Two Sisters. Kay DavidЧитать онлайн книгу.
Tremont left, closing the door softly behind her.
Try not to worry? What kind of advice was that? How could you not worry if your sister had disappeared—even if she had done it before.
Elizabeth swung her chair around and looked out the office window, her mind going right back to the subject it’d been on before. John Mallory. Brown eyes, a strong jaw and a tough lean body that looked as though it could hold its own in any battle.
She’d seen him before. When April was visiting one day, she’d asked Elizabeth who the “cowboy” was in the unit at the end. Elizabeth had glanced out her window and recognized his white starched shirt, the snug jeans, the heeled boots. A lot of men in Texas dressed that way—it was almost a uniform—but on John, the clothes looked just right. For some perverse reason, Elizabeth had pretended not to know who April was asking about.
But Elizabeth had known all right, had surprisingly even found herself curious about the tall man in the polished boots. Usually she didn’t notice men. She’d had one serious relationship since she’d left college, but it hadn’t worked out. She’d dated another attorney, Jack Montgomery, for almost six months. He’d wanted a home with a wife who stayed in it, and Elizabeth couldn’t do that. She wasn’t wife and mother material. She’d told him so and he’d never called again.
That was part of the reason she’d turned down John’s help. Slipping up and pouring out her personal problems was one thing—a mistake, sure, but not unrecoverable. Any more contact might lead to something else, though, and she wasn’t interested in that. Not now.
IT WAS AFTER SIX when John pushed open the heavy glass door of the high rise that housed Benoit Consulting. He wasn’t really prepared for it to open, but it did, gliding soundlessly outward. He knew Elizabeth worked late most nights—at home her lights never came on before seven or sometimes eight—but he hadn’t really thought the whole building would be open at this hour. A dark-haired Hispanic woman looked up as he entered. To get past her, an electronic card reader on the wall had to first be satisfied. Apparently there were a lot of private consultants in the complex, sharing facilities.
“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
He skipped the badge routine and just smiled. “I’m a friend of Elizabeth Benoit’s, Benoit Consulting. Is she still around by any chance?”
“I’ll check.”
A moment later the receptionist hung up the phone, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but it appears as if Ms. Benoit’s office is closed. No one is answering.” The woman frowned, then snapped her fingers. “She might be in the gym downstairs, working out. Someone will have to buzz you in, but you could try there.”
“Great, thanks.” He turned and left, the plush carpeting swallowing the sound of his footsteps.
As he waited for the elevator, John wondered just what in the hell he was doing there, anyway. When he’d picked up the phone at his desk earlier that day to call information for Elizabeth’s work number, he’d half hoped they wouldn’t have a listing. They did, however, and then he’d called the number to get the address. He didn’t know exactly what she did, but she had the look of someone who would want columns to add up properly. Putting the matter aside, he’d worked a little longer, then headed home for a quick bite, intending to return to the station. Marsha had succeeded in screwing up his time with Lisa, after all, so he’d decided to work all evening and catch up on the mountain of papers hiding his desk. It’d tame his anger a bit. Somewhere between Central and his place, though, he’d aimed the truck west.
And here he was.
The elevator dinged, the doors opened and he walked out. For whatever reason, Elizabeth had made it more than clear she didn’t want his help, even though, he sensed, she really wanted it.
Turning a corner in the basement a few minutes later, John found the gym. He’d been in executive workout clubs before and knew what to expect. White carpet, polished chrome, a juice bar in one corner. There was usually a babe at the front desk who knocked your eyes to the back of your head, too. A man in a navy warm-up suit exited just as John approached, holding the door open for him. John nodded his thanks and entered. Not what he’d expected.
The gym was one large bare room with a concrete floor and mirrors lining the walls. Four or five people were using the various machines and free weights. John’s gaze swept the room until he saw Elizabeth. She was stretched out on a climbing machine, her arms straining high above her head, her legs—her very long legs—pumping beneath her.
He watched her for a moment. She didn’t have on fancy workout gear or two-hundred-dollar running shoes. She wore sneakers that were scuffed and well-worn, an old pair of black shorts and a ragged T-shirt with missing arms, leaving gaping holes. Beneath the cut-outs, he could see the outline of a no-nonsense jogging bra. A faded sweatband was pushed up on her forehead, holding back the straggling strands of hair that had escaped the rubber band at the back.
She was the sexiest woman in the room.
Their gazes collided in the mirror, and he watched her expression go from blank to annoyed. She obviously wasn’t happy to see him. She stepped off the machine, grabbed her towel and crossed to him.
“Detective Mallory. Are you here to see me or did you come to join our club?”
He looked around a bit before meeting her gaze again. He needed the extra time to get his pulse back to where it belonged, preferably somewhere below 150. Beneath those suits she wore, she had a body that matched her legs. He took a deep breath, focused on her eyes and smiled easily.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s not much better than the police gym.”
“The building owner spends his money where it shows—in the offices.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. This gets the job done.”
“I can see that.”
She didn’t react to what he’d said, though he could tell his compliment had registered. Apparently, she didn’t know how to respond. “How did you find me?”
“There was no one in your office. The receptionist told me you might be down here.”
“And how did you know where I worked?”
She was a careful one, that was for sure. He held out his hands palms up—a gesture meant to show no threat. “I’m a cop, remember? It’s my job to find out things.” He smiled. “Actually I noticed the report you had in your hands when we were talking at the mailboxes. It had the name of your company on it.”
She seemed to relax just a fraction, but the watchful air didn’t leave her. She reminded him of a cat that used to hang around the station. Sleek black hair, cagey eyes, a tense body that always looked as if it was about to spring the other way.
For a long moment they looked at each other, then suddenly her wariness changed to fear, her fingers going to her throat. “Oh, God—this isn’t about April, is it? You aren’t here to tell me they found her…her body or anything?”
He felt a rush of empathy and shook his head immediately. “No, no. She hasn’t been found, nothing like that.”
She exhaled and visibly relaxed.
“The reason I’m here is your sister, though.”
The guarded look came back.
“I did a little checking after we spoke—”
“After I told you your help wasn’t necessary?”
He inclined his head, an admission of guilt. “Yes. After that.”
If he expected angry words, he was disappointed. She simply looked at him with a level gaze he couldn’t read. “And?”
He looked directly into her bottomless eyes and said, “I couldn’t help but wonder—why didn’t you tell me your sister’s a stripper?”