A Panicked Premonition, Page 2

  “What does that mean?”

  “She’s heard of you and wants to meet you.”

  “Ah,” I said, but I could see that there was more to the story, and I could also see by the way that Candice was avoiding looking over at me that she was hoping very much that I didn’t ask about it. “What else aren’t you telling me?” (I like to ignore subtle and not-so-subtle social cues. It’s all part of my considerable charm.)

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I already don’t like it.”

  “You’re really not going to like it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Out with it, Cassidy,” I demanded, using my favorite nickname for her.

  Candice took a big breath. “Well,” she said, “it’s like this: Apparently, Murielle has a big crush on your husband and she wants to meet the competition.”

  “Wait . . . what, now?”

  Candice stopped at a red light and turned to look at me directly. “Murielle McKenna has been hitting on your husband for weeks, Abs.”

  I blinked and then I pointed right at her. “I knew it!”

  I’d told Dutch about a month before that some woman at work was going to develop a major crush on him. At the time, I’d thought it was probably going to be a witness on one of his FBI cases, and I’d warned him that she seemed very aggressive and there was a legal issue he’d need to step carefully around. It didn’t bother me too much when she’d cropped up in the ether, because my hubby is a serious hottie, and women flirt with him all the time. He always handles it with polite but firm disinterest. Plus, if he were ever going to cheat, I’d probably know about it before he would.

  “You knew Murielle was going to hit on your husband?” Candice repeated.

  “Well, not Murielle per se,” I admitted. “But I saw someone crop up in Dutch’s energy who was going to vie for his attention and present a difficult challenge to him.”

  “Ah,” Candice said. “I should’ve known you would’ve seen it coming. Still, I want to assure you that according to Brice, Dutch has been ignoring all of it, and he’s also been avoiding her at every turn, sending in Dave whenever she wants a meeting to discuss the panic room renovations, or Brice when she has an issue with one of her bodyguards. But she’s being persistent, and she keeps forking over more money while threatening to sue if Dutch and the boys decide to drop her as a client. So, until construction is finished on all three panic rooms, the guys feel like they’re trapped.”

  “Wait, how long have you been in on this?” I asked tersely. It irked me that Candice had been told about Murielle, but I hadn’t.

  Candice avoided looking at me again. “About a week.”

  I glared at her. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “I was hoping Dutch would tell you.”

  I turned to shake my head at the window. I knew exactly why he hadn’t mentioned it. I’m a tiiiiiiny bit hotheaded, and . . . rarely . . . sometimes . . . occasionally . . . I can be known to fly off the handle when situations that are upsetting to me present themselves. (I know, I know. . . . You’re reeling in shock right now.)

  “He should’ve told me,” I muttered.

  “I think he was trying to spare you—”

  “Oh, he wasn’t trying to spare me anything!” I snapped. “Please don’t go making excuses for him. He was trying to spare all of you the embarrassment of me confronting her.”

  “True,” Candice said. “But did I mention that Murielle McKenna is particularly litigious?”

  I waved a hand in dismissal. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. It’s not like I’d hit her or anything.”

  The corner of Candice’s mouth lifted with the hint of a smirk. “As much of a relief as hearing that is, I looked into Murielle, and she’s got a number of lawsuits ongoing. Along with suing several contractors whose work she found unsatisfactory, she’s sued plenty of other professionals for the slightest infraction, like a dry cleaner who couldn’t get out a spot on one of her gowns; a hairstylist who cut Murielle’s hair too short; an area dog walker who let his charge get too close to her, and the dog nipped at her hand; and she even sued the artist who painted her portrait.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “What was wrong with the portrait?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Maybe he painted her riding a broom,” I said.

  Candice laughed. “Anyway, Abs, the important thing here is that Murielle wouldn’t hesitate to throw some legal shade our husbands’ way if she felt insulted. We definitely need to meet and play nice with her.”

