Read Online Absolutely, Positively by Heather Webber - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Webber
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coffee and something baking lingered in the air. She tipped her head, and some of the cheer left her eyes. “Who be asking?”
Sean stuck out his hand. “I’m Sean Donahue. And this is Lucy Valentine.”
“Donahue, eh? A good Irish lad you be?”
“Depends who you ask.”
She chuckled and turned her blue eyes my way. “Valentine? Certainly not Irish.”
I loved the roll of her Rs . “I’m not certain what it is.”
She tsked as though this were a grave sin and addressed Sean. “What brings you here?”
“We’re looking for Tristan Rourke,” Sean said, handing her a business card. The Lost Love logo took up half the card: two hearts, one fading into the background. “Sean Donahue, Private Investigator” was on the other half, along with his contact information.
“You’re a detective?” she asked.
“A private investigator,” I answered. “We’ve been hired to find Tristan.”
She stared at the card for a long second before looking up at us. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen Tristan in years. He doesn’t keep in touch.”
Irish bluster if I ever heard it. Her Irish eyes were lying.
“Are you certain?” Sean asked.
“Quite, young man. I haven’t gone dotty in my old age.”
She was hardly old. Early sixties if a day.
“I’m afraid the two of you are wasting your time. Tristan is long gone from these parts. I don’t get so much as a phone call from the lad. ‘Tis very sad.”
“Yes,” I said dryly. “ ’Tis.”
The twinkle was back in her eye as she looked at me. “Valentine, you say?”
I nodded.
“There may be a bit of Irish in you after all. The pair of you have a good day now.”
She winked as she closed the door.
Sean looked at me. “That went better than I thought.”
I started down the steps. “That’s only because she liked you, the good Irish lad that you are,” I said, testing a brogue.
He laughed. “Jealous?”
“Terribly.”
Sean whispered, “We have company.”
Two men leaned against Sean’s Mustang. Thoreau had his little black nose pressed to the window as if he could sniff through the glass. He hadn’t barked at all. A watchdog he wasn’t.
The men were dressed in dark suits and dark trenches and wore dark sunglasses. They flipped open thin black wallets, revealing golden shields inside. “FBI,” the man on the left said. He was cute in a nerdy, grumpy kind of way. The kind of guy a woman loved to fall for in hopes she could change him into something wonderful. The kind of guy who would never change. The ultimate Mr. Wrong. “I’m Special Agent Thomas.”
“Agent St. John,” the other added. He was bald and a head shorter than his partner.
“It’s Donahue, right?” Agent Thomas asked, then nodded to me and added, “And you’re Lucy Valentine? What’s your business with Maureen Rourke?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised the agents knew who we were. If they’d been watching Maureen Rourke’s house when we pulled up, they could have easily called in Sean’s license plate. It wouldn’t have taken much more investigation to tie my name with Sean’s.
But … I glanced at Maureen’s house. There was also a very real possibility the house had been bugged, that they’d heard our whole conversation with Tristan’s grandmother.
Sean said, “We’re looking for Tristan Rourke.”
This news hadn’t surprised them. The house was definitely bugged. This pretty much sealed the deal that Tristan was living a life of crime. Law-abiding citizens didn’t often have the FBI looking for them.
“And having no luck finding him,” I added, passing them a business card. “We were hired to reunite him with a lost love.”
“Lost loves?” St. John smiled. Spirals of steam rose off his bald head. His skin was so tight against his bumpy skull it looked more like a topographical map.
I kept that observation to myself as I struggled not to be offended. “We all have our callings.”
Agent Thomas pinned me with a warning glare. “I
Sean stuck out his hand. “I’m Sean Donahue. And this is Lucy Valentine.”
“Donahue, eh? A good Irish lad you be?”
“Depends who you ask.”
She chuckled and turned her blue eyes my way. “Valentine? Certainly not Irish.”
I loved the roll of her Rs . “I’m not certain what it is.”
She tsked as though this were a grave sin and addressed Sean. “What brings you here?”
“We’re looking for Tristan Rourke,” Sean said, handing her a business card. The Lost Love logo took up half the card: two hearts, one fading into the background. “Sean Donahue, Private Investigator” was on the other half, along with his contact information.
“You’re a detective?” she asked.
“A private investigator,” I answered. “We’ve been hired to find Tristan.”
She stared at the card for a long second before looking up at us. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen Tristan in years. He doesn’t keep in touch.”
Irish bluster if I ever heard it. Her Irish eyes were lying.
“Are you certain?” Sean asked.
“Quite, young man. I haven’t gone dotty in my old age.”
She was hardly old. Early sixties if a day.
“I’m afraid the two of you are wasting your time. Tristan is long gone from these parts. I don’t get so much as a phone call from the lad. ‘Tis very sad.”
“Yes,” I said dryly. “ ’Tis.”
The twinkle was back in her eye as she looked at me. “Valentine, you say?”
I nodded.
“There may be a bit of Irish in you after all. The pair of you have a good day now.”
She winked as she closed the door.
Sean looked at me. “That went better than I thought.”
I started down the steps. “That’s only because she liked you, the good Irish lad that you are,” I said, testing a brogue.
He laughed. “Jealous?”
“Terribly.”
Sean whispered, “We have company.”
Two men leaned against Sean’s Mustang. Thoreau had his little black nose pressed to the window as if he could sniff through the glass. He hadn’t barked at all. A watchdog he wasn’t.
The men were dressed in dark suits and dark trenches and wore dark sunglasses. They flipped open thin black wallets, revealing golden shields inside. “FBI,” the man on the left said. He was cute in a nerdy, grumpy kind of way. The kind of guy a woman loved to fall for in hopes she could change him into something wonderful. The kind of guy who would never change. The ultimate Mr. Wrong. “I’m Special Agent Thomas.”
“Agent St. John,” the other added. He was bald and a head shorter than his partner.
“It’s Donahue, right?” Agent Thomas asked, then nodded to me and added, “And you’re Lucy Valentine? What’s your business with Maureen Rourke?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised the agents knew who we were. If they’d been watching Maureen Rourke’s house when we pulled up, they could have easily called in Sean’s license plate. It wouldn’t have taken much more investigation to tie my name with Sean’s.
But … I glanced at Maureen’s house. There was also a very real possibility the house had been bugged, that they’d heard our whole conversation with Tristan’s grandmother.
Sean said, “We’re looking for Tristan Rourke.”
This news hadn’t surprised them. The house was definitely bugged. This pretty much sealed the deal that Tristan was living a life of crime. Law-abiding citizens didn’t often have the FBI looking for them.
“And having no luck finding him,” I added, passing them a business card. “We were hired to reunite him with a lost love.”
“Lost loves?” St. John smiled. Spirals of steam rose off his bald head. His skin was so tight against his bumpy skull it looked more like a topographical map.
I kept that observation to myself as I struggled not to be offended. “We all have our callings.”
Agent Thomas pinned me with a warning glare. “I