Public Affair Read online

  Public Affair

  Private Investigation, Book 2

  Aidèe Jaimes

  Public Affair

  Private Investigation, Book 2

  By Aidèe Jaimes

  Copyright@2019 Aidèe Jaimes

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Trigger Warning: This story contains strong subject matter, including suicide and great emotional distress due to the loss of a loved one.

  If you or anyone you know needs help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

  Contents

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  About

  Books Under Aidèe Jaimes:

  Books Under Haden Hudson:

  “I would rather knowingly live a lie than face the monstrous reality of my truth.”

  —EVA JEAN CAGE, Public Investigation

  Chapter 1

  Eva Jean

  Six Months Ago…

  “Ten bucks says she picks that guy.”

  I turn to the man who’s standing far too close to me, even though there are five stools between me and the next patron. In an instant, I figure him out. He’s in real estate or something along those lines. Makes enough money to afford an expensive Tag watch, but the way he flashes it when he points to the TV, his over-slicked hair, and his gaudy suit tell me he’s anything but loaded. More like loaded with debt.

  “I wasn’t watching,” I tell him, then take a sip of my whiskey.

  “Really? I thought all women liked The Bachelorette.”

  “I’m not all women.”

  “I can see that. Mind if I…” He indicates the stool beside me, and when I don’t respond, he proceeds to take a seat on it. As I could have predicted, he places his Maserati keys on the bar top in clear view.

  He notices me sitting by myself at a bar and quickly assumes I’m “alone and desperate.”

  “I’m Eddie. And you are?” He extends his hand to me.

  Looking at it first, I shake it. The moisture of his clammy palm lingers heavily on mine, and I have to fight the urge to wipe it on my pants the moment he pulls his away. “Jean.”

  “So, Jean, are you here with anyone?”

  I sigh. I am desperate. Desperate to be left alone. That was the point in coming here. No one’s ever here on a Tuesday at midnight during the off-season. All the snowbirds have gone, leaving behind the worker bees and their kids. Everyone is sleeping, bequeathing these places to people like me to drown our sorrows without witnesses.

  “Nope.” I hope Eddie reads the annoyance in my voice and moves on. Spelling it out requires energy I don’t have.

  “Perhaps I can get you another drink then. Do you work around here?”

  His chatter fades away as my mind sinks further into the nothingness I seek, where thoughts swirl around, incoherent. A complete mess.

  Tipping my glass back, I swallow the remaining contents as I look into the mirror that lines the wall behind the bar. Through the reflection, I see three other poor souls, somberly drinking their night away, and I wonder what troubles them.

  One, the guy nearest the door, stares out over the room, completely unseeing. Although there’s a fork in his hand, an untouched meal sits before him.

  Another, an older fellow who appears to have lived at least eighty years, is reading his paper. He should be at home in a warm bed with his loving wife. Asleep, dreaming of the wonderful life he’s had. Not here in this after-hours hellhole with the rest of us.

  Then there’s the third man, the one who glances up just as I notice him. Our eyes lock, and as if his were mirrors themselves, I see my sadness reflected in them.

  He must see something too, because he frowns as he takes me in, like his mind is trying to work through what he’s witnessing. He watches me so intensely, even at the distance created by the mirror, that I stop breathing.

  I want to look away, but somehow, I’ve been trapped by this man’s gaze. It’s not because he’s handsome, although he is. Very much so. I’ve been with many handsome men, and none have observed me in such a way that leaves me aching.

  “So you think she’d pick me?” Eddie’s voice grinds into me, breaking my hold on the handsome man’s eyes.

  I turn to my unwanted friend, a little surprised he’s still there. “Why are you here, Eddie?”

  “What?”

  “You’re good looking. Young enough to be somewhere way more hip than this place. No offense,” I say to Jorge, the bar owner, who’s standing close enough to hear. He clears his throat and walks away.

  Eddie’s mouth pulls down, and he takes a deep swig of whatever drink he’s ordered. “My wife left me. Yesterday.”

  “Ah. I see. May I ask what happened?”

  “She said I love myself more than I love her,” he replies.

  “Is she right?”

  “No. And that’s why I let her go. She deserves better than this piece of shit.” He points to himself with his thumb.

  “Mmm.”

  “Why are you here?” he asks. “I thought women who came to bars alone were only looking for one thing.”

  “Well, my friend, I can tell you one thing I’m definitely not looking for—a self-proclaimed piece of shit.”

  “Fair enough.” Eddie lifts his glass to me in salute and moves away to the farthest stool.

  However, less than five minutes later, I feel his presence right next to me again. “Listen, bud, you need to take a hint—” When I turn to him, I realize it’s not Eddie at all. It’s the guy I made eye contact with earlier.

