First Star I See Tonight Read online

  Other than offering Miller Lite Boy some much-needed advice on improving his pickup game, she hadn’t done anything to draw attention to herself, and she didn’t like this. Rearing back on her unwieldy heels, she brought out her fake accent. “Oh, gawd. Why?”

  “ID check.”

  “Crikey! I already showed it at the bloody door. And I very much appreciate the compliment, but I’m thirty-three years old.”

  “Spot-check.”

  This was no spot-check. Something was up. She was about to refuse more forcefully when he jerked his big head toward the steps that led to the mezzanine, inadvertently giving her the chance she’d been waiting for to get closer to the VIP lounge. She gave him a blazing smile. “Right, then. Let’s move along and settle this.”

  He grunted.

  At the top of the mezzanine steps, a pair of bronzed pillars marked the entrance to VIP, but as they got close, he grabbed her arm and herded her around a corner and through a plain door off to the left.

  It was an unimpressive office where folding wooden shutters covered the lower half of a pair of windows, and a wall-mounted television silently broadcast ESPN. An iMac sat on a streamlined desk across from a two-cushion couch. Above it was a framed Chicago Stars jersey with the name Graham on the back. The Stars aqua-and-gold team colors had always looked girly to her in comparison to her beloved Chicago Bears no-nonsense navy blue and orange.

  “Wait here.” The goon stepped out and closed the door behind him.

  VIP was only a few steps away. She counted to twenty and reached for the doorknob.

  The door swung open in her face. She tripped backward, focusing so hard on keeping her balance that the door shut again before she realized who’d walked in. A whoosh roared through her ears.

  Cooper Graham himself.

  She felt as if she’d been struck by a supernova, and she hated that. After following him for six days, she should have been better prepared. But seeing him from a distance and being ten feet away were completely different experiences.

  He’d sucked up all the air in the room, and the good ol’ boy grin he turned on his customers was nowhere in sight. This was his face at the line of scrimmage. One thing was certain. If Graham wanted to see her, this wasn’t about a simple ID check.

  She mentally ticked off the possible reasons she’d been detained and decided she hated every one of them. But she told herself Graham wasn’t the only one in the room who knew how to fake a play, and unlike him, she had everything at stake.

  Even though her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid he’d see, she tried to look as if this was the thrill of her lifetime. “Brilliant! I say, I’m quite gobsmacked.”

  His eyes, a shade darker than his burnt-toast hair, swept over her, taking in her long wig, pushed-up breasts, and okay legs. She wasn’t a beauty, but she wasn’t a dog, either, and if she had a shred of vanity, she would have been demoralized by his obvious disdain. But she didn’t, and she wasn’t.

  She dug her toe-numbing heels into the carpet as he came farther into the office. His thick brown hair was a little disheveled. Not fashionably rumpled—more the dishevelment of a man who couldn’t be bothered with bimonthly haircuts or a shelf full of grooming products.

  Stay calm. Keep your focus.

  Without warning, he snatched her clutch away, and she gave a little hiss of dismay. “Bugger!” she cried, a few beats too late.

  She stared at his oversize hands—ten inches from thumb to little finger. She knew this because she did her homework. Just as she knew those big hands had thrown more than three hundred touchdowns. The same hands digging in her clutch and pulling out her fake green card.

  “Esmerelda Crocker?”

  A good investigator had to improvise, and the more detail she could give, the more convincing she’d be. “I go by Esme. Lady Esme, actually. Esmerelda is a family name.”

  “Is that so.” His voice rolled from his lips like deep water over a parched Oklahoma prairie.

  She gave a shaky nod. “Passed down through the generations to honor the second wife of the fifth Earl of Conundrum. Died in childbirth, the poor cow.”

  “My condolences.” He looked inside again. “No credit cards?”

  “They’re so vulgar, don’t you think?”

  “Money’s never vulgar,” the cowboy drawled.

  “How very American of you.”

