Receptionist Under Cover

Feeling oddly self-conscious, he glanced left, then right. No one even noticed him. Most of the passersby were huddled under umbrellas. And, anyway, New Yorkers always minded their own business.

He climbed six steps to a door that led to a small vestibule. The Fox & Fisher Detective Agency wasn’t the only business housed in this building. He checked the signs, then climbed more stairs, up to the next story.

A semitranslucent door had The Fox & Fisher Detective Agency lettered over the glass. He checked the hours, confirmed that it was open. Well, of course it was. What business wouldn’t be at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday?

He went in.

A woman was sitting at a reception desk. She was petite, with dark hair, darker eyes and pretty red lips. Her smile was meant to be welcoming, but she seemed slightly nervous about something.

“I don’t have an appointment,” he said. “Is that okay?” Up until three seconds ago, he hadn’t been sure he would go through with this. He wasn’t the kind of guy who hired other people to solve his problems.

Then again, he’d never had a problem quite like this one before.

“That’s fine. I can fit you in without an appointment.”

“Good. I’m in luck then.” She had a beautiful, refined way of speaking. Well educated, he could tell.

He wasn’t. He’d learned about life the old-fashioned way, through work and experience, and the lack of a college education had never stood in his way. He slipped his fingers inside his jacket, reached past the book he’d just received in the mail, to the manila envelope. Still dry. Good.

He removed his coat and folded it carefully over one arm, so the envelope wouldn’t fall out.

“Would you like to hang that in the closet?”

He shook his head, the muscles in his arms tightening reflexively. “I’d rather keep it with me.”

“Fine.” The dark-haired woman picked up a stack of files, and for no reason that he could tell, moved them to a different corner of her desk. “How can I help you?”

He was standing there like a dolt, trying not to feel absurd, yet the situation was so surreal. He’d certainly never dreamed that he would have reason to seek out the services of a private investigator.

Yet here he was.

“I’m Patrick O’Neil. I’d like to speak with one of your investigators. I—I need to find someone.”

“Locating missing persons is one of our specialties. And I’d be glad to help you. My name is Nadine Kimble.”

“You? But—I assumed you were the receptionist.”

Those pretty dark eyes blinked. “She’s on a break. I was just filling in for a few moments. We can continue our discussion in the boardroom. Would you like a coffee?”

He nodded. This situation was just getting stranger and stranger. Coffee would help. He let her pour him a cup, then added his own cream before following her down a short hall to a room on the left.

Like the reception area, the conference room was decorated in a modern, minimalistic style. He squinted at the odd black-and-white photos on the wall.

“Close-ups of paper clips,” the woman explained, which really explained nothing, as far as Patrick was concerned. Why put paper clips on your wall when you could have something truly beautiful, like a photograph of mountains, or the ocean or even one graceful tree?

“Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.” Nadine Kimble opened a notebook and pulled out a pen. “Now—who would you like us to find?”

He had an urge to question her credentials, but he supposed that was sexist of him. Just because she was little and cute and extremely feminine didn’t mean she couldn’t be a kick-ass investigator. Plus, this was the place that had been recommended.

With care, he removed the items in his coat pocket, first the book, then the package. Her eyes fell on the book. It was upside-down and his author photo was clearly visible.

“Is that you?” She reached across the table. “May I look?”

Action and Adventure in New Zealand was his sixth book. This ought to be old hat to him by now. But he still felt a rush of pride at seeing his picture, and his name, right there on the cover.

“By all means. I just received that copy from my publisher. The book won’t be available in stores for another month.”

“So, you’re an author. Of travel books.”

She sounded impressed.

Many women were.

This is not some girl you’re trying to chat up at the bar. Still, he found himself giving her his regular spiel. “I prefer to think of it as adventure travel. For people who are fit and up for a challenge and want to explore new places in ways that most tourists never experience.”

“That sounds wonderful.” She flipped through the pages, stopping to look at some of the pictures. Then she gave him a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I’m getting distracted, aren’t I?”

She set the book to the side, then folded her arms on the table and leaned in toward him. “Tell me why you’re here.” She glanced expectantly at the manila envelope he’d placed on the table.

He covered the envelope with a protective hand. He felt as if something thick and hard had suddenly lodged in his throat. Even though he’d already decided this was the most expeditious solution, he suddenly wasn’t sure he could share his very personal situation with a stranger.

But what choice did he have? The revisions on his Alaska manuscript were due at the publishers in three weeks. He had no time to handle this himself. Wasn’t even sure how to go about it, truth be told.

“I need your help to—” His voice cracked. He took a sip of coffee, then managed to get the rest out. “To find my son.”

CHAPTER TWO

NADINE STARED AT THE MANILA envelope on the table, her feet suddenly as cold as ice.

Was this case going to be something she could handle on her own? What would she do if it wasn’t?

She’d been hoping her first client would be a nice, old lady, missing a piece of antique jewelry. Or maybe a sweet, young husband, worried that his new wife was unfaithful. Of course, in Nadine’s imagination, she wasn’t….

But instead she’d ended up with this strong, forceful man brimming with masculine vitality. Patrick O’Neil seemed not quite wild, but close to it, with thick, unruly, chestnut-colored hair, and a body packed with solid muscles.

She’d never met anyone like him, and felt completely out of her element. For heaven’s sake, he was an adventurer by trade. The book he’d just shown her had a picture of a guy paragliding off a cliff and she had no doubt that it was Patrick O’Neil himself in the photograph.

She swallowed, desperate to moisten her parched mouth. She couldn’t let him see that she was intimidated. After all, he was here because he needed help.

“Your son…has he run away?” she asked, trying to sound as if she’d seen it all and didn’t expect to be surprised.

He seemed impatient as he shook his head. “Not really. The situation is complicated. Six weeks ago, when I left on a working trip to Alaska, I didn’t even know I had a son. I found this envelope piled up with the rest of the mail that had collected over the six weeks I was away.”

From the larger envelope, he pulled out two smaller letters. One of them had been opened. The other—addressed simply to Stephen—still sealed.

Puzzled, Nadine waited for him to explain.

“These letters were written by an old girlfriend. One was addressed to me, the other to a young man named Stephen.” He ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “A young man she claims is my son.”