A Bird Without Wings Read online

  The low heel of one sensible shoe snapped off for no apparent reason, causing her to list dangerously to that side, thudding a shoulder against the wall. Losing her grip on the door, it flew wide open, banging against the wall before swinging rapidly back to slam shut very loudly, missing her nose by mere millimetres.

  “Oops,” a tiny voice said.

  He clamped a hand over his mouth.

  She bent to pick up her broken heel and shoved it into her pocket. Carefully turning from the wall, she took one entire step before the heel fell, along with a cell phone, to the carpet. Lifting her glasses off her nose for a moment, she glanced down at the items, puzzled.

  With a groaning sigh, she plucked at the torn pocket. Retrieving the items, she tucked them safely into the other pocket and crossed to one of the club chairs in front of Lucius’ desk, the notebook clutched to her chest. The broken heel did not help her lack of grace: Step-stomp, step-stomp, step-stomp.

  As if half blind despite the glasses, her hand reached out to feel for the club chair, double-checking its location before plunking herself into it. The polyester fabric of her cheap clothes disagreed with the buttery-soft leather, and she slid forward immediately, catching herself on the arms of the chair and shoving back into the seat . . . only to slide forward again. Bracing her one good heel, she perched, folded her hands on the notebook in her lap, and was, at last, still.

  He spun his chair to face the wall behind the credenza, trying not to laugh outright at the mess that was Miss Dahl. His mother was still going on about the Ransome family secret and how they would all be saved could they just solve it. Having heard the story since the cradle, and sure to hear it again as he approached his grave, there was no need to listen.

  “Uh huh. Okay. I have a meeting,” he managed around a rumble of laughter. “We’ll talk soon.”

  Taking a moment to compose himself, he drew several breaths before swinging back to face the room. Gently replacing the receiver, he reached for the mouse, scrolling through the PDF résumé.

  “Miss Dahl,” he began. “You’ve been with FalTech a year, is that right?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ransome.” Her voice was barely audible.

  She had started just a few weeks before he was called in to handle James. “Things are slow right now in your department.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ransome.” Even quieter now, staring down at white-knuckled, trembling hands.

  Damn, she thinks she’s getting laid off.

  Compassion drowned all lingering humour. “Since you have some free time,” he said quickly, “I need your help on a special project.”

  Her head lifted and she peered at him through her glasses. Actually, she seemed focused on a point somewhere over his shoulder, and he resisted the temptation to look to see what was there.

  Poor little mouse. So scared, she can’t even look me in the eye.

  Of course, he had a bad reputation for his temper (especially recently), but he sensed that this little creature would be scared of someone with even a nice reputation.

  “Sp-special pr-project?” she prompted in a whisper.

  “I was told you have a knack for research.” He quickly scanned her résumé. Business administration degree, couple of years as a traffic co-ordinator . . . nothing to support Rachel’s recommendation. “Where does the research come in?”

  “I-I know things about th-things,” she stuttered. “U-useless information, mostly, or so I’m t-told. H-hobby, information gathering. Who s-suggested me?”

  Was the stutter a real affliction or just bad nerves?

  “Rachel Meier,” he replied absently, still reading the résumé. With a puzzled sigh, he gave up. Swivelling his attention back to her: “I approached her first. She suggested you, instead.”

  “Oh.”

  Well, she wasn’t going to win any awards for articulation. There was nothing about her to suggest the ability to lead and communicate clearly, skills a traffic co-ordinator must have. How she had survived such a demanding position? Perhaps stress had brought her to FalTech, for her position here, though still in Operations, was far less visible.

  “What do you n-need researched?”

  She looked the cliché librarian times two, dead-plain, with that dull, bushy, mostly clipped-up hair, bad taste in eyewear (those thick-framed things were entirely wrong for her rather small face), and her clothes were just . . . sad. The baggy jacket made her look heavier than the weight her pixie face suggested, and the hem of her skirt seemed to be unravelling.

  As if aware of his scrutiny, a slim hand with a butchered thumbnail tugged at the skirt.

  Miss Dahl was a mess.

  When this counter-plan to the family’s schemes had popped into his head, Rachel had been the logical choice for the project—the family knew her well, and though she was nothing like her history-professor father, the family’s collective ditziness would have them easily overlooking that. He needed legitimacy attached to this effort, and had spent some days annoyed at Rachel for refusing to assist. Now he was pretty certain he would be treating her to a lavish dinner as a reward for putting him onto this little muddle.

  Miss Dahl was perfect.

  The family would completely buy anything she said, so complete was her impersonation of serious absent-minded scholar; he would give her this project, leaving him to do the final fixes to FalTech in peace, which would go much faster without the family Committee on him all the time. After that, a quick fly-through at Falcontor to assemble a new executive team for Gramps, and then back to LCR Consultants, his company and his dream. With any luck, he’d be celebrating Christmas in London this year—alone.

