Addison choked out a humorless laugh. "We'll see how overcome with disbelief you are after my lawyer gets finished with you." It took all her concentration not to sway as she started for the desk to retrieve her purse. The last thing she wanted this man to know was that he'd shaken her down to the tips of her toes-and then some.
He regarded her through dark, somber eyes. "I thought you were ... somebody else."
Addison gathered more of her things and dropped them into her purse. "It must have been a dead giveaway when I shouted out my name." She felt sane, almost normal now that he was a safe distance away. With a little luck she might even be able to convince herself nothing had happened between them.
He stooped to pick up the gold tube of lipstick and handed it to her. "I guess that means you're not open for an apology."
Addison studied his face and looked deep for something redeeming, something that would explain her reaction to him, but she came up short. "Not on your life." She snatched the tube from him, vowing to call the Better Business Bureau as soon as she got back to the shop. "I ought to have you arrested." She shoved the lipstick into her purse and pulled the drawstrings tight.
"Since when is arousing a woman a crime?"
Her cheeks flamed. It appalled her that she had reacted to him in some base, animal way. "You're having dangerous illusions." She fled for the door.
"Am I?" He didn't follow.
"I guess it would take an illusion to keep that ego of yours so inflated." She reached the door, remembered belatedly that it was locked, and slammed her palm against it. "Open it!"
He strode to the door, gave it a good yank, and held it open for her. "Sorry. It sticks."
Feeling like a fool, Addison sent him a final, scathing look over her shoulder and bolted. She tried valiantly to avoid the man in the wheelchair, but she was moving too fast. The collision stopped her cold. His glasses flew into his lap. The armrest rammed painfully into her thigh. She cursed.
"Are you all right?" The man steadied her with one hand and grappled for his glasses with the other.
The smell of cigarettes and budget aftershave drifted to her as she extracted herself from the wheelchair. She looked at him, noticing immediately that his features were disturbingly similar to those of the man inside. Hard, direct eyes that weren't quite friendly. Jack Talbot, Addison thought. Her heart sank when she realized the hem of her skirt had somehow become ensnared in the chair's wheel.
"I'm just peachy," she snapped and yanked at the material.
"Let me help you." Awkwardly, he grasped the fabric of her skirt and tried to untangle it from the locking mechanism.
Addison looked up to see Randall Talbot leaning against the door frame, taking in the entire scene as if it had been choreographed for the sole purpose of his entertainment.
"Need some help?" he asked affably.
Grinding her teeth in anger, she took matters into her own hands. With an ungraceful yank, she jerked the material free, tearing her skirt. "Go to hell," she said and limped toward the safety of the sidewalk.
* * *
"Ah another happy customer,” Jack said as he rolled the wheelchair into the office.
Despite the headache and the lingering effects of Addison Fox, Randall managed to smile. "Morning, Jack." He wondered if he should tell his brother how badly he'd screwed up his nine o'clock appointment.
Jack wheeled past him. "Did Felicia show?"
Randall winced, deciding it would be best not to complicate an already complicated situation. Things were tense at best between him and his brother. No reason to make matters worse. "No," he said.
"Or were you too drunk to answer the door?"
Not in the mood for a lecture, Randall started for the coffeemaker.
"You could have drunk yourself to death in Washington," Jack said. "Why the hell did you bother corning back here to do it?"
"I couldn't cut the mustard back in D.C., remember?" Randall didn't like the bitterness in his voice. He hadn't wanted to be bitter about walking out on his career. He hadn't intended to disappoint himself. To his dismay, he'd managed to accomplish both.
Expertly maneuvering the chair, Jack closed the door behind him and headed for the thermostat. "I suppose any man who enjoys tramping over dead bodies is one sick son of a bitch anyway."
Randall shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He'd never imagined himself as a candidate for post traumatic stress disorder. He hated it that the illness had taken him down so hard and fast without so much as a warning. He hated even more the vulnerability he felt knowing he might not ever be able to resume a career he'd invested twelve years of his life in.
Shoving the feelings aside, he watched his brother struggle to reach the thermostat. "You got anything for a headache?" he asked, feeling as though days had passed since he'd picked up that bottle of whiskey.
"You'd be surprised how far a little self-discipline goes."
Randall frowned, relieved when Jack succeeded in adjusting the room temperature. He didn't like watching his brother struggle to accomplish the little things most people took for granted. But having lived with him for the past four months, he knew better than to offer assistance.
It was Randall who had needed his brother after the crumbling of his career at the National Transportation Safety Board. For the first time in his life he'd needed family, someone to fall back on, someone he could count on.
