the spa carried, then welcomed a second new client who had flown in that morning on her private Lear jet for a week-long herbal detoxifying program. Joan had sandwiched in a goodbye kiss for Helena who had dashed into the spa before leaving to catch her ride to school.
Now, three hours into her workday, Joan paused in Body Perfect’s opulent reception area, telling herself it was time to turn her attention to the paperwork in her office. A dozen pieces of correspondence sat on her desk awaiting her attention, as did several phone messages.
Still, she hesitated. She knew if she closed herself in her office that her mind would roam to Hart.
“Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Cooper?”
Joan turned toward the receptionist’s sleek console, with its top-grade computer and phone system. Sonji Dunaway, blond and buxom, gave Joan an expectant look while soft, soothing music played around them, harmonizing with a small splashing fountain.
Joan shifted her gaze to the small gold clock on the console beside a crystal vase of yellow roses, their light scent perfuming the air. “I was wondering if Mrs. Zink had arrived yet for her shiatsu massage.”
Sonji nodded. “She got here about ten minutes ago. I settled her into the therapy room with a cup of ginger-honey tea, then let Mariko know her client was waiting.”
“Good. Let me know when Mrs. Zink’s session is over. I have the information about the exercise regimen she asked me to put together.”
The receptionist sent Joan the bright smile that had endeared her to the staff and clients. “Will do, Ms. Cooper. Anything else?”
“No.” Joan gave the capable young woman an appreciative smile. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office dealing with paperwork before my meeting with Miss Delarue.”
Joan’s heels sank into the thick carpet as she headed down the central corridor with spacious offices and therapy rooms opening to either side. Her own office was roomy and elegant, decorated in the same soothing pale-pink and cream tones as the reception area. Sonji had left a thermal carafe of tea on the mahogany desk that sat in the center of an Oriental rug. To one side of the carafe was a stack of the spa’s signature-pink file folders. Documents awaiting Joan’s attention were set squarely in front of her chair, arranged in order of priority.
Joan had just pulled off the jacket of her turquoise suit and settled behind her desk when the intercom line rang. “Yes, Sonji?”
“Miss Delarue is here.”
Joan let out a breath. She and Maddie Delarue had scheduled the meeting to discuss the upcoming Pasta by the Pool dance. Yet, the Lone Star’s event coordinator was also Joan’s best friend and she knew the conversation she had put off having with Maddie would wind up squarely on Hart. “Send her in.”
“Tell me there’s more than one man in the world named Hart O’Brien,” Maddie stated when she swept through the office door. “Tell me that the Chicago bomb tech who arrived here yesterday isn’t the Hart O’Brien.”
Joan pursed her mouth. She had hoped they could get their business out of the way first. “I take it you don’t want to start out talking about Pasta by the Pool?”
“Hardly.”
Joan leaned back in her chair. “I didn’t think you would have heard yet about Hart being here.”
“So, it is him? Him?”
“Yes, it’s him.”
“I was afraid of that.” A few years Joan’s senior—red-haired where Joan was dark; petite where Joan was willowy—Maddie dropped into one of the visitor chairs in front of Joan’s desk. Dressed in a silk designer trouser suit in soft olive gray that complemented her voluptuous figure, Maddie looked her usual blue-blooded gorgeous. “I had breakfast this morning with Bonnie to get the ball rolling on the mystery night gala that the club’s sponsoring at the end of the summer. When she mentioned the bomb tech’s name I just about choked on my omelette. Why didn’t you call and tell me that the Hart O’Brien had shown up?”
“I planned to.” Maddie’s and Joan’s families had been lifelong members of the Lone Star and a close friendship had developed between the girls early on. Now with Joan’s mother dead and her father’s memory destroyed by Alzheimer’s, Maddie was the only other person who knew that Hart was Helena’s father.
“Maddie, I had no idea Hart was the bomb tech Bonnie told us about in the staff meeting until I ran into him in the lobby yesterday afternoon. When I saw him I felt like I’d fallen into a black hole. Maybe I thought if I didn’t call and tell you about seeing him that I would wake up this morning and discover it had all been a bad dream.”
“I guess that didn’t happen.”
“No. I ran into Hart again this morning, and he’s real. Very real.” She gnawed her lip, thinking about how as they’d stood inches apart in the elevator’s intimate confines her heart had pounded hard enough to rock her body. She had always responded that way toward him—and she knew from her reaction this morning that the chemistry hadn’t changed as far as she was concerned. It didn’t matter how much time had passed or what else had gone on between them, she would always feel that thrumming, physical connection to Hart O’Brien.
Damn him.
Maddie ran a manicured hand up and down the thick gold links she wore around her neck. “If Bonnie’s description is accurate, the bomb tech is a real feast for the eyes.”
Joan pictured Hart as he’d looked a few hours ago, his mouth firm and unsmiling, his narrow, rawboned face made even more carelessly handsome by the dark stubble that shaded his jaw. And those inscrutable green eyes behind long, amber lashes. Just as they had ten years ago, his dark, go-to-hell looks had pulled at something deep inside her.
Feeling her throat go dry, Joan reached for the thermal carafe and poured two cups of steaming tea.
“For the record, Bonnie’s description hits the target. But Hart’s looks are the last thing on my mind.” Joan handed Maddie a tea cup. “Hart said he met with Spence last night, and for some reason, my name came up. Spence told Hart that I’m a widow and I live at the Lone Star with my daughter.” Joan clenched her fingers, flexed them. “I know it’s just a fluke, but Bonnie put him in the executive suite three doors away from ours. Maddie, you know how Helena has the run of the Lone Star. With Hart staying here, in a room so close to ours, he’s bound to at least catch a glimpse of her.”
Maddie’s perfectly plucked eyebrows slid together in thought. “His seeing her doesn’t mean a thing. Unless…”
Sipping her tea, Joan met her friend’s gaze over the rim of her cup. “Unless what?”
“I was at my cousin’s in California the entire time Hart worked here, so I’ve never seen so much as a glimpse of him. Does Helena resemble him? Can you look at the two of them and tell they’re father and daughter?”
“No, thank goodness. Hart’s hair is lighter than Helena’s and has a lot of auburn in it. Her eyes are brown, his are green.” And this morning, those eyes had looked as dangerous as his job, Joan thought. “Helena has my build, too,” she added. “Last night she and I went through some old photo albums for one of her Brownie projects. She looks exactly like I did when I was nine.”
“That’s something to be grateful for.”
“About the only thing. Maddie, Hart is a police officer. He asks questions for a living. Conducts investigations.” Joan sat her cup aside and rubbed at the headache building in her right temple. “He’s already had an occasion to tell me that lying to a cop generally doesn’t get you anywhere but into trouble. When he said that, I felt a premonition, like footsteps of the devil crawling up my spine.”
Maddie gave her a wary look. “Why the heck did the subject of lying come up?”
“Because I told him I didn’t mind sharing an elevator with him. He took exception to that. He was