Chapter One
“Margaret Blackwell,” I murmured as I led the impeccably
clad young woman into the bright morning light of the glass ceilinged solarium.
A small gasp escaped her lips as the tall, powerfully built man stood from the
table where we’d been sharing a leisurely breakfast minutes before. He unfolded
himself into his full height, and she sighed. I understood her sentiment
completely.
Unlike my own average mug, Archer was classically handsome
in a way that would interest professional photographers. He always had been.
Chiseled cheekbones, straight nose, dimpled chin hinting at a Celt background. The
faint lines that now bracketed his mouth and fanned away from his eyes only
served to make his face more interesting. From a distance, the monochromatic
gray suit and shirt might have hinted at professionally boring, but up close, Archer’s
tie was a vibrant swirl of blues and greens that matched the changeable color
of his eyes. An enigmatic smile curved his sculpted lips, a visible reminder
that this man was much more than he might seem.
“Miss Blackwell, may I present Archer Wilde.”
They met in the middle of the solarium, and Archer politely
shook the limply proffered hand.
“Please, have a seat. Can Zachary bring you anything?
Coffee? Hot tea?”
“No, thank you.” Margaret sat at the edge of the chair, her back
ramrod straight and ankles demurely crossed. My, my. Someone attended
cotillion as a teen.
“Zachary? Won’t you sit and join us?” Archer’s eyes sparkled
with mischief and I couldn’t resist smiling back.
“No, thank you Archer, I think I’ll stand this morning.” We
shared a look, then he turned his attention to his guest.
“How may I help you, Miss Blackwell?”
“I want you to find my husband, Mr. Wilde.”
“I see. I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding. I… we …”—he
inclined his head to include me—“don’t take on missing persons cases. Those are
best handled by the proper authorities.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Nona Wilkerson says you are exactly
what I need.”
“Ahh…the delightful Miss Wilkerson. You intrigue me. Is your
husband in some sort of trouble?”
“My husband is dead, Mr. Wilde.”
Huh. That was a new one.
“I’m sorry for your loss, however, I still don’t see…” Archer
trailed off and waited. The bastard was damn good at waiting.
“This is rather embarrassing.” She stopped, her gaze flicked
to me, then back to Archer again. Apparently, she had a conversational dance
card that didn’t include me. When Archer refused to follow her lead and take
the next step, she sighed for a second time and finally began her story.
“My husband is…was…Franklin Hartfield. I returned to my
maiden name shortly after Franklin’s death.”
“Ahh…yes.” Archer’s tone was soft, encouraging, and I knew she’d
just become our next case…even if she hadn’t realized it yet.
“I believe you knew him? I mean, I know you— He once— Not
that we were—”
“Yes, we were acquainted.” Acquainted. That was one
way to put it.
“I don’t know if you remember the story, but Franklin was
killed in a boating accident last year off the coast of a small island in the
Grenadines.”
“And if I recall correctly, you collected a sizeable insurance
payment upon his demise?”
“Fifteen million, yes. Look, I’m not comfortable continuing
until I have some sort of assurance this won’t go any further. And perhaps we
could discuss my particulars in private?” Once again her gaze cut briefly in my
direction.
Ouch. Not.
“Mrs. Hartfield,” Archer intoned, using her married name
like a slap. “Please remember that you came to us. I have given you the
courtesy of an interview, however, my available time and patience are nearly at
an end.” Archer paused and took a sip of his coffee and studied our visitor
over the rim of his cup.
Margaret practically vibrated with the need to speak, but
her genteel southern manners
“Margaret Blackwell,” I murmured as I led the impeccably
clad young woman into the bright morning light of the glass ceilinged solarium.
A small gasp escaped her lips as the tall, powerfully built man stood from the
table where we’d been sharing a leisurely breakfast minutes before. He unfolded
himself into his full height, and she sighed. I understood her sentiment
completely.
Unlike my own average mug, Archer was classically handsome
in a way that would interest professional photographers. He always had been.
Chiseled cheekbones, straight nose, dimpled chin hinting at a Celt background. The
faint lines that now bracketed his mouth and fanned away from his eyes only
served to make his face more interesting. From a distance, the monochromatic
gray suit and shirt might have hinted at professionally boring, but up close, Archer’s
tie was a vibrant swirl of blues and greens that matched the changeable color
of his eyes. An enigmatic smile curved his sculpted lips, a visible reminder
that this man was much more than he might seem.
“Miss Blackwell, may I present Archer Wilde.”
They met in the middle of the solarium, and Archer politely
shook the limply proffered hand.
“Please, have a seat. Can Zachary bring you anything?
Coffee? Hot tea?”
“No, thank you.” Margaret sat at the edge of the chair, her back
ramrod straight and ankles demurely crossed. My, my. Someone attended
cotillion as a teen.
“Zachary? Won’t you sit and join us?” Archer’s eyes sparkled
with mischief and I couldn’t resist smiling back.
“No, thank you Archer, I think I’ll stand this morning.” We
shared a look, then he turned his attention to his guest.
“How may I help you, Miss Blackwell?”
“I want you to find my husband, Mr. Wilde.”
“I see. I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding. I… we …”—he
inclined his head to include me—“don’t take on missing persons cases. Those are
best handled by the proper authorities.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Nona Wilkerson says you are exactly
what I need.”
“Ahh…the delightful Miss Wilkerson. You intrigue me. Is your
husband in some sort of trouble?”
“My husband is dead, Mr. Wilde.”
Huh. That was a new one.
“I’m sorry for your loss, however, I still don’t see…” Archer
trailed off and waited. The bastard was damn good at waiting.
“This is rather embarrassing.” She stopped, her gaze flicked
to me, then back to Archer again. Apparently, she had a conversational dance
card that didn’t include me. When Archer refused to follow her lead and take
the next step, she sighed for a second time and finally began her story.
“My husband is…was…Franklin Hartfield. I returned to my
maiden name shortly after Franklin’s death.”
“Ahh…yes.” Archer’s tone was soft, encouraging, and I knew she’d
just become our next case…even if she hadn’t realized it yet.
“I believe you knew him? I mean, I know you— He once— Not
that we were—”
“Yes, we were acquainted.” Acquainted. That was one
way to put it.
“I don’t know if you remember the story, but Franklin was
killed in a boating accident last year off the coast of a small island in the
Grenadines.”
“And if I recall correctly, you collected a sizeable insurance
payment upon his demise?”
“Fifteen million, yes. Look, I’m not comfortable continuing
until I have some sort of assurance this won’t go any further. And perhaps we
could discuss my particulars in private?” Once again her gaze cut briefly in my
direction.
Ouch. Not.
“Mrs. Hartfield,” Archer intoned, using her married name
like a slap. “Please remember that you came to us. I have given you the
courtesy of an interview, however, my available time and patience are nearly at
an end.” Archer paused and took a sip of his coffee and studied our visitor
over the rim of his cup.
Margaret practically vibrated with the need to speak, but
her genteel southern manners
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