holly stepped away from him as if he’d just offered to deal drugs with her right there on the sidewalk. “Any lawyer who works for you probably brings up a red flag on the FBI’s system.”
Jared had taken plenty of insults in his life and never given a damn. So he couldn’t explain why Holly’s rock-bottom assessment of his character should leave him feeling sucker-punched. Not only was she rude, she was a hypocrite. She’d said she wanted to be more tolerant, then proceeded to label him little more than a criminal, right after eating an expensive meal that he’d paid for.
He fumed as he watched Holly drive away. Time to show Ms. Stephens who’s the boss.
On impulse, he decided to drive by Holly’s condo on Queen Anne. He told himself it was only a slight detour, worth it to see where the Accountant From Hell lived.
He’d memorized both her addresses from her résumé: the neatly typed home address and the hand-written address of the place she was staying right now. But even if he hadn’t got it quite right, the yellow crime scene tape across the front door and downstairs windows of the condo, incongruous in the upscale street, were a dead giveaway. There was no guard on the door, no one watching the property as far as he could tell. Looking at the darkened windows, Jared suddenly knew just how to annoy the hell out of Holly and at the same time solve her problem.
Just as she’d asked—no—ordered him not to.
CHAPTER THREE
JARED COMMITTED to his plan without taking even a moment to weigh it up. Weren’t his best initiatives the product of pure gut instinct?
He parked around the corner on a quiet side street. Within seconds he was heading for the wrought-iron gate of the communal garden typical of these fancy complexes.
He tugged at the gate—locked. A card swipe mechanism on the brick wall blinked a red light, telling him he wasn’t welcome. Jared took a closer look at the wall. It really wouldn’t be too difficult to scale. He threw his jacket over—the need to retrieve it would be added incentive for success—and hoisted himself up. He went right on over the other side before any of Holly’s neighbors could look out a window and alert the police to an intruder.
To his disgust, each condo had a small, private backyard, also walled. Holly must be raking it in to afford this. Unless, of course, she really had stolen her clients’ money. No doubt the thought had crossed the Feds’ minds.
As he judged the height of this second barrier, Jared considered the wisdom of what he was about to do. This wasn’t just a wall he was about to breach. It was the boundary between his strictly business relationship with Holly and something…irregular. A degree of involvement in her problems that he didn’t want. He dismissed the thought. No way was he chickening out.
He hauled himself over the smaller wall and started across her immaculate patch of lawn. He’d bet the Feds hadn’t set the condo’s alarm, so their people could come and go easily. But the back door and downstairs windows had more yellow tape across them. Best not to disturb it.
Jared climbed the fire escape to reach the largest upstairs window, which he guessed was Holly’s bedroom. He draped his jacket over his elbow and smashed the glass. Too late, it occurred to him she was the sort of woman who would have dead bolts on her windows. He fumbled in the darkness to find the window catch. Yep, a dead bolt.
With the key in it. Suppressing an exclamation of triumph, he unlocked the window and slid it open. He stepped gingerly into the room, partly to avoid the broken glass, partly out of the crazy notion that the more carefully he moved the less likely he would be to trigger an alarm.
When he was sure the only sound he could hear was the thudding of his heart—surely breaking and entering hadn’t been this stressful the last time he tried it?—he pulled the heavy draperies shut behind him and snapped on the bedside lamp.
Holly’s bedroom was as neat as he would have expected. If the FBI had searched it, they’d done a good job of tidying up afterward. The white damask counterpane on the double bed was unwrinkled, with two square pillows propped carefully on single points against the light-colored wood of the headboard.
Twin matching nightstands flanked the bed, both surfaces clear of clutter. Next to the tallboy dresser, a small armchair was upholstered in a light-blue check. The walls, he guessed in the dim lamplight, were cream or off-white.
It could have been sterile. But it felt simply… honest.
On the wall opposite the bed hung framed photographs of two teenagers, a boy and a girl.
On the other wall, directly above the bed, hung something so out of place it had to be important.
An oil painting, unframed, in bold oranges and reds, measuring about a foot square. Behind all that color was a green-blue swirl of background, cold where the rest was warm.
With difficulty, Jared tore his gaze from it. He wrapped his jacket around
