Connecting Rooms(2)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

Amy braced one hand against the garden’s stone wall and drummed her fingers with simmering impatience. Unaware or uncaring of her irritation, Owen Sweet went about his work among the grotesquely tangled rosebushes that clogged the garden.

The roses had been abandoned along with the crumbling ruin of a house years ago. Instead of dying off in a bittersweet, genteel manner, they had gone wild, with a vengeance. They climbed the garden walls as though bent on escaping a prison. They formed impenetrable thickets across the cracked paths, choked the empty fishpond, and had apparently been intent on marching up the steps and into the sun porch. Owen Sweet had arrived in the nick of time.

“Can I take it from your attitude that you are not interested in working for me?” Amy asked bluntly.

“Yeah.” Sleek muscles moved easily beneath Owen’s black T-shirt as he shifted an armload of defeated vines to a growing pile in the center of the garden. “You can draw that conclusion.”

“Very well, then, you leave me no choice.” Amy removed her hand from the stone wall and straightened in resignation. “I shall have to find someone else.”

Owen’s mouth curved slightly. “Good luck. The last time I looked in the phone book, I was the only PI on the island.”

Amy brushed her hands together and started toward the sagging gate. “I had hoped to give my business to someone local because I believe in supporting the local economy. But since you’re not interested, I’m sure I can find someone in Seattle who will be happy to take my money.”

“Seattle?”

Amy was aware that Owen had gone very still behind her. She did not turn around. “If I hurry, I can catch the afternoon ferry.”

“Damn. Hold on just a minute.”

Satisfaction surged through Amy. She had been in real estate long enough to sense when a buyer had undergone a quick change of heart. She paused at the gate to smile at Owen with polite inquiry.

“Was there something you wanted, Owen?”

He scowled ferociously, an expression that did nothing to soften his harsh face. “Yeah. Some answers.”

“Sorry, I don’t have time to chat. The ferry leaves in a couple of hours and I haven’t finished packing.”

“Let’s get real here.” Owen stripped off his gloves as he strode toward her along the garden walk. “What does a woman like you need with a private investigator?”

“ ‘A woman like me’?”

“No offense, Amy, but you’re hardly the type to have the sort of problems that require the services of someone in my line of work.”

“What would you know about my problems?”

Owen came to a halt in front of her and planted his fists on his hips. “You’re not exactly a mystery woman. You’ve been living on Misplaced Island for nearly a year. During that time you’ve opened a real estate agency and published a romance novel. Before you came here, you worked the condominium market in Seattle. You aren’t exactly rich, but you did all right in your own real estate investments.”

Amy was taken aback. “Good grief. How did you—”

“Everyone on the island seems very fond of you,” Owen continued ruthlessly. “I seriously doubt that you have any enemies around these parts. You are thirty years old and have never been married. You do not flirt with married men, so the local women have no reason to dislike you. You are not dating anyone at present, so you have no reason to employ an investigator to tail an errant boyfriend.”

Amy gazed at him with mingled anger and amazement. “Are you quite finished?”

“No, not quite. You appear to live like a cloistered nun, Ms. Comfort. Therefore, I find it difficult to believe that you have got yourself into a situation that requires an investigator.”

“You seem to have done a fairly thorough job investigating me. May I ask why?”

Owen wiped his sweat-dampened forehead with the back of one muscular bare arm. “That should be sort of obvious.”

“Well, it’s not obvious to me.”

He gripped the top of the drooping gate and contemplated her with narrowed eyes. “No, I can see that.”

“I don’t know what this is all about, nor do I have the time to find out. If you’re not going to accept my case, I’ve got to find someone else. Please excuse me.”

Amy tried to open the gate. Owen took no notice of her effort. Instead, he leaned heavily back against it and folded his arms across his chest. He looked annoyed but resigned.

“Okay, tell me about it,” he said.

“Tell you about what?”

“This problem of yours. The one that requires an investigator.”

Amy fixed him with a frosty glare. “It’s a confidential matter. I see no reason to discuss it with someone who is not going to be working for me.”

“Hell, I’ll take the case. Now tell me what’s got you in such an uproar.”

“I don’t think that I care for your unprofessional manner.”

“Sorry, it’s the only manner I’ve got.” He considered her thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then he came away from the gate and took her arm. “Come on, let’s go inside. I’ll make you a cup of coffee and you can tell me all your problems.”

“I’m no longer sure that I want you handling my case.”

“Don’t be silly. A few minutes ago you were practically begging me to take your precious case.”

“I was not begging you. And furthermore, I’ve changed my mind.”

“So have I.”

Amy thought about digging in her heels, but her options were extremely limited. It would take time to hunt up an investigator in Seattle. And money. She did not possess unlimited quantities of either. She allowed Owen to lead her up the steps.

The interior of the house was as run-down and abandoned-looking as the garden, but at least nothing appeared to be actually growing on the walls or springing up through the floorboards.

Threadbare velvet curtains that had faded to a peculiar shade of maroon flanked the grimy windows. An atmosphere of gloom and decay hovered over the front parlor. Several pieces of heavy, claw-footed furniture clustered near the black-marble fireplace. There was very little paint left on the walls and the wooden floors were raw and scarred.

A pang of guilt went through Amy, temporarily erasing her irritation. “I did try to warn you that this was a fixer-upper.”

“A fixer-upper?” Owen gave her a derisive look. “It’s a life sentence. Wiring’s shot. Plumbing’s rusted out. Roof needs repair. I’ll have to replace the furnace before winter sets in, along with all the appliances.”