Table Of Content======================
Tangled Lives
by Mary Winter
======================
Copyright (c)2004 by Mary K. Wilson
Fictionwise
www.Fictionwise.com
Mystery/Crime/Romance
---------------------------------
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---------------------------------
*Tangled Lives*
He sounded so calm that Callie wanted to throw something at him just to see if
she could ruffle his demeanor. "Look," she huffed. "I don't know what kind
of clients you usually take on, but I'm sure you don't shut them in their
apartments for their own good." Jase's grin widened, and her anger deepened.
"I want to go out. Go out for dinner or something." She raked her fingers
through her hair. "I can't imagine someone would try to kill me at a
restaurant."
"You didn't imagine someone would try to run you down, either, Callie. Or try
to shoot at you on Second Avenue. It's not your job to imagine what people
would do, it's mine." Jase spoke quietly, but with authority in his voice.
"Yeah, but," Callie said. She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of
water, then shook her head. "I don't care. If you're good, then you'll protect
me." She glared at him.
Jase stood. His eyes held a predatory gleam in them, and Callie had to fight
against the urge to gulp. He strode towards her, each step a precision exercise
in muscular control. He stopped a few inches away and looked her straight in
the eyes. His gaze smoldered. With his finger, he tilted her chin so she could
look into his eyes.
"I'm very good, Callie. But I don't think that's what you were referring to." He
dropped his hands, but remained standing before her.
* * * *
*What They Are Saying About*
_Tangled Lives_
"Mary Winter provides a wonderful romantic suspense tale in TANGLED
LIVES. Ms. Winter keeps her reader on the edge of their seat with suspense
and danger and brings us endearing characters we can remember. I look
forward to reading more stories from this author in the future." -- Tracey
West,The Road to Romance
* * * *
Edited by: Ann K. Oortman
Copy Edited by: Lorraine Stephens
Senior Editor: Lorraine Stephens
Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens
Cover Artist: Mary K. Wilson
_All rights reserved_
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and
beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by
any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publisher.
* * * *
Wings ePress Books
www.wings-press.com
403 Wallace Court
Richmond, KY 40475
* * * *
*Dedication*
To Elzbeth, Connie and Jen.
Not only are you great friends,
but, you introduced me to Norma.
--------
*Prologue*
"He's late," she glanced at her watch and tapped a long, slender foot
impatiently. The heavy fur coat she wore did little to ward off the damp, New
England chill. Clouds obscured the moon, making her sigh with resentment. If
it rained, less people would come to her show. Vinnie always liked to hear her
sing to packed clubs.
She smiled when she thought of Vinnie, her boyfriend. He did something in
the warehouse district, had always worn a suit and tie, and tossed money
around as if he could afford to give it away. She liked that about him. Her
Vinnie always bought her nice things, like this fur coat.
She reached into her small clutch bag for a cigarette and lit it. Taking two
quick puffs, she glanced at her watch again.
Damn it, she hated when he was late.
As if her thoughts summoned him, the dark car pulled up at the curb. The
driver stepped out and opened the door for Vinnie. He nodded to the man,
then grinned when he saw his girl waiting for him.
Vinnie looked impeccable as always. His wore his dark hair slicked back from
his face, his suit coat folded over one arm in spite of the chill.
"Sorry, I'm late, darling." He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, a chaste kiss
that wouldn't ruin her makeup.
"The show starts in forty-five minutes. You almost missed it," her husky voice
purred.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world." He glanced up at the sky. "Hope it doesn't
rain. It drives away customers."
She flicked the last of the ash from her cigarette as he took her arm and led
her into the club. Tonight, she'd sing for him.
--------
*One*
With her leg propped up on pillows and plenty of ibuprofen in her system,
Callie Davis pulled out her research, consisting mostly of photocopies of old
newspaper clippings and photocopies of old magazines. As usual, one item in
her collection held her attention: an old newspaper clipping given to her by an
old man at the library. Imprisoned in the cool laminate, the article looked
unreal.
She remembered when she received it, her first day researching the life of
Norma Winters. An old man, obviously there doing his own work, had seen
her looking in the archives for Norma's name. He'd handed her a clipping, one
that had a small photograph of Norma and an article about the club where she
sang. Callie had thought it odd that he had carried that particular clipping with
him, but graciously took the offering nonetheless. She'd never seen him again.
Callie held the newspaper up, again squinting at the grainy black and white
photograph of the woman. In the picture, she held her fur coat around herself
and waved at the camera. "Norma Winters at The Backstage Club," read the
caption.
