Fair Game Inc Part 1

Fair Game, Inc.

Stephanie Bedwell-Grime.

Chapter ONE.

Tears like crystal raindrops spilled from the pretty blonde's cheeks, splas.h.i.+ng down on Amber Shaw's chrome and gla.s.s desk. She reached forward, plucking another over-sized deluxe tissue from the silver box on her desk and gallantly handed it to her client. Amber could afford the luxury of scented Kleenex. Business was good.

Afternoon sun caught the silver letters on the door, stenciling them backwards across the gray carpet. "Fair Game, Inc.o the sign read. In smaller letters beneath was the phrase, "Don't get mad, get even!"

She was proud of both the business and the slogan. A year ago things had looked desperate at best. Her business, Shaw Investigations, was days away from bankruptcy, until a good friend called and asked her to track down a straying boyfriend.

Once the errant beau had been located, however, the jilted lover was not content with his address. An additional sum could be Amber's she suggested, if she'd play a simple, harmless prank. With the bailiff at the door, Amber had little choice but to agree. The prank went off without a hitch. Justice was served, the client went on with her life, the straying beau with his, and Amber Shaw found herself back in business for another month.

Or so she thought.

Word spread like wild fire. Everyone, it seemed, had a score to settle, and Amber had found herself a new specialty.

Covertly, she studied her newest client. She was tall, slim, and blonde. Amber couldn't imagine why a man would want to dump a pretty woman like that. She was certain that's what the trouble was. Only one thing made a woman cry like that.

A man.

After that first client, she preferred to work for strangers. Professional detachment was a necessary part of a private investigator's job. Sandy Wylde was a friend of a friend, far enough removed to maintain an air of professionalism.

"Easy now," Amber said in schooled tones. "Cry all you like. Get it all out. Take all the time you need. Then we'll talk about what can be done."

"Men are pigs!" The proclamation was m.u.f.fled by the wad of scented tissue. Balling up the Kleenex she flung it into the black mesh garbage can. "And I want to teach one particular swine a lesson he'll never forget."

Amber took a silver pen from the holder on her desk and reached for her legal pad. "Let's start with the name of the swine in question."

That simple statement released another flood of tears. Setting down her pen, Amber offered her another handful of tissue.

"Roger...." The rest of the name deteriorated into another wave of shuddering sobs. "Ch-Charles."

Amber filled in the box on the preprinted form she'd designed specifically for this purpose. "And what crime would Mr. Charles be guilty of?"

Guilty, she thought with a grim smile. Most of them were until justice was served, or in the extremely rare case, proven innocent. When she looked up the blood-shot eyes that stared back across the desk at her had hardened to orbs of sapphire fury.

"Desertion," Sandy spat, as if the cause of her anger sat in Amber's chair instead of the woman who was going to settle the score for her. "Cold hearted, heartbreaking desertion."

"I see," Amber checked another box. "Please, bear with me while I take down some necessary background information." She tapped the edge of the pad with her pen. "And what is Mr. Charles' occupation?"

"Advertising executive. That should have been my first clue that he'd be all glitzy talk with nothing beneath the surface to show for it."

"He had a way with words, I take it."

"Oh, he was quite eloquent." Sandy drew in a shaky breath. "He told me I was the gold in the river of his life."

"Hmm, talented, wasn't he?"

"Yes, well, he's presently honing his craft on someone else."

Amber tucked a strand of flame-red hair behind her ear and scribbled some notes in the box marked comments. "I take it Roger, er, Mr. Charles has found a new form of recreation at which to spend his off-hours...?"

Sandy's lip curled. "Her name is Cindy. And he said he didn't even like brunettes."

"I see."

"Oh...." Sandy pulled herself back from the brink of grief and continued resolutely. "I'm so stupid. I was really beginning to believe we were definitely an item. Kind of a permanent item."

Amber reached out to pat her hand. A teardrop glistened in the corner of one sapphire eye. Amber hastily handed her another tissue.

