Mistake Me Not

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

“Pregnant?” Lacie asked.

“Everyone will think I’m such a hussy.”

“Well—”

“What?” Sorcha snapped.

“I didn’t say anything,” Lacie said, placing a calming hand over her best friend’s knee.

The women sat together on Lacie’s moss-green couch in the middle of her living room; the piece positioned like an island. An enviable notion.

“How am I going to explain this to my father?” Sorcha asked.

The peace of her day had been shattered when Sorcha phoned from the car to say she was on her way over.

Lacie hadn’t lived in her apartment for long, but she enjoyed the quiet street and the unassuming neighbors. Making a final decision had been easy when she’d been introduced to the trapdoor in the bedroom floor, which led to a secret cellar. The mystery of it appealed to her curious side.

Sorcha had been on at Lacie about certain throw pillows that were required to “disguise the couch” that came with the apartment. Ordinarily Sorcha was observant about the most benign things. The sincerity of her friend’s panic was amplified when Lacie realized Sorcha hadn’t commented on the throw pillows she’d finally gotten around to purchasing. Having now heard the news, Lacie could understand why.

“I don’t understand how it’s possible,” Lacie said. Sorcha narrowed her eyes. “I mean I understand how but… I didn’t know you’d been with anyone.”

“It’s Bruce’s,” Sorcha said.

“What?” Lacie exhaled. “But I thought… he left town when you broke up… that was about…”

“Three months ago,” Sorcha said.

“It took you three months to notice?”

“I think I was trying to pretend it wasn’t happening,” Sorcha said. “I got a test, in fact I got a few. They all came back positive.”

“When did you take them?”

“This morning,” Sorcha said, retrieving her purse from the floor behind her feet to dump the contents on the center cushion of the couch.

Dozens of the pregnancy tests lay between them. Though Sorcha waited for a reaction, Lacie had nothing.

“Wow,” Lacie said, overwhelmed by the white plastic sticks scattered amongst Sorcha’s usual purse paraphernalia. “You got more than a few.”

“How am I supposed to tell my father?” Sorcha asked. “I’m Catholic! He’ll go crazy.”

“He can’t think you’re still a virgin,” Lacie said. “You’re twenty-eight.”

“I don’t… I doubt he does believe that, but we don’t talk about it. He’ll expect me to get married! How can I get married when I don’t have a baby daddy, or rather a groom?”

“Will Bruce marry you?” Lacie asked.

She and Sorcha had been close friends since they met in college. Lacie was new to the country at that time; Sorcha had educated her in all things American. While Sorcha was tall, elegant, and perfect, Lacie was a few inches shorter, much less refined, and far less confident with the opposite s*x. Sorcha simply had to walk into a room to get the attention of every man there, which had always been fine with Lacie. She wasn’t sure what to do when a male paid her any attention, but then she had different priorities.

Sorcha Reynolds was the eldest of two daughters to Lawrence and Amelia Reynolds. They were high society, and Sorcha still slurped from her silver spoon occasionally. As a result, Lacie was used to digging Sorcha out of any dirty pit she found herself in. Except, this time, there was little she could do for her friend.

“He won’t have a choice when I get hold of him,” Sorcha said.

“Are you sure you would want to marry him? He always seemed a little self-absorbed to me.”

“And thus ends your introduction to the pretty boy. He’s hot, and he’s rich, he doesn’t need a decent personality.”

“Is that your opinion or your mother’s?”

“What else can I do, Lace?” Sorcha said, snatching Lacie’s hands to pull them to her lap. “I have to at least find him. I have to tell him.”

“There are options if you don’t want to…”

Sorcha was visibly startled. “I wouldn’t have thought that was your type of thing.”

“We’re not talking about me,” Lacie said, steering away from the subject of her s*x life, which had been non-existent for more than a while. “This would be your decision.”

“I don’t know,” Sorcha said on a long inhale. “I’m terrified of my father, but I’m twenty-eight, what if this is it? My last chance.”

“Last chance at what?” Lacie said on a laugh.

“You know,” Sorcha said. “I have to find Bruce. We have to get married before my father finds out about this.”

“Okay. So where is he?”

Sorcha slumped back on the couch in the most unladylike pose Lacie had ever seen her in; usually Sorcha was the epitome of poise. “I have no idea.”

“Can you call his work?”

“And say what?” she said. “He told me he got a big promotion somewhere. He’s not even working for Lewis Fund and Investment anymore.”

“What about family?”

“I never met them,” she said. “I suppose I could ask my mother but… I don’t really want to talk to my family about this until… you know.”

“So you don’t have a clue where he is,” Lacie said, trying to find a different route of information for her friend. “Hey, what about that guy?”

“What guy?”

“I don’t remember his name, I never met him… The guy you were seeing when I was in the UK.”

“What guy, I don’t—oh, you mean Shep.” Sorcha’s blanched expression regained some of its rosy hue as a smile curled her lips. “He really was something… it’s just a shame about…”

“About what?”

“I told you,” Sorcha said. “The man was useless in bed. I tell you it’s a waste on someone as hot as he was.”

“Didn’t you say he was some kind of investigator?”

Sorcha sat bolt upright. “That’s right. Yes, he does private investigations.”

“Hire him. He can track Bruce down for you.”

“I can’t,” Sorcha grumbled. “He was really pissed when I broke up with him. I can’t go back to him now and ask him to look up another of my ex-boyfriends.”

