MIND READER (16 page)

He felt as if he were being forced to choose. Loyalty to
Harlan, or to Caron. But Caron didn’t know about Har
lan, and she wasn’t really asking for loyalty. She was asking for the warmth of another human being to get her through a rough night after a rougher day. “I’ll be here,”
he finally said.

Parker clicked off the lamp, curled Caron’s soft body
into his arms and stared blindly into the darkness. He didn’t like this B. J. Hunt development at all. And he liked even less that his worry for Caron’s safety was growing by leaps
and bounds. He didn’t know why Decker had Hunt’s
number. But he intended to find out.

Chapter 5

“I don’t like it, Parker.” Caron adjusted the seat belt in the white limo and nodded to the driver to close the door. “I feel like a kid playing grown-up. Are you sure your
mother won’t mind?”

“I’m sure. When she and Megan get back from Europe, they’ll have half the clothes in Paris with them.” Parker
smiled. “Stop worrying. You look great.”

Stop worrying. Right. It wasn’t every day she wore a
genuine Chanel suit—and she didn’t want to be wearing one
today. Especially one that belonged to Parker Simms’s
mother.

Caron slid him a glare. “Why the show? Why can’t we
just walk into Hunt’s and ask a few questions?”

“Play it straight and aboveboard, you mean?”

“Exactly.” She shrugged and quickly checked to make sure she hadn’t wrinkled the jacket. If anything happened to this outfit, it’d take her the rest of her life to pay for it. “It doesn’t make sense to lie when the truth will do.”

“The truth won’t do.” He tapped on the glass and mo
tioned to his mother’s driver, Fred, to go on, then stretched
out his legs. “You can’t just walk into a place like Hunt’s and get answers. Those people are trained to avoid questions—especially ones that might tick off a six-figure cli
ent.”

Caron sighed and checked the tilt of her black hat in the window. The brim seemed a shade too wide, but the effect
was good. With her hair slicked back smooth, she looked filthy rich. The problem was, she didn’t
feel
filthy rich. “Okay, you’ve got a point. We play out the charade. But I
still don’t like it.”

“Stop checking,” Parker said, giving her a warm once
over that set her to tingling. “You look great.”

“Thanks.” There was an easiness between them today that hadn’t been there before last night. One she feared a
woman could get used to too fast. She narrowed her brows and checked him over just as thoroughly. From the tips of his handmade Italian shoes up to his navy Savile Row suit,
he looked perfect. Not to mention gorgeous...and rich. He’d let her into his life, told her things she instinctively
knew he hadn’t told anyone else. Warmed by that thought,
she straightened his red tie. “You don’t look bad yourself.”

Her fingers brushed his throat. The intimate vibration had her feeling, more than hearing, his chuckle.

“Careful,” he said. “You’ll give me a swelled head. I
might even think you like me.”

“Let’s don’t get carried away.” The teasing lilt in her voice took the punch right out of her words.

He lifted a brow and feigned an innocence that set her to worrying. “Do you always sleep with men you don’t like?”

He’d left himself wide-open. She swept a nonexistent
speck from her sleeve. “Only the ones Peggy Shores
dumped for blowing the homecoming game.”

“Ouch, that’s low.” His eyes twinkled; he hadn’t really
taken offense.

“Yeah.” She smiled and pecked a kiss to the tip of his
perfect nose, betting Peggy Shores was eating her heart out
regretting that decision now.

The car slid to a halt near the curb on Canal Street. Fred
got out, came around and opened the door. He was about sixty-five, Caron figured, tall and lean and very proper.

“Shall I wait, Mr. Simms?”

“I think so, Fred. Mrs. Simms and I won’t be too long.”

“Yes, sir.” The older man touched his fingers to the brim
of his uniform hat, shut the door and struck a pose beside the car. A fly buzzed his nose. Like some character out of
The Great Gatsby,
he didn’t swat at it.

Amused, Caron linked arms with Parker.
“Mrs.
Simms?”

“That’s right.” He slid her a sidelong look. “We slept together in my home, Caron. I’ve got a rep to protect.”

“Right.” She was excited that he’d given her another in
sightful glimpse of him. A darling glimpse. Parker
Simms—charming and gorgeous and hostile on demand-
was terribly old-fashioned.

Wishing he would look her way so that she could read his
expression, Caron walked toward the office. “I think your little disclosure shocked Fred.” The man hadn’t so much as
batted an eyelash, but she’d sure sensed his surprise.

“Probably.”

Caron glanced back. “If he keeps his knees locked like
that for very long in this heat, we’ll be peeling him off the
sidewalk.”

“He won’t,” Parker assured her. “Once we’re out of sight, he’ll relax.”

She shouldn’t push, but of course she would. And,
knowing his response
did
matter, she told herself it didn’t,
then asked the question she really wasn’t sure she wanted answered. “Just how many Mrs. Simmses has Fred met?”

The devil danced in Parker’s eyes. “One.”

“Oh.” Her breath shriveled to a puffy wisp.

Smiling, Parker paused. “Surprised, I see. You really do
have me pegged as a womanizer, don’t you, Caron?”

That was exactly what she’d thought. But his saying it
openly had heat rushing to her face.

“I’m not, you know.”

She was beginning to doubt it herself. And, though she
wondered,
how
he intended to explain her absence to Fred
later was low on her list of priorities. A flip answer was definitely required. She hiked her chin. “Time will tell.”

