Love Spell Read Free Page A

after all. With a sigh and the turn of the knob, she walked into the closet-like space that housed her chance to finally prove herself.
    In his typical fashion, Uncle Tom had kindly helped by acquiring acceptably attractive secondhand furniture to replace the bland monstrosities that had come with the rental space. Lindsay didn’t mind “scratch-n-dent” stuff. A little sanding, varnish, and elbow grease and things were good as new. The desk was real cherry wood, the chair was actual leather (a graduation gift from her parents, from when they thought she was still living their dreams), and the computer was only four years old. Tom had also gotten her a cheap desk phone with one of those old-fashioned, tape-recorder style answering machines. The overhead light worked.
    And I have a window! The thought always made her smile.
    She squeezed past the stacks of boxes lining the wall as she crossed to her desk, and dropped the day’s mail next to the computer. She sat, luxuriating in the non-Naugahyde embrace of her chair before booting up her computer. Waiting for the machine to rouse itself, she sifted through the mail.
    Bill from Pacific Gas and Electric. A reminder to make the last three months’ lease payments or face eviction in thirty days. Buy two, get one free tacos from Burrito Juan’s. Reminder about the oil change. “Get Well” card from Daryl—ugh. Idiot. Overdue utility bill.
    She stopped, put on her calm face, removed the taco coupon, and then slid the remainder of the mail under her desk. It would wait. Her computer was active now and she checked her e-mail. The content wasn’t much better than the snail mail. But, oh! Mr. Francis had responded! Her heart picked up the pace as she noticed the subject line: “RE: re: Your services.”
    John Francis had come to her five days ago, asking after her prices and qualifications. He hadn’t gone into detail, but he’d hinted at a sneaking suspicion that his wife was stepping out on him—possibly even funding her dalliances with money from his businesses. Lindsay had assured him of her skills and reasonable fees, and when she finished, he seemed impressed. He left with a promise to get back to her soon because he “might now be done shopping around for a P.I.”
    Best of all, he seemed rich. Rich clients were the best kind.
    Holding her breath, Lindsay opened the e-mail.
    “Dear Miss Sullivan,” she read aloud. “Thank you for offering your services. I admit I could not find a more competitive price anywhere in town.”
    Lindsay gave a little squeal. At last! A case! Finally something to silence the naysayers.
    She read on.
    “I regret to inform you…” Her heart sank at those words, and she reverted to silent reading. Mr. Francis had decided that the sensitive nature of the case, and the skill of his wife in hiding her deeds, required someone with more experience in the field. He thanked her for her time, and signed it “John.”
    He had the gall to include a “P.S.” inviting her to dinner with him that coming Friday. Pig.
    Lindsay slumped back in her chair, and kicked absently at the mail protruding from under the desk (she made a mental note to clean that crevice out this month). John Francis had been one of only seven people to ever walk through her office door in the five months she had been in business. Herself, her parents, and Uncle Tom made up most of the rest of that list. She didn’t count the janitor.
    C’mon, think, girl. Don’t give up! That’s exactly what Mom and Dad expect! It’s only one little setback. You need some name recognition. Let people know you’re there, and that you’re good, and they’ll be beating down your door.
    Her desk phone rang. She snatched it without thought.
    “Sullivan and… Self… Private Investigators. This is Sullivan.”
    Silence. Then some heavy breathing. Lindsay rolled her eyes and slammed the receiver down. She hated the fact that her business phone pre-dated caller ID. She’d change that as