The Cinderella Project (A Comedy of Love, #1) (25 page)

Clint extended an index finger. Slowly, he reached out for her shoulder, silently praying he’d survive what he was about to do.

“I’m twenty inches away, Clint. I’ve admitted contact. You are allowed to move faster.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and then…

Poke.

Nothing happened. Her shoulder was simply soft, like a woman’s shoulder should be. Clint cracked one eye, expecting to see Molly frothing at the mouth. But no; it was just her and her normal, wonderful face under that coffee-colored hair done up like a ball of lovely passion waiting for the right moment to be turned loose.

*

For Molly Weatherpound, the most important fact was that Clint was safe. The next most important fact was that he was still marriageable. There was comfort in knowing that her girlhood dream might still find some life.

The poke to her shoulder had been interesting to say the least—even Clint wasn’t typically this bizarre. “Was that enlightening for you, Clint?”

He was watching her with unusual caution.
“Did you feel anything when I touched you?”

She arched an eyebrow
, and decided to keep things simple. “I’d estimate about half a pound of pressure on a quarter square-inch area of my shoulder.”

“Well, yes, but do you
want
me?”

She turned to look. “Do I want you to what?”

He tapped her shoulder again, this time with two fingers. She flicked her eyes down to follow the motion, and then back up to Clint, curious. He repeated the motion several more times, trying her arm, her cheek, and her knee. Yes, this was definitely getting strange. She hated the fact that her stepmother’s abuse still sent her into “auto-defense” mode any time anyone touched her. It wasn’t until junior high school that she had trained herself to stop blocking everyone who tried to make physical contact with her. But this was Clint. She welcomed this.

“So, when I touched you, you didn’t start
,” he paused as if searching for words, “you didn’t start thinking of that old song about thinking I’m sexy and wanting my body?”

Molly bit her tongue; she
had
felt something—something far more powerful than was right. But she knew better than to give into knee-jerk, emotional reactions, and decided it was best to just keep things quiet until she figured out what had happened, and what to do about it. She returned her attention to driving without so much as a blink. “You fell on your head escaping your bathroom this morning, didn’t you, Clint?”

“No! Well
, not very hard. I was only—”

Clint obviously didn’t get it. Oh, well. If he needed it spelled out, she’d spell it out.
“You’re a man; I’m an attractive woman. Your desires are very natural. If you’re trying to attract me in return, then my ideal date is playing chess in a dark café while he reads Poe to me over two cups of chamomile and mint tea with a touch of honey. Shoulder poking doesn’t do it for me.”

Wait—had she been too forward? She’d tried so hard to avoid that in the past—especially at her job. Trying to sound as natural as possible, she went for the cover up.
“What was Jane doing at your apartment? I showed up to find you climbing out your bathroom window. I want details. This is serious. If it helps, I’ll continue to allow you the pleasure of stabbing my deltoid provided you answer my questions and don’t distract me from my driving.”

Clint flopped back in his seat,
looking relieved.

“Okay,” he said. “About Jane. I gave her a hug last night.”

“I’m sure she felt like the luckiest girl in the world.” It irked Molly to know that Jane, as always, had taken the gesture for granted.

Clint grumbled. “I wasn’t finished speaking. As I was saying, I hugged her last night. I’ve had my eyes on her since that time we ended up in a coat closet for five minutes after she lost at Truth or Dare.”

“She didn’t lose.”

“So, I
, Wait. What?”

“Please continue,” Molly said.

Clint blinked, and then shrugged. “Well, when I hugged Jane I, ah, infected her. See, I’ve got this curse thing going on.”

Molly
wrinkled her brow. He seemed convinced of this issue; Clint had never been superstitious. Perhaps this bore investigation?

At a sign directing her toward Contra Costa
Regional Medical Center, she changed lanes again, and headed for the exit ramp. Her initial assessment of Clint suggested he hadn’t broken any bones in his fall, but it never hurt to check.

“Look,” he said, “I know this sounds crazy. It took me three months of freak ‘coincidences’ before I believed it myself.
It started when this weird gypsy lady threw a flaming ball of chicken at me.”

Molly’s
made to ask, but Clint cut her off. “Yes, I know that sounds ridiculous. Long story short, I ended up in her little traveling circus and made a wish. It feels more like a curse. I can hardly wave at a girl without having her go gaga over me—unless she’s ‘of age and not descended from my great grandparents,’ is what I was told.”

Her
eyebrows came up. “Considering your dating history, Clint, I’d say you’re flirting heavily with arrogance there. Have you been taking testosterone boosters lately?” She hoped the reminder of his romantic past would prod him to remember that Molly had never been a part of it.

He waved it away as the car rolled to a stop at the traffic light at the ramp’s end. “Look, I’m serious. My
curse—I call it the ‘Touch’—it’s like a drug or something. Women totally lose their minds. Especially Jane.