More newspaper stories, all encased in clear plastic, tumbled from the folder.
Callie's clenched fingers held the folder closed, keeping the growing stack of
notes and computer printouts hostage. Her hands shook.
Her knee throbbed. The painkiller had begun to wear off, and Callie rose from
the chair. She limped over to the counter, downed four white tablets and a
glass of water, and then hobbled back to the table. Sinking into the hard vinyl
seat of the kitchen chair, Callie tried to shut out the images of the white sports
car speeding towards her.
She remembered leaping from the curb, toward the cement walls of a parking
garage, then the pavement had risen to meet her, and she remembered nothing
but blackness and pain. She couldn't have blacked out for more than a few
minutes because when she came to, the car had squealed around a corner and
people surrounded her.
She had risen to her feet, swayed madly for a moment, then took a deep
breath and pronounced herself fit to return home. It had only been a drunk
driver, all agreed, and she didn't question them, even as she clutched her day's
research to her chest.
Sitting alone in her kitchen, the sixty-watt bulb providing little illumination,
Callie wondered again about the accident. The idea that it had been a drunk
driver, even at two in the afternoon, seemed all wrong somehow. The car had
lurched for her, cutting across several lanes of traffic. Had she still lived in
Chicago, she might have thought it a case of mistaken identity, but not here,
not in pedestrian Des Moines, Iowa.
Heck, here people ride bikes across the state in ninety-degree weather and call
it fun. Callie snorted. She pushed back the chair and rose with a lurching
stride that reminded her of Quasimodo.
"I'm the hunchback of Notre Dame," she growled to her quite-unimpressed
fish. Callie paused to sprinkle some flakes into the water. She grabbed the
newspaper off the telephone stand sitting beside the tank, then collapsed on
the couch just beyond. Shades of sea foam green and blue decorated her
living room, with her couch alive in a geometric print in soothing pastels. The
single plant in the corner looked in need of water, but Callie lacked the energy
to oblige. Instead, she opened the paper across her chest, folded it up, and
began to read.
Tucked in the corner next to a boxed ad for her favorite restaurant, Callie saw
an ad for Harrison, Inc. The words promised discreet and timely detective
work; no job too big or too small.
Callie nibbled her lower lip. Discreet. She liked that; after all, if she ran around
town claiming she thought she was being stalked because of her knowledge
about a 1940's mob boss' girlfriend, people may think she was crazy. Heck,
_she_ thought she was crazy.
Still, the strange men hanging around the library, the car that almost ran her
over, all of it had to add up to something suspicious. Callie rose to grab a pen
to circle the ad. She passed by her living room windows and peered through
the curtains. As it had all morning, a dark brown sedan sat parked across the
street.
Her apartment looked across the street to a parking garage. It seemed odd to
have a car park on the street. Why had it sat across from her apartment
building all day? She peered closer and saw a man sitting in the driver's seat.
He turned to look at her.
Callie let the curtain fall back into place. She clutched at the fabric, her heart
hammering in her chest. Someone watched her house. Taking a deep breath,
she grabbed the pen and returned to the couch.
_If I sit here perhaps the car will drive away. Maybe it's a tourist that's driven
too far off the interstate._
Callie shook her head. Why would he park on the street, when the car could
hide in the ramp, especially during rush hour, when no one was allowed to
park on the street? She shuddered at the direction her thoughts were taking.
Callie picked up the paper again.
_They'll think I'm crazy if I call._
She turned to the business pages. Stories about corporate mergers and ways
to make money did little to hold her interest, but at least holding the paper in
her hands felt as if she was doing something.
A sharp crack split the evening air. Callie jumped. Her heart lodged in her
throat, and she held her hand to her chest, as if by will alone she could calm
the pounding of her heart. Another bang came from outside, a car backfiring,
and Callie realized with a start that was all it had ever been, a balky car. She
sighed, slumped against the couch, and picked up the paper again.
The ad mocked her; the black lettering burning into her mind. Norma wouldn't
have asked for protection. Then again, Norma had her own protection.
She set the paper down in her lap and reached for the phone. Her hand shook
as she raised the handset to her ear. She dialed the number, uncertain of
whether anyone would answer.
On the other end of the line, the phone rang.
Callie bit her lip. She scanned the ad. Nowhere did it mention that phones
were answered twenty-four hours a day, or even what hours the office was
open.
The phone rang again.
Two more rings shattered the silence. It's not open, Callie realized, and with a
sinking heart, started to pull the phone away from her ear.
