Let the hunt begin . . .
“I’m sorry,” she looked down with an agitated frown. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was inappropriate of me. I didn’t mean to make light of your delicate situation.”
“Delicate situation? By that you mean, my not being able to get it up?”
Her eyes blasted him with gold fire. He studied this new look of passion in those golden orbs, only having glimpsed it at the cabin. Then he slowly smiled. He liked what he saw.
“I’m very well aware how capable you are, so no, I wasn’t referring to that and you know it.”
“As I’ve said before,” he said with an earnest, sincere look, “I apologize for that. I was wrong to have treated you that way.” His look, his tone, the sincerity of it all deflated her instantly, even as she tried to hold on to that comforting grudge. It was comforting because it allowed her to remain strong against him.
“Thank you,” she said nonetheless, still eyeing him, warily. Then she shrugged. “Anyway, it’s water under the bridge. There’s no unringing the bell.”
“I haven’t changed my mind to make it up to you, though.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said quietly before she rose big eyes to him “I’m really not any worse for wear. It stands to reason He would spare me the many problems of an unwanted, um, situation considering who the father is—”
“—Is?”
“—would’ve been,” she corrected. “And considering my true reason for being.”
“You’re a woman. According to your indoctrination as a Christian,” he ignored her sharp look, “what was your god’s reason for creating the female gender again? Why did your god create Eve?” he asked cleverly. “Oh yes, to procreate with Adam. But in order to do that, they’d have to have—”
“—This is a public place, Mister O’Dell, and this sort of talk is inappropriate.”
“Then come to my hotel room where we’ll have all the privacy to . . . talk about procreation as inappropriately as we can handle without the fear of eavesdroppers—”
“—You’re being defensive.”
“I’m being honest,” he corrected. “You’re the one being defensive, and we both know it.”
She slowly shook her head. “I pity you. You have eyes, but you can’t see. You have ears, but you can’t hear. Why do you continue to refuse to see and accept what’s right in front of you, Mr. O’Dell?”
She shot to her feet in a huff, but stiffened because so did he!
She deflated almost immediately when he came to his feet as fluid as a large, dangerous cat—with emphasis on dangerous. She gulped as she stared up into his gripping eyes, and for a moment she forgot just where they were as the sounds of her thumping heart rose in her ears, drowning out all else.
“The question is, Maddy,” he said, hushed. “Why do you?”
**~~**
Of Vinegar and Honey
Part VIII
“The Hunt Begins”
Published by
Catharina Shields at Smashwords.com
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Catharina Shields
Cover Design by Catharina Shields
Edited by C.Shields
All Rights Reserved
Author’s Note:
This is an original work of fiction.
All characters depicted are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All characters are 18 years of age or older.
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
**~~**
Part VIII: The Hunt Begins
Rory entered the dark gentleman’s club dressed to a “t”. He looked handsome, sensual, and confident in a white shirt with extended collar under a black, casual suit. A lot of seductive eyes flew his way, but instead of huffing in male pride, his lips tightened in aggravation.
Sexy exotic dancers in glittery thongs swirled around their poles with extra panache for their handsome boss, but he barely gave them a glance. He made his way through the crowd that quietly parted for him. He barely gave them a nod of acknowledgment as he finally made it to the chic bar and took a seat.
“So nice to see you again, Big R.” the sexy redhead behind the bar purred while batting heavily made-up eyes. “It’s been a long time. What can I get you?”
“The usual,” he said casually as he gazed around for a few moments, searching for someone. Not finding who he was looking for, he pulled out a long, thin cigar and fixed it between his teeth, but before he could light it he was offered a flame.
A lighter flickered on, and he paused. His deep-set eyes narrowed as he looked at the bartender’s sensuous smile, but he didn’t say a word as he proceeded to light his cigar with the proffered flame.
“Can I get you anything else?” the pretty bartender asked, snapping the lighter shut.
Her tone made him flicker up lashes, and she smiled a little friendlier as she set his glass on a napkin in front of him. He slowly raised his head as he drew on his fine cigar, squinting through lashes. It looked as if he were weighing his options. His gaze roamed slowly down her barely clad body and remained slightly longer on her lush breasts that all but spilled over her scarlet bustier.
“Anything . . . at all,” she purred, meaningfully.
His narrowed gaze returned to her slowly smiling face. “No,” he answered before he picked up his snifter and removed his cigar to have a sip, dismissing her.
“Well, if you have a change of mind, call me. For anything, Big R—”
“—It’s O’Dell,” he said, fixing her with a terse look over the rim of his glass. “Or Mister O’Dell.”
It didn’t rattle her in the least.
“Mr. O’Dell,” she said with a smile before she moved away to serve another customer.
His almost annoyed, if not bored, gaze followed before he set down his snifter. His body language wasn’t welcoming and everyone seemed to get the message, leaving him be.
Except one.
“Mr. O’Dell?”
He arched a brow and looked over his shoulder. A stocky, beady-eyed man was looking back, but despite his hesitant query he seemed convinced he found the person he was looking for. The man had a ruddy face with sharp, piercing gray eyes and thinning hair combed too neatly off to one side.
“And you are?” Rory asked, arrogantly.
“Wilfred Pressar,” the man answered. “Mr. O’Dell, I presume?”
“Yes.” Rory looked more interested. He half turned on the swivel barstool while sweeping his gaze down then up Wilfred Pressar’s length, but his gaze remained briefly on the dark brown folder the man held in his arm.
