Arousing Suspicions Page 2

  “Yes,” she finally said. “I’m Tabitha March. Sorry. I, uh, you look like somebody I met once. Sort of. Recently.”

  Stepping back, she swung the door open and gestured for him to enter. “This…there…office.” She stopped speaking and pointed to an open doorway. When he gave her a questioning look, she smiled shyly. “Probably just a coincidence.”

  “What is?”

  Her smile brightened and she shook her head. “Nothing.”

  She walked past him and he followed her through the oak double doors into her office. Warm sunshine filtered through the curtains, giving the small room a cozy intimacy. Faded floral wallpaper, lace curtains, a tiny fireplace, and an elegant crystal chandelier lent the room an Old World charm.

  In the far corner, an antique desk held a modern computer and printer, a phone, various ledgers, and stacks of papers.

  Shutting the doors behind them, she indicated he should take a seat at an oval mahogany table in front of the fireplace.

  While he made himself comfortable, she moved around to take the seat opposite him.

  “So,” she said on a long exhaled breath. Clasping her hands in front of her on the table, she said, “On the phone you mentioned you’ve never consulted a dream interpreter before.”

  “That’s right.” But if I’d known they looked like you, I’d’ve given it a shot years ago.

  She absently curled a lock of her hair behind her ear. The gesture brought his attention to the delicate bones of her face, slightly arched brows, full mouth.

  Without thinking, he licked his lips.

  If she was soliciting, she must have caught on that men liked to see a woman in scooped-neck tops and little diamond dangle earrings.

  Though her clothing wasn’t obvious at all, her curves would be very hard to hide, and he wondered how she managed to look both hot and sweet at the same time.

  But it was the doe-in-the-headlights look in her eyes that interested him the most. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was terrified of him.

  “How did you hear about my ser vices, Mr. Damon?”

  Her ser vices. Yeah. Here we go.

  “I have a friend who’s a client. You came highly recommended.”

  “One of my regulars?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Would you be comfortable sharing his name?”

  Nate pretended to give it some thought. “I’d like to keep his name out of it, if that’s okay.”

  That seemed to disturb her, but she didn’t press the issue.

  Fiddling with her hair again, she cleared her throat. “Have you been having difficulty sleeping?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Bad dreams?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “Many clients have thanked me for the enormous relief I’ve given them. They’ve felt comfortable enough with me, even first-timers, to strip away all their inhibitions and get down to raw honesty. It’s very freeing to unburden yourself in this way, get right to the bottom of things.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my friend said.” Nate swallowed.

  She perked up. “I’m happy to hear your friend was satisfied enough to recommend me to you.”

  Relaxing into his chair a little, he said, “So, how does this work, exactly?”

  Her lashes fluttered and she got that nervous look about her again. “Okay, well, basically, I’m tactile. That is to say, I do my best when I’m in physical contact with a client. Generally speaking, if we touch during the session, the results are much more satisfying for us both.”

  No doubt about it, baby.

  She smiled sweetly. “Would you have any problem with me touching you, Mr. Damon?”

  Hey, it’s one of the perks. “No.”

  “All right, then.”

  She slid one hand onto the table, palm up. With her other hand, she reached for his, turned it over, and rested it in her own. His knuckles nestled into her palm, his fingers relaxed into a slight curl as though he were cupping her breast. She stared at their hands for a moment, and seemed to grow more agitated.

  “Oh…I, uh…oh…” she mumbled. Flicking a quick look into his eyes, she glanced away again, then inhaled sharply, like somebody had just jabbed her in the ribs.

  “Okay, we’re c-connected.” She ran her tongue over her lips, then swallowed. “Please close your eyes and tell me your dream. As you speak, I’ll be able to see the images. Then we can talk about what your dream means.”

  Her palm was warm, damp. She was definitely nervous as hell.

  So now he was supposed to relate a dream to her? He didn’t dream very much. At least, he didn’t remember them. Since this whole thing was utter BS anyway, she’d never know the difference if he made something up. Besides, any minute she was going to stop beating around the bush and offer him sex for money.