"Harrison, Inc. How may I help you?" The deep male voice on the other end
of the line sounded out of breath.
She hadn't rehearsed what to say. Start with the truth, her mother had always
told her. "Hello," she almost whispered. "My name is Callie Davis. I saw your
ad in the paper. I think I may need your services."
Through the receiver, she heard the sound of someone easing into a seat then
the rustle of paper and pencil. "Okay," he replied. "Why don't you tell me the
situation? Then we can discuss if Harrison, Inc. can help you."
He sounded like he could help her. His baritone floated through the phone line
like warm syrup, and Callie felt better for just hearing it on the other end of the
line. She wound the phone cord around one finger as she tried to concoct a
story that wouldn't scare him. After all, not many people called him and said
that they became targets when researching their past lives. In fact, she would
bet money that no one had even mentioned past lives to him before now.
"I was run down on the street earlier today. And before that, I felt like I was
being watched when I went about my work. There's this car, parked across
the street, and I think the guy in it is watching my apartment window." To her
own ears, Callie thought she sounded like a lunatic.
"Can you tell me about the accident earlier today?"
Callie nodded. Then, aware that he couldn't see her, she licked her lips and
began her tale. "I was walking home from the downtown library; I live just a
few blocks from there. Just as I was passing the parking garage by the civic
center, I noticed a white sports car speeding down the street." She paused.
"What street was this?"
"Court Avenue. I was walking down Second Avenue." On the other end of
the line, she heard the man taking notes. "I didn't think much about the car,
after all, I was on the sidewalk, and you know how people drive around here. I
had stopped to wait for the lights to change when all of a sudden the white car
swerved across the lanes and headed straight for me. I jumped out of the way.
I don't remember much after hitting the sidewalk, but another pedestrian said
that the car swerved to avoid hitting the light pole and that's how come it
missed me." Her voice shook.
"Did you see the car?"
"No. Just a white car. It looked like a sports car, but I have no idea what kind
it was."
"If you saw it again could you recognize it?"
"I think so." Callie closed her eyes to avert the image of the white car barreling
towards her.
"Good." The man on the other end of the phone sighed. "I'm not sure if that
is enough to make an assumption that you may need our services, but I would
like to discuss this with you. Are you available later today, say around four
this afternoon?"
"I am," Callie replied. She'd only spent about an hour at the library and the
noon hour rose upon her. "Where are you located?"
He rattled off an address that was about twenty blocks away. "May I have
your name again?"
"Callie Davis," she said. "Yours?"
"Jase Harrison. I'm the owner." He paused for a moment. "Will you be okay
until our meeting?"
His concern touched her. "I think so," Callie lied. She may be physically fine,
but with her mind conjuring images of hit men and mob bosses, she suspected
she'd be a basket case in a few hours. Still, nothing like this had ever
happened to her before, and she suspected that she probably wasn't alone in
her assumptions.
"If that's the case, then I'll see you then," Jase said. The two exchanged a few
pleasantries, and then Callie hung up the phone. She stared at her closed
curtains, afraid to look beyond and wrapped her arms around herself. She
hoped she had made the right decision.
* * * *
Jase hung up the phone. He stared at it as if it might bite him. Something about
the woman told him she was hiding something. What, he didn't know. With
most women, he'd say the stalker was an ex-boyfriend, a jealous husband, or
any number of men that they might have in their lives. Whether her story held
true to the norm or not, he'd have to wait until four to see.
Grabbing the gym towel he'd tossed on the edge of his desk, Jase mopped his
brow. He'd been in the middle of his workout when she called, not expecting
any callers until his ad had appeared in a day or two. Still, if she'd seen his ad,
then it had worked.
His brother might have ribbed him about needing to advertise his services, but
he wouldn't hear Josh grumbling when he started bringing in clients. Just
because Josh's business had taken off like wildfire didn't mean that Jase's
wouldn't do the same. It just would take a little time, that's all.
He rose from his chair to return to the gym he'd built in the back of his office.
The second floor housed his apartment and the third stood empty. As he went
back to the gym, Jase caught sight of himself in the mirror. Stubble covered
his chin and black hair fell over his forehead. He looked like a vagabond.
Tossing the towel over his shoulder, Jase knew he had to clean up before his
newest client arrived. She sounded scared on the phone. Something about the
tremor in her voice tugged at him, and Jase knew that no matter her story, he
would do his best. He'd never forgiven himself for Molly's death; he wouldn't
let it happen again.
