angrier she became, the calmer he remained. “Look, you need help.”
She started pacing. He was making her crazy. For all she knew, he was in on it. Just because he had this lean, trustworthy face and soulful blue eyes was no reason to believe a thing he was saying or to buy into his good-neighbor act. She’d been conned by the best.
“No kidding, Sherlock.”
Feeling at a loss, fervently wishing that this was all a bad dream, she nervously dragged her hand through her hair.
She’d been so careful to hide her tracks. How had this happened? How had they been found?
When she turned around, she saw the open door and noted the fact that the man hadn’t yet taken the blatant hint and left.
“You want to help? Okay, help.” She was new in town, without a single friend to turn to. Not that she would have expected any friend to stand by her. Not when faced with the consequences that friendship entailed. “Tell me where I can find myself a good private detective.”
This wasn’t making any sense. Most people in her position would have immediately wanted the police to take up the search. Why was she so adamant about not calling them in?
Maybe it was shock, he thought. People in shock did strange things. His sister had handled a case six months ago where the mother insisted on talking to the kidnapped child as if he was right there beside her. There was no question in his mind that if the case hadn’t been resolved positively, the woman might have wound up spending the next few years of her life in an institution.
He tried again. “The police—”
How many ways did she have to spell it out? “I said I don’t want the police.”
“It’s a kidnapping,” he told her gently, “the police and the FBI have the manpower to blanket the area.”
Oh, God, calling in the FBI would be even worse. Vinny would disappear forever. She couldn’t do any of that. And this guy, whoever he thought he was, certainly couldn’t be allowed to do that, Dakota thought frantically.
“Stop talking to me as if I were an idiot. I know exactly what’ll happen if I call in the police, you don’t. No police. No FBI. Nobody on public payroll,” she insisted adamantly. “I need someone I can buy, someone who’ll work just for me. If you don’t know anyone like that—”
Dakota moved to the open front door again, her meaning clear.
He hadn’t said anything to her earlier because it would have sounded too opportunistic, as if he were trying to take advantage of the situation and her pain. But since she was insisting on this path, so be it.
Rusty placed his hand on the side of the door and to her annoyed surprise, pushed it closed. “I think it’s time I explained to you what I do for a living.”
Chapter 2
Her heart stopped beating in her chest.
She stared at the man who had pushed his way into her apartment, into her dilemma. Any second now Dakota was sure her head would spin off if she relinquished the slightest iota of control she was exercising over it. Even now, the room felt as if it had tilted beneath her feet.
What he did for a living?
Dakota’s mouth was desert-dry as she whispered, “You’re not a cop, are you?”
Until this moment the thought hadn’t occurred to her. It should have. The times Andreini had tried to start up a conversation, he’d struck her as being too exuberant, too innocent-looking to be a policeman. But why not? Nothing came in stereotype these days. She of all people should know that by now.
Look at Vincent. She would never have taken him to be who he ultimately turned out to be. Not with that blond hair and that Nordic complexion.
For that matter, look at her. She wasn’t what she tried to pretend to be, either. But that was different. That was for survival purposes.
Rusty looked at her more closely. Was it his imagination, or did she look afraid there for a second? “Not exactly—”
“Then what, exactly?” she cut in before he had a chance to explain anything further.
“I’m a private investigator—”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him with contempt. A private investigator. She’d just said she needed one. How convenient.
“Yeah, right.”
He couldn’t decide whether her contempt was aimed at him or his profession.
“No, I am.” To prove it, Rusty dug into his back pocket for his wallet.
Did he have some kind of fake I.D. on him? Something he used to pick up women who thought that kind of a career was cool? Dakota laughed shortly, wondering just how far this man would go with this charade and what kind of a ghoul hit on a woman whose baby had just been stolen.
Her contempt was barely contained. “Pretty big coincidence, don’t you think?”
Undeterred, Rusty pulled out his wallet. “Maybe you can think of it as luck.”
Enough was enough. She wanted him out of here so she could think. The fear that she was never going to see her son again kept washing over her.
“And maybe I can think of it as a scam.” Her eyes narrowed to condemning slits. “Like someone trying to take advantage of a rotten situation.”
He’d been taken with her the second he’d first seen her walking across the parking lot, her fingers firmly wrapped around her son’s hand. The sway of her hips, the long, slender legs that seemed to go on forever, urging a man to follow, and the long mane of blond hair that begged to be touched, all of it coming together to form the quintessential fantasy. Rusty couldn’t remember ever being mesmerized like that. There was no disputing the fact that the woman was not merely attractive, but stunningly gorgeous by anyone’s standards.
And he had a feeling that her looks had not come without some heavy price tag. The woman had a chip on her shoulder a mile wide and obviously didn’t trust people easily.
But then, he’d always been the patient one in his family.
Without saying another word in his defense, Rusty opened his wallet, flipping past the photographs he had of his older brother and sister, of his mother and the father they all rarely spoke of—the one who had inadvertently been instrumental in getting all three of them involved in the agency that tried to undo horrible wrongs done to children and their families. As far as Rusty knew, he was the only member of the family who actually had a picture of their late father, although he knew that Chad had eventually made his peace with the man who had all but ruined his life.
He held the wallet open to show the woman the private investigator’s license that had been issued to him a week after he’d graduated from the University of Bedford with his degree in criminology.
As he watched, a layer of the disbelief on her face melted away.
Score one for the home team, he thought.