"You wouldn't believe his performance the night he dumped me. He was so sweet. He bought me roses, took me out to a romantic little restaurant. He was leading up to something, I could tell. But by the way he'd been so sweet and loving all night, I just a.s.sumed ... you know ... that he was about to pop The Question. But instead he...." Another sob shook her entire body. "He said things just weren't working for him, but that he wanted to remain friends. Can you believe it?"

Amber nodded knowingly. "I've seen this variety of swine before."

"I'm such a fool."

"Don't worry, when we're finished with Mr. Charles he's the one who'll be feeling like a fool."

"Didn't even take him a week to find a replacement for me. You'd think he could at least mourn for a few days, make it look like he at least regretted it a little. Six days after he ditched me I ran into him at what had been our favorite restaurant."

"You spoke with him then?"

Sandy shook her head. "He didn't even see me. He was too busy drinking in the sight of Cindy!" Angrily she swiped at the tear inching its way down her cheek. "Only six days!" She held up six fingers for emphasis.

"Have no fear," Amber said calmly, "I think I can come up with a way to cool Mr. Charles' ardor. Why don't you tell me a little more about the habits of this particular specimen: his routine, where we'd be most likely to track him down?"

Best to keep them thinking, Amber knew from experience. It kept their minds off their grief.

"I'm sure we can find him at The Terrace Restaurant," Sandy growled, looking all the more like a golden lioness than a jilted lover. "With what's her name."

Amber scribbled down a few more points. "The Terrace Restaurant ... he goes there often?" Sandy swallowed, no longer grieving, bent now on the revenge to come. "He said it was our place. Apparently, he says that to all his girls." Amber gazed back at her over the top of her legal pad. "That may just be Mr. Charles' downfall." ****

Roses the color of antique lace decorated the tables of The Terrace Restaurant. Candles flickered, blending with the lights of the city spread below like a giant Christmas tree. Starched white table cloths sat beneath silver ice buckets that held bottles of champagne. Amber snorted softly. For all his other shortcomings Roger Charles had good taste.

Amber smoothed her black skirt and yanked on the lapels of her white blouse. A quick glance at the other waitresses told her she'd guessed correctly. In typical black and white and sensible shoes she was indistinguishable from the other help. Hefting the silver ice bucket, she checked Sandy's instructions one last time.

"Last table on the right by the railing," the note read in Sandy's large, looping scrawl. Amber's eyes scanned across the tables and she wished the place were lit by more than candlelight. "Overlooking the city," was written in brackets beneath. Squinting in the dim lighting, her green eyes zeroed in on their target. Sure enough, there was a man sitting at the last table with only the railing separating him from a three story drop into downtown.

She moved closer, holding the snapshot Sandy supplied into a pool of insufficient light. On the white border beneath the photo Sandy's decorative handwriting proclaimed, "Roger & Me". Her eyes flickered from the fuzzy photograph and back to the dark-haired man sitting alone at the table. His picture didn't do him justice, she thought, but that was him all right. She could tell a skunk from a mile away. Her eyes fastened on the empty place setting with its discarded napkin before him. Already back on the dating circuit. This Mr. Charles was quite the piece of work. Bolstering the bucket full of ice higher on her hip, Amber moved toward him.

"Say, can you get me some more coffee," a patron called out as she pa.s.sed. It took a moment for the significance of the comment to sink in.

Wouldn't do to call attention to herself, Amber thought forcing a smile. "Be right with you," she said brightly.

"Could I have some ice water," another asked.

"Sure thing," she called back.

Two more tables and she'd be there. Five more minutes and this whole thing would be over. Then she could go home and enjoy her Friday night in peace. Sandy would be avenged, and Fair Game, Inc. would have completed another successful maneuver.

Roger Charles didn't see her coming. Leaning back in his chair, long, well-muscled legs stretched out before him, he stared out into the lights of the city. Amber drew closer, trying to erase the frown already forming on her face. She would have expected a man with a roving eye like Roger to be more interested in the women in the restaurant. She took another covert glance at the photo. Him all right. No doubt about it.

