Jo Ann was in the hallway pacing and muttering when Bailey stepped out of Parker’s office. She stopped abruptly as Bailey appeared, her eyes filled with questions. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I asked the receptionist for his name and she told me. She even let it slip that he’s got a lunch engagement...”
“Are you satisfied now?” Jo Ann sounded as though she’d passed from impatience to resignation. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re both working women.”
Bailey glanced at her watch and groaned. “We won’t be too late if we hurry.” Jo Ann worked as an insurance specialist in a doctor’s office and Bailey was a paralegal.
Luckily their office buildings were only a few blocks from the Cascade Building. They parted company on the next corner and Bailey half jogged the rest of the way.
No one commented when she slipped into the office ten minutes late. She hoped the same held true for Jo Ann, who’d probably never been late for work in her life.
Bailey settled down at her desk with her coffee and her files, then hesitated. Jo Ann was right. Discovering Parker’s name was useless unless she could fill in the essential details about his life. She needed facts. Lots of facts. The kinds of people he associated with, his background, his likes and dislikes, everyday habits.
It wasn’t until later in the morning that Bailey started wondering where someone like Parker Davidson would go for lunch. It might be important to learn that. The type of restaurant a man chose—casual? elegant? exotic?—said something about his personality. Details like that could make the difference between a sale and a rejection, and frankly, Bailey didn’t know if Michael could tolerate another spurning.
At ten to twelve Bailey mumbled an excuse about having an appointment before she headed out the door. Her boss gave her a funny look, but Bailey made sure she escaped before anyone could ask any questions. It wasn’t like Bailey to take her duties lightly.
Luck was with her. She’d only been standing at the street corner for five minutes when Parker Davidson came out of the building. He was deeply involved in conversation with another man, yet when he raised his hand to summon a taxi, one appeared instantly, as if by magic. If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, Bailey wouldn’t have believed it. Surely this was the confidence, the command, others said a hero should possess. Not wanting to miss a single detail, Bailey took a pen and pad out of her purse and started jotting them down.
As Parker’s cab slowly pulled away, she ventured into the street and flagged down a second cab. In order to manage that, however, she’d had to wave her arms above her head and leap up and down.
She yanked open the door and leapt inside. “Follow that cab,” she cried, pointing toward Parker’s taxi.
The stocky driver twisted around. “Are you serious? You want me to follow that cab?”
“That’s right,” she said anxiously, afraid Parker’s taxi would soon be out of sight.
Her driver laughed outright. “I’ve been waiting fifteen years for someone to tell me that. You got yourself a deal, lady.” He stepped on the accelerator and barreled down the street, going well above the speed limit.
“Any particular reason, lady?”
“I beg your pardon?” The man was doing fifty in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone.
“I want to know why you’re following that cab.” The car turned a corner at record speed, the wheels screeching, and Bailey slid from one end of the seat to the other. If she’d hoped to avoid attention, it was a lost cause. Parker Davidson might not notice her, but nearly everyone else in San Francisco did.
“I’m doing some research for a romance novel,” Bailey explained.
“You’re doing what?”
“Research.”
Apparently her answer didn’t satisfy him, because he slowed to a sedate twenty miles an hour. “Research for a romance novel,” he repeated, his voice flat. “I thought you were a private detective or something.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. I write romance novels and—Oh, stop here, would you?” Parker’s cab had pulled to the curb and the two men were climbing out.
“Sure, lady, don’t get excited.”
Bailey scrambled out of the cab and searched through her purse for her money. When she couldn’t find it, she slapped the large bag onto the hood of the cab and sorted through its contents until she retrieved her wallet. “Here.”
“Have a great day, lady,” the cabbie said sardonically, setting his cap farther back on his head. Bailey offered him a vague smile.
She toyed with the idea of following the men into the restaurant and having lunch. She would have, too, if it weren’t for the fact that she’d used all her cash to pay for the taxi.
But there was plenty to entertain her while she waited—although Bailey wasn’t sure exactly what she was waiting for. The streets of Chinatown were crowded. She gazed about her at the colorful shops with their produce stands and souvenirs and rows of smoked ducks hanging in the windows. Street vendors displayed their wares and tried to coax her to come examine their goods.
Bailey bought a fresh orange with some change she scrounged from the bottom of her purse. Walking across the street, she wondered how long her hero would dawdle over his lunch. Most likely he’d walk back to the office. Michael would.
His lunch engagement didn’t last nearly as long as Bailey had expected. When he emerged from the restaurant, he took her by surprise. Bailey was in the process of using her debit card to buy a sweatshirt she’d found at an incredibly low price and had to rush in an effort to keep up with him.
He hadn’t gone more than a couple of blocks when she lost him. Stunned, she stood in the middle of the sidewalk, wondering how he could possibly have disappeared.
One minute he was there, and the next he was gone. Tailing a hero wasn’t nearly as easy as she’d supposed.
Discouraged, Bailey clutched her bag with the sweatshirt and slung her purse over her shoulder, then started back toward her office. Heaven only knew what she was going to say to her boss once she arrived—half an hour late.