  Family-free. Forever. This was the last time he would bail them out.

  How many times have I thought and believed that?

  Too many to count.

  Miss Dahl was his last hope.

  Okay, that was too dramatic. But seriously, this had to be the end. He couldn’t move on with his life until the family let him go. There could be no more assuming responsibility for them. Whether this scheme was successful or not, it would be the last time.

  Said that before, too.

  With neither the time nor patience left for Miss Dahl to navigate the three feet between chair and desk, he retrieved a thick file folder and moved around to prop a hip on the front edge of the desk, tapping the folder on his thigh. “This is a personal project. I can count on your complete confidentiality, yes?”

  She nodded vigorously, and hastily straightened the loopy angle on which all that vigorousness had sent the glasses.

  “First of all, my family is insane. I am certain I was adopted, as I am the only Ransome who does not have such tendencies,” he joked, though he thought it seriously most days.

  “A-all right.” Gnawing her rather full lower lip, she looked at him as if he were, in fact, insane.

  “Four generations of Ransomes have been trying to find the hidden fortune of Neville Ransome.” As her expression perked up, he hastened to add, “There is no hidden fortune. Neville Ransome’s property and sizable wealth was all accounted for. Everything—every dollar and pound he earned, every acre of land, every stock, every lien, every debt owed him, every piece of art and stick of furniture was all itemised in his will, and passed to his son and daughter. My family has wasted uncounted sums and untold energy trying to find a hidden fortune that does not exist.”

  Her brows formed puzzled, asymmetrical slashes. “Why do they think there is one?”

  “Who knows how these things start?’ he dismissed. Truth was, after years of deliberate avoidance, he knew almost nothing about it. “All of the information is in here.”

  Her scent wafted to his nostrils as she shifted forward to take the folder, something deliciously powdery and innocent—and very alluring. He rubbed his nose in irritation.

  Now gnawing a thumbnail instead of her lip, her brows settled in an intriguingly quizzical position. “I’m to prove conclusively there is no hidden fortune?”

  Wouldn’t that
be great! “The family will never be entirely convinced. You are a distraction technique, so they think I’m actually doing something about it, and get them off my back.”

  Her fingers smoothed over the folder, but she did not open it. “Why don’t you hire someone to research? To give it legitimacy? I-I mean, why me?”

  “Uncounted sums?” he reminded coolly, though he was pleased that she grasped the importance of legitimacy without him spelling it out. “Enough has been spent on this insanity. Not just recently. For almost a hundred years,” he exaggerated slightly, “money has been pouring down this drain. You’ll do it for the salary I’m already paying you.” He forced a smile. “If by some miracle you do prove it doesn’t exist to my family’s satisfaction, I’ll give you a big raise and a bonus.”

  As with most people promised a dollar, she looked vastly happier with glimmer of avarice in her eyes and an ironic smile curving her full mouth. “And if I prove there’s a hidden Ransome fortune?” she asked with a degree of dry wit he did not expect.

  He chuckled with genuine humour. “Find it, and I’ll give you ten percent.”

  “The raise and bonus sound the safer bet,” she murmured wryly, crossing one leg over the other in a distinct signalling of a more relaxed mood, giving him an eyeful of shapely leg as the skirt rode up to mid-thigh.

  Nice . . .

  They both startled as her phone rang and Lucius did not entirely bite back a curse at the interruption. As if an internal reset button had been hit, her earlier tension swamped her, shapely legs quickly uncrossing as a quick glance at the display was followed by a mumbled apology and a quicker power down.

  He could have sworn as she lowered her gaze that there were tears on the tips of her lashes. Long, thick, unadorned lashes, as straight as a doll’s . . . for a moment he was fascinated by the shadows they cast on her cheeks.

  Giving himself a mental shake, realisation hit. Oh, hell, he was making her cry! Could this day get any worse? With a tired sigh, he returned to his chair, and spoke a little less brusquely. “Get started. Let me know if there are any additional expenses before you incur them.”

  “Sir? I think it would be best if I talked directly to your family about the HRF.”

  Hidden Ransome Fortune. Cute. “I don’t see the point,” he argued, though mildly.

  “People want to have their stories told, their opinions asked,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “When I give the final report that there is no HRF, your family must feel that they have been heard. That I knew about Neville’s idiosyncrasies as they imagine them, that I knew the twists and turns and theories. I can address each in my report, and they will know it is thorough.”

  He stared at her with fresh respect, a glimmer of real hope rising. Without even a glance at the file, and only his inadequate dissertation on the project, she had named it, absorbed it, and identified the approach crucial for its complete success. Very clever.

  Definitely, Rachel was getting a reward.