Dark curls spilled onto his forehead, shadowing even darker eyes. Full sensuous lips contrasted sharply with his strong jaw. Muscle rippled beneath his starched white s.h.i.+rt as he reached for his coffee. An expensively cut suit jacket hung on the back of his chair. If ever there was an image of male perfection, he was it. No wonder Sandy fell for him, Amber thought with a pang of regret, any warm blooded woman would.

For all his handsomeness he had an open honest face. Not self absorbed the way she'd expected. And Amber Shaw had studied a good many faces. After five years as a private investigator, she prided herself on being able to see into a person's soul with a single glance. She faltered, nearly turning away at the last moment, putting her finger at last on the source of that nagging doubt. Roger Charles simply didn't have a guilty soul.

Amber pushed the thought from her mind. Among his other talents, Roger Charles was a good actor. Sandy had said so. So good an actor he could even disguise the contents of his soul.

Wrenching herself from her reverie, she focused her attention on the task at hand. No sense in dragging it out. Best to get the deed done and the night's work over with. Amber launched herself across the remaining s.p.a.ce of floor.

Her shadow fell between them, blocking out the candlelight. He looked up then, questioningly. His gaze drifted lazily from her scarlet curls, down over her trim figure to the shapely legs hidden to mid calf by her black skirt. She felt the path of his eyes as if he traced her outline with the candle's flame. Amber suppressed the wave of heat that followed in the wake of his perusal. His eyes fastened on the bucket of ice in her hand. He opened his mouth as if to say something. Amber offered him her most winning smile.

And dumped the contents of the ice bucket square in his lap.

For a split second it seemed as if time ground to a halt. Sounds of the busy restaurant retreated from her attention, leaving the two of them frozen in an absurd tableau. He stared up at her, his expression at once both wounded and bewildered. Amber shook off the persistent feeling of wrongness once again. The picture named him Roger Charles, Casanova.

The moment evaporated. Time sprang into motion. Heads swiveled in their direction. Patrons gawked openly. She watched his expression deteriorate from confusion into pure liquid fury.

"What the h.e.l.l!"

He leapt backward, knocking over his chair. Ice cubes tumbled from his lap, tinkling like breaking gla.s.s onto the terra cotta floor. Dark eyes dragged her gaze upward. She found herself incapable of looking away as the force of his glare all but nailed her to the spot.

"Justice, Mr. Roger Charles," Amber's voice shattered the silence. No sense giving them a chance to deny it. Most of them would. "On behalf of Sandy Wylde."

"Sandy Wylde?" His deep melodic voice was also at odds with his persona. "What are you talk--" Hurt, bewilderment played across his face, then his dark eyebrows drew down into a menacing V. "You better have a good explanation," he growled threateningly low in his throat.

With a flick of her wrist she sent her business card sailing down into the puddle of ice water that had sloshed over the side of the table. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up out of the puddle, turning it to see better in the light.

"Fair Game," he muttered, "Don't get mad, get even." Understanding flashed across his face. "If this is some kind of prank, I'm not finding it funny."

"Neither did Sandy Wylde," Amber spat back, "when you cold!heartedly dumped her after leading her on for three months, Roger Charles."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. And I'm not Roger Charles."

"What?" Amber felt her mouth dropping stupidly open and shut it quickly. She yanked the photo from her pocket and stared at it dumbly. Spitting image. So what went wrong then? Hesitantly, no longer so sure of herself, she forced her eyes back to his face. But Roger, who apparently wasn't Roger, had his attention focused on something over her left shoulder.

She whirled about, anxious to see what he found so interesting, hoping desperately it wasn't a police officer, and found herself gaping again.

Toward them walked her unintended victim's mirror image.

He stopped a few feet away and gazed with curiosity at the wetness spreading across his dinner partner's pants and the slight red head who faced his twin in what could only be taken as a confrontational pose. A smirk worked its way across his lips, then he took one look at the other man's expression and swiftly smothered it.