She hadn’t gone more than a few steps when someone grabbed her arm and jerked her into the alley. She opened her mouth to scream, but the cry died a sudden death when she found herself staring up at Parker Davidson.
“I want to know why the hell you’re following me.”
Three
“Ah... Ah...” For the life of her, Bailey couldn’t string two words together.
“Janice Hampton, I presume?”
Bailey nodded, simply because it was easier than explaining herself.
Parker’s eyes slowly raked her from head to foot. He obviously didn’t see anything that pleased him. “You’re not an old family friend, are you?”
Still silent, she answered him with a shake of her head.
“That’s what I thought. What do you want?”
Bailey couldn’t think of a single coherent remark.
“Well?” he demanded since she was clearly having a problem answering even the most basic questions. Bailey had no idea where to start or how much to say. The truth would never do, but she didn’t know if she was capable of lying convincingly.
“Then you leave me no choice but to call the police,” he said tightly.
“No...please.” The thought of explaining everything to an officer of the law was too mortifying to consider.
“Then start talking.” His eyes were narrow and as cold as the January wind off San Francisco Bay.
Bailey clasped her hands together, wishing she’d never given in to the whim to follow him on his lunch appointment. “It’s a bit...complicated,” she mumbled.
“Isn’t it always?”
“Your attitude isn’t helping any,” she returned, straightening her shoulders. He might be a high-and-mighty architect—and her behavior might have been a little unusual—but that didn’t give him
the right to treat her as if she were some kind of criminal.
“My attitude?” he said incredulously.
“Listen, would you mind if we shorted this inquisition?” she asked, checking her watch. “I’ve got to be back at work in fifteen minutes.”
“Not until you tell why you’ve been my constant shadow for the past hour. Not to mention this morning.”
“You’re exaggerating.” Bailey half turned to leave when his hand flew out to grip her shoulder.
“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve answered a few questions.”
“If you must know,” she said at the end of a protracted sigh, “I’m a novelist...”
“Published?”
“Not yet,” she admitted reluctantly, “but I will be.”
His mouth lifted at the corners and Bailey couldn’t decide if the movement had a sardonic twist or he didn’t believe a word she was saying. Neither alternative did anything to soothe her ego.
“It’s true!” she said heatedly. “I am a novelist, only I’ve been having trouble capturing the true nature of a classic hero and, well, as I said earlier, it gets a bit involved.”
“Start at the beginning.”
“All right.” Bailey was prepared now to do exactly that. He wanted details? She’d give him details. “It all began several months back when I was riding BART and I met Jo Ann—she’s the woman I was with this morning. Over the course of the next few weeks I learned that she’s a writer, too, and she’s been kind enough to tutor me. I’d already mailed off my first manuscript when I met Jo Ann, but I quickly learned I’d made some basic mistakes. All beginning writers do. So I rewrote the story and—”
“Do you mind if we get to the part about this morning?” he asked, clearly impatient.
“All right, fine, I’ll skip ahead, but it probably won’t make much sense.” She didn’t understand why he was wearing that beleaguered look, since he was the one who’d insisted she start at the beginning. “Jo Ann and I were on the subway this morning and I was telling her I doubted I’d recognize a hero. You see, Michael’s the hero in my book and I’m having terrible problems with him. The first time around he was too harsh, then I turned him into a wimp. I just can’t seem to get him to walk the middle of the road. He’s got to be tough, but tender. Strong and authoritative, but not so stubborn or arrogant the reader wants to throttle him. I need to find a way to make Michael larger than life, but at the same time the kind of man any woman would fall in love with and—”
“Excuse me for interrupting you again,” Parker said, folding his arms across his chest and irritably tapping his foot, “but could we finish this sometime before the end of the year?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry.” His sarcasm didn’t escape her, but she decided to be generous and overlook it. “I was telling Jo Ann I wouldn’t recognize a hero if one hit me over the head, and no sooner had I said that than your umbrella whacked me.” The instant the words were out, Bailey realized she should have passed over that part.
“I like the other version better,” he said with undisguised contempt. He shook his head and stalked past her onto the busy sidewalk.
“What other version?” Bailey demanded, marching after him. She was only relaying the facts, the way he’d insisted!
“The one where you’re an old family friend. This nonsense about being a novelist is—”
“The absolute truth,” she finished with all the dignity she could muster. “You’re the hero—well, not exactly the hero, don’t get me wrong, but a lot like my hero, Michael. In fact, you could be his twin.”
Parker stopped abruptly and just as abruptly turned around to face her. The contempt in his eyes was gone, replaced by some other emotion Bailey couldn’t identify.
“Have you seen a doctor?” he asked gently.
“A doctor?”
“Have you discussed this problem with a professional?”
It took Bailey a moment to understand what he was saying. Once she did, she was so furious she couldn’t formulate words fast enough to keep pace with her speeding mind.
“You think...mental patient...on the loose?”
