Vows of Silence (23 page)

1. This first rule goes right to the heart of the chase. If you see a hunk you’re interested in, for God’s sake call him! Southern girls are never afraid to make the first move. (This is how I snagged my husband.)
   
2. Once you’ve gotten past the first couple of dates, there is the all-important “meet the parents” moment. Rule number two is simple: if he can’t get along with your daddy and your brothers, he’s trouble.
   
3. Rule number three is another no-brainer. Never continue to date a guy who dares to look at or talk about another woman or old girlfriend while he is with you. This is a sure indicator of a lack of respect or an overdose of self-confidence. (This can also apply to cars. A man who spends too much time looking at or talking about cars can be problematic as well.)
   
4. Rule number four is one of the most important rules of all. Every Southern girl knows that spending time with a man’s mother is the best way to find out exactly what kind of man he really is. A man who is good to his mama will more likely be good to his wife.
   
5. Finally, rule number five is the last hurdle. Southern girls understand that there are two tests in particular that a man must pass before he’s considered suitable husband material: the sports test and the buddy test. If he’d rather watch the game than go to a movie with you, this is a bad sign. If he’d rather hang out with his buddies at the pool hall than with you at your family’s backyard barbecue, you should just walk away. (This rule does not apply to Southern girls who would rather be watching sports and hanging with their bosom buddies as well.)
   

I
grew up on a farm in rural Alabama, a small community called Skyline high atop Cumberland Mountain. I have two brothers and one sister. As kids we had lots of cats and dogs and, of course, a whole slew of farm animals including pigs, cows, horses and chickens.

We only had three channels on the television and those all went off the air by midnight, accompanied by the flight of air force jets and the national anthem. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time entertaining myself with stories and imaginary characters.

One of the scariest times in my life occurred when I was about five years old and at home with my sister and younger brother. My parents and older brother were out on the farm doing what farmers do, working from dawn to dark to make a living. At twelve, my sister was responsible for taking care of me and my little brother as well as cooking the family’s meals and keeping the house clean.

This particular summer day my mother had warned my sister to keep my brother and me inside and to keep the doors locked since she had seen a report on the news about a man who’d broken out of a prison a couple of hours away. There was no reason to believe he might flee to our community but my mother was ever cautious just the same.

About lunchtime that morning, my brother and I were playing in the living room while my sister mopped the kitchen floor. I’ll never forget that day. It was perfect. There was a cool mountain breeze shifting the ancient curtains on the windows. We sat on the worn linoleum floor playing with the few toys we had, totally oblivious to the idea that we were poor. Suddenly my sister rushed into the room and whispered for us to be quiet. Usually we would have argued, but this day the look of stark fear on her face kept us silent.

My sister ushered us into a hiding place in the corner behind a large chair and side table. I remember her holding us close against her and the feel of her heart pounding in her chest. It wasn’t until I heard the screen door creak as it opened that my own fear kicked in.

We all heard the deliberate footsteps as someone came through that back door and into the kitchen.

The intruder walked into the living room and straight down the hall to the bedrooms while we huddled in terror in our hiding place.

As the sound of those heavy footfalls made the journey back toward the living room, I remember being surprised when the salty taste of tears pooled on my lips. I didn’t realize I was crying. I wished for my mother and father. I prayed for God to keep us safe. All in those few seconds.

The intruder hesitated in the living room and we all held our breath…our hearts thudding so loudly it’s hard to believe he didn’t hear the thundering sound.

We didn’t breathe again until the danger had moved back into the kitchen. Again our intruder appeared to pause. To listen? we wondered. To reconsider what he had or had not seen? Would he come back into the room and lean over the back of the chair to find us cowering there?

The screen door squeaked loudly, then banged against the wood frame. But we didn’t move. I don’t know how long we huddled there, too afraid to move…too afraid to speak.

Eventually my sister, being the brave soul she was, moved out of our hiding place and went into the kitchen. She first locked the back door that she had failed to lock earlier. Then she moved from room to room and peered out every window in the house to ensure no one was lurking in the yard. When she returned to the living room to tell us it was safe to come out, we were so relieved that for a moment or two we all considered that maybe we had been imagining things. Perhaps our mother’s story about the prison escape had prompted our imagination to run away with us. And then we noticed the footprints on the kitchen floor.

You see my sister had just finished mopping the kitchen floor when she thought she heard something outside in the yard. She’d rushed to hide us in a nick of time before the door had opened. We hadn’t imagined anything. Our intruder had walked up the long, dusty road to our house and left his tracks on my sister’s damp kitchen floor.

After the initial shock we also noticed that he’d taken the cake of corn bread my sister had baked that morning. We never knew the identity of our intruder. We only knew that he apparently took what he’d come for—food.

That was my first experience with sheer terror. Listening to those footsteps come closer…wondering what would happen next. I’m certain that terrifying exhilaration is at least part of the reason I love writing romantic suspense. My sister’s bravery is surely why I write strong, determined heroines.

Watch for my next Signature novel and we’ll share another story from those formative years that helped make me the author I am today.

Investigating 101

by
Debra Webb

Don’t forget to look for my upcoming Harlequin Intrigue book in April 2006 entitled Investigating 101. This story is the newest installment of my ongoing COLBY AGENCY miniseries. If you haven’t read a COLBY AGENCY story before, this is an excellent place to start. The Colby Agency is about to hire some fabulous, and very young, raw talent!

CHAPTER
1

V
ictoria Colby-Camp sat at her desk and stared at the neat pile of manila folders Mildred had placed in the exact middle of her clean blotter pad.

It was the same each Monday morning. Mildred gathered the assignment and status reports from each investigator and brought the bundle to Victoria at nine sharp for her perusal. At ten a standard staff meeting would take place in the conference room. New assignments would be dissected and doled out, old business would be discussed. The workweek would continue from there.

