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He removed his arm from his eyes and stared at her with sudden intensity. “What?”
“I do have an overactive imagination. I suppose it’s an occupational hazard for a writer.”
Owen sat up slowly. “So you admit there’s no real danger involved in this loony case?”
She shook her head decisively. “No, I still think we mustn’t discount the very real possibility that Arthur Crabshaw is not what he seems. Did you see the way he reacted to Madeline Villantry tonight?”
Owen hesitated. “Okay, I’ll admit that there may be some kind of connection between them.”
Amy brightened. “I got the exact same impression. This is amazing, Owen. We’re on the same wavelength here.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.” Owen sat up on the edge of the bed. A thoughtful expression began to replace the combination of irritation and passion that had burned in his gaze a moment earlier. “Don’t get carried away with your brilliant deduction, Amy. It makes sense that Madeline and Arthur knew each other at some point in the past. It’s a small town, after all, and Crabshaw told us that he worked for Villantry before he went off to Arizona to make his fortune.”
“The thing is, Madeline Villantry and Arthur Crabshaw would have been worlds apart socially in those days. After all, she was married to the town’s leading citizen. Arthur worked for her husband. But tonight I got the feeling that there was something more intimate between them.”
“Maybe there was.” Owen stood and began to pace the room. “But whatever happened occurred over thirty years ago. It doesn’t mean anything now.”
“Then why did Crabshaw get that funny look in his eyes when Madeline stopped by our table tonight?”
Owen came to a halt and swung around to face her. “I don’t know.”
Amy was momentarily sidetracked by the sight of him. His dark hair was tousled. His denim shirt had come free of his jeans. All in all, there was a tantalizing, seductive look about him that made her pulse begin to pound once more.
“Something wrong?” Owen asked.
“Uh, no. I was just trying to think this thing through.”
“If you can think clearly at the moment, you’re way ahead of me.” Owen ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, it’s late. Go to bed. In the morning I’ll call some people I know. Have them check into Crabshaw’s Arizona background. I can at least make sure that he doesn’t have a criminal record and that he’s financially solvent.”
“That sounds like a good start.”
“Thanks. I do try to give satisfaction.”
Aware that he was in a strange mood, Amy backed meekly toward the door. She was almost through it when Owen stopped her with another question.
“Amy, what did you mean a few minutes ago when you said you had an overactive imagination?”
She paused in the doorway, clutched the lapels of her robe very tightly, and gave him her best real estate saleswoman smile. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Have I told you that you’re a very bad liar?”
“Don’t ask me any questions if you don’t like my answers,” she flared.
Owen raised his eyes briefly to the ceiling in a beseeching expression. Then he fixed her with a look of dogged patience. “Amy, the relationship between a private investigator and his client is founded on mutual trust and confidentiality. If I don’t feel that I can rely upon your answers, I won’t be able to work for you.”
“Oh.” She frowned.
He took a deliberate step toward her. “I think we need to get this relationship back on track. The fastest way to do that is to be completely honest with each other.”
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
He spread his hands. “I’ll get right to the bottom line. Did you really kiss me a few minutes ago because you were driven into a paroxysm of violent passion by the close confines and threat of incredible danger that we face together?”
“Well, no. At least, I don’t think so.”
“So why did you kiss me?”
She gripped the edge of the door and lifted her chin proudly. “If you must know, I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since I sold you that Victorian horror of a house. There. Are you satisfied?”