“Isn’t it better that than facing your father without knowing where Bruce is?”

Sorcha considered it for a moment. “You could hire him.”

“Hire who?”

“Shep,” Sorcha said. “Just tell him I referred you. He’ll want to help when he hears my name.”

“And what do I tell him?”

“Tell him you need to find an old boyfriend. He’s hardly going to ask any questions about your motives. All he has to do is find Bruce. So it’s not like you’ll have to actually talk to Bruce. Shep can give you the information, and then you give it to me. Bingo, everyone’s happy.”

“I don’t like it,” Lacie said.

“It’ll be easy. All you have to do is go down there give him the name, the money, and the information. After that, he can phone you with the results. Boom, done. One conversation.”

“Sorcha, how can you be sure he’ll—”

“Money,” Sorcha said, raking in her purse. Producing a pen then her check book, Sorcha scrawled out the details. “I’ll pay you, and you pay him.”

“But what about—”

“That ought to be enough.”

Lacie glanced at the check her friend had handed over. “Ten thousand? You think it will cost ten thousand dollars to find out where someone is?”

“I don’t care about the money,” Sorcha said. “But Shep will never turn down money, he’ll see that, and all his other questions will go away.”

“I’m not sure about this.”

“Trust me,” Sorcha said. “I’d really owe you if you help me out.”

How could Lacie say no to her best friend who’d found herself in this pickle. They’d been through a lot together, and Sorcha was always there when she needed a friend. Boom, done. One conversation… she could handle that.

Ryder opened the top drawer, and then the middle one, raking through each in turn. It was a sad situation when one investigator had to poach off another. But being that he was poaching from Seth Sheppard, the world’s laziest investigator, he didn’t half mind. Shep took his fee and then some, sleeping with most of the wives who came in for information on their cheating husbands. On top of that, Sheppard had stolen more than a few potential customers from Ryder and his partner Jamie. Undercutting them on price only to lump extras on the final bill. Usually, Shep’s information wasn’t extensive or accurate either.

This time Ryder had happily taken a job from the husband of a former client of Sheppard’s. The client, Rich Gillespie, wasn’t interested in whether his wife knew he was cheating. He was interested in information Sheppard may have found regarding some dodgy business deals. Deals related to a certain white powder that supplemented the respectable Mr. and Mrs. Gillespie’s income.

Ryder knew Sheppard’s habits. Like clockwork, Sheppard had left to go on a “job,” which meant hanging out at a pool hall a few streets over. Sheppard’s nineteen-year-old assistant, Tiffany, toddled out a few minutes later, heading to the nail salon in the mall. Tiffany took as much advantage of the client’s money as Sheppard. Ryder figured they were sleeping together too.

Knowing all these facts, Ryder watched from his truck as events played out just as he predicted. Sheppard should have noticed him sitting there. The fact that he didn’t spoke to his inherent detecting skills, or lack thereof. Ryder waited a respectable time then got out of his car, crossed the street, and walked into Sheppard Investigations like he owned the place. The small entryway opened from the glass storefront. Their reception consisted of a desk, computer, and a few personal items of Tiffany’s. In the corner were four plastic chairs, and a fake ficus. Sheppard really was the last of the big spenders.

On the back wall, there were two doors, one led to a small restroom, the other Sheppard’s office. In the office, piles of files, paperwork, discarded magazines and newspapers, lay in every corner. It was a wonder Sheppard got any business at all.

Never known for loitering, Ryder ignored the mess and got searching. When the filing cabinets weren’t fruitful, he went to the desk angled in one corner in front of a closet. Seating himself in the leather captain’s chair, Ryder hunted through the drawers for the Rich Gillespie file. When raking through the last drawer, he heard the squeak of hinges. He anticipated Sheppard or his assistant had come back early but was wrong.

The brunette in the doorway displayed the same disgust he too had on his face when walking in. He’d put her height at five six, maybe five seven. Her sun-bleached hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders. When her attention landed on him, he noticed striking green eyes that were a little unsure of themselves. Whatever it was, or wasn’t, his d**k jumped to attention in two seconds flat. What it was ready for, he didn’t know. The woman was still a clear twenty feet away. He didn’t know her name, her business, what she felt like… what she tasted like. He hadn’t had such an impulsive and instant reaction to a stranger in, well… ever.

“I’m sorry,” she said in smooth honeyed tones. “There was no one out there, and—”

“What can I help you with?” he asked.

This was a woman with business; business she was apparently taking to Sheppard, or so she thought.

“I don’t know. I need to find someone.”

“Well, you came to the right guy,” Ryder said, though wanted to point out she’d come to the wrong office.

An investigator was an investigator. Yet Ryder couldn’t imagine stretching the definition to encompass Sheppard.

“Can I…?” she asked, taking another step, pointing at the seat opposite him at the desk.

“Um… yeah.”

This might be risky, but he couldn’t tell the woman in the little blue dress that she’d caught him in the middle of a little B&E.

She crossed the room and took the seat, smoothing her dress over her knees. All the while not making eye contact.

“This is the easy part. I’ve heard it all. Don’t worry about saying anything you might think is inappropriate or shocking.”

After a few fortifying breaths, she looked at him. “I have to find a man.”

“Need a little matchmaking?” he asked.

On her next breath, her expression relaxed. With her more at ease, his d**k tried to jump through his zipper again. Thank God there was a desk between them… or not.