Four months earlier, he'd gotten his walking papers. He'd been officially diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder—which meant a mandatory six-month leave of absence. Shaken and angry, uncertain about his future and the state of his health, he'd sublet his town house in D.C., packed all of his worldly possessions into his Jeep, and headed back to the only home he'd ever known.
"It's not like we've got clients to spare. What the hell did you do to her?" Jack demanded.
Randall wished he hadn't come down so hard on the lady. He'd awakened feeling mean and itching for a fight. She'd merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. What the hell had gotten into him? Jack couldn't afford to have him scaring off clients.
"I guess my customer service is a little rusty." It galled the hell out of him that he could still feel the hard knot of arousal in his groin.
"You always were a charmer." Shaking his head, Jack rolled the chair over to his desk and reached for his cigarettes.
"I thought the doctor told you to stop smoking," Randall said.
"A man in a wheelchair's got to have some vice. I sure as hell can't womanize anymore."
There was bitterness there, too, and Randall moved to quickly stanch it. "You've always had an infatuation with your dick."
Jack laughed heartily and, for a moment, looked much like the man he'd been before the motorcycle accident that had severed his spinal cord five years earlier. "Don't we all, little brother.”
Randall spooned coffee into the filter basket and flipped the switch. "What's on the agenda for today?"
“I was hoping you'd start that ramp you promised me four months ago."
In an effort to earn his keep, Randall had offered to build a wheelchair ramp off the rear deck of Jack's home. He'd bought the lumber and power tools six weeks ago. But time had gotten away from him, and he had yet to haul the supplies out of his Jeep. So much for good intentions.
"I'll start this morning," he said.
Jack only shook his head. "Don't worry, little brother, I won't hold you to it." He wheeled over to the computer. "I'm going to work on the Allen divorce case. I've got to hack into the wife's bank account to check the balances. See if she's holding out on her old man."
"Doesn't the IRS do that?"
"Not in the Cayman Islands."
Randall nodded, never ceasing to be impressed by his brother's computer-related talents. A programmer before the accident, Jack had spent much of the last five years playing computer games. When he became bored with playing, he immersed himself in writing them. When he'd conquered both, he began hacking. At first
, it had been a way to pass the time and alleviate the boredom and depression that had come with the wheelchair. Today, he was a master and put his uncanny abilities to use in the private investigation firm he'd founded two years earlier.
Jack switched on the computer. "I'll make a deal with you, Randall. I'll cut out the cigarettes if you cut out the liquid diet."
Rather than make a promise he probably wouldn't keep, Randall remained silent, hoping his brother would let it pass. As far as he was concerned, his jaunt down the superhighway of self-destruction was his business. He'd get his shit together when he was ready.
After pouring two cups of coffee, Randall set one on the desk in front of Jack and watched as he played the keyboard like a finely tuned musical instrument.
"When are you going back to D.C.?" Jack asked, skimming deft fingers over the keys.
Because he hadn't been sure how long he would be staying in Denver, because he hadn't been too sure about anything at the time, Randall had moved in with Jack, but soon found that a roommate was the last thing his independent-minded older brother wanted. Self-reliance was too important to Jack, especially since he'd been confined to the wheelchair. He made no bones about giving Randall a six-month limit on his tenancy.
"My leave is up in a few weeks. I'll be going back to work then." If I'm deemed competent, a little voice chimed in.
Jack spoke without looking away from the monitor. "You're welcome to stay on here a little longer if you want. You became a resident. Got your P.I. license. If you weren't sleeping with your bottle every night, I might have offered you a partnership."
"Next time I need a lecture, I'll let you know," Randall said tightly, wishing his brother would stop treating him as if he were some kind of alcoholic. Admittedly, he drank too much, but he didn't think he was in over his head. At least not yet.
Setting the cup on his desk, Randall noticed the manila folder. He reached for it, flipped it open, and found himself looking at a copy of a birth certificate, letters from a local attorney, and handwritten notes. The name Addison Fox drew his gaze, and an uncomfortable sense of guilt settled over him.
She'd caught him off guard. Not hard to do after a bottle of whiskey and three hours of sleep, he thought sourly. Not that his general frame of mind was a plus these days. He'd acted like a loser, and she'd treated him accordingly.
Randall wasn't proud of what he'd become, and he felt the loss of his personal integrity like a stake through his heart. A man had hit bottom when he started making mistakes like the one he'd made this morning. He'd cost his brother a client and, in the process, his own self-respect had slipped another notch.
A business card with the depiction of a steaming cup of coffee was clipped to the front of the folder. Frowning, he plucked it off and realized she owned the upscale coffee shop on the corner a few blocks down. He wondered why she needed a private detective.
He stared at the card, taking in the faint scent of her perfume, trying in vain to ignore the tug of shame that drifted over him. Something about her had him thinking about the sorry state of his life. She'd looked young and wholesome and undamaged by the same world that had nearly destroyed him.