  And then the game would be over.

  Nathan Damon was tall, and big. Broad shoulders, athletic. He appeared about her age, maybe a year or two older. He had light hair, dark blond with steaks of gold. And he was handsome. Very. When she’d looked into his eyes, she’d felt something heavy grow and twist in her stomach. His eyes were brown and he wore wire-rimmed glasses, exactly like the man in her nightmare.

  She’d never had a prophetic dream in her life, and now here was the man she’d dreamed of just a few hours ago, the man who had been trying to strangle her. When she’d first seen him standing on her porch, she’d wanted to slam the door in his face—and run.

  Had she somehow picked up what he looked like when she’d heard his voice on the phone? Was the dream a good omen or, as it had played out, a bad one? Did this man mean her harm? If she closed her eyes, would he morph into a demon and try to choke the life out of her?

  Dreams of being killed didn’t mean someone was actually going to murder you. They generally symbolized an end of some kind, an abrupt halt to a dilemma you were facing in your waking life. But the nightmare had frightened her so, and now sitting across the table was the very man whose fingers had been wrapped around her throat.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. It had not been this man, but the darker, more evil figure he’d become who had tried to kill her.

  Regardless, the prophetic nature of the nightmare couldn’t be ignored. Demon? Damon? It was too close, it couldn’t be a coincidence.

  Maybe she could press him to reveal the name of the client who’d referred him. That would help. She could contact the client and ask about Mr. Damon and whether he was telling her the truth about himself or not.

  To add to her confusion, the moment she touched him, images had begun to bombard her senses, completely throwing her for a loop.

  She’d seen him, them, together…very together. Intimately together. Pleasure wound through her like a silken ribbon; excitement teased her skin.

  “Do you want to do it now?” His voice was low, suggestive.

  Startled out of her trance, she searched his eyes.

  “Do? It?” The lightbulb went off. “Oh! Your dream. Yes, please tell me about your dream.”

  In her hand, the weight of his felt hot, heavy, perfect.

  What was wrong with her? After the way she’d been behaving and stuttering and hemming and hawing, he must think she had the IQ of an emotionally unstable gnat.

  Squaring her shoulders, she took a cleansing breath, focused, and said, “Let’s close our eyes, and we can begin.”

  As soon as they did, stronger images began assaulting her senses. People, their faces blurred at first, then coming into sharp focus. Noises, voices, the deafening explosion of gunfire, a scream, laughter, a moan.

  Damon cleared his throat. “I, uh, I dreamed I was with a woman. Someone I’d never met before. She was very attractive and I wanted to sleep with her. But she, uh, kept giving me the runaround. She was wearing a green dress and kept telling me how much she liked green. Finally, I figured out it meant she wanted money.” He stopped for a moment, cleared his throat again. “So, I paid her and we had sex.”
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  Tabitha frowned. Slowly, she pulled her hand from underneath his. Opening her eyes, she said, “Mr. Damon. I’m sure you’re uncomfortable with revealing your innermost thoughts to a stranger, but unless we have complete honesty between us, I won’t be able to help you.”

  His eyes opened. Brown, smoldering, warm. The kind of eyes a woman could get lost in first thing in the morning or last thing at night. Lunch-time, dinnertime, coffee breaks, weekends, national holidays, Christmas Eve, St. Patrick’s Day, weddings, bar mitzvahs…just looking at him made her want to flop down on a bed somewhere and let him have his way with her.

  But he had lied.

  “I told you my dream. Can’t you interpret it?” Those intelligent eyes challenged her.

  “No, I can’t. The dream you related to me was not the dream I saw, not in the least.”

  He shrugged, adjusted his glasses as she’d seen Clark Kent do in the movies countless times. Sigh.

  “What did you see?” His tone was flat.

  “Frankly, a mess.” She crossed her arms under her breasts. “Assuming you really had the dream you just related to me, what do you think it means?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. They sat there, eyeing each other.