  “Lena?” His hand reaches out to touch me and I jerk away. “Lena?”

  “I-I think you may be mistaking me for someone else.”

  He stands there slightly wobbly, his expression full of confusion at the sound of my voice, as if it doesn’t match up with the person he believes I am. But even then, he stares at me like I’m some sort of ghost, half-fascinated yet terrified.

  “Your eyes,” he whispers. “They aren’t…” This time, when he reaches to touch my face, I let him. It’s something I can’t explain, but his need to know is palpable. His dark eyes follow the tips of his fingers as they trace the line of my jaw, then skim over my cheekbone and down my nose. His thumb catches on my lower lip, pulling it slightly as my mouth opens.

  I feel his disappointment when he realizes I’m not Lena, whoever she may be.

  “You’re not her.” He clumsily drops to the seat beside me, rubbing his face like he’s attempting to dispel whatever’s clouded his mind.

  As I watch him from the corner of my eye, it’s me who’s fascinated now. Me who needs to know more about this melancholy stranger. “Who’s Lena?”

  No longer looking at me, he studies his fingers as they twist around something. “My wife.”

  “What? Did your wife leave you too?” I glance over at Eddie.

  “No. I left her.”

  “Well, then you might deser
ve to be here. Any chance she’ll take you back?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Oh.” The shock of what he says has me searching his face. “You just said—”

  “I left her for a few minutes. Too long. And when I got back, it was over. It took him less than fifteen minutes to take everything from me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, because there’s nothing else I can think of to say. No one has ever opened up to me in this way the moment I met them.

  “What are you sorry for? All you did was look like her.”

  “Then I’m sorry for that.”

  His eyes dance over my face, as if he’s still trying to make sense of what he sees. “You look so much like her. Same lips. Same hair. If it weren’t for your eyes… Do you have relatives in Georgia?”

  “No. Sorry. Born and raised in North Carolina.”

  He visibly swallows down the pain I know my face is causing him, then lifts a finger to Jorge, who comes over. “A shot of Grey Goose and whatever the lady here is having.”

  Jorge examines him warily. Probably can’t decide whether to serve him.

  “I got it, Jorge,” I assure him.

  We get our drinks, and both my new friend and I down them in one gulp. When he looks away, I study him. He’s handsome in a tortured sort of way, with a five o’clock shadow covering his masculine jawline and wavy black hair that’s just slightly too long. His clothes are clean but ruffled, and his tie, loosened at his neck, is thrown carelessly over his shoulder. Even with that, I can tell he’s well built, strong. He’s the sort of man who would envelop you in his arms and make you feel delicate. Protected.

  I don’t need a man to take care of me in any way. I don’t need a man who’s strong and can protect me. But not needing it and not wanting it are two very different things. My extremely female physiology still appreciates a man like him.

  His dark eyes turn to me, and again, their intensity captivates me. “You look so much like her,” he whispers. “It’s just your eyes. They change your features.”

  “Do you want me to close them?” I ask him.

  He considers it for a moment as he scrutinizes me. “Yes.”

  I do as he asks. When I feel his fingers touch my cheek, I jump but don’t move away. Breathing is near impossible as they glide softly down to my jaw, chin, and throat, finally moving away when they reach my clavicle.

  I raise my lids to find him glancing away, toward the mirrored wall, his jaw working furiously. His eyes are glistening, his breathing ragged, but he keeps the tears at bay, refusing to let them go. Maybe he feels that if he does, he’ll be letting her go too. That’s something I understand all too well.

  “Where do you live?” I ask him.

  His long lashes lower as he stares at his empty glass. “Far, far away.”

  “As in another galaxy?”

  He smirks, resting his chin in his palm and shutting his eyes briefly. “Sometimes I wish that. Jacksonville. Is that far enough?”

  “Yup, it’s pretty far. I can’t imagine that in your state, you’ll be driving all the way there tonight.”

  He shakes his head. “The Saddler. I usually stay there.”

  “Usually? Do you come to Naples often?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “For work?”

  “Yup. Matthew Grayson.” His hand extends to me and I shake it, this time without looking. When he attempts to pull away, I hold on just a bit longer, liking the way mine fits in his much larger one. The way the softness of my skin contrasts against his calloused fingers. They tell me he likes to work with those hands. I don’t often feel ones like his. He lifts his eyes to me, questioning, and I let go.

  “So, Matt Grayson, what do you do when you come to Naples?”

  He yawns. “I investigate people.”

  “Ah, I see. You’re not investigating me, by chance, are you?”

  A chuckle bursts from him. “Why? Have you done something bad?”

  “I’ve done many bad things.”

