Blue Dahlia gt-1 Read online

  "We're not friends, and never will be." Quite deliberately, she took a tissue out of her purse and wiped

  the hand he'd touched. "I don't count lying, cheating sons of bitches among my friends."

  "A man just can't make a mistake or find forgiveness with a woman like you."

  "That's exactly right. I believe that's the first time you've been exactly right in your whole miserable life."

  She started across the street, more resigned than surprised when he fell into step beside her. He wore a pale gray suit, Italian in cut. Canali, if she wasn't mistaken. At least that had been his designer of the moment when she'd been footing the bills.

  "I don't see why you're still upset, Roz, honey. Unless there are still feelings inside you for me."

  "Oh, there are, Bryce, there are. Disgust being paramount. Go away before I call a cop and have you arrested for being a personal annoyance."

  "I'd just like another chance to—"

  She stopped then. "That will never happen in this lifetime, or a thousand others. Be grateful you're able

  to walk the streets in your expensive shoes, Bryce, and that you're wearing a tailored suit instead of a prison jumpsuit."

  "There's no cause to talk to me that way. You got what you wanted, Roz. You cut me off without a dime."

  "Would that include the fifteen thousand, six hundred and fifty-eight dollars and twenty-two cents you transferred out of my account the week before I kicked your sorry ass out of my house? Oh, I knew about that one, too," she said when his face went carefully blank. "But I let that one go, because I decided I deserved to pay something for my own stupidity. Now you go on, and you stay out of my way, you stay out of my sight, and you stay out of my hearing, or I promise you, you'll regret it."

  She clipped down the sidewalk, and even the "Frigid bitch" he hurled at her back didn't break her stride.

  But she was shaking. By the time she'd reached the right address her knees and hands were trembling. She hated that she'd allowed him to upset her. Hated that the sight of him brought any reaction at all, even if it was rage.

  Because there was shame along with it.

  She'd taken him into her heart and her home. She'd let herself be charmed and seduced—and lied to and deceived. He'd stolen more than her money, she knew. He'd stolen her pride. And it was a shock to the system to realize, after all this time, that she didn't quite have it back. Not all of it.

  She blessed the cool inside the building and rode the elevator to the third floor.

  She was too frazzled and annoyed to fuss with her hair or check her makeup before she knocked. Instead she stood impatiently tapping her foot until the door opened.

  He was as good-looking as the picture on the back of his books—several of which she'd read or skimmed through before arranging this meeting. He was, perhaps, a bit more rumpled in rolled-up shirtsleeves and jeans. But what she saw was a very long, very lanky individual with a pair of horn-rims sliding down a straight and narrow nose. Behind the lenses, bottle-green eyes seemed distracted. His hair was plentiful, in a tangle of peat-moss brown around a strong, sharp-boned face that showed a black bruise along the jaw.

  The fact that he wasn't wearing any shoes made her feel hot and overdressed.

  "Dr. Carnegie?"

  "That's right. Ms.... Harper. I'm sorry. I lost track of time. Come in, please. And don't look at anything." There was a quick, disarming smile. "Part of losing track means I didn't remember to pick up out here.

  So we'll go straight back to my office, where I can excuse any disorder in the name of the creative process. Can I get you anything?"

  His voice was coastal southern, she noted. That easy drawl that turned vowels into warm liquid.

  "I'll take something cold, whatever you've got."

  Of course, she looked as he scooted her through the living room. There were newspapers and books littering an enormous brown sofa, another pile of them along with a stubby white candle on a coffee

  table that looked as if it might have been Georgian. There was a basketball and a pair of high-tops so disreputable she doubted even her sons would lay claim to them in the middle of a gorgeous Turkish

  rug, and the biggest television screen she'd ever seen eating up an entire wall.

  Though he was moving her quickly along, she caught sight of the kitchen. From the number of dishes

  on the counter, she assumed he'd recently had a party.

