Getting Her Man [NOOK Book]

First Chapter

Chapter One

Six Months Later ...

At the familiar clomp of thick-soled boots, Diana Belmaine glanced up from her desk to see her part-time secretary walk into her office. Luna was twenty-two and pretty, with pale skin and a penchant for dark nail polishes, bloodred lipstick, black hair dye, and black lace. Not surprisingly, she moonlighted as a vampire guide for night tours of New Orleans.

In a disapproving voice, Luna said, "You didn't tell me you had an appointment today."

Diana removed her reading glasses, then sat back, arching a brow. "Because I don't."

"Well, there's this old guy by my desk who says he's here to talk to you."

"Does the old guy have a name?"

"Mr. Jones." Smiling didn't mesh with Luna's image, but humor lit her dark eyes all the same. "I'm thinking probably a close cousin of Mr. Doe and Mr. Smith."

Real clients -- those wealthy enough to require her services -- weren't keen on announcing to the world they needed a private investigator. They almost never came to her; she went to them. Most of her business deals transpired over café au lait and beignets at the Café du Monde, at somebody else's office, on the phone, or in dark bars.

Diana sighed and pushed to her feet, reluctant to waste time when she had a report to prepare on her recovery of a stolen Picasso. The insurance company who'd hired her probably wouldn't be surprised to learn that the painting's owner -- a cheery, white-haired oil company exec going through financial difficulties following his third divorce -- had arranged the theft so he could collect on the insurance settlement.

A trick as old asdirt, and people never, ever learned.

She followed Luna to the small waiting area of her three-room office suite, which was decorated in baronial tones of burgundy, navy, and tan, and located on the second floor of an old St. Phillip Street building, not far from the market. The lazy whir-whir-whir of the ceiling fan blended with the street noise filtering through the filmy chiffon curtains: chattering tourists swarming through the French Quarter, beeping horns, and the plodding clop of hooves as a mule-drawn carriage rumbled past.

An elegant, silver-haired man stood by the window. He wore a conservative dark suit and carried a large leather briefcase -- a lawyer to somebody with lots of money?

Thank God she'd worn a dress. Its lime green silk played up her blond hair and lightly tanned skin, and while the sheath's slim lines skimmed her curves a bit more than she'd prefer for meeting a potential client, it was still tasteful and businesslike.

"Hello." She walked forward, spine straight, shoulders squared. The man turned, and she noted a white rose adorning his lapel. "I'm Diana Belmaine."

"Edward Jones." The man shook her hand in a firm, brief grip. "You're the private investigator who specializes in stolen antiquities, I presume."

"Yes, and I also specialize in art, jewelry, heirlooms, and antiques. I handle fraud cases, too, though not as much as when I worked with Sotheby's." She paused. "Have you lost something, Mr. Jones?"

"I'm afraid so."

Diana took in his diamond tie tack, the expensive suit, and smiled. "And you'd like me to find it."

"Oh, yes."

Her smile blossomed into a full grin. "Lovely. Let's talk, shall we? This way, please. Hold all my calls, Luna."

Luna looked amused again, despite her lack of a smile. "Will do, Boss."

Mr. Jones politely nodded at Luna and followed Diana into her office. The packed bookshelves and framed licenses on the wall lent an air of authority to the room, as did stately chairs in tufted oxblood leather and the massive oak desk from a cotton exchange office that had gone out of business long ago. The overall impression was one of power. Masculine power specifically, which helped overcome the annoying handicap of looking more like a Grace Kelly society girl than a private eye.

"Have a seat." She closed the door. "Would you like coffee or something else to drink?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

Curiosity piqued, Diana sat, pushed aside the clutter on her desk, and asked, "What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?"

As an answer, he hauled his briefcase onto his lap. After dialing in the combination and snapping open the fasteners, he withdrew an accordion file and dropped it on her desk with a weighty thump. He didn't push it toward her, and she didn't touch it.

"This file contains all the information you should require to investigate my client's recent loss."

"You're a little ahead of the game here. How about you tell me your client's name, first."

"Steven Carmichael." When her brows shot up, the lawyer smiled thinly. "You are familiar with my client?"

"Of course. Anybody in the antiquities business knows his name. And it so happens Mr. Carmichael approached me a month ago about taking on a case after the police investigation stalled. Something about missing crates of Mayan artifacts, destined for his new gallery." Diana tipped her head to one side. "But he hired another investigator."

That rejection still stung, especially since she suspected that the wealthy and powerful Carmichael had passed her over because he came from a generation that didn't believe a woman could handle a "tough" job. It wouldn't be the first time sexism had cost her a case.

"Ah, yes ... I am aware of that situation."

"Did Mr. Carmichael ever recover his missing antiquities?"

"Not yet."

She managed not to smile. "That's too bad."

The lawyer fixed her with a hard, assessing gaze. "A most unfortunate affair, I agree, but not the one I'm here about. Mr. Carmichael has an urgent matter he needs addressed at once, and it's of a more personal nature."