He nodded solemnly.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” Bailey had never been more insulted. Parker Davidson thought she was a crazy person! She waved her arms haphazardly as she struggled to compose her thoughts. “I’m willing to admit that following you is a bit eccentric, but...but I did it in the name of research!”
“Then kindly research someone else.”
“Gladly.” She stormed ahead several paces, then whirled suddenly around, her fists clenched. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m new to the writing game. There’s a lot I don’t know yet, but obviously I have more to learn than I realized. I was right the first time—you’re no hero.”
Not giving him the opportunity to respond, she rushed back to her office, thoroughly disgusted with the man she’d assumed to be a living, breathing hero.
* * *
Max, Bailey’s cat, was waiting anxiously for her when she arrived home that evening, almost an hour later than usual since she’d stayed to make up for her lengthy lunch. Not that Max would actually deign to let her think he was pleased to see her. Max had one thing on his mind and one thing only.
Dinner.
The sooner she fed him, the sooner he could go back to ignoring her.
“I’m crazy about you, too,” Bailey teased, bending over to playfully scratch his ears. She talked to her cat the way she did her characters, although Michael had been suspiciously quiet of late—which was fine with Bailey, since a little time apart was sure to do them both good. She wasn’t particularly happy with her hero after the Parker Davidson fiasco that afternoon. Once again Michael had led her astray. The best thing to do was lock him in the desk drawer for a while.
Max wove his fat fluffy body between Bailey’s legs while she sorted through her mail. She paused, staring into space as she reviewed her confrontation with Parker Davidson. Every time she thought about the things he’d said, she felt a flush of embarrassment. It was all she could do not to cringe at the pitying look he’d given her as he asked if she was seeking professional help. Never in her life had Bailey felt so mortified.
“Meow.” Max seemed determined to remind her that he was still waiting for his meal.
“All right, all right,” she muttered, heading for the refrigerator. “I don’t have time to argue with you tonight. I’m going out to hear Libby McDonald speak.” She removed the can of cat food from the bottom shelf and dumped the contents on the dry kibble. Max had to have his meal moistened before he’d eat it.
With a single husky purr, Max sauntered over to his dish and left Bailey to change clothes for the writers’ meeting.
Once she was in her most comfortable sweater and an old pair of faded jeans, she grabbed a quick bite to eat and was out the door.
Jo Ann had already arrived at Parklane College, the site of their meeting, and was rearranging the classroom desks to form a large circle. Bailey automatically helped, grateful her friend didn’t question her about Parker Davidson. Within minutes, the room started to fill with members of the romance writers’ group.
Bailey didn’t know if she should tell Jo Ann about the meeting with Parker. No, she decided, the whole sorry episode was best forgotten. Buried under the heading of Mistakes Not to Be Repeated.
If Jo Ann did happen to ask, Bailey mused, it would be best to say nothing. She didn’t make a habit of lying, but her encounter with that man had been too humiliating to describe, even to her friend.
The meeting went well, and although Bailey took copious notes, her thoughts persisted in drifting away from Libby’s speech, straying to Parker. The man had his nerve suggesting she was a lunatic. Who did he think he was, anyway? Sigmund Freud? But then, to be fair, Parker had no way of knowing that Bailey didn’t n
ormally go around following strange men and claiming they were heroes straight out of her novel.
Again and again throughout the talk, Bailey had to stubbornly refocus her attention on Libby’s speech. When Libby finished, the twenty or so writers who were gathered applauded enthusiastically. The sound startled Bailey, who’d been embroiled in yet another mental debate about the afternoon’s encounter.
There was a series of questions, and then Libby had to leave in order to catch a plane. Bailey was disappointed that she couldn’t stay for coffee. It had become tradition for a handful of the group’s members to go across the street to the all-night diner after their monthly get-together.
As it turned out, everyone else had to rush home, too, except Jo Ann. Bailey was on the verge of making an excuse herself, but one glance told her Jo Ann was unlikely to believe it.
They walked across the street to the brightly lit and almost empty restaurant. As they sat down in their usual booth, the waitress approached them with menus. Jo Ann ordered just coffee, but Bailey, who’d eaten an orange for lunch and had a meager dinner of five pretzels, a banana and two hard green jelly beans left over from Christmas, was hungry, so she asked for a turkey sandwich.
“All right, tell me what happened,” Jo Ann said the moment the waitress left their booth.
“About what?” Bailey tried to appear innocent as she toyed with the edges of the paper napkin. She carefully avoided meeting Jo Ann’s eyes.
“I phoned your office at lunchtime,” her friend said in a stern voice. “Do I need to go into the details?” She studied Bailey, who raised her eyes to give Jo Ann a brief look of wide-eyed incomprehension. “Beth told me you’d left before noon for a doctor’s appointment and weren’t back yet.” She paused for effect. “We both know you didn’t have a doctor’s appointment, don’t we?”
“Uh...” Bailey felt like a cornered rat.
“You don’t need to tell me where you were,” Jo Ann went on, raising her eyebrows. “I can guess. You couldn’t leave it alone, could you? My guess is that you followed Parker Davidson to his lunch engagement.”