  "I'm in the middle of a book," he explained. "And when I come up for air, domestic chores aren't a priority. My last cleaning team quit. Just like their predecessors."

  "I can't imagine why," she said with schooled civility as she stared at his office space.

  There wasn't a clean surface to be seen, and the air reeked of cigar smoke. A dieffenbachia sat in a chipped pot on the windowsill, withering. Rising above the chaos of his desk was a flat-screen monitor and an ergonomic keyboard.

  He cleaned off the chair, dumping everything unceremoniously on the floor. "Hang on one minute."

  As he dashed out, she lifted her brows at the half-eaten sandwich and glass of—maybe it was tea—among the debris on his desk. She was somewhat disappointed when with a crane of her neck she peered around to his monitor. His screen saver was up. But that, she supposed, was interesting enough, as it showed several cartoon figures playing basketball.

  "I hope tea's all right," he said as he came back.

  "That's fine, thank you." She took the glass and hoped it had been washed sometime in the last decade. "Dr. Carnegie, you're killing that plant."

  "What plant?"

  "The dieffenbachia in the window."

  "Oh? Oh. I didn't know I had a plant." He gave it a baffled look. "Wonder where that came from? It doesn't look very healthy, does it?"

  He picked it up, and she saw, with horror, that he intended to dump it in the overflowing wastebasket beside his desk.

  "For God's sake, don't just throw it out. Would you bury your cat alive?"

  "I don't have a cat."

  "Just give it to me." She rose, grabbed the pot out of his hand. "It's dying of thirst and heat, and it's rootbound. This soil's hard as a brick."

  She set it beside her chair and sat again. "I'll take care of it," she said, and her legs were an angry slash

  as she crossed them. "Dr. Carnegie—"

  "Mitch. If you're going to take my plant, you ought to call me Mitch."

  "As I explained when I contacted you, I'm interested in contracting for a thorough genealogy of my family, with an interest in gathering information on a specific person."

  "Yes." All business, he decided, and sat at his desk. "And I told you I only do personal genealogies if something about the family history interests me. I'm—obviously—caught up in a book right now and wouldn't have much time to devote to a genealogical search and report."

  "You didn't name your fee."

  "Fifty dollars an hour, plus expenses."

  She felt a quick clutch in the belly. "That's lawyer steep."

  "An average genealogy doesn't take that long, if you know what you're doing and where to look. In most cases, it can be done in about forty hours, depending on how far back you want to go. If it's more complicated, we could arrange a flat fee—reevaluating after that time is used. But as I said—"

  "I don't believe you'll have to go back more than a century."

  "Chump change in this field. And if you're only dealing with a hundred years, you could probably do this yourself. I'd be happy to direct you down the avenues. No charge."

  "I need an expert, which I'm assured you are. And I'm willing to negotiate terms. Since you took the time out of your busy schedule to speak to me, I'd think you'd hear me out before you nudge me out the door."

  All business, he thought again, and prickly with it. "That wasn't my intention—the nudging. Of course

  I'll hear you out. If you're not in any great rush for the search and report, I may be able to help you

  out in a few weeks."

&n
bsp; When she inclined her head, he began to rummage on, through, under the desk. "Just let me ... how the hell did that get there?"

  He unearthed a yellow legal pad, then mined out a pen. "That's Rosalind, right? As You Like It?"

  A smile whisked over her mouth. "As in Russell. My daddy was a fan."

  He wrote her name on the top of the pad. "You said a hundred years back. I'd think a family like yours would have records, journals, documents—and considerable oral family history to cover a century."

  "You would, wouldn't you? Actually, I have quite a bit, but certain things have led me to believe some

  of the oral history is either incorrect or is missing details. I will, however, be glad to have you go through what I do have. We've already been through a lot of it."

  "We?"

  "Myself, and other members of my household."

  "So, you're looking for information on a specific ancestor."

  "I don't know as she was an ancestor, but I am certain she was a member of the household. I'm certain she died there."

  "You have her death record?"

  "No."

