Never Con a Corgi (23 page)

One of the best-looking men she had ever seen.

"Well," she responded, matching his smooth, seductive macho tone with her own, equally expert femme fatale one. "Hello to you, too. Whoever the hell you are."

The man smiled. Diana drank him in, noting every detail from his thick crop of silvery hair to his strong, square jawline, broad shoulders, washboard stomach, and well-toned everything else. He was dressed in the kind of outfit stores in New York would sell only to certain people and stores in Pittsburgh didn't bother to stock. His features were perfect in the same unnatural Hollywood way that Gil March was perfect, but whereas Gil was sunshine and sailboats, this man was fine wine and fast cars. He studied her with an equal lack of self-consciousness, his dark eyes glinting mischievously.

"I could ask you the same question," he replied, his speech a bewitching blend of the urbane and the irreverent. "This is the home of Brandon Lyle, is it not?"

Diana's heart beat wildly. She knew who the man was, of course. She had known it from the moment she set eyes on him. At best, he had anger management issues. At worst, he could be a murderer.

Whatever.

"It is," she replied. "But if you're looking for Brandon, you're out of luck. Permanently."

The man showed no visible reaction. "So I heard," he admitted. "In fact, I was looking for... his widow. And who might you be?"

Sometimes it was fun to lie. Other times, the truth was even better.

"I would be his mistress," she said silkily. "Otherwise known as his administrative assistant. His widow doesn't live here anymore. Not that she ever did, really."

Courtney should kiss her feet for that one. Why had she said it? She didn't know.

"Do you have any idea where I might find her?" the man asked politely. He had taken no step forward, but remained stationary just inside the door as if, despite having barged into another man's condo uninvited, he felt obliged to follow some unwritten code of propriety.

Diana's eyes drank in his solid form once more. She wondered if he was concealing a weapon. She had no doubt he'd be a better shot than Brandon.

She had no doubt he did a lot of things better than Brandon.

"I don't know where she's staying now," Diana admitted, feigning disinterest. "But I do hear from her occasionally. Any message?"

The man did not respond. He merely smiled at her for a moment, as if assessing her sincerity. Diana knew that she should flinch. But she didn't. Instead she merely shrugged and leaned over to tidy some of the knick-knacks on Brandon's desk, making sure to do so in an enticing—yet ever so innocent—manner.

Everything about this man should scare the crap out of her.

But damn, he was hot.

"It's very important that I find her," the man said finally, his deep, sexy voice caressing her like velvet. "I only just heard of her husband's death on the news. I need to speak with her."

On the news?
Diana thought skeptically.
In Chicago?
Brandon's death might have created a stir locally—for all of forty-eight hours—but no way did he rate national coverage. Even in Pittsburgh, the news stories had been maddeningly short on detail. But one could always search online.

Diana considered. This man might be a danger to her; then again, he might not. The "might not" was worth hanging onto.

"What does her husband's death matter to you?" she asked brazenly.

The man lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow. He studied her another moment. Then, he surprised her.

"I want to know everything about it," he said flatly.

Diana's lips stretched into a smile. She did love a man who laid it on the line.

"He was shot to death Monday night, near a church where he'd just had a business meeting. The police haven't made an arrest yet."

"Who is suspected?" he pressed.

Diana shook her head. "They're not telling me. But frankly, I think they're spinning their wheels."

"You are a suspect yourself?" he asked, his voice sympathetic.

"I would be, I suppose," she responded. "But I happen to have an alibi."

"And Courtney?"

Diana stiffened. On his lips, the woman's name seemed a purr.

"I would imagine she's a suspect, too," she answered shortly.

The man smiled at her. "Where did it happen exactly? You said a church?"

"The Church of the Horizon, in Franklin Park," she answered honestly. Why the hell shouldn't she? "But he wasn't shot in the church, or even in the parking lot. His car was parked there, but he was shot somewhere back in the woods."

The man frowned. "How far back?"