  He began rummaging in her clutch again, something that didn’t take long, since she’d left her wallet safely stashed in her car—a wallet that held her fresh new private investigator’s license as well as half a dozen business cards.

  DOVE INVESTIGATIONS

  Est. 1958

  Truth Brings Peace

  The original business cards had read: “Truth Brings Piece.” Her grandfather had been a brilliant investigator, but a lousy speller.

  Graham smelled like money and fame, not that she could exactly describe what either one smelled like, but she knew it when she sniffed it, the same way she knew that the future of her business depended on what happened next. She pulled in the few molecules of air his presence hadn’t already burned up. “I don’t really mind you mucking about in there like that, but I am curious what you’re looking for.”

  He shoved the clutch back at her. “Something that’ll explain why you’ve been following me.”

  She’d been so careful! Her mind raced. How had she given herself away? What rookie mistake had she made that had sunk her? All her hard work was for nothing—sleeping in her car, living on junk food, peeing into the Tinkle Belle, and—worst of all—spending her life savings buying Dove Investigations from her cheating, detestable stepmother. Dove Investigations—the detective agency her grandfather had founded, her father had built, and the one that would have been hers from birth if her father hadn’t been so bullheaded. Every sacrifice she’d made would be useless. She’d be forced back to life in a cubicle, right along with having to live with the knowledge that a pampered jock like Cooper Graham had gotten the best of her.

  Acid churned in the pit of her stomach. She arranged her forehead in a confused frown. “Following you?”

  He stood silhouetted against the framed Chicago Stars jersey displayed on the wall behind him. His blue, button-down shirt made his already formidable shoulders look even wider, and the rolled-up sleeves showcased the lean muscles of his lower arms. The expert fit of his dark jeans—neither too tight nor too loose—exhibited the long, powerful legs that had been designed by God to be steady, strong, and quick—much to the disadvantage of her Chicago Bears.

  His gaze was as grim as an Illinois winter. “I’ve seen you parked outside my condo, following me to my gym, to here. And I want to know why.”

  She’d thought she was being so inventive with all her disguises. How had he managed to see through them? Denial would be futile. She sank onto the couch and tried to think.

  He waited. Arms folded. Standing on the sidelines watching the enemy’s offense fall apart.

  “Well . . .” She swallowed. Looked up at him. “The fact is . . .” She released her breath in a whoosh. “I’m your stalker.”

  “Stalker?”

  A rush of adrenaline spread through her. She wouldn’t go down without a fight, and she shot up from the couch. “Not a dangerous one. Lord, no. Merely obsessed.”

  “With me.” A statement, not a question. He’d been here before.

  “I don’t make a habit of stalking people. This . . . quite got away from me, you see.” She didn’t know exactly how this tactic could save her, but she plunged on. “I’m not full-out barmy, you understand. Just . . . mildly unhinged.”

  He cocked his head, but at least he was listening. And why not? Lunatics were always fascinating.

  “I assure you, I’m only a bit of a nutter,” she said breathlessly. “Absolutely harmless. You don’t have to worry about violence.”

  “Only that I have a stalker.”

  “Not the first one, I daresay. A man like you . . .” She paused and tri
ed not to choke. “A god.”

  The hard look in his eyes indicated he wasn’t easily swayed by flattery. “I don’t want to see you anywhere near me again. Got it?”

  She got it. It was over. Fini. But still, she couldn’t give up. “I’m afraid that will be impossible.” She paused. “Until my new medication kicks in.”

  The cleft in his chin deepened as he set his jaw. “What you’re doing is illegal.”

  “And mortifying. You can’t imagine how humiliating it is to be in this position. Nothing is more painful than . . . unrequited love.” The last two words came out as a croak she hoped he’d attribute to adoration, because everything about him got her hackles up. His size, his good looks, but most of all, the arrogance that came from a lifetime of people kissing his taut butt just because he’d been born with natural talent.