  He shoved at his glasses as he scribbled. "Her grave?"

  "No. Her ghost."

  She smiled serenely when he blinked up at her. "Doesn't a man who digs into family histories believe

  in ghosts?"

  "I've never come across one."

  "If you take on this job, you will. What might your fee be, Dr. Carnegie, to dig up the history and

  identity of a family ghost?"

  He leaned back in his chair, tapping the pen on his chin. "You're not kidding around."

  "I certainly wouldn't kid around to the tune of fifty dollars an hour, plus expenses. I bet you could write

  a very interesting book on the Harper family ghost, if I were to sign a release and cooperate."

  "I just bet I could," he replied.

  "And it seems to me that you might consider finding out what I'm after as a kind of research. Maybe

  I should charge you."

  His grin flashed again. "I have to finish this book before I actively take on another project. Despite evidence to the contrary, I finish what I start."

  "Then you ought to start washing your dishes."

  "Told you not to look. First, let me say that in my opinion the odds of you having an actual ghost in residence are about, oh, one in twenty million."

  "I'd be happy to put a dollar down at those odds, if you're willing to risk the twenty million."

  "Second, if I take this on, I'd require access to all family papers—personal family papers, and your written consent for me to dig into public records regarding your family."

  "Of course."

  "I'd be willing to waive my fee for, let's say, the first twenty hours. Until we see what we've got."

  "Forty hours."

  "Thirty."

  "Done."

  "And I'd want to see your house."

  "Perhaps you'd like to come to dinner. Is there any day next week that would suit you?"

  "I don't know. Hold on." He swiveled to his computer, danced his ringers over keys. "Tuesday?"

  "Seven o'clock, then. We're not formal, but you will need shoes." She picked up the plant, then rose. "Thank you for your time," she said, extended a hand.

  "Are you really going to take that thing?"

  "I certainly am. And I have no intention of giving it back and letting you take it to death's door again.

  Do you need directions to Harper House?"

  "I'll find it. Seems to me I drove by it once." He walked her to the door. "You know, sensible women don't usually believe in ghosts. Practical women don't generally agree to pay someone to trace the

  history of said ghost. And you strike me as a sensible, practical woman."

  "Sensible men don't usually live in pigsties and conduct business meetings barefoot. We'll both have to take our chances. You ought to put some ice on that bruise. It looks painful."

  "It is. Vicious little..." He broke off. "Got clipped going up for a rebound. Basketball."

  "So I see. I'll expect you Tuesday, then, at seven."

  "I'll be there. Good-bye, Ms. Harper."

  "Dr. Carnegie."

  He kept the door open long enough to satisfy his curiosity. He was right, he noted. The rear view was

  just as elegant and sexy as the front side, and both went with that steel-spined southern belle voice.

  A class act, top to toe, he decided as he shut the door.

  Ghosts. He shook his head and chuckled as he wound his way through the mess back to his office. Wasn't that a kick in the ass.

  TWENTY

  Logan studied the tiny form bunking in a patch of dappled sunlight. He'd seen babies before, even had

  his share of personal contact with them. To him, newborns bore a strange resemblance to fish.

  Something about the eyes, he thought. And this one had all that black hair going for her, so she looked like a human sea creature. Sort of exotic and otherworldly.

  If Gavin had been around, and Hayley out of hearing distance, he'd have suggested that this particular baby looked something like the offspring of Aquaman and Wonder Woman.

  The kid would've gotten it.

  Babies always intimidated him. Something about the way they looked right back at you, as if they knew

  a hell of a lot more than you did and were going to tolerate you until they got big enough to handle things on their own.

  But he figured he had to come up with something better than an encounter between superheros, as the mother was standing beside him, anticipating.

  "She looks as if she might've dropped down from Venus, where the grass is sapphire blue and the sky a bowl of gold dust." True enough, Logan decided, and a bit more poetic than the Aquaman theory.

  "Aw, listen to you. Go ahead." Hayley gave him a little elbow nudge. "You can pick her up."