  “I think it means I’m willing to pay a woman I don’t know to have sex with me.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  His sensuous mouth flattened. “Men think about sex, on average, every time they blink. The dream most likely means I want to have sex.”

  She felt her skin flush, but maintained eye contact with him. “Then why don’t you go have it, Mr. Damon? You look to be the kind of man who doesn’t have any trouble getting women.”

  “I came to you so you could interpret my dream. I’m sure it has a deeper meaning.”

  “Some dreams are exactly what they appear to be.”

  He blinked.

  She lifted a brow. “Was it good for you?” she said dryly.

  As he leaned forward across the table, Tabitha automatically eased back in her chair.

  “Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe there is no deeper meaning. I’m a guy. I’m shallow. I can live with that. What other ser vices do you offer?”

  Confused, she scowled. “Other ser vices?”

  His lips curled into a suggestive grin, and she figured he could melt most any woman’s resistance with that smile.

  “Yeah, other ser vices.” He sat back in his chair. Rubbing his jaw with his thumb, he said, “I understand you provide your clients with a variety of ser vices.”

  “Oh, yes, I do.” She relaxed a little. He obviously meant her part-time legal transcribing job. She kept a running ad in the newspaper and sent out flyers occasionally to law firms in the area. “Would you be interested?”

  “Definitely.”

  She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Then I’m sure I could accommodate you.”

  He flicked his gaze over her. “I’m sure you could. How much do you charge?”

  “It depends on how much there is, and how long it takes me.”

  He pursed his lips and looked modest. “Well, I’ve never had any complaints, and if you took your time, that would be okay. The longer it takes, the better.”

  She tilted her head. “Oh. Well, actually, I’m known for my quick turnaround.”

  “Are you, now? Well, what if I wanted a slow turnaround instead?”

  With a little shrug, she said, “Sure. In that case, though, I’d charge you by the brief. That way you’d get the best rate.”

  His brows shot up. “By the brief?” He thought for a moment. “Nylon tiger stripes or plain white cotton?”

  “Excuse me?” Confusion fogged her brain.

  “Excuse you?” Confusion fogged his glasses.

  “Are you a lawyer?” she asked.

  He took off his glasses, wiped them, put them back on. “No.”

  “Then why would you want me to transcribe legal documents?”

  “Trans—” His eyes widened in shock. “Is that the ser vice you provide?”

  “Yes,” she said, tension tightening her stomach. “What did you think I was talking about?”

  Pushing away from the table, he stood and began backing away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “How much do I owe you for today?”

  “Mr. Damon, I—”

  “I have another appointment. I’m late. Will fifty cover it?” He slapped the money down on the table.

  She stared at the bills. “Um, sure. Do you want to schedule another—”

  “No,” he rushed, as his back collided with the door. Fumbling behind him for the knob, he mumbled, “Uh, no. Thanks. No. I’ll see myself out.”

  Turning, he yanked the door open and hurried down the hall. When she heard the front door close behind him, she put her hands to her temples.

  What in the world had that been about?

  Giving her head a little shake, she reached for the money. As soon at her fingertips touched it, images began filling her brain. Her lids drifted down.

  Them again, together. Naked. Her neck arched back. His hands, all over her. Pleasure. Then darkness. Loss. Her heart ached.

  She crumpled the bills in her fingers.

  Pain. A man she knew. A woman she didn’t. Death.

  Her eyes flew open and her breath snagged in her throat.

  Dear God. Whoever Nathan Damon really was, he was bad news. For some reason, he’d lied to her, and she’d had it up to there with men who lied.

  Anger warmed her cheeks. “Jerk,” she mumbled.

  Shoving the money into her desk drawer, she slammed it shut and let out a long breath. So much for Mr. Damon. With any luck, she would never have to see the damn man again.

  Chapter 2

  To dream of someone removing his clothes means you will soon solve a mystery.

  FOLKLORE

  “Yoo-hoo! Darling! I got a love letter for you!”