He considered stopping in at the Coffee Cup but doubted she would be receptive to an apology so soon. Might be best to let her cool off a couple of days. As he walked out the door, Randall realized he was looking forward to seeing her again. Next time, under different circumstances.
* * *
Addison wanted to break something, preferably Randall Talbot's skull. She was still furious when she arrived back at the shop. Not even the brisk walk or the sight of the falling snow had cooled her anger. Talbot was a crude, unethical man who had the nerve to call himself a professional, then prey on unsuspecting people in need.
It only disgusted her further that her body hadn't noticed.
As much as she didn't want to admit it, she couldn't remember ever being so physically aware of a man. She'd never been one to ogle biceps or tight jeans or other such superficial attributes. It grated against her sense of propriety that her hormones had gone into overdrive for a crass, mean spirited jerk like Talbot. .
Gretchen was right. There were shady private investigation firms out there just waiting for the unsuspecting client to happen by. The thought made her feel gullible and she hated it. Next time, she'd be more cautious.
It took every ounce of control she possessed not to slam the door behind her when she entered the shop through the alley. She stood in the storage room for a full minute, shaking, trying to get her pulse rate down so she could face Gretchen. It wouldn't do her a bit of good to bite her friend's head off, then face her lunch customers when she couldn't even muster a smile.
A moment later, the door swung open and Gretchen approached her with a tray containing a cup of coffee, a powdered scone, and the cordless telephone. "I thought I heard the bell." She set the tray atop a small stool. "How did your meeting go?"
Addison reached for the scone and coffee simultaneously, ignoring the phone. "Let's just say he wasn't Tom Selleck in a Hawaiian shirt."
''That bad, huh?"
She bit into the scone. "Unscrupulous doesn't begin to cover it."
"Oh, my." Frowning, Gretchen looked down at the phone. "You can tell me all about it after you take this call."
The scone stopped in midair. "Who is it?" Addison asked suspiciously. If it was Talbot, she would simply excuse herself, step out into the alley, and let loose with the long string of expletives she'd thought up during her walk back to the shop.
"It's Jim Bernstein."
Addison's stomach tightened. Her attorney never called unless it was important. Unwittingly, she'd stepped back on the emotional roller coaster, she realized. She told herself it was probably nothing. It was her way of mentally bracing. If she didn't get her hopes up, she couldn't be disappointed.
She reached for the phone. "Hello, Jim."
"Are you sitting down?" he asked.
Her heart stuttered. "Have you found something?"
"You might say that. I've located your birth mother."
Chapter 3
Jim Bernstein’s office was a short distance from the shop in an affluent section of lower downtown, nestled among upscale cafes, trendy shops, and tastefully refurbished warehouses. Needing the time to gather her thoughts, Addison decided to walk.
After nine months of searching, she would finally know the identity of her birth mother. For the first time since she began her search, she found herself facing questions she hadn't yet considered. How would she approach this woman who was little more than a stranger? Would her birth mother welcome her with open arms? Or would she turn Addison away at the door?
She ruminated the questions as she walked. By the time she entered the reception area of the law office, she was trembling. She'd looked forward to this moment for so long, she hadn't paused to think about what would transpire after this climax. With the end of her search finally in sight, she could only wonder what kind of relationship she would share with the woman who'd given birth to her.
Jim Bernstein strode into the reception area and welcomed her into one of his uncomfortably tight bear hugs. "Addie, you're lovelier every time I see you."
His warmth eased her nervousness. “Thank you for seeing me."
He was a large man with a voice like a foghorn and the personality of a bull terrier. "Did you see Jack Talbot this morning?"
Addison thought of her disastrous meeting with Randall Talbot and wondered how Jim had managed to hook up with such a loser. "You should keep better company, Jim."
His brows furrowed. "Jack Talbot's top shelf."
"I saw his brother, actually." She hoped Jim didn't notice the hot blush she felt on her cheeks.
"I didn't know Jack had a brother."
"He probably wishes he didn't," she said wryly.
"I'm sorry if I put you in an uncomfortable position."
"It's okay. I didn't hire him."
With a shrug, he said, "Well, n
ow that I've found your birth mother, we won't need them, will we?" Smiling reassuringly, he motioned toward the hall from which he'd emerged. "Shall we go into my office?"
Addison followed him to the small office and settled into a wingback chair opposite his desk. She held her breath as Jim seated himself and opened a manila folder. Inside her chest, her heart did a little dance, stopping, then speeding up, rising into her throat and then plummeting.
"Her name is Agnes Beckett," he began.
The name struck her, then swirled in her head like a leaf caught in a gale. Nine months of hope and need and anticipation tangled up inside her until she felt she might burst.