Fair Game Inc (2010) (19 page)

Her eyes flew open. Once it fastened on a clue, her private investigatorAEs brain would not let her sleep.

That troublesome problem was John Barlow. Suddenly, she realized that, though Grayson had opened up to her more than ever before, heAEd skillfully maneuvered her away from the topic of his unreliable partner.

Did he seduce her just to avoid a topic of conversation even more painful than the one theyAEd had? Or did he plan to deal with John Barlow by himself? Time was running out. Grayson didnAEt even know it.

All was not well at Barlow & Charles. The answer to the mystery lay in John BarlowAEs files. Tomorrow was her last day at the firm. AmberAEs eyes narrowed.

No matter what else happened, tomorrow she had to get into that filing cabinet.

Chapter
ELEVEN

Something was terribly wrong. Amber placed the phone back in its cradle and stared at it.

She awoke alone in GraysonAEs house, much later than she preferred to rise in the morning. Next time she visited, sheAEd pack an alarm clock. This sleeping in was getting to be a bad habit. Arriving late at Fair Game, she called Barlow & Charles and got the firmAEs answering machine. Grayson had said heAEd be in court for most of the morning, so she left a message asking him to call her back. When the afternoon became evening, she began to worry.

Another call to the law firm netted her only a harried voice-mail message from Grayson saying he hoped to be in the office later. Not so much anything he said that gave her the feeling of impending doom, but something in the tone of his voice worried her. Maybe things hadnAEt gone well in court in spite of GraysonAEs careful preparation. Guilt nagged at her for keeping him up late last night. They were going to have to set some ground rules regarding these late-night rendezvous. The future of two businesses lay at stake.

Amber glanced down at the file folder on her desk. Behind her the cursor on her monitor blinked off and on, reminding her she should be working on the Marchand case. But her mind slid annoyingly away from productive thought and fastened resolutely on the topic of Grayson Charles. Another of the dangers of being in love. Love? She turned the word over in her mind and hesitantly decided it fit. She did love Grayson, had definitely fallen in lust the moment they met and later, at The Terrace Restaurant, lust had lured her into territory sheAEd sworn never to stray again. Slowly, between long glances and languid caresses, Grayson Charles had stolen her very soul.

A grown woman, she knew the risks. She could get badly hurt. At the very least she could find more of her attention wandering into thoughts of him.

Tomorrow was her last day at Barlow & Charles. After the scene with James Heck, neither of them had mentioned Amber doing further contract work at the firm. Maybe that was for the best. She had another client. The lull in business seemed to be over for the moment. Better to keep their business dealings on a professional level. And try her best to keep her mind on work. Amber dragged her thoughts back to the Marchand case.

To no avail.

Something was wrong at Barlow & Charles. Or something had gone amiss with Grayson. Private investigator instincts shouted for her attention. She glanced at the clock on her desk. Five-thirty. Time enough to be getting over to the law firm. SheAEd put her doubts to rest and make a fresh start in the morning.

****

Grayson rushed by her in the hallway, wool overcoat trailing behind him like dark wings, and nearly running her down as she came around the corner from the elevator.

oSorry.o Not even recognizing her he rushed to catch the elevator still lingering at the floor.

oGrayson!o

He stopped, one hand on the elevator door, one inside already reaching for the button. oOh, Amber.o

oWhatAEs wrong?o

His shoulders drooped. He set his briefcase on the floor.

oBad day in court?o she guessed.

oThe worst.o

oMy fault?o Instantly she wished she hadnAEt asked. If sheAEd ruined his case, she didnAEt think her conscience could help it.

oNo, not your fault.o He offered her a bawdy grin in memory of the night theyAEd shared. oBut IAEve got to go. Be back in awhile.o

oShould I wait for you here?o

oDonAEt know how long IAEll be,o he said, letting the elevator doors slide closed. oIAEll call you later.o

oWhatever that means,o she grumbled as the doors shut, separating them. That uneasy feeling simply wasnAEt going to go away, Amber thought, walking alone down the hall to Barlow & Charles.