  Nate watched as the sergeant made his way through the sea of desks and people like a walrus navigating a crowded beach.

  From day one, the sergeant had taken a dislike to him, hassled him at any opportunity about his name, and assigned him every weirdo and derelict who stumbled in off the street.

  “Interview Room Three…Darling,” the sergeant drawled, tossing a piece of paper onto Nate’s cluttered desk. He adjusted the belt that fought a losing battle to gird his obtruding gut. “Lady with a problem, my Darling boy.”

  Nate let his pen drop to the report in front of him. Smiling up at the uniformed officer, he adjusted his glasses and said softly, “It’s obvious you find my name amusing, Sergeant, but I’ll take Darling over Butt-kiss any day.”

  “That’s Butkus!” the sergeant snapped. Titters and chuckles competed with the sound of ringing telephones, the click of computer keys, and heavy footfalls across the wooden floor. Gesturing at the paper, Butkus snarled, “Room Three. She’s waitin’.”

  With that, he did a lumbering one-eighty and stomped out of the room.

  Nate shook his head in bemused silence, then picked up the paper. Butkus’s scrawl indicated one Thelma Marx wanted to talk to a detective about a possible homicide. No further details were given.

  He stood, straightened his tie, and slipped into his navy suit jacket. Paper in hand, he headed for Room Three.

  Pausing at the interview room window, he studied the woman for a moment.

  She was seated at the small table in one of the four metal chairs, her back to him. Her outfit was simple, a denim jacket, floral skirt, and boots. On her head she wore one of those knitted tam things in a pretty shade of blue. She held her delicate hands neatly folded on the Formica tabletop in front of her. The line of her back and set of her shoulders told him she was tense.

  Opening the door, he stepped inside.

  “Good morning, Ms. Marx. I’m Inspector D-Duh-uh—”

  The words jammed up behind his teeth when she turned to face him.

  Her smile of greeting faded and her jaw d
ropped. Bluer-than-blue eyes widened in shock. She jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over the chair.

  “You!” she accused. “What are you…how did you…You’re a detective? I…I…why…I…”

  Her words trailed off as Nate closed the door. Goddamn that Butkus for having such lousy penmanship.

  Nate put his hands up in a defensive gesture.

  “Ms. March,” he soothed. “Please have a seat. I can explain everything—”

  “Oh, now I understand,” she said, her hands balled into fists on her hips. “No wonder nothing made sense. You lied to me. You made up that dream, didn’t you? Were you testing me to see if I was competent? We could have discussed it, you know. I would have told you—”

  “Ms. March,” he interrupted. “Please calm down. We had a complaint. I was sent to check it out.”

  She appeared even more shocked than before. “A complaint?” she squeaked. “From one of my clients? Listen, Detective Damon—”

  “Darling.”

  She looked startled. “What?”

  “Nate Darling,” he enunciated slowly, in the hopes she’d take the hint and not do what everybody else in the frigging world did when they heard his name.

  She lifted a brow and gazed up at him, her lovely mouth tilting in a slow, sardonic grin. “Darling?”

  Sending her a meaningful look, he warned, “Don’t go there, ma’am.”

  She crossed her arms over her stomach and looked him up and down, her eyes speaking volumes.

  He flipped back the edges of his jacket and rested his hands on his hips. “I can understand why you’d be upset, but as I said, we had a complaint—”

  “If one of my customers isn’t happy, why didn’t he just tell me? Why did he involve the police?” She looked thoroughly dejected. “I don’t understand.”

  Nate moved forward and held the chair for her. “Please sit down.”

  She flicked a glance up at him, then dropped into the chair, pulling the tam from her head. A glorious tumble of strawberry blond hair fell around her shoulders. He caught the scent of her floral shampoo, sweet, evocative, and he fought hard not to reach out and feel for himself if the strands were as silky as they looked.

  “The good news is,” he said, taking the seat across the table from her, “you’ve been cleared and the complaint has been closed.”