  "Maybe I'll wait on that until she's more substantial."

  With a chuckle, Hayley slipped Lily out of her carrier. "Big guy like you shouldn't be afraid of a tiny baby. Here. Now, make sure you support her head."

  "Got long legs for such a little thing." And they kicked a bit in transfer. "She's picture pretty. Got a lot

  of you in her."

  "I can hardly believe she's mine." Hayley fussed with Lily's cotton hat, then made herself stop touching. "Can I open the present now?"

  "Sure. She all right in the sun like this?"

  "We're baking the baby," Hayley told him as she tugged at the shiny pink ribbon on the box Logan had

  set on the patio table.

  "Sorry?"

  "She's got a touch of jaundice. The sun's good for her. Stella said Luke had it too, and they took him

  out in the sunshine for a little while a few times a day." She went to work on the wrapping paper.

  "Seems like she and Roz know everything there is to know about babies. I can ask the silliest question and one of them knows the answer. We're blessed, Lily and I."

  Three women, one baby. Logan imagined Lily barely got out a burp before one of them was rushing to pick her up.

  "Logan, do you think things happen because they're meant to, or because you make them happen?"

  "I guess I think you make them happen because they're meant to."

  "I've been thinking. There's a lot of thinking time when you're up two or three times in the middle of the night. I just wanted—needed—to get gone when I left Little Rock, and I headed here because I hoped Roz might give me a job. I could just as well have headed to Alabama. I've got closer kin there—blood kin—than Roz. But I came here, and I think I was meant to. I think Lily was supposed to be born here, and have Roz and Stella in her life."

  "We'd all be missing out on something if you'd pointed your car in another direction."

  "This feels like family. I've missed that since my daddy died. I want Lily to have family. I think—I know—we'd have been all right on our own. But I don't want things to just be all right
for her. All right doesn't cut it anymore."

  "Kids change everything."

  Her smile bloomed. "They do. I'm not the same person I was a year ago, or even a week ago. I'm a mother." She pulled off the rest of the wrapping and let out a sound Logan thought of as distinctly

  female.

  "Oh, what a sweet baby-doll! And it's so soft." She took it out of the box to cradle it much as Logan

  was cradling Lily.

  "Bigger than she is."

  "Not for long. Oh, she's so pink and pretty, and look at her little hat!"

  "You pull the hat, and it makes music."

  "Really?" Delighted, Hayley pulled the peaked pink hat, and "The Cradle Song" tinkled out. "It's perfect." She popped up to give Logan a kiss. "Lily's going to love her. Thank you, Logan."

  "I figured a girl can't have too many dolls."

  He glanced over as the patio door slammed open. Parker scrambled out a foot ahead of two shouting, racing boys.

  They'd been this small once, he realized with a jolt. Small enough to curl in the crook of an arm, as helpless as, well, a fish out of water.

  They ran to Logan as Parker sped in circles of delirious freedom.

  "We saw your truck," Gavin announced. "Are we going to go work with you?"

  "I knocked off for the day." Both faces fell, comically, and the buzz of pleasure it gave him had him adjusting his weekend plans. "But I've got to build me an arbor tomorrow, out in my yard. I could

  use a couple of Saturday slaves."

  "We can be slaves." Luke tugged on Logan's pant leg. "I know what an arbor is, too. It's a thing stuff grows on."

  "There you go, then, I've got a couple of expert slaves. We'll see what your mama says."

  "She won't mind. She has to work 'cause Hayley's on turnkey."

  "Maternity," Hayley explained.

  "Got that."

  "Can I see her?" Luke gave another tug.

  "Sure." Logan crouched down with the baby in his arms. "She sure is tiny, isn't she?"

  "She doesn't do anything yet." Gavin frowned thoughtfully as he tapped a gentle finger on Lily's cheek. "She cries and sleeps."

  Luke leaned close to Logan's ear. "Hayley feeds her," he said in a conspirator's whisper, "with milk out