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"We'll be in New York through Christmas if ye need us," Angus said.
Emma patted him on the shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Robby. May all your dreams come true."
"Merry Christmas." He watched them wander off to the dance floor.
May all your dreams come true. His dream would be Olivia calling on his phone. Nay, Olivia lying in his bed. He might as well dream big. Her hair would be loose, and the black curls would fan out across his pillow. Her arms would reach for him, her legs would wrap around him, and he would plunge inside -
"What's so funny, bro?"
Robby was ripped back to the present. "Funny?" He glared at Phineas.
"Yeah, you were standing there with a big grin on your face." Phineas yanked a bottle of Blissky from a tub of ice. "Don't tell me. You were thinking about a woman."
Robby groaned. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to me, bro. I'm supersensitized to all matters involving love and the fairer sex." Phineas shoved his bottle into the microwave. "And Carlos mentioned in passing that you're lovesick over a hot babe."
"That damned cat."
"Chillax, bro. This is your lucky night. The Love Doctor is in the house and at your service. Feel free to partake of my expertise by directing all your romantic queries in my general direction."
Robby snorted, then thought, Why not? "She dinna call."
"You asked her to call you?" When Robby nodded, Phineas continued, "How many times?"
"Once. I wrote her a note."
Phineas scoffed. "Once? Dude, you're barely getting started. After you've asked about twenty times, then you can get worried."
"Twenty times? That wouldna be a wee bit like stalking?"
Phineas shrugged. "Take my situation. I'm madly in love with LaToya Lafayette. I know she's the one for me."
"But is she no' the one who tried to poison you with hot sauce?"
"A minor speed bump on the road to love, bro." Phineas removed his bottle from the microwave. "You can't expect true love to be easy. Afterward, she said she was sorry and that she didn't mean for it to hurt that bad. So you see, she really does care."
"So she's going out with you now?" Robby asked.
"Well, no. All of a sudden, she moved back to New Orleans."
"That sounds like a no."
"Dude, that sounds like a challenge. Only wimps give up." Phineas gulped down some Blissky. "So guess where I'm going for Christmas?"
"New Orleans?"
"You got it. I'm gonna surprise LaToya." Phineas took another swallow of Blissky. "Hot damn. It's gonna be good!"
Robby had his doubts that LaToya would ever accept Phineas. Still, the Love Doctor was making a valid point. True love was worth fighting for.
One note wasn't enough. Robby had sent the package to Kansas City, but Olivia could still be in Houston. "She might no' have received the note."
"Right. It could have ended up in Timbuktu." Phineas held up his bottle of Blissky. "You see this, bro. You gotta say the bottle is half full. You gotta believe there's hope."
Robby nodded. He needed to trust Olivia, trust that she'd come through for him. "Ye're right. I'm going to write her again. I love her. I willna give up."
"That's the ticket!" Phineas grinned. "All in a day's work for the Love Doctor."
CHAPTER 12
Olivia was glad when the holiday season was over. The added stress seemed to be the tipping point for a lot of people. She and her colleagues at the Bureau had been busy nonstop with murders and abductions, usually committed by a so-called loved one. At least her loved ones were no longer angry with her. She'd spent Christmas with them in Houston, and no apples had arrived.
It was a bitterly cold Tuesday morning toward the end of January when things finally settled down from a frantic pace to the normal hectic one. She draped her coat and scarf on the back of her chair, then opened the bottom drawer of her desk to drop her handbag inside. The letters were still there, a constant reminder of the pain and confusion she felt toward Robby.
He was mailing her a letter every week, and she didn't know what to make of it. She sat at her desk and placed the three envelopes in front of her. They all had the same return address in the corner, a place called Romatech Industries in White Plains, New York. Should she write back? And say what? Leave me alone. Don't leave me alone.
She smoothed her fingers over her name, written by his hand. She still missed him something awful. The pain of his betrayal had still been too strong when she 'd received a second letter. She'd thrown it in the trash.
When the third letter arrived, it made her wonder. Would a guilty man continue to write? Maybe. Otis was guilty as hell, and he loved to interact with her. A part of her, deep down in her gut, rebelled against the idea that Robby could ever be like Otis. Robby was noble and brave. He'd risked his life to save her from the panther.
But she was afraid to trust her instincts. Blind faith could get a girl killed. All of Otis's victims had believed in him before learning he was a sadistic murderer.
She'd dropped the third letter in her bottom drawer unopened. Since then, two more weeks had passed and two more letters had arrived. Chicken, she chided herself. Why don't you open them?
Because they could be full of lies. They could be full of emotional pleas that would tear at her heart. She dropped the letters back into the drawer and shut it. If she opened them, she'd be opening herself up to the possibility of getting hurt all over again. She had to keep her emotions out of this, because where Robby was concerned, she was an emotional wreck.
Her heart ached for him, but her logical mind warned her to be cautious. She'd known him less than a week and she'd been unable to read his feelings or gauge his sincerity. She simply couldn't trust him or her feelings toward him. And her penchant for overanalyzing everything was driving her crazy. What she needed was cold hard facts. Facts she could trust.
Three weeks earlier, after the third letter had arrived and her doubts had bubbled to the surface, she'd initiated an investigation of Robby MacKay. The website for MacKay Security & Investigation was surprisingly bare, offering nothing more than an address in London and Edinburgh and a contact button to e-mail them for information. She hadn't e-mailed 'cause she didn't want to alert the company that she was snooping about.
Things had been so hectic at the office, she'd resorted to coming in an hour early every day to squeeze in time for her investigation. Three weeks of research, and she still had zilch. There were hundreds of Robert MacKays, scattered all over the planet.
She'd started with the three Robert Alexander MacKays she'd found in Scotland. One was a sixty-four-year-old physician in Aberdeen, one was a thirty-five-year-old fisherman on the Isle of Mull, and the last one was an eight-year-old student in Glasgow. Dead end.
She recalled that he'd mentioned owning property in Scotland, but her search there hit another dead end.
The simpler name of Robert MacKay yielded a much longer list of names, but none of those panned out. She broadened the search to the entire British Isles, but still no luck. She discovered an interesting article about an investigator named Robert MacKay who had captured a notorious serial killer in London, but that had happened in 1921. Another dead end.
She thought she might have found a reference to Robby's grandfather. A medal of valor and knighthood had been awarded to an Angus Alexander MacKay at the end of World War II. No mention of him again. Another dead end.
She booted up her computer and examined the notes on her legal pad. There were numerous Robert MacKays in Australia and New Zealand, a few in South America and South Africa, and many more in Canada. Since the return address on the envelopes had cited New York, she was now investigating possibilities in America.
"How's the Great Robby Hunt going?"
She glanced up to see J.L. Wang leaning his forearms on the top of her cubicle wall. She'd told him several weeks ago that she suspected a guy she'd met on Patmos to be in league with Otis. Since then, J.L. had kept up with her research, calling it the Great Robby Hunt.
She sighed. "One hundred and twenty-four down and about three trillion to go."
"Could be worse," J.L. muttered his favorite phrase. "He could have been named John Smith."
She groaned with frustration. "I've been at this for three weeks. I've never seen anyone so hard to trace."
"Too bad your guy doesn't have a more distinctive name, something like...Willoughby Gallsplat."