“Nice place here,” Pressar noted, licking his lips as he swept his eager gaze around the rather high-class gentleman’s club. “I can see why you’d wanna do business here.” He grinned, but O’Dell merely returned a cool, cocky smirk and his smile faded as he cleared his throat.
“I knew you would.”
“Yeah,” Pressar chuckled, relieved he didn’t overstep his bounds. “So, do you want to talk here at the bar—?”
“—Follow me,” Rory said as he rose from the barstool and led the way.
He headed toward a booth marked “Reserved”. It was a half round booth in a very private corner of the club. He waited to seat himself until Pressar took his seat across him, putting his folder on the table. He studied the smaller man’s ruddy face, noting the pit-bullish quality to his set jaw and pug-nose. Good ol’ trusty Ron did well finding this one. Then again, he did well finding Maddy, too.
“I’ve contacted my sources and I have to say, it’s as if I were chasing a ghost,” he began as he set the folder on the table and opened the lip. He pulled out a manila folder and set it on the dimly lit table before he opened it. “There’s no record of a Madelaine C. Croft anywhere.”
Rory frowned. “How’s that possible? Everyone has at least a social security number.”
“Not necessarily,” Pressar countered. “If this Miss Croft was born before the new law requiring every child to have a S.S. number, and she hasn’t held a job in the private sector, there’s no need for one.”
“What about the local registry? Surely they have something. She was adopted by a Mama Macy, something or another, in … what was that place again?” Rory moved the hand holding his cigar, his handsome face a bit irritated and impatient.
“Macy Blanche Croft of Freeport, Illinois. Yes.”
“That’s right. Freeport. She mentioned Freeport.”
“Yes, I’ve checked the local records, but I couldn’t find a Madelaine C. Croft in the registry there. According to the registrar files I have been able to locate, all filings, all business dealings, and all school records appear to have been sealed by the Church. They basically own the woman now.”
Rory rose brows in disbelief. “Own?”
“Yes, own.”
“This is America, Mr. Pressar. No one owns people anymore,” he drawled.
“The Church is separate from the state, Mr. O’Dell. The Vatican has its own laws being the state and official home of the Catholic Church. If there are any records sealed by the Catholic Church, they’re with the Vatican, and they don’t have anything to do with America.”
“Okay, so now you’ve told me what you didn’t find,” Rory drawled, “how about telling me what you did find.”
“I found out that Miss Croft is some kind of V.I.P. in the Church. What her exact status is, I don’t know, but I’ve been able to dig up some people she’d been staying with.” The man’s gaze wandered down Rory’s sitting frame. “Apparently, she’s real important to the Church, and to a certain Bishop Reid.” He raised his sharp beady eyes to meet a pair of unreadable blues. “I’ve been told she’s considered to be some kind of . . . miracle healer.”
Rory didn’t flinch.
“It’s all in there. Everything I’ve uncovered so far is included. Even my notes, just as you requested, sir.” He slid the folder across the table as watched O’Dell frown down at it. Without a word, he set his cigar in the ashtray and picked up the folder. “May I ask you a personal question, Mr. O’Dell?”
“Sure,” Rory answered absently as he skimmed through the reports.
“Why are you looking for this woman?”
He was silent as he paged through the surprisingly well-written, detailed reports. They spanned two weeks. There was a lot of information there; information he could use. He was impressed.
“You’re a credit to your profession, Mr. Pressar. Keep up the good work.” Rory finally said. “Try and see what you can find out about a Cardinal Grand Meechum, or something. He knows a lot about this woman. Find out what he’s willing to divulge. At whatever cost.” He closed the file and held it up a moment with a satisfied expression. “Good work,” he finally said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Enjoy my hospitality here. You have V.I.P. status and I’ve already instructed the manager, John Phillips, to give you carte blanche, so feel free.” Then he took his cigar, got up, and left the private booth, the private detective, and the private and unanswered query behind.
**~~**
Georgetown City Hall…
James sat at his desk with a concentrated frown. He was carefully typing up an application for one of the new businesses in town before he’d start sending out the boiler plate requirements for approval. He was so into his work that he hadn’t noticed a hush had fallen over the other civil servants there.
“Mr. Mallory?” a deep, sensual male voice inquired.
James snapped up his head. His hazel-green eyes were somewhat dazed, but the moment he recognized who was standing beside his desk, his brain instantly cleared and his eyes widened—but just briefly. Now he realized just how still it was there, and he felt apprehensive. The tall, well-dressed man was quite imposing even if he was smiling cordially.
“Yes! Yes, yes,” James said. “How may I help you, sir?” When he realized he was still sitting, he immediately shot to his feet and offered a tense hand in greeting. It was taken in a strong, single shake.
A thousand thoughts rushed through James’ head, wondering what in god’s name was Rory R. O’Dell doing in his office, and whether or not he should let him know he knew him. To play it safe, James decided to play it by ear and to find out what O’Dell wanted before he made any grand revelations that just might embarrass him.
“May I have a seat?” O’Dell asked him politely.
“Yes, of course,” James said as he nodded and watched the tall man lower into the chair beside his desk. He looked relaxed and amiable, but knowing O’Dell’s reputation, James was cautious. “Can I get you something to drink, sir? There’s coffee, and although it’s not Starbucks, it’s still a pretty good brew.”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” O’Dell said as his gaze briefly swept the somewhat untidy desk. “I won’t be long.”
“Oh,” James said as he lowered back into his chair.
O’Dell popped a curious brow. “Oh? You sound almost . . . disappointed.”
“What? Did I? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“Worried, then?”