Inside the office felt all the more lonely for his absence. No to-do file lay waiting on her desk. Amber checked GraysonAEs desk, but in his haste, heAEd neglected to leave instructions for her final night at Barlow & Charles. Evidence of his bad day lay all over the office. Papers were scattered over the two leather chairs, in haphazard piles on the floor and littered over the entire surface of his desk. One filing cabinet stood half open. Another flurry of papers bursting from its interior, as if the files inside had conspired to escape as soon as the drawer was opened.

Shaking her head, Amber bent to retrieve the scattered files, attempting to put them into some sort of logical order. Tomorrow Grayson would insist he couldnAEt find a thing. How he could find anything in the mess on the floor was beyond her. Her ordered brain wouldnAEt tolerate such chaos.

Might as well make myself useful. The altruistic action wasnAEt nearly as noble as she pretended. It had been weeks since sheAEd had that first glimpse into GraysonAEs files. To find out what lay behind the mystery of John Barlow, she needed another look.

But GraysonAEs files yielded no clues. They contained only the details of the firmAEs cases. The financial records, the corporate tax returns, all the information on the health of the company lay in BarlowAEs files. The ones with the red and black labels. The one in which sheAEd found a letter detailing how he planned to sell out the firm.

Without proof, Grayson would never believe her. Her last night. Never again would she have an excuse to be rifling the files of Barlow & Charles. Stuffing the last of GraysonAEs files back into the cabinet, Amber closed the door to this office quietly behind her and continued down the hall to John BarlowAEs office.

She froze, her hand on the brass doorknob. Inside came the low murmur of a phone conversation in progress, spoken in the soft, yet menacing tones of John Barlow. Amber could have sworn his office was empty when she arrived. But she hadnAEt checked. Her disappointment at not spending the evening with Grayson made her remiss. She desperately needed into those files, and she could hardly break into BarlowAEs filing cabinet with him sitting right there on the phone.

Pressing her ear against the door, she strained to hear details of the conversation, but Barlow talked in a voice that was barely above a whisper. The jerk probably enjoys everyone straining to hear him. A subtle power trip, she realized. It made everyone else lower their voice and pay attention. Gotta try that one some time.

Frustrated, she returned to her desk. When had she started thinking of it as her own instead of the departed NicoleAEs?

Was that why Barlow insisted they didnAEt have the funds to hire a secretary? Because he was planning to sell off the firm to a larger one, where theyAEd be sucked into the machinery of a large company that already a staff of secretaries and dicta-typists?

BarlowAEs plan started to make a whole lot of sense. Why hadnAEt she seen it before? Because sheAEd spent all her energy on surveillance of BarlowAEs dangerously handsome partner, instead of Barlow, her conscience answered.

Whatever was going down in that office had to do with the sale of the firm. The sale Grayson was still ignorant of. The sale Grayson refused to believe was taking place. Barlow had kept him busy so he wouldnAEt find out. Not until it was too late. She knew it. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled with the rightness of her speculation.

And then a thought occurred to her. If she hadnAEt known Barlow was there, perhaps he didnAEt know she was there also. At some time in the evening he was bound to leave, either for dinner, or to lay the groundwork for the firmAEs downfall. Amber picked up her purse. Taking her coat from its hook, she tip-toed back down the hall and closed the door to GraysonAEs office behind her.

By touch alone she felt her way through the dark office, until she found the cupboard where Grayson kept several dry cleaned shirts and an emergency suit. Slowly, afraid of making even the tiniest noise, she pried the door open. It was barely big enough for her, even more cramped with the purse and her winter coat, but she squeezed inside. If Barlow caught her here, all would be lost. She counted on the fact that heAEd been so immersed in his conversation, he hadnAEt been paying attention to what was going on in the outer office.

Please, she willed the universe. Get off the phone and leave. But Barlow seemed content to continue his conversation while she crouched in GraysonAEs closet and tried not to panic. Minutes dragged by, agonizingly slow.