  He didn’t show even a flicker of sympathy. “If I catch sight of you again, I’m calling the cops.”

  “I—I understand.” She was done. This had been a futile tactic from the beginning. Unless . . . She nodded at him with manufactured sympathy. “I understand how terrifying this must be to you.”

  He leaned back ever so slightly on the heels of his cowboy boots. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Rubbish.” Maybe she’d found the chink in his manly armor. “You’re terrified I might suddenly pop out at you when you’re walking down the street. That I’ll be armed with one of those odious handguns you insane Americans insist on carrying around like chewing gum.” And like the Glock in her car trunk. “I’d never do that. Good gracious, no! But you don’t know that for certain, and how would you defend yourself?”

  “I think I could handle you,” he said dryly.

  She managed to look puzzled. “If that’s true, why would you be concerned about a harmless twit like myself following you around for a bit?”

  He no longer seemed quite so laid-back. “Because I don’t like it.”

  She tried to appear both sympathetic and adoring. “So terrifying for you.”

  “Stop saying that!”

  “I understand. It’s a dreadful dilemma.”

  His eyes flashed lethal golden sparks. “It’s not a dilemma at all. Stay the hell away from me.”

  She forged on. “Yes, well, as I believe I mentioned, it’s not that easy—not until my medication takes effect. The doctor has assured me it won’t be much longer. But until then, I’m quite helpless. Perhaps a compromise?”

  “No compromise.”

  “A week at the most. In the meantime, if you spot me, you’ll simply pretend I’m not around.” She brushed her hands together. “There. That’s done.”

  No surprise. He wasn’t buying it. “I meant what I said about the cops.”

  She twisted her hands, hoping the gesture didn’t look as theatrical as it felt. “I’ve heard terrible things about Chicago jails . . .”

  “You should have thought about that before you started your stalking gig.”

  It could be the stress of so many sleepless nights, or even a spike in her blood sugar from all the junk food. More likely it was the threat of losing everything she’d worked for. She dipped her head, slipped off her glasses, and dabbed at her dry cheeks with her knuckles, as if she’d started to cry, something she’d never do in a thousand years no matter how horrible things got. “I don’t want to go to jail,” she said on a sniff. “I’ve never even had a traffic ticket.” Now that was a lie, but she was an excellent driver, and the speed limits on the city’s expressways were moronically slow. “What do you think will happen to me there?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  Despite his words, she detected a hesitation, and she dove for it. “Yes, well, you might as well call them now because no matter how hard I try, I know I won’t be able to help myself.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  Did he sound the slightest bit rattled? She managed another sniff and dabbed at her eyes with her index finger. “I wouldn’t wish the pain of this kind of love on anyone.”

  “It’s not love,” he said with disgust. “It’s craziness.”

  “I know. It’s absurd.” She swiped her perfectly dry nostrils with the back of her hand. “How can you possibly love someone whom you only met today?”

  “You can’t.”

  Until he threw her out, she wasn’t giving up. “Couldn’t you reconsider? Only for one week until the new pills restore my sanity?”

  “No.”

  “Of course you couldn’t. And I do want the best for you. I can’t tolerate the idea of you cowering in fear, afraid to leave your condo because you’re terrified you’ll see me.”

  “I’m not going to be terrified—”

  “I’m sure I’ll be able to survive jail. How long do you think they’ll keep me? Is there the slightest chance you would— Never mind. It’s too much to ask you to visit me while I’m behind bars.”

  “You’re completely nuts.”

  “Oh, yes. But harmless. And remember, it’s only temporary.” She’d gotten this far. She might as well go for broke. “If you were physically attracted to me . . . You’re not, are you?”

  “No!”

  His outrage was reassuring. “Then I won’t offer to . . . sexually satisfy you.” Gleckkk! She was going to wash her mouth out with soap when this was over.

  “Get some help,” he snarled.

  He went to the door and called in his goon. A few minutes later, she was on the street.

