The form balanced precariously on the ladder inside the doorway was only half-visible, but what was observable was unmistakably feminine. Denim clung to shapely hips and snugged across a curvy bottom before slicking down mile-long legs. His gaze lingered on those legs now, and hormones, too long suppressed, flickered to life. It took conscious effort to drag his eyes upward, to where the woman’s torso disappeared into the opening afforded by the missing panel in the suspended ceiling.
“You took your sweet time. I didn’t know whether you were ever coming, so I got started without you.”
Brows raising at the muffled words, James inquired, “Did you want some help?”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard a rather unladylike snort. “All that’s left for you to do is to hold the ladder. I’m nearly finished here.” He moved to obey, putting himself in even closer range to those long legs.
“I think the receptacle’s shot, so you’ll have to check that out. Probably needs to be replaced. You got the ladder?” Without waiting for a reply the woman started down it. “And you, my friend, can just put in some overtime fixing it. Serves you right for taking so long getting here.”
James steadied the ladder with both arms, framing the slender form descending it. “Overtime can be expensive.” Her well-formed rear swayed tantalizingly closer with each step she took. For a moment he forgot the grim errand that had brought him here and allowed his imagination free rein. It was doubtful the woman’s face could match those incredible endless legs, but a man was entitled to hope. He was partial to blondes, so as long as this was his fantasy, he’d put his money on her being blond and blue-eyed. A rare smile crossed his lips. No, make it green eyes, and somehow he’d have to recover from the disappointment that was certain to accompany the reality.
He’d recovered from far worse disappointments in his time.
Her voice shook him from his reverie. “You can let go of the ladder. I don’t have any intention of walking over you to get off it.” When he didn’t move away, she twisted around, practically in his arms. “So help me, Howie, you’d better not be enjoying this, or…”
Her words stopped abruptly, eyes widening as she realized her mistake. Eyes that weren’t green at all, James noted. Instead they were a warm wash of colors that ranged from gray to brown, with flecks of gold in the irises to further defy description. And she wasn’t a blonde, either. Her hair hovered somewhere between blond and brown, a poorly cut tangle that reached to her shoulder blades. Her nose was straight, her mouth wide and her jaw stubborn. Her chin had a decided dip in it, right in the center. It was an intriguing face, rather than a pretty one, and James felt a flicker of interest. It had been a long time since he’d been intrigued by a woman.
He watched her swallow and search for words. “Ah…you’re not Howie.” And then felt a flicker of amusement at her wince as the inanity slipped from her mouth.
He stepped back to allow her to finish her descent. “No. Sorry. I’m looking for Rob Landry. If you can tell him I’m here?”
There was a flash of pain in those changeable eyes, before they abruptly shuttered. “I…can’t do that.” She turned away, crossed to the lone desk in the room and sank into the seat behind it.
Impatience flickering, James eyed the door in the far corner of the room emblazoned with the man’s name. “You mean he’s not in? When will he be back?”
“He won’t be.” The woman’s voice was stronger now, an obvious attempt to layer strength over grief. “He died three weeks ago.”
James froze, the words seeming to come from a distance. He was too late. If he’d begun this quest a bit sooner, if he’d tracked Landry a little more quickly, he might have answers to the questions that had reared, spawning suspicion that would burn until he could put it to rest with answers.
Answers that wouldn’t be forthcoming with Rob Landry dead.
Disappointment welled up, of a much different sort than he’d expected when he’d seen her perched on the ladder. With long practice, he pushed it aside. “I’m sorry,” he said belatedly, recognizing both the woman’s anguish and her attempt to mask it. “I understand he worked with a partner. I’d like to speak to him, if I may.”
“That would be me. I’m Tori Corbett, his daughter.” Emotion had been tucked away. The woman’s tone was brisk now, her expression professional. “What can I help you with?”
He was beginning to doubt that she could help him at all, but he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a business card. “James Tremaine.” He handed her it to her but knew from the look on her face that it was unnecessary. She recognized the name and that of his family’s company on the card. He expected no less, since he’d worked for nearly two decades to promote both.
Rejecting the position of the chairs facing her desk, he dragged one around to sit beside her. “Your father did some work for mine a little over twenty years ago. After my parents’ deaths, his services were again retained. You would have been just a child then, of course, but maybe he mentioned the investigations to you in the time since.”
The shock on her face was its own answer, and the disappointment he felt this time had a bitter taste. “Perhaps he had another partner then? Someone who worked with him when he was running Landry Investigations at that time?”
Her gaze fell to her desktop. “No, Dad always believed in a one-man shop until me. I was the first partner he ever had.” Her words sounded as though they’d been difficult for her to say. Certainly they were difficult for James to hear.
“He must have left records. I’d like to look through them, with your permission of course.” He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, and equally adept at applying finesse to get it. But his fabled charm was difficult to summon. He was too close to discovering the answers he sought. Too damn anxious about what they might reveal.
“Our files are confidential.” Tori—what kind of name was that for a woman?—swung her chair around to face him more fully. “If you tell me what you’re after, though, I could…” Her sentence abruptly halted. “I’m sorry,” she amended. “The files you’d want are what? Twenty years old?” James nodded. “I don’t have anything that goes back that far.”
He felt his blood cool, his stomach tighten. He withdrew his wallet and extracted several bills. Rising, he leaned forward and dropped them on her desk in front of her. “Why don’t you check?” he urged evenly. “I’ll wait.”
She didn’t even glance at the money. And her voice, when it came, had chilled by several degrees. “I don’t have to look. My father’s building was destroyed by a fire around that time. Shortly after, we moved to Minnesota. He didn’t reopen an investigating business until we moved back here, three years later.”
This line of questioning was a dead end. James hadn’t gotten to his position without knowing when to cut his losses. There would be another way. There always was. It would require regrouping, a new strategy. This wouldn’t be the first obstacle he’d encountered in his search for the truth. And it wasn’t going prevent him from finding it.
He rose. “Thank you for your time. And my condolences again for the loss of your father.” She was staring at him, her varied-colored eyes wide, her mouth half-open in protest. And with a vague sense of regret, one that had nothing to do with the outcome of this meeting, he turned and walked out of her office.
Tori Corbett nosed her car up the long driveway leading to Tremaine Technologies and tried to ignore the nerves dancing along her spine. What she was about to do required bravado and guts, both of which her dad had always said she possessed in spades. But the plan that had seemed so logical three nights ago, hours after James Tremaine