It was Diana's turn to raise an eyebrow. What
did
this man want? "I don't know, exactly. The police were not inclined to tell me, or the media either for that matter. But if you really want to know, you can stroll down the North Side to Hook, Inc., and ask for Leigh Koslow. She's the one who found his body."

Take that, cousin of Cara!

"What kind of gun was it?"

Diana worked her lower jaw. The man's interest in Brandon Lyle was beginning to vex her. She would much rather discuss herself. "Why don't you call the police and ask them?"

The man seemed taken aback, but only for a second. His dark eyes twinkled suddenly, then raked down her perfectly posed figure.

That's better!

"I'm sorry to bother you," he said insincerely, "but it is extremely important that I find Courtney Lyle. I understand she may be running from the police. But I promise you, I only want to help her."

Diana didn't answer for a moment. She didn't give a rat's behind about Courtney, but she did care—quite a bit—about Mr. Mysterious. Was he a dangerous homicidal maniac... or wasn't he?

He made a sudden movement, and Diana started. He was only reaching for his wallet, but the gesture had shifted his jacket enough to reveal a quick glint of steel.

Well, damn.
He
was
carrying.

Diana's pulse raced. Her face flushed with heat.

The man took a step toward her. He extended a business card.

Diana reached out and took it. It was plain white, with simple black lettering centered in the middle. Just a phone number, email, and name.

Bruce Anjelo
.

"If you find out where Courtney is, can you let me know?" he asked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "I promise, I'll be grateful."

Diana's heart fluttered. "I do have her phone number," she offered.

The man gave a lopsided smile. "So do I."

He turned and took a step toward the door, then stopped and faced her again. "Does she have any friends in town that you know of? Somebody she might be staying with?"

Diana didn't have a clue. But she didn't want this god of the darkness to walk out of her life just yet, either. She pondered a moment. Then she smiled.

"She does have one college friend in town that I know of. A friend of Brandon's, too. His name is Gil March. Perhaps you've heard of him? He runs a very successful financial consulting firm. He might know where she is."

Or not. Either way, it will be a delightful exchange.

"Thanks for that," he returned. His eyes held hers. "And your name?"

Are you as turned on as I am?

"Diana. Diana Saxton."

"Thank you, Diana," he said smoothly, stepping out the door. "I'll remember that. And you."

I certainly hope so.

"Goodbye, Bruce," she dared.

"Goodbye," he returned.

He shut the door behind him.

Chapter 22

Leigh sat at her desk, fidgeting. She had a sick feeling in her stomach. She had had a sick feeling in her stomach ever since the first mention of Courtney's potentially violent paramour, and it had only gotten sicker when she caught sight of Allison's computer "research." Yet at the same time, she was starving.

Her body had one twisted sense of humor.

"Alice!" she called over the low wall of her semiprivate office. The four founders of Hook, Inc., once coworker drones at another, giant ad agency which had canned them all simultaneously, had managed to stay good friends even through the firm's early days of near-starvation.

"Ye-ess?" the graphic design head drawled in a sarcastic tone.

"Did we eat all that popcorn Jeff brought in last week?"

"You
did, yes."

Leigh sighed. She had consumed her hastily packed lunch quite some time ago, but her blood sugar seemed unaware of it.

"Is there anything else?"

"Motria brought in some babka."

"Are you kidding? That's long gone."

"What about Merry's deer jerky?"

Leigh grimaced. Merry's husband was a skilled outdoorsman, but there were rumors of him appropriating road kill. "Pass."

"So go get some of that sugar-free hard candy on Mary Rose's desk."

"That's not food!"

Alice's scowling face appeared over the divider. Though her scowls were always good-natured, you wouldn't know it to look at her. "Go home!" she ordered.

"I still have work to do," Leigh insisted.

"Any trifling thing you might accomplish when you're in a mood like this will be more than cancelled out by the work you're
preventing
me from doing. Now, get the hell out of here and go soothe your nerves with a burger or a candy bar or some damn thing." Alice made a violent shooing motion. "Vamoose!"