  Now what?

  2

  Cooper had met a lot of loonies during his career, but that lady lived in a bat house all her own, complete with blacked-out windows and a big ol’ hole in the roof. One thing he’d say for her, though . . . She was straightforward. She’d laid her crazy right out on the front lawn for all the world to see.

  He needed to get back down to the club floor, but he stayed behind his desk. After two months in this business, his office still smelled strange—not of rubber and sweat—not of specially formulated pain compounds and chlorine-doused whirlpools. Instead, it carried the scent of paper and paint, of new upholstery and a computer printer cartridge. But as much as he missed those familiar smells, he wouldn’t let himself hold on to the past. Opening Spiral was his announcement to the world that he’d never become one more washed-up jock with nothing better to do than seal himself in an announcer’s booth and broadcast bullshit about plays he could no longer pull off himself. The nightclub business was his new turf, and Spiral was only the beginning. He intended to build himself an empire, and just like in football, failure wasn’t an option.

  He turned back to his computer and Googled “Esmerelda Crocker.” Her green card had given her age as thirty-three, but she looked a lot younger. He flipped from one screen to the next and eventually found her name on an alumni list for London’s Middlesex University. No other information. And no photo to show that crazy-wide mouth, firm jaw, or those wily eyes almost the exact color of a blueberry Pop-Tart—eyes that demanded he jump into her crackpot world right along with her.

  If he hadn’t been so pissed, he would have laughed at her offer to “sexually satisfy” him. He didn’t need any more crazy in his life. Besides, after eight years of seeing his name plastered all over the tabloids, he was on temporary hiatus from women.

  He hadn’t intended to turn into a cliché—one more NFL quarterback with a beautiful Hollywood actress in his bed. He wouldn’t have, either, if he’d stuck with a single actress. But after that first relationship had fizzled due to conflicting schedules, too much publicity, and infidelity—hers, not his—he’d met another beautiful A-lister. And then another. And then one more after that.

  In his defense, all four of those relationships had been with stars who were brainy as well as beautiful. He liked whip-smart, successful women who also happened to be heart-stoppingly beautiful. What man didn’t? And being an NFL quarterback gave him access to the cream of the crop. Now, however, all his laser-sharp attention was focused on growing a nightclub empire. Wom
en brought too much drama, too much press, and too damned much perfume. If he was quarterback of the world, he’d outlaw the stuff. Women should smell like women.

  Esmerelda hadn’t worn perfume, and with all her disguises, who knew what her hair looked like? But there was that interesting face and those shapely legs. Still, the whole episode was making the back of his neck itch exactly the same way it did right before he got blindsided.

  ***

  Piper jerked off her wig and drove home from Spiral with one desperate scheme after another churning through her head. A different approach. A better disguise. But it wouldn’t take him long to see through both. If she didn’t come up with something quickly, she’d be on a one-way street back to a computer job in a cubicle, something she couldn’t abide thinking about. Her last job as a digital strategist for a local chain of auto parts stores had been interesting at first, but after the second year, boredom had begun to set in, and by the fifth year, she’d found herself dreaming of a zombie apocalypse.

  Her father had denied her the career she was born for, working with him at Dove Investigations—or even working with one of his competitors, something he’d made certain didn’t happen. Everybody in the country knew him, and Duke Dove had put out the word. “Anybody who hires my little girl to do any investigating that doesn’t involve stayin’ at her computer is gonna have to deal with me.”

  But Duke was dead, and she owned the business he hadn’t wanted her to have—the business she’d paid far too much to buy from her stepmother only to discover too late that Duke’s client list was woefully out-of-date, and her stepmother’s bookkeeping practices were, if not outright fraudulent, the next closest thing. Piper had bought little more than a name, but the name was precious to her, and she wouldn’t give up without the fight of her life.

  By the time she fell asleep, she’d made up her mind. She was going to stick with barmy Esmerelda Crocker and hope for the best.