The Kissing Game Read Free

this man, the better my chances are of finding him.”
    Simon felt Frankie glance in his direction again, and he knew that she wanted him to leave. But now he was doubly curious. He wanted to know who Quinn was looking for, and he wanted to see Frankie Paresky, Private Eye, in action.
    He had to admit that she looked good. If he had just walked into the room, he'd have no idea that she was wearing a Speedo bathing suit and probably a small truckload of beach sand underneath her neatly conservative clothing. She looked sun-kissed and gorgeous as usual—her cheeks anddelicate, slightly upturned nose a bit more rosy than the rest of her heart-shaped face.
    Her short dark hair was probably salty from her trip to the beach, but it looked as if she'd spent quite a bit of time in front of the bathroom mirror with gel and a hair dryer to achieve that windswept look.
    She looked every inch the professional, down to the yellow legal pad she'd pulled out of her desk drawer.
    “Before we get into the details of your case,” she said, opening a file drawer in her desk and taking out what looked like a standard contract form, “I'd like you to understand what my rates are. Seventy-five dollars an hour, one hundred dollars for travel hours and time over twelve hours per day. Should you decide to sign a contract with me today, I'll require a thousand-dollar retainer. In return, I'll provide you with a full accounting of my time, efforts, and expenses, plus all information I uncover in the course of this investigation.”
    Clayton Alan Quinn took out his checkbook, not batting an eye. “I'll write the retainer for five thousand,” he said, “because I suspect you'll needmore than a few days to find the fellow I'm looking for. In fact, if you can manage to get the job done in one week's time, I'll give you a ten-thousand-dollar bonus on top of your fee.”
    Simon heard Frankie's voice shake only a tiny bit. In fact, Quinn probably didn't even notice. “And if I get the job done in less than a week?”
    Quinn laughed. “We'll work something out.”
    Frankie nodded. “Who exactly are you looking for, Mr. Quinn?”
    “Clay,” Quinn corrected her with a smile as he tore the check from his leather checkbook and placed it on the desk in front of her. “Please, call me Clay. I'm looking for a man named John.”
    Frankie slipped the check into the top drawer of her desk, not even glancing in Simon's direction. He knew that ten thousand dollars was more than half of her last year's earnings. How had she sat there with a straight face discussing ten-thousand-dollar bonuses?
    Yet Clay seemed to believe that she was worth it. The real test was to come—when she actually had to solve the case. In less than a week's time.
    Simon watched as she made a note on her pad.
    John. She looked up at Clay Quinn, her bottomless dark eyes wide. “John …. who?”
    Clay chuckled ruefully. “That's the problem. I don't know the man's last name.”
    Frankie sat back in her chair. “Maybe you'd better explain.”
    “I'm the executor of my great-aunt's will. She owned a vacation home here on Sunrise Key.”
    Frankie shot Simon a quick look, and he knew what she was thinking. They both knew everyone who owned property on the tiny island, and all of the homeowners were alive and healthy. Except for one ….
    “Is your great-aunt Alice Winfield?” Frankie asked, sitting forward.
    “Yes, that's right.”
    “But she died more than eight years ago. We'd assumed her property here on the key had simply changed hands—”
    “Eight years ago she had a massive stroke,” Clay told Frankie. “She never fully recovered, and last month she finally died.”
    “She was alive until last month?” Frankie stared at Clay Quinn as if he were evil incarnate instead of the man who'd just handed her afive-thousand-dollar retainer. “Why was no one on Sunrise Key notified? Alice Winfield had friends here, Mr. Quinn—friends who would have written to her at the very