Leigh started to protest, but was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. Alice made one more fierce gesture, then disappeared again. Leigh reached out and picked up the handset. "Hook, Inc. This is Leigh."

"Hey, Leigh. Gerry here."

Leigh's blood pressure kicked up a notch. The voice was friendly and familiar, and by itself no longer constricted every sphincter in her body. Though her relationship with Lieutenant Gerald Frank had begun less than amicably—to say the least—she had long since buried the hatchet with her best friend's husband. For a long time the detectives' courtship had seemed like the stuff of Leigh's nightmares, but when poor Maura had lost her mother and both elderly aunts within a year—the same year during which her two best pals were completely consumed with their newborn twins—Gerry Frank had been her rock. He had supported her through it all, with the utmost love and understanding, and when Maura had at last decided to marry him, Leigh had been the most approving matron of honor in history.

But he never called her at the office.

"Is something wrong?" she asked quickly.

"No, no," he assured. "Nothing that I know of. I'd say it's more of a curiosity. I just came by the house and picked up a phone message from your daughter. She was trying to reach Maura."

Leigh's pulse began to pound. "Allison was calling Maura? Why?"

There was a pause. "I was hoping you might know. Allie didn't sound upset in the message, just her usual calm, cool, intellectual self. But she did say, and I quote, 'it's rather urgent.' I tried to call her back, but no one picked up at your house. And I can't reach Maura either—she must be on a call. I figured you'd want to know."

"Yes," Leigh answered unsteadily. "I certainly would. Thanks so much for calling, Gerry. I'll figure it out."

"No problem, Leigh. And by the way, your pickled beets were awesome."

She smiled faintly. Ordinarily, hearing anyone say that any food she prepared was "awesome" would be cause for celebration, even if said recipe did have only two steps and four ingredients. But at present, her capacity for celebration was limited. She thanked him again and hung up.

Why on earth did Allison want to talk to Maura? What was so "urgent" she couldn't tell her mother about it?

Leigh pulled out her own phone and dialed Cara's cell. "The Pack is fine, Leigh," her cousin said by way of greeting. "Is everything okay with you?"

Leigh let out a breath. "I'm all right," she responded unconvincingly. "What is Allison doing now?"

"I just dropped her off at the clinic," Cara answered. "She had some project she said your dad was helping her with. He told me I could leave her there all afternoon. Do you think you could swing by and pick her up on your way home?"

"Sure," Leigh said hastily. "Listen, what kind of project was she talking about? Did you know that she's been trying to call Maura?"

Cara was silent a moment. "That's odd. Allison never asked to use my phone. She must have called from the house when she was changing out of her riding clothes. As for the project, I have no idea. She was carrying something around in a shoe box. She wouldn't let Lenna look at it—said it might upset her. I didn't think anything about that; Lenna can flip out over a stink bug. What do you think Allison could be up to?"

"I don't know," Leigh responded, grabbing her bag from her file drawer. "But I'm going over to the clinic right now to find out."

"Woohoo!" came a voice from over the wall.

Leigh said goodbye, hung up, gave an obsequious bow to Alice, and departed. She walked down two flights of stairs to street level and headed out through the lobby. A trio of men boarded the elevator as she passed.

Gray hair, dark eyes.

Leigh whipped her head around. As the elevator doors closed, her eyes studied a gray-haired man in a suit and tie.

Tall and solidly built.

He was at most five foot five.

She released a breath and moved on.

She needed to get a grip. Even if the man Courtney was frightened of had pursued his married girlfriend to Pittsburgh, there was no reason for him to be stalking her college classmate's wife's cousin at her place of business! Leigh had enough to worry about with her daughter right now—she did not need to invent gratuitous bogeymen.

She walked out the front door and headed toward the stadium parking lot. Why
did
the specter of Courtney's Chicago man spook her so much? Was she merely projecting her fears onto him, when what really worried her was something else?

She cast an offhand glance back at the Hook building, then froze. A tall, solidly built gray-haired man was striding toward its entrance. A younger woman was approaching at the same time from the opposite direction. He smiled and held open the door for her.