“She came to my place this morning. She had it
bad
. There was no stopping her. I know you want details, but I’d rather not repeat the laundry list of things she said she had in mind for me. She made it
very
clear that she
owned
me. Once she started getting aggressive, I faked the urge to pee and excused myself to the bathroom. I guess you know the rest.”

She
nodded in quiet repose. After Clint had left his twin sister’s reunion party last night, Jane had mentioned the idea of visiting him in the morning. Molly had known Jane long enough that the way the woman said it had sent chills down her spine. Apparently, Jane hadn’t changed much since high school either. Considering what Molly had recently learned of her old friend, things looked that much worse.

She reprimanded herself for her lack of vigilance over Clint—he’d done so much to shield her when they were young that she owed him at least that. And yet, she’d allowed Jane to reach him first. Molly knew she was lucky the consequences hadn’t been worse. Still, she could use this to her advantage.
“Did Jane ever specifically threaten violence against your person?”

Clint considered. “Well
, not criminally. No. Nothing I’d mention to the cops.”

“What
would
you mention to the cops?”

He thought for a moment. “Nothing really. She kicked in my door, like I said, told me she was claiming my heart body and soul, and said that her father was going to make me part of the family business when we married. I guess he’s a merchant or something? She said something about a shipment coming in from Southeast Asia, but wouldn’t say what. Only that she was going to help her dad with marketing, now that they were reconnecting, and help him sell all his inventory. I thought it was a nice gesture, but when I tried telling her, she responded by trying to ram her tongue down my throat.

Molly grimaced. “I don’t need
those
details, Clint.”

“Hey, you asked for it.”

“This shipment,” Molly said. “When and where?”

“She didn’t say. She seemed more intent on getting my shirt off at that point.”

Molly nodded and turned into the parking lot of Contra Costa Hospital. Clint’s panic was understandable, but Molly smelled trouble on Jane’s end. Perhaps the authorities
would
need to get involved after all. When they stopped, Clint opened his door and levered himself painfully out of the vehicle.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” he said. “That Jane incident wasn’t fun.”

“You’re sure it’s not issues with her medication?” Molly asked.

Clint shook his head. “If you knew what I’ve been through over the last
few months, I think you’d understand. This
needs
to end. As soon as the doctors let me go,” he said solemnly, “I will find the old woman and break this stupid curse. My safety and sanity depend on it. I either figure this out or the rest of my life is going to be so challenging that I’m never likely to marry, if that makes any sense.”

It didn’t make sense, but the situation worried Molly all the same. She needed to learn what was going on and resolve it immediately. So far, Clint seemed to trust her, and that was good. If she trod carefully, she could parlay this into exactly what she’d been waiting for.

TWO

Monday. As always, Lindsay Sullivan showed up at her office at 8:00 a.m. sharp, and just as she had every day since getting this office, she stared at the small, silver letters on the door. Of all the names she could have chosen for a private investigation firm, why in the
world
had she chosen “Sullivan and Self”? She should have gone with her gut and picked something cool like, “Stealthy Sullivan,” or “Lindsay’s Private Eyes” or “Seeking Sullivan,” or any of the other names she had brainstormed the day before she’d applied for the business license. Her Uncle Tom said she should come up with something more professional—it was better for business, he said.

“But Uncle Tom,” she’d replied, “this is an adventure! If you want action-packed cases, you’ve got to sound like you mean it.”

Tom had reminded her that she wasn’t living one of her television programs, and that people were more likely to pay her if she didn’t sound like a teenage kid trying hobby sleuthing. She capitulated, and checked out the names of other local P.I. firms.

She hated them a
ll.

Ultimately, she fell back on her college degree and internships as a paralegal. Every law firm she’d ever heard of went by the names of its several partners. Only
, she didn’t have any partners.

No wonder I don’t get any calls
, she thought sourly.
They probably think I’m schizophrenic.

By the time she’d realized her mistake in choosing a name her pride refused to let her change it, especially in the face of her parents’ constant badgering about getting a real job with a nice law firm somewhere in the Bay Area. Her father had arranged a dozen interviews through his business connections, but Lindsay refused to appear for any of them. At least that had gotten Dad to quit talking to her for the last six months. She ignored the small, uncomfortable feeling in the back of her head whispering that maybe he had been right after all. With a sigh and the turn of the knob, she walked into the closet-like space that housed her chance to finally prove herself.

In his typical fashion, Uncle Tom had kindly helped by acquiring acceptably attractive secondhand furniture to replace the bland monstrosities that had come with the rental space. Lindsay didn’t mind “scratch-n-dent” stuff. A little sanding, varnish, and elbow grease and things were good as new. The desk was real cherry wood, the chair was actual leather (a graduation gift from her parents, from when they thought she was still living their dreams), and the computer was only four years old. Tom had also gotten her a cheap desk phone with one of those old-fashioned, tape-recorder style answering machines. The overhead light worked.

