Read Online Fiancé at Her Fingertips by Kathleen Bacus - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kathleen Bacus
Ads: Link
interesting than a small package of facial tissues, a half-empty container of wintergreen breath fresheners, and a set of keys on an Alexander Chevrolet key ring. She picked the keys up. Office keys, she decided. Or maybe apartment keys. Her eyes narrowed.
Taking no time to consider the wisdom of or reason for her actions, Debra stuffed the set of keys in her shorts pocket. She slid toward the center of the bench seat and hit her knee on a cell phone bracket, then stared at the charging cell phone. She picked it up. Most models had a feature that allowed you to save certain frequently used numbers in the memory. And most attorneys Debra knew would never permit their high-powered, high-paid fingers to do the walking. She hit the power button, then memory number one. She got the recording for the law offices of Brown, Craig, Alexander, and Hughes, Attorneys-at-Law, with the regularbusiness hours quoted. She hit memory number two. A long-distance call beeped in, and she heard the phone ringing.
“Good afternoon. Alexander Chevrolet. How may I direct your call?” Debra hit the end button.
She tried the next one, another long-distance number. “Hello,” a woman’s voice answered. “Hello?” Debra punched the end button again.
Memory number four was the clerk of court. Memory number five was the county attorney’s office. She hit memory number six.
“This is the office of the Crime Victims Assistance Bureau,” Tanya’s voice played in her ear. “Our regular office hours are eight a.m. to four thirty p.m., Monday through Friday. If you wish to receive a call back before Monday morning, please leave a message, and our on-call staff person will contact you as soon as possible. Thank you for contacting the Crime Victims Assistance Bureau.”
Debra stared at the phone. Confusion and fear vied for top billing in her befuddled brain. Why in God’s name did this…this…cock-and-bull counselor have her office number in his speed dial? She’d never spoken to him before his astonishing appearance at her folks’, unless, of course, you counted those times she’d talked to his photo in jest. She pushed the end button, took a deep breath, pressed memory number seven, and waited.
“Hello. You’ve reached 591-7579. We’re unable to come to the phone at the present time, but if you leave a name, number, and short message, we’ll get back to you.”
Debra listened to her own, very boring, deliberately ambiguous answering machine recording specifically composed to promote anonymity in a world full of kooks and wackos. Ha! Or so she’d thought. Debra’s stomach knotted and her bowels clenched at the idea that a probable nutcase had her home phone number stored in his perverted little memory.
She tossed the phone back in the holder. Uh- uh. No way . She wasn’t pushing memory number eight on her life. Forall she knew, he had her butcher, baker, and candlestick maker saved in his contacts, as well.
She glanced into the rearview mirror and spotted a gym bag on the middle seat. Scrambling over into the backseat, Debra pounced on the bag. She pulled out a racquetball racket, dirty gray socks, gray shorts, and a navy Nike T-shirt, gym shoes, and, of course, boxers as opposed to briefs. In the inner side pocket of the gym bag was a small black book.
Debra opened it and smiled. A datebook! She looked at the name in the front. Logan T. Alexander. She leafed through the calendar. There were numerous handwritten notations in dark, bold script chronicling court dates, scheduled depositions, lunch dates and client meetings, all in keeping with an attorney’s busy schedule. He was an attorney!
She scanned the calendar, shocked to see meetings with prominent businessmen and heavyweight political figures documented. She continued flipping until she came to May and stopped. She stared at the page.
May 23, she read. Debra Daniels, Crime Victims Assistance, 545-8888. Seven p.m., Mike’s Bikes .
Despite the heat of the car’s
Taking no time to consider the wisdom of or reason for her actions, Debra stuffed the set of keys in her shorts pocket. She slid toward the center of the bench seat and hit her knee on a cell phone bracket, then stared at the charging cell phone. She picked it up. Most models had a feature that allowed you to save certain frequently used numbers in the memory. And most attorneys Debra knew would never permit their high-powered, high-paid fingers to do the walking. She hit the power button, then memory number one. She got the recording for the law offices of Brown, Craig, Alexander, and Hughes, Attorneys-at-Law, with the regularbusiness hours quoted. She hit memory number two. A long-distance call beeped in, and she heard the phone ringing.
“Good afternoon. Alexander Chevrolet. How may I direct your call?” Debra hit the end button.
She tried the next one, another long-distance number. “Hello,” a woman’s voice answered. “Hello?” Debra punched the end button again.
Memory number four was the clerk of court. Memory number five was the county attorney’s office. She hit memory number six.
“This is the office of the Crime Victims Assistance Bureau,” Tanya’s voice played in her ear. “Our regular office hours are eight a.m. to four thirty p.m., Monday through Friday. If you wish to receive a call back before Monday morning, please leave a message, and our on-call staff person will contact you as soon as possible. Thank you for contacting the Crime Victims Assistance Bureau.”
Debra stared at the phone. Confusion and fear vied for top billing in her befuddled brain. Why in God’s name did this…this…cock-and-bull counselor have her office number in his speed dial? She’d never spoken to him before his astonishing appearance at her folks’, unless, of course, you counted those times she’d talked to his photo in jest. She pushed the end button, took a deep breath, pressed memory number seven, and waited.
“Hello. You’ve reached 591-7579. We’re unable to come to the phone at the present time, but if you leave a name, number, and short message, we’ll get back to you.”
Debra listened to her own, very boring, deliberately ambiguous answering machine recording specifically composed to promote anonymity in a world full of kooks and wackos. Ha! Or so she’d thought. Debra’s stomach knotted and her bowels clenched at the idea that a probable nutcase had her home phone number stored in his perverted little memory.
She tossed the phone back in the holder. Uh- uh. No way . She wasn’t pushing memory number eight on her life. Forall she knew, he had her butcher, baker, and candlestick maker saved in his contacts, as well.
She glanced into the rearview mirror and spotted a gym bag on the middle seat. Scrambling over into the backseat, Debra pounced on the bag. She pulled out a racquetball racket, dirty gray socks, gray shorts, and a navy Nike T-shirt, gym shoes, and, of course, boxers as opposed to briefs. In the inner side pocket of the gym bag was a small black book.
Debra opened it and smiled. A datebook! She looked at the name in the front. Logan T. Alexander. She leafed through the calendar. There were numerous handwritten notations in dark, bold script chronicling court dates, scheduled depositions, lunch dates and client meetings, all in keeping with an attorney’s busy schedule. He was an attorney!
She scanned the calendar, shocked to see meetings with prominent businessmen and heavyweight political figures documented. She continued flipping until she came to May and stopped. She stared at the page.
May 23, she read. Debra Daniels, Crime Victims Assistance, 545-8888. Seven p.m., Mike’s Bikes .
Despite the heat of the car’s
Similar Books
