Parker And The Gypsy

Golden ringlets rioted about a heart-shaped face with features as delicate as fine porcelain, from the dainty nose to the small determined chin. She regarded Mike with the most wistful blue eyes he’d ever seen.

She had an angel’s hair, an angel’s eyes, an angel’s mouth. It took Mike a moment to realize he wasn’t breathing and to exhale deeply. It took him a moment longer to snap back to his senses and remember that the only angels he had any use for were the fallen kind.

This young woman had that look of dewy-eyed innocence about her that usually meant nothing but trouble. When she hesitated, fretting her lip, Mike barked out, “What can I do for you, sis? Are you sure you’ve got the right office? The Save-a-Soul Mission’s on the first floor.”

“I’m not looking for the mission,” she said softly.

She had an angel’s voice, too. Mike grimaced.

“I’m looking for Michael Parker.”

“You’ve found him.”

“Oh, no!” Her mouth dropped open in dismay. She took a cautious step closer, her remarkable blue eyes traveling over him. “I—I mean you just can’t be Mr. Parker.”

“I forget a lot of things the morning after I’ve tied one on,” Mike said with a sardonic lift of one brow, “but I generally manage to remember my name.”

“I’m sorry.” A flush rose into her cheeks. “I guess I do see the resemblance now.”

Her shoulders sagged as disbelief appeared to give way to disappointment, but Mike was used to that. He’d been disappointing people all his life—his high school teachers, his foster parents, his ex-wife....

The woman’s gaze flicked from Mike to the newspaper she held clutched in her hand. “It’s just that you don’t look very much like your picture.”

Closing the distance between them, Mike snatched the paper away to see just what she had there. It was a puff piece about him, inserted in the Golden Times Gazette, a weekly magazine distributed mostly to local retirement communities, written and edited by Mrs. Eudora Jenkins, a very grateful former client of his. A more glowing testimonial about the Parker Agency could hardly have been penned by his own grandmother.

Mike didn’t know what was worse: the glaring headline, Mike Parker, Crusading P.I., or the sappy photograph that accompanied the article. He would have been hard-pressed to recognize himself from the picture, his broad shoulders encased in a tuxedo, his slightly crooked mouth angled into a debonair smile.

Mike thrust the paper back at the woman who had invaded his office. “I was doing undercover work,” he explained.

“Oh!” Her brow cleared. “You mean you were on a stakeout last night. That explains...everything.” Her gaze drifted over his disheveled appearance.

No, it didn’t, Mike wanted to argue. What he’d meant was that he’d been doing undercover work when he’d been all trussed up in that tuxedo. His present appearance—the beat-up sneakers, the faded jeans, the T-shirt—was much closer to his natural state.

But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that. Not with her beaming at him that way, with such a radiant smile.

She had an angel’s smile...

He caught himself wishing that he had at least taken time to shave after his quick shower. Finger combing his hair in a self-conscious gesture, Mike cleared his throat. “I don’t usually see walk-ins. But if you’d like to step out in the reception room and set up an appointment with my secretary—”

“But she isn’t there.”

Mike stepped around her to peer into the outer office. She was right. Rosa’s desk was empty. She had never come in to work.

“Damn! She’s probably planning to call in sick again,” he said. “Off to visit Dr. Blackjack at the United Memorial Casino.”

When his visitor regarded him blankly, Mike explained, “That’s a joke.”

“Oh.” Again that blinding smile.

It galvanized Mike into stalking forward and pulling up one of the seasick green vinyl chairs that comprised his office decor. He couldn’t remember when the last time was he’d leapt to hold a chair for any woman, but he was doing it now.

“As long as you’re here,” he said, “you might as well sit down.”

“Thank you.” She sank gracefully onto the seat. As Mike pushed the chair into place before his desk, he experienced a double assault on his senses. First the sight of her slim, shapely legs as she crossed them. Then the exotic scent that seemed to radiate from the golden cloud of her hair.

The sweet perfume rendered him a little dizzy. Or maybe, he told himself, it was still the effect of last night’s excesses. He stumbled back to his own seat behind the desk and tried to look nonchalant, leaning back in his chair.

“So what can I do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Parker—”

“Please. Mr. Parker was my father.” Or at least it was until the old man traded his name for the number stamped across his prison inmate’s uniform. Mike shoved the grim thought aside before adding, “Call me ‘Mike.’”

“Mike,” she repeated, her smile gone suddenly shy. Her golden-tipped lashes drifted down. “It’s very hard for me to know where to begin.”

“Then why don’t we start with something easy? Like your name.”

“It’s Sara Holyfield. And no h. In Sara, that is.”

“Sara with no h,” Mike murmured, but he was distracted by the silvery glint of her earrings. To his complete fascination, he saw that she was wearing naked fairies dangling off each ear. Very nubile fairies with delicate wings.

And there appeared to be another one suspended from a chain around her neck. This creature poised on top of some kind of crystal. Mike started to lean forward, tracing the path of the fairy where it danced down the front of her blouse, but he caught himself just in time.

Shoving aside the stack of paper that littered his desk—several days’ worth of unopened mail—Mike attempted to assume a more professional stance. He managed to locate a notepad and a pen that actually worked. Jotting down Sara’s name, he pressed her for a few more basic facts such as her address and phone number.

“Aurora Falls, New Jersey, huh?” he commented as he scrawled the information on his pad. “You drove a long way to find yourself a detective.”

“There was no one back there who could help me.”

“Suppose you tell me what the problem is and I’ll see what I can do.”

Sara nodded, but she still appeared reluctant to proceed. Mike had encountered this before in first-time clients—the nervousness, the embarrassment to talk of what were often highly personal difficulties. Usually he lost patience and ordered his customers to cut to the chase.

But something about Sara Holyfield inspired an unaccustomed gentleness in him. Mike tried to set her at her ease by offering her a piece of his favorite peppermint gum. When she declined, he popped a stick in his own mouth, then settled back in his chair with what he hoped was a father-confessor type of expression.

“Just relax and take your time,” he soothed.

She started to speak and ended up fretting with her purse strings instead. She had smooth graceful fingers with neat, well-trimmed nails—nothing like those red-painted talons his ex-wife, Darcy, had sported. Mike had a notion Sara’s hands would feel all warm and silky, just like the rest of her ivory-toned skin.

He clicked the peppermint gum against his teeth, annoyed that he had let his mind go skipping off like that again. After an awkward silence, he probed delicately, “There’s some trouble with your husband perhaps?”

She shook her head vigorously, the fairies swinging with her hair. “I’ve never been married.”

“A boyfriend, then?”

“He’s moved to Texas.”

“And you want me to trace him?”