kept telling myself that I’d do it as soon as she got out here. And now I feel responsible for her. If something should happen…”
“What could happen? You have labored under the suspicion that Benjamin Lewis had something to do with your aunt’s disappearance far too long. The man’s a pillar of the community, for heaven’s sake. Sure, he supposedly had past mob connections, but not since he moved his family out here almost thirty years ago.” Franco rose from the couch. “But just in case our little librarian is in any danger, I have the perfect backup plan. I thought I would store it here while my apartment is in use.” Rising, he strode to the hall closet and drew out a hanger. “This,” he gave the hanger a little shake and for a moment the black skirt hanging from it seemed to catch the light, “will protect her.”
Jack shifted his gaze from the skirt to Franco. “That’s a skirt.”
“Indeed, it is—but it’s a very special skirt. The fiber was woven from the lunua plant that grows only on this one island, and whoever wears the skirt has the power to draw men like a magnet. I’m trying to get in touch with the original owner, Torrie Lassiter. She lives here in San Francisco and I’m trying to track her down for an interview. Supposedly, she started everything by tossing the skirt instead of her bouquet at her wedding. Since then, this little skirt’s become an urban legend.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Jack asked.
Franco raised his right hand, a solemn expression on his face. “I would never joke about this skirt. I’ve seen it in action. Since I’ve moved out here to San Francisco, I’ve given some thought to wearing it myself. Getting back into the dating scene is tough. It’s a real wasteland out there.” Franco shifted his gaze to the skirt. “Still…I’m not sure I’m ready. The skirt comes with a little catch.”
“Most things do.” Jack studied the skirt. It looked ordinary enough—simple, black, basic.
“Whoever wears this skirt will draw her true love to her,” Franco said.
Jack studied his friend. He’d known Franco long enough to know when he was joking. But he was serious. And he was sober. “Just how is a man-magnet skirt supposed to protect Corie Benjamin? She isn’t coming out here looking for a man.”
Franco held up a hand. “On the contrary. She is looking for one—her father. And the interesting thing about this skirt is that it has different effects on different men. It’s been known to get some of the women who’ve worn it out of very tough scrapes—including ones involving guns and knives.”
Moving forward, Franco spread the skirt out on one of the couch cushions. “I was going to talk Corie into wearing it anyway. Now I’ll just fit it into the makeover. The skirt is the hook I’m using in my screenplay.”
“Franco, I don’t know…”
“What can it hurt?”
Reaching out, Jack fingered the material. For a moment, he was almost sure he caught a scent that reminded him of the kind of exotic flowers that would only grow on a tropical island. That was almost as ridiculous as the feeling of being watched that he’d gotten on the pier earlier.
Outside on the street, there was a loud sound like a gunshot. Dropping the skirt, Jack whirled back to the window in time to see a large black car give one lurch, then, tires squealing, race toward the corner.
Franco patted him on the shoulder. “That car was just backfiring. You should take something to calm your nerves.”
But it wasn’t the car or the backfiring that bothered Jack. It was the man he’d caught a glimpse of in the front seat of the car. A man wearing a hat and sunglasses with a dog on his lap. For a second, he was almost sure that it was the blind man he’d seen walking his dog at Fisherman’s Wharf.
CORIE STEPPED OUT of the jet way and blinked at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows that ran along both walls of the airport. Well, she was here. Too late for regrets, she told herself as she pressed a hand against the mix of nerves and excitement bubbling away in her stomach.
Tightening her grip on her duffel bag, she glanced at the overhead signs and followed the arrows toward baggage pickup. Jack Kincaid would be there, and her San Francisco adventure would begin. She was determined to make the seven days count.
Eagerly she studied people around her, noting the tiny Chinese woman in the slim black pants and sandals, the Indian woman in a colorful sarong, a luxuriously built redhead in pencil-thin heels and a blue silk business suit that Corie bet cost more than she made at the library in a month. Only by force of sheer willpower did she keep herself from glancing down at her shapeless navy dress and serviceable shoes. In Fairview, she fit right in. In San Francisco she was a walking, breathing 9-1-1 fashion emergency.
Straightening her shoulders, she stepped onto the escalator that promised to take her to baggage claim. She was going to change her image as soon as she could, but for now, she had to focus on meeting Jack Kincaid and his friend with the unusual wardrobe. As she scanned the heads popping into view, she spotted the man who had to be Jack’s friend.
Skimming her gaze over the lime-green walking shorts, orange polka-dot T-shirt and orange-rimmed sunglasses, Corie couldn’t prevent a smile. The whole outfit seemed to work somehow. Then she shifted her attention to Jack Kincaid who was taller than his companion and dressed more conservatively in jeans and a tan linen sport coat. The two men made a very odd couple indeed. The shorter man placed a hand on Jack’s arm, and Jack leaned closer to listen.
For the first time, it struck her that they might be just that—a couple. Jack had said he was bringing a “friend” to the airport, and this was San Francisco, after all. As she watched, Jack grinned at something his companion was saying. Then the dimple that she hadn’t been able to keep from touching on his book jacket was there, too, appearing and disappearing as his grin deepened or faded. What would it feel like to press her finger into that dimple?
The thought had her stopping dead in her tracks.
It wasn’t wise to be thinking about touching Jack Kincaid. Especially since it appeared that he already had someone to touch his dimple. Besides, hadn’t she decided that Jack was just the kind of man her mother had warned her about? “He will lie to you, and you will believe him.”
Well, she wouldn’t believe him—not entirely. In the two days since she’d made her decision to use the plane ticket Jack had sent her, Corie had clarified her goals, and she had a notebook full of doodles to prove it. The library had given her one week off, and she was determined to make the most of it. Not only was she going to meet the man who might be her father and find out why her mother had run away to hide, but she was also going to live it up while she was in San Francisco. She was going to do things she might never have the opportunity to ever do in Fairview—not with Muriel Ponsonby and the quilting circle hovering over her. One thing she was sure of. When she returned, no one was ever going to even think of her in the same sentence as Harold Mitzenfeld again.
Moving forward, she caught what the two men were saying.
“You’ve got to tell her,” the man with the green shorts was saying.
“I’m going to just as soon as I find the right time—after she settles in a bit,” Jack replied.
Corie saw the other man’s brows rise above the orange-framed sunglasses. “There’s a right time to find out your family has a lurid past?”
Corie