“Yes, it will. For both of us.” The smile became a leer. Just
on the other side of a brass nameplate bolted to a tall column—and just out of hearing distance of the doorman—Parker again paused. “Remember, Mrs. Simms, you’re a little eccentric, a little dazed— No, don’t object. They’ll be less cautious if they think you’re an airhead.”

She squinted against the strong sunlight. “I think there’s a backhanded compliment in there somewhere.”

The look in Parker’s eyes heated, became lazy and dangerous. “I’ll help you find it later. For now, you’re an ec
centric airhead who’s crazy about me.”

If he kept looking at her the way he was, the crazy-about-
him part might be too easy to play. Caron groaned. “This pretending really rubs me the wrong way. Can’t I just be
me?”

Something odd flashed in his eyes, a hard glint that told her he couldn’t believe what she’d said. He rolled his gaze heavenward, then dipped his chin and gave her a quelling look. Still, when he spoke, his voice softened. “We’ve
been through this, and we agreed this way is best.”

They had. At dawn, and again at seven this morning. Both times, Parker had made a strong case. “All right, all right.” Caron plastered a smile on her face. “But, for the record, I don’t like lying. So let’s get this over with.”

The doorman swung the tinted glass door wide. A blast of cool air raised gooseflesh on Caron’s skin.

The interior of the building was as sleek and angular as
the smoky-mirrored exterior. Cool white tile floors gleamed
glossy and smelled of wax. Black leather sofas and chairs
were arranged in three groups and separated by small gardens of lush green foliage. And at a desk near the far wall
sat a woman who could have modeled for the swimsuit is
sue of
Sports Illustrated.
By no stretch of the imagination did her being seated mask her assets: tall, perfect bones, and elegantly dressed in a quiet blue suit that perfectly
matched her eyes.

Caron straightened. Parker had known. If she’d come in
here in her mackintosh and jeans, she would have been disregarded. Her time with her students had dulled her memory. Rich responds to rich. Upscale firms take only upscale people seriously. And for the first time since she’d
put on the cream Chanel suit, Caron was glad that she had.

Parker spoke to the receptionist, his voice cordial but authoritative. “We have an eleven-o’clock appointment
with all of your counselors.”

Caron clamped her jaw to keep from gaping. What lies had Parker told to finagle an appointment with
all
of the counselors? If she could keep her libido intact when she
looked at the man, she’d
know
what he had done—and
what he was thinking. Unfortunately, she hadn’t mastered
that control—at least not so far.

She slid him a sidelong look. He wasn’t smiling. Taking
her cue from him, she lifted her chin, doing her best to look
snobbish, and certain she only looked ridiculous.

“Mr. and Mrs. Simms, yes.” The receptionist flickered
her gaze over Caron, then it landed on Parker and warmed.

Caron resisted an urge to groan. Did he affect
every
woman he met that way? As she followed the receptionist
into an inner office, Caron decided he did. He had so far.

The office looked like a living room. No sleek angles here. Warm greens and browns, conservative and luxurious, in the manner of an old-time gentleman’s club. The carpet was thick and plush. Sinking into it, she tottered on her heels and grabbed Parker’s arm for support.

They sat down across from the fireplace on a leather
sofa. Though the air-conditioning whirred softly, a fire snapped in the grate. Atmosphere, Caron figured, and a
shameful waste of good trees.

A grandfather clock’s pendulum marked the passing
seconds. Parker looked totally relaxed, but with every click she grew more nervous. She was in over her head. Rich was
a way of life, a thousand unspoken mannerisms. Manner
isms and attitudes that, though they were natural to Parker,
she didn’t have, and had never particularly wanted. But Caron needed those assets now, to find a connection between someone here and Decker, to find Misty.

Three men entered the room. Parker put a proprietary hand on her knee. She didn’t object, and she chided her
self for taking comfort in his touch—and for wanting more
touches.

While the receptionist handled the introductions, Caron studied the men. One was about sixty, very distinguished,
very reserved. Sensing that he was benign, Caron dis
missed him, betting herself that every suit in his closet was
three-piece and some shade of gray.

The other two men, both somewhere in their thirties, appeared polished and refined—though they were totally
different-looking men.

One was a blond boy-next-door type, clad in a perfectly pressed black suit and a
creased white shirt. Keith Forres
ter, the receptionist had said.

“Thank you, Jillian.” Forrester dismissed the receptionist with a nod and a
cool smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll take care of things from here.”

Plastic, Caron thought, watching Parker shake Forres
ter’s hand. When he turned to her, Caron accepted his
hand. His fingers were limp. She’d never trusted a man who
shook hands with limp fingers, or one she sensed was in
sincere.

“My pleasure.” She drawled the lie, then withdrew her hand and looped it around Parker’s arm. His biceps was
thick and tense, but he still looked relaxed. And if he found
her suddenly pronounced accent odd, he didn’t show it.

“May I introduce my associates, Brian Cheramie—” Forrester motioned toward the other young man, then motioned to the older one Caron had sensed was benign.
“And Charles Nivens.”

Caron nodded, sure they could see she was a phony.
Parker’s smoothing her hand with his thumb didn’t stop her
from trembling—or from studying Brian Cheramie.

Small and dark-skinned, he looked typically French. He
rubbed at his graying temple, and a ring on his finger
played in the firelight, glinting colorful prisms. Interesting, that. From the five-plus-carat stone winking at her from his pinky, it was clear that
Brian Cheramie was rich
in his own right. But upon clasping hands, again she sensed
insincerity. Was the trait common to all brokers?