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Authors: Elizabeth White

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BOOK: Controlling Interest
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“I'll have it eaten before it can go bad.” But Matt opened the refrigerator and set his prize on top of a pizza box. Twelve years of church school as a kid had left an ingrained respect for teachers, retired or not.

Put on a clean tie. As if that would impress a girl like Natalie Tubberville. As if he
wanted
to impress her.

Matt picked his way through an explosion of clothes, investigative journals, and weapons and tech catalogs. One day he was going to have to get a backhoe in here and start over. The thought of his mother seeing the way he lived made the hair on his arms stand up.

The bedroom wasn't much better than the kitchen or the living room. His bed didn't even have sheets on it. He'd gotten tired of washing them and putting them back on, so every night he just stripped to his underwear, cranked down the air conditioner, and rolled himself up in the comforter.

By moving a set of thirty-pound dumbbells and yanking hard, he managed to get his closet door open. He poked through the array of ties on a rack he and his grandfather had made when Matt was in the eighth grade. It was one of his prized possessions. He'd been collecting vintage ties almost as long as he'd been collecting baseball cards.

Choice made, he retraced his steps to the kitchen and took another bite of the pie. Then he located his keys beside the dead ivy plant on the windowsill. He looked down at his tie with a grin. Natalie Tubberville had better have on sunglasses.

Natalie looked out Matt Hogan's office window. Beale Street below was quiet this morning, with a muted, dusty light sifting through the storefronts. A wino slouched against the lamppost on the corner, and a police squad car had a radar trap in an alley — the only signs of life.

Weird place for a young guy like Hogan to live. Matt. Her business partner. That was a weird thought too.

The lady with the mop said Matt lived above her in a studio apartment behind his office. The old building, probably built around the turn of the century, also housed an Elvis souvenir shop, a café, and a law office.

Natalie wandered around the office, inspecting the laptop computer, the neat stack of papers on the corner of a functional metal desk, and a couple of file cabinets in one corner. She pulled a drawer open and found the files labeled in dark masculine print, all caps, like a draftsman's hand. The floor was swept clean and shone with a recent coat of wax. Matt must be an organized person. Boded well for their relationship, because Natalie herself was . . . well, Dad always teased her that she'd leave her head behind if it weren't attached.

Her IQ was around 140, but that didn't necessarily translate to practical things like filing and scheduling. Which was one problem she'd had at the sheriff's department. She couldn't wait to show up on Monday and hand in her resignation.

Plopping herself into the only comfortable chair in the room, which was behind Matt's desk, she leaned back and contemplated the antique fan whirring in the nine-foot ceiling. The landlady — what was her name? Tootie? — had turned it on before darting off to alert Matt that he had a visitor. Nice lady, reminiscent of her senior English teacher. Slightly severe mien relieved by a twinkle in the eyes.

Natalie had counted about a hundred and twenty rotations of the fan when the doorknob rattled. Matt Hogan burst in, crackling energy like an electrical storm. Even his hair stood on end.

And look at that tie. The Golden Gate Bridge arched across aqua water, with Alcatraz like a lump of coal in the background. His blue-and-white striped shirt did little to tone down the virulent effect.

He stopped in the middle of the room and folded his arms. “What are you doing in my chair?”

“I ate your porridge too.” She uncrossed her legs and stood up. “If you'd invest in something besides folding chairs for your guests, you wouldn't have this problem.”

“You're not a guest. Nobody invited you. Besides, office hours are from nine to five. I was eating breakfast.”

“If you're this rude to everybody who comes to see you, no wonder Daddy had to bail you out.” He flinched and Natalie clapped a hand across her mouth. “Oh, I'm
sorry
. That was uncalled-for.” She sighed. “Forgive me for sitting in your chair and interrupting your Cocoa Puffs and pointing out the fact that you're a failure.”

Matt's mouth dropped open. He stared at her a moment before that appealing grin slid into place. “Come on, Natalie. Tell me what you really think.”

She backed toward the window, crashing into the blinds. “I didn't mean — ”

“Yes, you did. But I'll overlook it for now.” He moved one of the metal chairs away from the wall and sat down. “Have a seat, Goldilocks — no, no, you take the comfortable chair — and tell me what brought you down here at the crack of dawn.”

Natalie gave him an uncertain look. Typically she could read men like a comic book; the pictures were right there on the surface, with thought balloons parading over their heads. But Matt Hogan's expression was perfectly bland. A slight quirk curled his fine lips, the only indication of irony.

Squirming in the padded leather ergonomic desk chair, she studied a framed portrait of a handsome middle-aged couple stuck on top of the file cabinet. Three different wedding pictures flanked it. Matt was in all three, dressed in tux and bowtie.

“Always the best man, never the groom.” He grinned.

“You're not married?”

He held up a ringless hand. “No. Which is why I'm nice to Tootie. She feeds me pie, not to mention mopping and waxing my office. Those are my sister and brother and my best buddy.”

“Oh.” This put a whole new spin on things. Matt looked to be in his late twenties. Most guys that age were married. Unless there was something wrong with them.

“I have commitment issues,” he said as if reading her mind.

“I didn't ask — ”

“No, but you were thinking it.” He propped one ankle on the other knee and folded his arms. “Why is a thirty-year-old man still single, you want to know.”

“Are you thirty?”

“Yes. And I'm going to tell you something else you didn't ask, but since you busted in here without making an appointment, you have to listen. I spent nearly three decades running away from who my parents raised me to be. About a year ago, my friend Cole — in the middle picture there — showed me the way back. Since I'm a new man, I'm not going to insult you or kick you out or make a pass at you. I'm going to tell you as politely as I know how that this is
my
detective agency. I worked like a dog to build it, and I don't need or want a partner, not even your dad. As soon as I make enough money to buy back his shares, I will.” He tilted his head. “You get my drift?”