Finally, far down the hall, she heard the click of a door opening and soft footsteps padded her way. Amber shrank back against the far fall of the closet, flattening GraysonAEs starched shirts behind her. SheAEd get them re!pressed for him later. If Barlow caught her there, it wouldnAEt matter.

The door to GraysonAEs office swung open. Light spilled across the floor. Amber held her breath, in case even the tiny sound of her shallow breaths might give her away. Through the narrow band of light where the closet door didnAEt quite meet the carpet, she saw the shadow of a pair of black menAEs shoes tread past. Older menAEs shoes, the kind you could wear to work or to a wedding or even a funeral, polished to a dull gleam. Not the kind of shoes Grayson had in his wardrobe.

Barlow.

GraysonAEs desk drawer whooshed open. Metal tinkled as paper clips and pens were jostled together, then came a rustle of papers. For a moment Amber wondered if sheAEd made a mistake, that Grayson had come back and was wondering where she was. For one terrible moment she debated risking opening the closet door to check, but that prickling at the nape of her neck, the sickening weight of dread in her stomach kept her hiding.

She heard more drawers being opened, more papers being examined, the clunk of the filing cabinet sliding shut. Footsteps moved in her direction. Amber uttered a silent prayer.

Then, mercifully, the office door closed, she heard a series of pops and clicks as the lights in the hall were turned off, then the tape shuttling back and forth as the answering machine cued up.

In the closet the darkness was now absolute. Over the rush of blood in her ears, she heard the front door swing to a close. Then....

Nothing.

Her lungs protested their abuse with a sharp burning sensation. Slowly, Amber let go of the breath sheAEd been holding and dragged in another. When Barlow didnAEt come leaping out of the shadows, she sagged weakly against the back of the closet, her chest heaving. For several more minutes she sat alone in the velvet darkness, listening to the rhythm of her own breathing and straining for traces of sound in the outer office. But the silence continued, and finally, she rose from the crouch, muscles screaming at being forced to maintain such an unnatural position for so long.

Slowly, she pushed the closet door open and crept out into the office. Pressing her ear against the door to the hallway, she heard nothing but the regular tick of the clock at the far end of the hall. Flattening herself against the wall, she inched toward the door to BarlowAEs office, half expecting it all to be a great joke and to find Barlow sitting at NicoleAEs desk waiting for her to reveal herself. The outer office, however, was empty.

Her hand closed around the doorknob. She hesitated, pressing her ear to the door, straining to hear signs of movement inside. But the interior was a quiet as the proverbial tomb. Amber turned the handle.

Locked.

Shoulders sagging, in a mixture of relief and frustration, she eyed the locked door to BarlowAEs office and wondered idly if it would respond to a good swift kick. But that would likely only get her a broken toe and make more noise than she was willing to risk. She glared at the door. But it didnAEt respond to her glare any better. Old investigator skills, long unused tugged at her memory.

oWhen was the last time you let a locked door stop you, Amber?o she whispered. Down at the bottom of her purse, along with two fuzzy Lifesavers and a disintegrating aspirin were a series of lock-picks. SheAEd almost thrown them out several times, but theyAEd come in handy once when she locked herself out of her apartment. And so they stayed.

She reached her hand into her purse, tentatively, trying not to jangle too many keys or too much change. Feeling past the wallet, the furry bristles of a hairbrush that desperately needed to be cleaned, she felt the cold metal at the bottom. Amber felt further, questing after the tiny penlight attached to her key ring. She found it, wrapped her hand around the keys to stop them from jingling.

It was awkward holding the penlight in one hand and the lock pick in the other. Her hand shook as she fed the first thin piece of metal into the lock. Willing herself to calmness, she slid it further into the brass, probing for the mechanism that would release the tumblers. Sweaty palms made it hard to grasp the pick. Why am I so nervous? Picking someoneAEs lock had never been pleasant, but she couldnAEt remember being so unnerved. Because this time itAEs personal, her mind answered. The future of GraysonAEs firm depended on a hunch. And her future with Grayson depended on not getting caught.