And I have a window!
The thought always made her smile.

She squeezed past the stacks of boxes lining the wall as she crossed to her desk, and dropped the day’s mail next to the computer. She sat, luxuriating in the non-Naugahyde embrace of her chair before booting up her computer. Waiting for the machine to rouse itself, she sifted through the mail.

Bill from Pacific Gas and Electric. A reminder to make the last three months’ lease payments or face eviction in thirty days. Buy two, get one free tacos from Burrito Juan’s. Reminder about the oil change. “Get Well” card from Daryl—ugh. Idiot. Overdue utility bill.

She stopped, put on her calm face, removed the taco coupon, and then slid the remainder of the mail under her desk. It would wait. Her computer was active now and she checked her e-mail. The content wasn’t much better than the snail mail. But, oh! Mr. Francis had responded! Her heart picked up the pace as she noticed the subject line: “RE: re: Your services.”

John Francis had come to her five days ago, asking after her prices and qualifications. He hadn’t gone into detail, but he’d hinted at a sneaking suspicion that his wife was stepping out on him—possibly even funding her dalliances with money from his businesses. Lindsay had assured him of her skills and reasonable fees, and when she finished, he seemed impressed. He left with a promise to get back to her soon because he “might now be done shopping around for a P.I.”

Best of all, he seemed rich. Rich clients were the best kind.

Holding her breath, Lindsay opened the e-mail.

“Dear Miss Sullivan,” she read aloud. “Thank you for offering your services. I admit I could not find a more competitive price anywhere in town.”

Lindsay gave a little squeal. At last! A case!
Finally
something to silence the naysayers.

She read on.

“I regret to inform you…” Her heart sank at those words, and she reverted to silent reading. Mr. Francis had decided that the sensitive nature of the case, and the skill of his wife in hiding her deeds, required someone with more experience in the field. He thanked her for her time, and signed it “John.”

He had the gall to include a “P.S.” inviting her to dinner with him that coming Friday. Pig.

Lindsay slumped back in her chair, and kicked absently at the mail protruding from under the desk (she made a mental note to clean that crevice out this month). John Francis had been one of only seven people to ever walk through her office door in the five months she had been in business. Herself, her parents, and Uncle Tom made up most of the rest of that list. She didn’t count the janitor.

C’mon, think, girl. Don’t give up! That’s exactly what Mom and Dad expect! It’s only one little setback. You need some name recognition. Let people know you’re there, and that you’re good, and they’ll be beating down your door.

Her desk phone rang. She snatched it without thought.

“Sullivan and Self Private Investigators. This is Sullivan.”

Silence. Then some heavy breathing. Lindsay rolled her eyes and slammed the receiver down. She hated the fact that her business phone pre-dated caller ID. She’d change that as soon as she got her first paycheck. It rang again immediately. She flipped the ringer to “off.” Grabbing the keyboard, she started hammering in search criteria for free, local advertising. Eventually voicemail picked up.

“Hi,” she heard that tinny, grating recording of her voice say. “You’ve reached Sullivan and Self Private Investigators, where we never fail to find what you’re looking for. I’m unavailable to take your call at the moment. Please leave your name, a detailed message, and a phone number I can reach you at, and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Have an excellent day!”

The machine beeped, and Daryl’s unfortunately familiar voice blared from the speaker. “Yo, Lindz! Ya get my card? Yeah, I heard about your surgery. Figured you’d like it.”

“It was a regular dental checkup, moron,” Lindsay muttered to herself.

“I made it myself,” the man added. “Well, Mom helped with the spelling, but I put the whole thing together. I even used that recycled stuff you’re always talking about.

“Anyway, I’ll be there in a bit. You stiffed me for our last two dates. I’m still takin’ you to dinner. Tomorrow. My place. Mom’s making her lasagna. I’ll have her come getcha sometime. Love ya, hot stuff! Ciao!”

Lindsay nursed a new headache. Daryl Duncan was quite possibly the stupidest man on the planet. She wondered what stroke of bad karma had earned her his affection. It was one thing to have the wealthy, handsome John Francis offer to take you to dinner—that was at least flattering, even if he was an obvious liar and a two-timer. But Daryl? Lindsay was uncertain whether she could have penetrated his skull with a diamond-bit drill. Oh, she’d tried turning him down nicely the first five times he’d asked her out. After that, she’d grown increasingly blunt. That failed too. Ignoring him sometimes worked, but Daryl had this disturbing habit of showing up at the most unexpected of places and times. Lindsay grabbed her pad of sticky notes and jotted a reminder to increase her counter-stalking defenses.