  With that, Candice pulled into a gas station and got out to pump some fuel, leaving me to think about the situation.

  As I sat there, I had to reflect that Dutch had always been a little flinchy when it came to the possibility of getting sued, which was why he was always so careful in his business practices. He’d told me once that when he was eleven, his parents had been involved in a bad legal battle that had cost his dad his business, and for a few years afterward the family had struggled to make ends meet. I wondered if my hubby’s inability to confront Murielle had much to do with old childhood wounds.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I asked, opening the door to talk to Candice.

  She pressed a button on the gas pump to receive a receipt and said, “We meet with Murielle, allow her to size you up, let her know that you’re neither naive nor timid, and if she’s going to continue to make your husband feel uncomfortable, then she’ll have both of us to contend with. And we’re going to do all of that by being courteous, polite, and avoiding any opportunity to insult her.”

  “Doesn’t sound like nearly as much fun as my going in there, grabbing her by the throat, and telling her to back off, bitch!”

  Candice grinned. “We’ll call that plan B.”

  • • •

  We arrived at Murielle’s home about ten minutes later. And I use the word “home” rather loosely. The size of a hotel, the place probably had more rooms than the local Hilton, and was definitely twice as grand.

  “Wow,” Candice said as we eased past the guard at the gated entrance, and made our way down the long drive to the ginormous, three-story mansion with two one-story wings flanking the central section, and a series of fountains and exotic flora dotting the landscape.

  “It’s a little showy, if you ask me,” I said.

  “Of course it’s a little showy,” Candice replied, parking her Porsche next to a golf cart. “I doubt this woman does anything subtly.”

  We walked to the front door, which opened before we could even ring the bell. A slight gentleman with wispy silver hair, thin mustache, and black-rimmed glasses greeted us wearing a butler’s uniform. “Ms. Fusco. Ms. Cooper. Welcome. Ms. McKenna has been expecting you. This way, please.”

  We followed the butler into the cool interior and I tried not to ogle all the expensive artwork lining the walls, and lost that battle thirty seconds in. In my defense, there was a freaking Picasso, a Warhol, and, I suspect, a Lichtenstein on the wall, and if you can’t make googly eyes at a private collection that contains the likes of them, then you don’t appreciate art. Or money.

  What else struck me about the interior of Murielle’s home was that, other than the sculptures and the paintings, the entire place was white. Like a brilliant, blinding, whiter-than-white shade of white. The walls were white, the tile floor was white, the area rugs were white, and what little furniture we saw was also white.

  It made walking through the halls feel a bit surreal, almost otherworldly. At last we were shown to a room with a glass desk and two high-backed wing chairs, upholstered in white suede. Turning to us, the butler said, “Might I prepare you both a cup of tea?”

  “That would be lovely,” Candice said. I wasn’t really in the mood for tea, but I nodded agreeably all the same.

  The butler waved to the wi
ng chairs. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Ms. McKenna will be with you shortly.”

  Candice and I each took a seat in the wing chairs and I happened to catch a small camera above the desk aimed in our direction. After Jeeves left, I caught Candice’s attention, and motioned to it with my chin. She nodded and we waited without speaking. The butler returned with our tea, and we sipped at it while we waited some more. Then some more. Then a whole lot more.

  After forty minutes, Candice very obviously lifted her wrist to check her watch, rose to set her teacup on the desk, and said, “Let’s go.”

  I grinned, got up, put my cup next to hers, and began to follow her out of the room when behind us there was an audible click. We both paused and turned around to discover that a hidden door had opened in the far wall, and out from it stepped a tall, leggy brunette, wearing a chic black silk suit, cut wide at the shoulders, narrow at the hips, and low at the front to expose a great deal of skin. It was perhaps the most perfectly tailored piece of clothing I’d ever seen.

