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“A secret weapon?”
She nodded. “Some Paris designer. Unfortunately, now that person is in jail for sexual assault.” Obviously Olivia’s assistant didn’t mind eavesdropping on phone calls.
“Do you know what jail Ms. Harrington went to?”
“No, but I do know that once she bails the designer out of jail, she’s taking her back to her house.” She turned to her computer. “And I have that address.”
***
Olivia didn’t live in a mansion as her stepfather had, but Deacon didn’t doubt for a second that the three-story house had cost a pretty penny. Property values in San Francisco were higher than a cat’s ass, which explained why the houses were snugged together like toes in a tight boot. He’d planned on waiting in front for Olivia to return and was surprised when he pulled up and found the garage door wide open. Had Olivia gotten the secret weapon out of jail that quickly? Or had Kelly given him the wrong address?
He got out of the rental car and slammed the door, taking note of the For Sale sign stuck in a huge flowerpot of bright-red geraniums by the steps that led to the front door. Olivia was selling her house?
“You there! What’s your business?”
Deacon glanced up to see a bare-chested old guy on the balcony of the house next door pointing a watering pot at him. “I’m looking for my cousin,” he called up. “Is this Olivia Harrington’s house?”
The man called back over his shoulder. “Doris! Isn’t the young girl next door named Britney? There’s a guy looking for Olivia.”
A woman’s voice came out the open sliding glass door. “Good grief, Hammond, that was the woman who lived there five years ago. This one is Olivia.”
“Well, whatever her name is,” the old guy said, “she left her garage door open again and there’s a man lurking around who claims he’s her cousin.”
An old woman’s head appeared above the balcony, followed by a pair of saggy, wrinkled breasts. “You’re Olivia’s cousin?”
Deacon lowered his gaze to the geraniums and tried to clear the image from his brain. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t look like her.”
“We’re step-cousins.”
“Remember my step-cousin, Doris?” the man said. “Unbelievable chef, but the meanest bastard I ever had the misfortune of knowing.”
“Hush up, Hammond. He doesn’t want to hear your life story.” She spoke to Deacon. “I guess it’s okay for you to go in when she’s not home, but be warned that we’re going to get your license plate number.” He thought she pointed a finger, but he refused to look up to be sure. “And if anything is missing,” she continued, “we’ll know where to send the police.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It was a relief to walk into the garage. The inside of the garage looked like a girl’s. No toolboxes, athletic equipment, or grease. Just a bicycle with a silly basket on the front, a pair of purple galoshes, and two cases of bottled water.
He wiped his feet on the mat before he pushed open the door.
The lower level of the house had a bedroom and en suite bath, no doubt a guest room since there were no signs of inhabitance. On the second level, he found two more bedrooms. One was as neat as the one downstairs, and the other held an unmade bed and enough high heels spread across the thick carpet to start a shoe store—if the buyers liked purple. Four half-empty coffee mugs were on the nightstand, along with a stack of fashion magazines, some colored pencils, and a sketchpad. He lifted the sketchpad and flipped through the pages. They were all lingerie designs. And damned sexy ones. Obviously Olivia was in the right business.
After replacing the sketchpad, he climbed the stairs to the third level. The living space was decorated in a contemporary style. A white leather sofa and aqua chairs were positioned around a modern gas fireplace. A breakfast bar divided the space from a kitchen with gray granite counters and high-end stainless steel appliances. It was a unique floor plan. One he found himself envisioning for his condos. Unlike the two-story design he had now, increasing to three levels would give more square footage and the higher balcony a better view of the lake.
Once the will went through, he could start work on the condos. Of course, first he had to sign the contract. Something he’d forgotten to do in his haste to discover Olivia’s secret weapon. But there was time. And since the only thing he’d eaten that day was the bagel he’d grabbed at the airport, he walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
Besides the jars of condiments and bottles of water, there was a withered-looking apple, an expired carton of orange juice, and some bad-smelling, yellow broccoli. He tossed the broccoli in the trash, then went to the cupboards, where he found a jar of all-natural almond butter and a bag of flaxseed tortilla chips. After grabbing a bottle of water, he opened up the accordion glass door that led to the balcony.
A seagull greeted him. The good-size bird was snacking on the remnants of a burrito. Rather than shoo it away, Deacon took a seat on the lounge sofa and dipped the chips in the almond butter while he had a stare-down with the bird. After a few minutes, he started tossing it chips. The audacious bird came within inches of Deacon’s boots before it took a crap on the rug and, in a loud flap of wings, flew away. After he was gone, Deacon stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes. Since his flight had left at the crack of dawn, it wasn’t surprising that he nodded off.
He awoke to a door slamming. Sitting up, he blinked the sleep from his eyes and listened to the sound of high heels clicking up the flights of stairs.
“You weren’t supposed to leave my mother’s house, Babette,” Olivia said. “That was part of the deal. Until I get control of the company, you were to stay out of sight.”
“Creativity cannot be held prisoner,” a woman said in a thick French accent. “Especially with a tyrant who refused to meet my creative needs.”
“She took the television remote away, Babette.” Olivia’s heels clicked to a stop just feet away from the balcony door. “And only when you refused to work on the new line. The new line that I’d planned to present to the board in just a few days.”
“Zee new line is almost ready and exquisite. Now make me an omelet.”
“I’m not making you an omelet,” Olivia said. “I’m going back to work so we have a company to sell your exquisite line.”
A string of French followed. Having grown up with a French-speaking Cajun father, Deacon understood most of it. He got up and stepped through the balcony doorway. Olivia stood at the refrigerator. When she saw him, she dropped the carton of orange juice she’d been taking out of the refrigerator, and it splattered all over the floor.
He shrugged. “Sorry, but it’s probably for the best. It was expired.” Then he turned to the petite, dark-haired woman and spoke to her in her native language.
“I agree that, at times, Olivia can be a little bitchy,” he said. “But fat?”