The routine never varied.

Victoria sighed, the sound echoed softly in her empty office.

She had no right to feel this way. Life had been extremely good to her for months now. She certainly could not complain…. And, yet, she felt…bored.

Her brow furrowed deeply in denial of her last thought. Perhaps
bored
was not the proper word. She and Lucas had celebrated their first wedding anniversary a few months ago with a long weekend in the Cayman Islands. Her son was happily married and anticipating the arrival of the first Colby grandchild.

What else could she ask for?

The Colby Agency continued to thrive. The cases that walked through reception’s doors included the most intriguing and challenging from right here in Chicago as well as all across the nation—ones that no other agency seemed able to solve in addition to those of longtime, loyal clients.

Still, Victoria felt restless.

She pushed up from her chair and walked across the room to look out at the city she loved. A city pulsing with life, filled with magnificent and innovative architecture. A place rich with colorful and turbulent political history as well as vibrant cultural venues.

There was no other city in the country quite like it. No other place she’d rather be.

Dozens of memories filtered through her mind, warming her heart. It seemed so long ago now that she and James, her first husband and the father of her only son, had started this agency. She had known even then that the Colby Agency would be something very special. How could it be anything else? James Colby had orchestrated its creation.

But now, more than twenty years later, something was missing. She concentrated hard in an effort to pinpoint the motivation for the fleeting sensation.

This odd emptiness had started almost one month ago. At first she’d considered that, with her highly trained and efficient staff, maybe she was bored with her level of participation in the business of private investigations. Her right-hand personnel oversaw most of the day-to-day operations. Though she came to the office each and every day and reviewed all activities, she was not personally involved with the execution of assignments.

But her role had always been in oversight rather than execution. Why would she suddenly feel unsettled in that role now? Admittedly, change could be a good thing. With that in mind and much to the dismay of her staff she’d launched a complete overhaul of the agency’s decor. A smile tilted one corner of her mouth. Unquestionably the renovations were a nuisance, but she’d hoped that the transformations would lift this sense of lacking she suffered.

The distraction had not worked.

Victoria turned to view her elegantly decorated office. Though the new gold and red tones were quite exquisite, as were the rich jewel tones of the rest of the offices, the relief she’d hoped for had not come.

Nor had the carpet. Her gaze dropped to the beige carpeting on the floor. The contractor had apologized repeatedly for the error. The wrong color had been ordered and, of course, returned, leaving the floor rather bland amid the rest of the opulent decor.

Her attention moved back to her desk and the stack of files there. She really should get on with her Monday-morning review, but the usual anticipation proved glaringly absent.

There was always the chance that her lackadaisical attitude wasn’t work related at all.

She’d toyed with the idea of a personal makeover. Nothing elaborate. A new hairstyle perhaps and possibly a color. Victoria smoothed her hand over her firmly coiled French twist. Never one to bother with such trivialities, she’d worn her hair the same way for half a lifetime, never bothering with touching up the multiplying silver strands that gave away her true age.

Was it time for a personal change?

Lucas appeared more than happy with her hair just as it was. She traced the tiny lines accentuating her eyes and wondered why she’d never worried about those either. Most women her age and of her social standing had undergone at least one facelift by now.

No, she decided, that wasn’t the problem.

As simple as it would be to pretend a new wardrobe and a visit to a salon would cure her restless feelings she knew deep down that wouldn’t help.

Her working life lacked the edge and excitement of the past. Though it was certainly true that the Colby Agency worked many, many intriguing and exciting cases, that wasn’t what she meant.

When she and James had first started the agency everything had been new, including the investigators they hired. One or two had previous experience in the field, but most learned from the master, James Colby himself. Time and experience had honed this agency to a gleaming, precious jewel among its competition.

No more rough edges, no more raw exhilaration.

Affection tugged at her lips when she thought of Trevor Sloan and his untamed surliness. He’d been a man with more rough edges than most and, yet, the best damned investigator any agency could hope to retain. He’d been young and so had Victoria.

On the heels of that thought came an epiphany.

That was the missing ingredient that had her out of sorts.

Youth.

It wasn’t that she resented growing older, on the contrary. Her life was everything she wanted it to be and more. This was strictly business related.

And no one knew better about the business of private investigations than she.

Victoria stepped over to the phone on her desk and pressed the intercom button.

“Mildred, find the date and location on that job fair we talked about last week. I’m considering participating.” Anticipation surged in Victoria’s veins. She was onto something here. She could feel it all the way to the pads of her feet.

“I have it right here, Victoria,” Mildred said as she shuffled through her calendar. “Embassy Suites downtown, this weekend.”

Perfect. “Sign the agency up ASAP. I don’t want just a booth, I want a conference room. Get it in tomorrow’s edition of the
Tribune
.”

“It may be too late to sign up,” Mildred warned.

Victoria grinned. “Talk to Lyle Vandiver at the Chamber of Commerce. He’ll get us in. Throw out all the stops, Mildred. I want to make a big splash.”

“The usual employment requirements?” her secretary asked.

There was no need to mull over the question, Victoria knew what she wanted. “No. This is going to be different. No experience necessary. Drop the age requirement to twenty.”

“Pardon? Did you say
twenty
?”

“Twenty,” Victoria repeated. That was a far cry from the twenty-five guideline the agency generally used. It had been a very long time since she had considered an applicant too young to have any real job experience. And there was no time like the present to see what she’d been missing.

Still sounding befuddled, Mildred assured, “I’ll get right on it.”

Victoria sat down at her desk and began to review the case files with a new sense of purpose.

That was what she’d been missing—just exactly what this agency needed—new blood. Young blood. Raw talent.

The unexpected.

…
NOT THE END
…