“Why?”
He clenches his jaw. “Because, regardless of how I feel about you, you’re still the press. You’ve written damaging stories about Bobby W’s business, a business that’s helped a lot of people.”
I feel my face get hot and look away from him. I know I’d write those same stories again, given the same circumstances.
“I’m not trying to hurt anyone, and this is what I do for a living, Lucas. I’m used to looking for needles in haystacks. Maybe there’s something in there you missed.”
“There could also be personal information Julie doesn’t want made public.”
“Like what?”
“Her balance at Macy’s, her shoe size. Anything. I told you she’s a private person.”
“We aren’t intruding into her life,” I say. “Bobby Warren wants her found. That’s all we’re trying to do. Just find her.”
“I know.” But his eyes remain unconvinced. “What if she doesn’t want to be found?”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I wonder.” He opens the briefcase again. “Nothing about this is typical behavior for her. There was no reason for her to take off. Bobby W lets her get away with anything she wants.”
“Anything, like what?”
“You name it. She can miss appearances, take off for weeks, months at a time. As long as she checked in with him, and they had their daily conversations, he didn’t care what she did.”
“You don’t like her, do you?”
He starts to deny it, then meets my gaze. “No.”
“Why not?”
“For the usual reason people don’t like other people. She doesn’t like me. Didn’t want Bobby W to hire me and was never happy that he did.”
I feel myself grin. Why am I relieved? “I thought maybe—” I stop, not sure how to continue. “It occurred to me that maybe the two of you might have been close.”
“Never. The only love affair Julie has is with herself. No one else is perfect enough for her.” A smile spreads across his face. Sitting there, at Julie Larimore’s glass desk, in the full light of day, I know I am blushing like an adolescent at her first compliment. “She isn’t my type, Rikki.”
“No?”
He starts to bend down, but I can’t do this, not in Julie’s home, and not now, not with Hamilton still on my mind, unresolved.
I put out my hand, feel his firm body beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. “We’ve got to find this Blond Elvis guy”
He takes my hand, brushes his lips across my knuckles. “Exactly what I was going to say.” He’s still smiling, and although I’m not sure why, I smile, too.
“Twenty-four hours,” he says, his voice low.
“For what?”
“That’s how long you can keep this stuff.” He hands me the briefcase. “I want it all back by this time tomorrow, okay?”
TWENTY-SIX
Rikki
I’ m not in the habit of ogling men, but with Blond Elvis, I’d be almost rude not to. He walks toward me with the air of someone who is so used to standing out that he gives it little thought, like the only swan in a duck pond. His enormous arms confirm his credentials, and the rest of him, clad in those butt-hugging shorts, is just as impressive.
The hair isn’t really Elvis, shorter on the sides, and the pompadour in front is flatter, secured by spray. The half smile that borders on a smirk makes me wonder which came first, the attitude or the nickname. So, this is the rich women’s personal trainer. At least, you’d be motivated to show up for class.