Why wouldn’t men leave her alone? Except as clients, of course. She could handle men—especially rich, handsome ones—paying her to do their snooping for them. But why did they all keep
asking her out
? She had vowed she wouldn’t bother
them
. Couldn’t they extend her the same courtesy? Was it really that hard to avoid commenting on her eyes or her legs or her—never mind. She was a professional doing professional work. She was not some piece of meat to be ogled, thank you very much.

She deleted the voicemail as soon as it ended, and then went back to perusing her e-mails. Spam. More reminders. E-mail from Mom about how worried she was about her daughter. Message from an old high school girlfriend. Something about the Nevada State Fair. She looked askance at that, but then remembered she’d been browsing sites about Las Vegas for someone who almost pretended to become a client. Nothing of real note. She deleted the spam, read the message from the girlfriend, opened the one from Mom just to trigger the “message read” receipt on Mom’s e-mail, and kept the one about the fair for no real reason at all. When she finished she flipped through her list of past “almost clients.” If no one would come to her, she would have to go to them.

“Ashworth, Beverly,” the first card read. Mrs. Ashworth had called her three months back, inquiring whether Lindsay would help find her lost dog. At the time, it seemed like a silly request—Lindsay was
not
some low-class pet detective. The older woman had accepted Lindsay’s courteous explanation as to why she couldn’t take the case, but seemed disappointed all the same. Unbidden, the stack of bills from the morning’s mail came to mind. Maybe Old Lady Ashworth’s prize Pomeranian was still alone and afraid somewhere? She dialed the number, and waited until a kind, elderly voice came on the line.

“Hello, Mrs. Ashworth? This is Lindsay Sullivan of Sullivan and Self Private Investigators. I was wondering…”

*

A half hour, and seven, short phone calls later, Lindsay had come up blank. She checked to see if the free, local ad she’d put out last week had received any hits. The page’s view count was dismal, and there had been no click-throughs. Then again, she had a hunch about what to expect when resorting to one of the painfully few “no-cost” options. When she had checked them out, her detective sense smelled something fishy about all but one of them, and even that ad firm didn’t look encouraging. She supposed she could go door to door, but that was hardly professional.

An image popped into her mind of a hulking man with the word “Bills” tattooed across his chest. He was beating on a little nerdy guy wearing a t-shirt with the logo “Lindsay’s Bank Account” on it. She felt sorry for the nerd.

“God,” she whispered, looking up at the sky, “I know I don’t pray much, and I’m probably not a top priority for you, what with world hunger and all those other problems, but would you mind helping me out a bit? Maybe, send me a case? Or two?”

No answer. She wasn’t sure she had expected it. But who knew? Maybe God had an answering machine as well, and had to sort through billions of prayers one at a time. No, He would have a proper staff to handle His secretarial work. He probably didn’t have a lease either. Maybe she should have gone to school to be a goddess. Did they even
have
schools for such a thing? Either way, being a supernatural being would certainly be an adventure.

The urge to use the ladies’ room brought her back to earth. Lindsay made her way around her desk. In a rare, clumsy moment, her foot snagged a teetering pile of boxes. She yelped as a half dozen of them crashed down, spilling their contents all over the floor. She groaned.

“Well, it’s not as though I was doing anything else right now.” She excused herself to freshen up. She’d deal with the mess in a moment.

*

9:30 rolled around before Lindsay declared the disaster “conquered.” She looked at the rearranged stack with satisfaction before turning back to her desk. An unexpected upshot of her little accident was that she had unearthed some of her old high school paraphernalia. Maybe a little mental break would help clear her mind and bring in some fresh ideas. She put her old notebooks aside and went straight for the yearbooks.

Freshman year. The picture above her name made her shudder. Had her hair really been
that
ratty? And those freckles? Ugh. As if being strawberry blond hadn’t been bad enough. Then there was the acne. She slammed the book shut.

Sophomore year. Her family had moved to a different town and gave her a fresh start. The acne was mostly gone by then, but she wasn’t sure if braces made such a good replacement. She’d straightened her hair, but what was with the little poof of bangs on the right side of her head? Why had she been so hideous back when guys were still worth thinking about? She wondered if there was some sort of “reverse plastic surgery” to make a girl look a tad disgusting to keep them away now. No, she still had her dignity, and Mom would never pop to cover a nose job designed to make her look like a toucan.

She looked through the yearbook signatures she’d gotten from various friends; she was surprised at how few there were. She slightly regretted her plan to skip her ten-year reunion when it came up, but she had her reasons. As she started to close the book, the pages flopped down to reveal the seniors. A face stopped her cold. That lazy, blond hair over those gray-blue eyes that she used to think shined for her. There was that familiar, half grin that never quite left his lips, and seemed to get wider when he saw her. It was almost a shame that she’d scribbled a big, black X over his picture; it was the only one of him she had. No amount of scribbling would ever erase her mental picture of him.