Amber looked quickly from one to the other. The likeness was unmistakable. But in their demeanor, the twins were as different as day and night. Certain the newcomer was none other than the missing Roger Charles, she gave him the same once over, noting his self-a.s.sured, haughty expression. This man certainly didn't have a flawless soul. Slightly more heavy set than his twin, he wore his clothes with an in-your-face nonchalance. Beneath the jet black jacket he sported a pair of beat up denims and a tie that had all the subtlety of a modern art painting. Hair every bit as dark as his brother's tumbled over his shoulders in unruly waves before it was captured by a ponytail now rapidly coming undone. Eyes the exact shade as his twin's never ceased their wandering. They swept over her body. The leering glance he gave her made her shudder.

Amber's shoulders slumped and she drew in a shaky breath. Now she was going to have to revise her form to include a box to check in case the victim had an identical twin.

Sandy, she wailed inwardly. Why didn't you tell me?

Her victim stared angrily over her head at the approaching man. "Well, little brother," he growled, "you've got some explaining to do." He looked menacingly down at Amber. "And so do you, Miss Shaw."

"Little brother?" she blurted.

He held out his hand, as if making introductions at a formal business dinner. "Miss Shaw, allow me to introduce my brother, Roger Charles. Younger than me by half an hour."

Amber sucked in a shaky breath and squared her shoulders. She might just have made the worst mistake of her career, but she'd be d.a.m.ned it she'd let them know it. Forcing calmness into her voice, she managed to hold out her hand with some composure and look up at the man who towered over her by at least a foot. "You have me at a disadvantage Mr.--"

"Charles," he snapped, taking her hand. Despite the ice in his lap, his hand was warm, his touch practically electric. "Grayson Charles."

"Grayson," she repeated with a sick smile. "Roger's twin."

He nodded curtly. Roger, she noted, had turned away snickering rather obviously to himself, which did nothing to improve his brother's mood.

She looked from one to the other. With both of them in view the differences between them couldn't be more obvious. Roger drew attention like a sponge with his brash clothing and irreverent manner. In contrast Grayson reminded her of a still pond, teaming with life and secrets below the surface. Beyond the obvious anger in his dark eyes hurt hovered barely concealed. The quiet ones were always the most intriguing. Had they met under other circ.u.mstances, she'd most definitely have been interested.

Nice one, Amber, the thought roared through her mind. Not only do you dump ice on the wrong guy, you dumped it on the one who obviously doesn't deserve it. Well, the deed was done for better or worse. No sense contemplating the intriguing Mr. Grayson Charles further. Not after the way she introduced herself.

He stared at her awaiting her reply. She wracked her brain trying to remember what she'd been saying. "Roger's twin," she repeated, though the only thing they seemed to share were the same good looks. For lack of a better response, she said stupidly, "I see."

"I don't believe you do," Grayson said. "You see, Miss Shaw, I'm a practicing attorney. And you'll be hearing from me shortly regarding rest.i.tution for this prank. For the ruin of not only my pants but my busy evening. Need I outline for you, Miss Shaw--"

"Ms. Shaw," she insisted. Normally, she wouldn't bother, but since he was prattling on without even giving her a moment to explain, she felt an instinctive need to interrupt his tirade. "And I'd be happy to pay your dry cleaning bill, Mr. Charles."

He waved her generous offer aside. "As I was saying, I am needed elsewhere this evening, and you have just thrown a serious snag into my schedule. I'll be seeking compensation not only for my pants, but for my time at my usual billable rate." He s.n.a.t.c.hed up her hand and shook it vigorously. "It was nice meeting you, Ms. Shaw."

Another jolt of heat raced through her, deepening the crimson blush spreading across her face. Grateful for the dim lighting, she tore her hand from his with all the disdain of a displeased monarch. Drawing herself up to her full five foot one and a half inch height, she whirled on her heel and strode off through the restaurant.

"Hey!" one of the patrons called after her. "What about that coffee?"

"Get it yourself," she snapped.

And disappeared through the restaurant doors.

Heedless of his brother's smothered laughter, Grayson watched her go. Just when he thought the night couldn't get worse, a red-haired spitfire of a woman dumps an entire bucket of ice in his lap. Back at the office a good four hours of work awaited him, and an early morning meeting wouldn't keep out of deference to his bad evening.

"I'm sorry."

Grayson forced himself to meet his brother's gaze. Roger looked anything but.