  His smile fades, and with his interest in me rekindled, he wakes up a little. It’s his job to read people too. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a saleswoman.”

  “A saleswoman.” He looks at me appreciatively, as if he can see me in that role. “What do you sell?”

  “Desires.” My voice comes out lower than I intend.

  There’s no need to clarify. Even in his inebriated state, he knows what I mean. If the word didn’t give it away, the tone certainly gave it enough meaning.

  I’m not sure why I tell him. The risk is high, and I usually don’t mess with that old bitch, Luck. I don’t trust her, and I definitely don’t trust strangers. But him…

  It could be that I suspect he won’t remember much, if anything, in the morning. Or maybe it’s because he opened up to me first. Or perhaps it’s that he’s the first person I’ve encountered that I could offer more than pleasure to.

  He visibly swallows as his eyes scan over me, from my head to my feet and back. “Could I buy one of these desires?”

  “It depends. What is your heart’s desire, Matt?”

  “My heart’s desire?”

  “Yes. If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”

  “A reason to live again. Can you give me that?” The question is asked sarcastically, but when I nod, he seems surprised.

  I tilt my head, listening as carefully as I can with more than just my ears. “Was Lena your reason to live?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can be her. I can be anything you want.” I’d be lying if I said making the offer didn’t excite me, in more ways than one. He studies me, trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

  When he looks at my mouth, I instinctively part my lips. And when his eyes stare directly into mine, I lower my lashes.

  “How much?” he asks.

  “What do you have?”

  He glances down at the object he’s been playing with, then places it on the bar in front of me. “Would this cover it?”

  I pick up and inspect the simple ring that’s made of platinum or silver and has an engraving I can’t make out on the inside. It’s probably worth close to nothing, at least in my world. But to him, it’s got to be priceless. Something tells me nothing could pry it from his fingers. Except for Lena.

  “Is this her ring?” I ask.

  “It was.”

  The right thing to do would be to hand it back to him, send him to bed. But when I see the pain in his eyes as I take the thing, and I know that if the room were quieter, I’d be able to hear his heart shattering, it triggers something inside me. All he wants is a chance to be with someone he loved once more. I can understand that. I would give anything for the same thing.

  He’s just lucky it’s me he’s giving this to and not someone he’ll never see again.

  Placing the ring in my clutch, I look at him. “When?”

  “Tonight. Right now.”

  “No,” I say. “You’re too drunk. Write down your name and number here.” I take a napkin and one of the pens from a cup by the register. “Write down the date you want me, and I’ll make it happen.”

  He laughs, his eyes glistening in the way that tells me that last shot of vodka is really hitting home. “Whatever.”

  Ignoring the napkin, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a business card. On it, he writes a date and hands it to me.

  Surprised, I say, “This is six months away.”

  His drunken giggle makes me sigh. “Well, you should definitely have openings.”

  Nodding, I put the card in my purse with the ring. “Let’s get you a cab.”

  “Yup. Yup. I think is time. I’m… I’m not feelin’ too good.”

  We stand outside waiting for the cab that never shows. Matt’s nearly asleep, hanging on to me like that drunk friend we’ve all had in college.

  “I need a bed,” he mumbles.

  Shit. I should just leave him here, stuff the ring in his pocket and go. He isn’t
my responsibility. It’s not my fault he got himself wasted and is completely helpless.

  Looking over at his face that’s so close to mine, I find that I can’t go. Not when I sense he’s hurting. I know what it’s like, feeling so desperate to shut out the pain that you’re willing to do anything. Hell, I’ve done so much worse to end my suffering. If he feels even a fraction of what I do, I can’t abandon him.

  “Hey,” I whisper, nudging him. “Stay awake for me just a little longer.”

  Thank God for Maxx Bootcamp. If it weren’t for them, I probably wouldn’t be able to support Matt’s two-hundred-pound frame all the way to my red Accord. Somehow, I even manage to open the door and shove him into the passenger seat. By the time he’s inside, he’s deep in sleep.

  “Matt. Matthew.” I shake him, but to no avail. There’s no waking him now. “What the hell did you take?”

  I dig through his pockets and find his wallet. His driver’s license shows that he does, in fact, live in Jacksonville. There is no way in hell I’ll be driving him there. Luckily, in another pocket I find a hotel key.

  Pulling out my phone, I dial with my right hand to make a call. “Seidi.”

  “This better be a fucking emergency,” she answers. “Do you realize what time it is?”

  “Do you know anyone at the Saddler Beach Resort?”

  “Uh, as in a guest?” she asks.

  “As in someone who can get me the room number of a guest,” I tell her.

  “Why do you need that at midnight?”

  “Seidi!”

  Huffing, she says, “Yes. I may know of someone. What’s the guest’s name?”