  The woman herself was exquisite, with a flawless olive-tanned complexion, and long dark hair, pulled back in a severe ponytail, which helped to accentuate her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. She had the kind of lips that all women crave, perhaps only a touch shy of Angelina Jolie’s perfect plumpness, and a delicate nose, which allowed all the focus to go to her light brown eyes and seductively shaped mouth.

  I hated her on sight.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” she said in a rich, husky voice as she entered the room. She walked toward us with the practiced step of a runway model, her décolletage bouncing in rhythm to her steps. I suddenly wondered how the hell Dutch had ever resisted the urge to strip off his clothes and have a mad fling with her. I mean, to a married man, she must be like walking, talking kryptonite.

  Meanwhile, Candice stood up taller and edged a little closer to me, obviously sensing that I was ready to admit defeat and hand over my wedding ring. “Hello,” she said coolly. “We were just leaving.”

  Murielle cocked one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Leaving? But we have an appointment.”

  “Had an appointment,” Candice replied sweetly, as she eyed her watch again. “And now we have another one. Perhaps we can reschedule?”

  Murielle laughed lightly. “Oh, come, now,” she said, without a hint of apology. “I couldn’t have kept you waiting that long, could I?”

  “Forty-five minutes,” I said, barely able to keep the irritation out of my voice.

  Murielle made a dismissive hand-waving motion. “I blame my team of lawyers,” she said. “They’re notorious for distracting me with legal papers to sign and settlements to collect. You two must know how that is.”

  “Not really,” I told her, and smiled wide.

  “Well, it’s endless,” she said, matching my smile. “But I’m here now, and certainly you can spare me a few minutes to chat. I insist on it, in fact.”

  I glanced at Candice and she made a tiny shrugging motion. She’d let it be my call. “I believe we only have about ten minutes and then we’ll have to leave,” I said.

  Murielle motioned with one long, elegant finger to the wing chairs and we settled back into our seats. Once we were comfortable, our host glided over to the front of the desk, propping her rear against it to peer down at us with a smug smile.

  I held my own expression in check, because the move on her part to hover over us was clearly a power play and we’d fallen for it. She was in the position to literally look down on us, and we were stuck staring up into all that gorgeousness. Jesus, no wonder Dutch wouldn’t meet with her anymore. It was a miracle Brice had survived their encounters.

  Glancing sideways at Candice, I could tell she thought as much too. I mean, Candice is beeeeautiful, and, on a good day, I’m no slouch either, but this woman was like something right out of a Greek tragedy, and by that, I mean that she was like something lifted off the top of Mount Olympus and planted down here in front of us tragically, aesthetically flawed mortals.

  Candice smiled tightly and said, “Ms. McKenna, as I stated before, Abby and I are pressed for time, so perhaps you can fill us in on why you require our services?”

  Murielle’s big brown eyes locked on me. I realized in that moment that she hadn’t been quite sure which of us was Dutch’s wife until Candice made it clear. Still keeping her gaze on me, she said, “I need to run a background check on someone.”

  “Who?” Candice asked.

  “An associate of mine I’m thinking of hiring for a specific job, not related to my businesses.”

  “We can take care of that by late this afternoon,” Candice said. “Just give us a name and a Social Security number if you have it, and we can run a thorough check of all public records.”

  “I want more than that,” she said.

  In all the time she’d been speaking, never once had she turned her eyes away from me. I wanted to laugh. Did this woman really think it would be so hard to intimidate me? I mean, she had me at “Hello.” I wasn’t competition. Maybe Gisele Bündchen was her competition, but only if Mrs. Tom Brady was having a really, really good hair day. So it was weird that Murielle was going to all this effort to make me feel inadequate in her presence. And maybe that’s why, after thinking about it for a few seconds, I didn’t.