“Oh, yeah, Clint Eastwood, I get your drift.” Natalie gripped the edge of the desk. “Now it's my turn to tell you something. I don't believe it's an accident that my dad bought out your agency just when Yasmine Patel disappeared. I prayed about this all night long, and I think we're supposed to work together to find her.”

“Supposed to? What's that mean?”

She shrugged. “When God opens a door, I generally walk through it.”

“I just told you. This particular door is shut.”

She stood up so fast the chair zoomed backward and hit the wall. “And I told
you
I'm not going anywhere.”

Matt rose, frustration in every line of his lean, elegant body. “Look, Natalie, I'm sure you're a very nice girl, but you need to pick on somebody your own size. Why don't you find some other agency to work for? Heck, start your own! I did it when I was even younger than you.”

“I'm twenty-four! And I know good and well that I don't know enough yet to run my own agency. I have to learn from somebody who knows the business inside and out. Sure, you had to have a financial jump-start, but you've got a stellar reputation in the industry. I checked out all your references and — ”

“You did what? Who do you think you — ”

“If I were a potential client, of course I'd want to hire the best. You
are
the best. You've got to help me find Yasmine. What if she's in trouble?”

Matt huffed and stared at Natalie. The cord on the fan ticked a few times as it went round and round.

“You a praying woman?” he finally asked.

“Yes. I am.” Natalie stuck out her chin.

“What if I'm not hearing God say anything?”

“You've got the radio up too loud.”

“Huh?”

“Daddy always gripes at me for cranking up my car radio so loud I don't hear my cell phone.”

Matt's dark eyebrows twitched together. “That doesn't make one bit of sense.”

“Never mind. What I came here for today is to make you a deal you can't turn down.”

“What are you, the Godfather? I can't think of a thing you've got to offer me.”

Natalie wished she'd worn her platforms today instead of sandals. Disconcerting to stare up at the man from six inches below. She raised her heels off the ground. “I'm offering to hand over my percentage of the agency — if I don't contribute significantly to finding Yasmine.”

“What exactly does ‘contribute significantly' mean?”

She circled a hand. “I don't know. We'll figure that out.”

He snorted. “Okay. Say the miraculous happens. Say you accomplish this significant contribution. We're right back where we started.”

“Oh, no. We're way beyond that. If I find Yasmine, you've got to give me the secret handshake. Make me a real partner, not just Daddy's figurehead.”

Matt took a step backward. “You're crazy. I'm not making a promise like that.”

“Will you at least think about it? What have you got to lose? I'll work hard, and by the way, the finder's fee is outrageous. We'll both come out smelling like the proverbial rose.”

“Finder's fee? How much?”

“Fifty-thousand smackeroos.”

“Fifty-thousand — ?” His mouth hung open. He blinked. “If you'd back off, I could earn that finder's fee. You'd get your share.”

“Yeah, but I can't learn anything that way. I admit I'm inexperienced, but if you'll teach me what you know, I can be a real help. Come on, the Bible says, ‘Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor.' ”

“Are you sure that isn't Shakespeare? Where does it say that?”

“Ecclesiastes. Little book between Proverbs and Song of Solomon.”

“The sex book.”

Natalie rolled her eyes. “Aren't you the spiritual giant.”

He blushed. “I told you I was away from God. Maybe you could help me catch up.”

She did a double take. “You're thinking about it, aren't you? Letting me tag along.”

“Maybe, but you'll have to keep your distance.” He took another step backward.

“Now
you're
not making sense. How'm I supposed to keep my distance if we're working together?”

“Never mind.” Matt held up his hands. “I'll take care of that. Your job is to remember who's in charge.”

CHAPTER
THREE

Y
asmine wandered down Beale Street, working hard at invisibility. In a city full of dark-skinned people, this wouldn't have been difficult if her mother hadn't insisted she make the twenty-four-hour flight in the traditional Pakistani
shalwar kameez
. “Jarrar will expect his bride to be properly dressed for the first meeting,” Ammi had told her, adjusting the embroidered
dupatta
around her shoulders.

Since what Jarrar expected was no longer an issue — she hoped — Yasmine had every intention of getting rid of the costume. She stuck out like a canary among a flock of sparrows.
Thank you so much, Ammi.

A cluster of young women came out of a shop to her left and stopped to stare. One of them lifted the camera dangling from a strap around her neck and aimed it at Yasmine.

Lowering her eyes, Yasmine hurried past. But she managed to note the girls' outfits. Tight, low-cut jeans and skimpy knit tank tops in multiple layers that bared an embarrassing amount of flesh.

The young woman who had met her at the airport hadn't been dressed that way. She seemed to be a friendly person whom Yasmine would like to have gotten to know. But she would have taken her to Jarrar's home, so the only course had been to run away.

It was early in the day, but she had to start thinking about a place to stay for the night. Also her stomach ached for food. She hadn't eaten anything since the hamburger she'd had last night. Begging was not an option, but Abbi had raised his daughters to be resourceful, scandalously so. Uncle Rais was always saying Abbi was too westernized, too liberal, regarding the upbringing of his three children.

Unfortunately, Abbi had not been too liberal to arrange a marriage for Yasmine.

Resourceful. Yes, by the grace of God, she was indeed resourceful. He would help her reach her destination before Jarrar could enforce the marriage.

BOOK: Controlling Interest
10.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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