* * * *
Callie stared at the phone, wondering if she really had done the right thing.
Images of the car sitting across the street burned in her mind, and she moved
the few steps it took her to stand in front of her living room window. Pushing
aside the curtains, she peered outside. Lunch traffic had grown heavier, and in
the bustle, she couldn't quite tell if the same car sat across from her building
or not. The cars thinned, leaving her with a clear view. A blonde man leaned
into the car, chatting with the driver. The two men discussed something, then
the blonde turned to look up at her building.
Callie shivered. She let the curtains fall back into place. She wondered if the
two men discussed her. With a shake of her head, she tried to clear her mind
of such thoughts. They could have been discussing anything, and a
prestigious law firm occupied the ground floor of the building, along with
several other businesses. Perhaps the blond sought directions somewhere.
While calming, the idea held little merit.
Gathering her courage, Callie peeked out the window again. Both the man and
the car were gone. Taking a deep breath, she let the curtain fall back into place
and turned from the window.
_If I were being watched the car would still be there._
After all, who can claim to be a part-time stalker?
Callie giggled. The notion of someone watching her part-time seemed silly.
What a thing to put on a resume, too. She imagined the man walked up to an
imaginary boss. "I'm sorry, I can't work late tonight. I'm a part-time stalker."
The idea had her in fits of giggles.
She hiccupped on a laugh, the action bringing her back to reality.
_My fear has run away with me._
She turned away from the window before any more foibles of her imagination
could rear their ugly heads. The car might have another reason for not parking
there. They might have tapped her phone.
The thought rose unhindered from the depths of her mind. Callie shook.
Tapped her phone. The idea sounded sinister, felt evil, and she wondered
what kind of people would tap the phone of a certified past-life therapist. Sick
people, that's who.
But what other explanation did she have of the car leaving? Callie peered out
the window again. The absence of the car shouted at her that something had
happened. Even if the man had needed a bathroom break, he would have
returned by now.
_Great, I'm now rationalizing why this freak isn't watching my house?_
With a frustrated growl, she stormed into her bedroom to change clothes
before her meeting with Harrison, Inc.
* * * *
Jase wrapped the towel around his waist as he stepped from the shower.
Steam fogged the mirror and hovered around the light like ethereal beings. He
ran a second towel through his hair before hanging it over the shower stall.
Padding into his bedroom on bare feet, Jase quickly changed into a black shirt
and black jeans. As he slipped his feet into his sneakers, he realized he knew
nothing about Callie Davis.
He would remedy that right now. He crossed into his den and flipped on his
computer. Within minutes, he began searching internet databases for his
prospective client. The official records said little except that she didn't have a
criminal record, didn't have a car registered, and was a registered democrat.
Basic information anyone could get, and he shrugged.
A general search brought up several links to a website for Callie Davis,
certified past-life therapist. He suppressed a snort of derision as he clicked on
the first link: Past lives. What a bunch of bull. People obviously trying to make
themselves be more than they really were.
Molly read those books, written by people who thought they were Kings and
Queens in the past, now brought down to a humble life in this time. She'd
believed them. Jase sighed. He shoved Molly's ghosts aside.
The first website loaded, a black page filled with twinkling stars. In scrolling
letters a biography of Callie Davis filled the screen, listing her as living in Des
Moines, Iowa.
"Hell," Jase swore. He'd agreed to meet a nutcase.
He followed links to articles she had written about past lives. He read the first
one, then moved onto the second and the third. Her lyrical voice spoke of a
passion for her work, and that, in spite of the kind of work she did, he
understood. Several case studies presented themselves, and Jase read further.
At the end of the articles he came to her picture. In the photo, Callie sat in an
antique chair, wearing a crushed purple velvet gown. Her short brown hair
ended right above her collar. The cut would have looked masculine except for
the slight wave of her hair. The fabric of her dress draped across her full
breasts to slide over her stomach and hips. As his mother would have said,
she had meat on her bones.
A familiar stirring of desire tingled through him, and Jase quickly backed from
the page. "Hell," he growled again as he'd stumbled across a page of
photographs from her various seminars. There she stood, mingling with
people. A couple of pictures showed her smiling with celebrities. There was
an actor giving her a cursory peck on the cheek. She blushed, the red hue of
her skin quite visible in the photograph, and Jase had the sensation Callie
didn't like these public gatherings much. He quickly exited his web. He knew
quite enough and suspected that this afternoon would be interesting to say the
least.
* * * *