  I mean, Dutch and I are super-duper in love. Maybe even more in love now than we were on the day of our wedding. And trust me, we were beyond crazy about each other back then. I love Dutch like I love to breathe, finding both necessary to even exist. And if I ever had one of those moments where I doubted his love or loyalty to me, all I had to do was check in with my intuition. My third eye is incapable of being deceived in that way. If I look at someone’s motives with my radar, I will see one thing clearly: The Truth. You can’t hide what you feel from a psychic. It’s the ultimate in X-ray vision.

  And Dutch doesn’t hide how he feels about me. He’s totally open about it. Which I find incredibly endearing, because I have a harder time expressing my feelings, even to him. No, there’d been no change in his feelings; of that I was sure. So, I realized, if Murielle made a full-court press effort to garner my husband’s attention and failed to do so, that must mean that she was actually intimidated by me.

  I allowed my own smug smile to spread across my face, and in my most pleasant, professional voice asked, “What other services besides a background check did you need, Ms. McKenna?”

  Her eyes narrowed. She probably couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t a simpering mess by now. Waving a perfectly manicured nail at me, she said, “You’re the psychic, right?”

  “I am.”

  Murielle crossed her arms and tapped her shoulder with that same finger. “I’d like your opinion of the man,” she said.

  “My opinion?”

  “Yes. I’d like to know everything I can about him. What his strengths and weaknesses are, if he can be trusted, that sort of thing. I’m especially interested in his personal life. He’s very mum about it, which makes me wonder if he’s trying to keep secrets.”

  I shifted in my seat. “I’m not really comfortable with that kind of request.”

  “Why not?” she said.

  “Because you’re basically inquiring about him in ways that no employer is allowed to. The types of things you want to know would be personally invasive to this man, and for ethical reasons, I’m not willing to snoop into his life like that without his express permission.”

  She looked at me like I had to be kidding. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I never kid when it comes to protecting my ethics.”

  Murielle rolled her eyes. “Listen,” she said. “What I’m asking you to do is as legal as conducting a background check. If I’m not asking you to break the law, you should be okay with my request.”

  “It’s only legal because lawmakers haven’t thought to make it illegal,” I said. “Y
ou don’t really have the law on your side here so much as you have ignorance on your side. It’s ethically wrong, and I won’t do it.”

  “Won’t or can’t?” she said, a flash of anger in her eyes.

  I smiled tightly. “Can. Won’t.”

  “I still don’t understand why,” she complained. “What is it that you think you’ll discover about him that would be so invasive?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Which is the point. I wouldn’t say yes to breaking into his home and going through his journal, his e-mail, or eavesdropping in on his personal phone conversations, and I won’t say yes to this. There’s not a lot of difference between the two.”

  “Oh, please,” she said, getting up from her stance in front of us to move to the other side of the desk and take a seat. “I’ve been to a few psychics before. They never told me anything that wasn’t ridiculously generic and obvious.”

  I gave a small shrug. “I can’t speak to their capabilities. I can only speak to mine. And I’m good enough to know that peeking into a stranger’s life for a potential employer is way over the line.”

  Murielle placed her elbows on the table and laced her fingers together. “What if you’re not as good as you say you are?”

  “It’s not her who’s saying it,” Candice said in a smooth but authoritative tone. “It’s thousands of her clients, well over two hundred and fifty closed-case files between the FBI, CIA, and local PD, and a string of requests for demonstrations and instruction from various law-enforcement organizations across the country.”

  If I’d had a microphone, I would’ve dropped it at that moment, grabbed Candice by the arm, and walked out of Murielle’s presence. As it was, our host’s eyes widened, which I found super satisfying. “I see,” she said. And then she cocked her head slightly, her focus back on me, and asked, “What can you tell me about me?”

  I heard Candice take a breath as if she was going to answer for me again, so I quickly said, “If you’d like an appointment for a reading, please log on to my Web site and reference the scheduling calendar. I believe my first available appointment is in February. But if it’s a very quick peek into something simple, like if a particular guy you’re interested in like likes you back, I can answer that, no problem.” I flashed Murielle my toothiest smile just for kicks.