Connecting Rooms(7)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

Amy was mortified. “It’s worse than I thought. You weren’t even feeling particularly friendly, were you? That was just my imagination.”

“Amy, I think we have a small problem here,” he began in an ominous tone.

“Please, it’s all right. I understand exactly what’s happening.”

“I’m glad one of us does.”

“Well, they do say that women are more inclined to analyze situations.”

“Hell.”

“I’ve read about this sort of thing,” she said defensively. “But I should have thought that since you’re the expert in these matters, you’d have been alert for just this type of unprofessional occurrence.”

“Unprofessional?”

She was suddenly outraged by his obstinacy. “Don’t look at me as if you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m sure that as a private investigator, you’ve faced this sort of situation hundreds of times.”

Owen reached out to clamp a hand around her wrist. “For the benefit of this nonanalytical, slow-witted investigator, would you kindly explain what the hell you’re talking about?”

Amy flushed. “You know what I mean. A situation like this, where two people are thrown together in close confines. A situation in which they face a threat of danger. Why, it’s bound to generate a heightened sense of intimacy. Intimacy often breeds passion. Especially when the two people involved are single and of the opposite sex.”

“Hold it.” Owen put his fingers against her lips to silence her. “Stop right there. Let’s take this from the top. First, I have been an investigator for over ten years, and I can assure you that I have never, ever made love to a client. Until now, that is.”

Amy stared at him. “I see.”

“Furthermore, although I will admit that the situation in which we find ourselves has a built-in degree of intimacy, thanks to the cover story you invented for us, I see absolutely no danger here. Therefore, I think we can discount its impact on our sex lives.”

Amy frowned. “I’m not so sure about that. We really don’t know what we’re facing yet. There could definitely be some risk involved.”

“No,” Owen said authoritatively. “There is no threat involved in this damn-fool situation. A certain amount of idiocy on the part of the PI, perhaps. An amazing imagination on the part of the client, definitely. But no threat. Unless you count the threat to my sanity.”

“Owen, we don’t know that for certain.” Amy got up quickly and tied the sash of her robe. “You haven’t even begun to investigate Arthur Crabshaw. The possibility of danger must be present somewhere in the back of your mind. You’re a trained investigator, after all.”

Owen flopped back against the pillows and threw one arm over his eyes. “You’d never know it.”

Amy bit her lip. “Please, I didn’t mean to upset you like this. I should never have knocked on your door tonight. If I’d had any sense, I would have recognized the volatile nature of the situation and waited until morning to discuss the case.”

“Yeah, right.”

Amy edged back toward the connecting door. “I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s the adrenaline and hormones and things like that at work. Not genuine emotion.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you’re right about my imagination,” she added sadly.

He removed his arm from his eyes and stared at her with sudden intensity. “What?”

“I do have an overactive imagination. I suppose it’s an occupational hazard for a writer.”

Owen sat up slowly. “So you admit there’s no real danger involved in this loony case?”

She shook her head decisively. “No, I still think we mustn’t discount the very real possibility that Arthur Crabshaw is not what he seems. Did you see the way he reacted to Madeline Villantry tonight?”

Owen hesitated. “Okay, I’ll admit that there may be some kind of connection between them.”

Amy brightened. “I got the exact same impression. This is amazing, Owen. We’re on the same wavelength here.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.” Owen sat up on the edge of the bed. A thoughtful expression began to replace the combination of irritation and passion that had burned in his gaze a moment earlier. “Don’t get carried away with your brilliant deduction, Amy. It makes sense that Madeline and Arthur knew each other at some point in the past. It’s a small town, after all, and Crabshaw told us that he worked for Villantry before he went off to Arizona to make his fortune.”

“The thing is, Madeline Villantry and Arthur Crabshaw would have been worlds apart socially in those days. After all, she was married to the town’s leading citizen. Arthur worked for her husband. But tonight I got the feeling that there was something more intimate between them.”

“Maybe there was.” Owen stood and began to pace the room. “But whatever happened occurred over thirty years ago. It doesn’t mean anything now.”

“Then why did Crabshaw get that funny look in his eyes when Madeline stopped by our table tonight?”

Owen came to a halt and swung around to face her. “I don’t know.”

Amy was momentarily sidetracked by the sight of him. His dark hair was tousled. His denim shirt had come free of his jeans. All in all, there was a tantalizing, seductive look about him that made her pulse begin to pound once more.

“Something wrong?” Owen asked.

“Uh, no. I was just trying to think this thing through.”

“If you can think clearly at the moment, you’re way ahead of me.” Owen ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, it’s late. Go to bed. In the morning I’ll call some people I know. Have them check into Crabshaw’s Arizona background. I can at least make sure that he doesn’t have a criminal record and that he’s financially solvent.”

“That sounds like a good start.”

“Thanks. I do try to give satisfaction.”

Aware that he was in a strange mood, Amy backed meekly toward the door. She was almost through it when Owen stopped her with another question.

“Amy, what did you mean a few minutes ago when you said you had an overactive imagination?”

She paused in the doorway, clutched the lapels of her robe very tightly, and gave him her best real estate saleswoman smile. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”