  Just then, the pen resting on her notebook rolled noisily and dropped to the floor, disappearing under her chair. In a flash, she was down, looking for it on all-fours, her butt in the air.

  And what a cute little butt it was, with the excess material of the skirt pulled taut across it! With a distinctly sexy wiggle to it as she crawled around, groping for the lost pen.

  Okay, maybe too long since he’d had a date if he was ogling this frump. But truly, nice equipment. Too bad about the rest of her.

  He managed to be looking elsewhere as she scrambled back into the chair, even more dishevelled than before, if that were possible.

  “Let me see what I can arrange. Email me your cell number. We might have to do it over weekends and evenings. We’ll meet again—” he checked his calendar, “same time on Tuesday.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ransome.” She rose awkwardly, stumbling a little on her broken heel.

  He shook his head ruefully, dropping his attention to the spreadsheet printouts on his blotter. If a hidden fortune existed in a fragile form—something along the lines of a Ming vase—Miss Dahl would break it if she found it. Either way, that particular familial problem solved.

  She still stood in front of the desk and he looked up sharply, wondering what was preventing her exit, expecting to find her caught in something. She was, but not how he expected.

  Her complete attention was focused on the painting of the crows.

  “That’s the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen!” She spoke clearly for the first time, her voice ringing with interest. “It’s a Pike, yes?”

  “Yes, I think so,” he replied, watching with astonishment as she crossed to it, still thumping in her damaged shoe, but far more . . . assertively, he supposed was the word.

  “Alexander Pike,” she murmured. “English. Not well known. Late-nineteenth century, early-twentieth. Somerset. No, Devonshire. I think. Usually did still-lifes. But those ravens aren’t still, are they?”

  “Crows,” he corrected and glanced at the time.

  “Ravens,” she insisted dismissively.

  This shocking bit of ’tude from the poor mouse got his undivided attention.

  Thoroughly entranced by the painting and not paying him the slightest notice, she continued, completely in her own little world. “’Course, same family. They are crows. All ravens are crows, but not all crows are ravens. Corvus corax. An unkindness of ravens,” she muttered.

  Plucking absently at the button of her blazer, it popped open as her voice went on without hint of stutter in its level tones. “Tell by the tails. Crows would make more sense, though. Carrion and all that. Artist error probably. Do ravens eat carrion, though? Probably. I wonder why their wings are all . . . misshapen like that. Damn, it’s like Hitchcock on crack.”

  Lucius grinned. He couldn’t agree more.

  Leaning forward to examine the painting more closely, she shimmied out of her blazer as if the heat in the room had just caught up to her, switching folder and notebook arm-to-arm as she did so.

  Holy. Crap.

  His mouth went dry as he stared at the profile of her body. That’s what was hiding under that hideous jacket? Who’d have guessed?

  Except it was a very good match for that cute little butt arrayed in front of him earlier.

  A black tank-style cami played faultless foil to the pearlescent skin of slim arms and shoulders, skimming pert, full breasts. Her waist was impossibly tiny; her bottom lusciously curved.

  “Not very valuable,” she went on. “Pike was a piker. Some good work, but this is awful.”

  He found his voice enough to slice roughly through the monologue. “Family heirloom.”

  The confidence ran out of her as if through a faucet, and she ran for the door, jacket and folder hugged to her chest. “Sorry, sir. Goodbye, sir. I’ll report later, sir. Tuesday, sir.”

  All of this while she struggled to open the door. At last she wrenched it open and practically ran away, the door slamming back on its hinges.

  The antics had him forgetting the sight of that gorgeous form, and he laughed heartily. An interesting package hiding a boatload of weird seriousness—or serious weirdness!

  Yes, Miss Dahl was perfect.

  Rocking back in his chair, he glanced again at her résumé, seeking her first name: Callie.

  He sat upright, the chair thunking. The name hadn’t clicked when Rachel recommended her.

  He had heard about her. Her name would float through meetings, frequently when someone asked whose bright idea something had been. He never investigated the behind-the-scenes idea-woman, simply happy that many of her ideas panned out.

  A thread of guilt ran through him. If such a thing had happened at LCR, he would have been all over finding out about such a valuable employee. But this was FalTech, and he didn’t care about it.

  But true hope drowned guilt effortlessly. Maybe, just maybe, weird and smart Callie Dahl would solve a whole whack of problems.

  Chapter Two

  Breaking routine was n
ot something Callie did. Ever.

  Breaking routine meant looking at things outside of the sphere one had chosen. Looking led to wanting. Wanting distracted. Distraction meant lost goals. Lost goals were unacceptable.

  Move forward. Blinkers on.

  As mantras went, it sounded lame, but she couldn’t conceive of anything more useful.

  So, how had chic and elegant Rachel got her to break her routine? It remained a mystery, even as she was dragged down to the PATH to a shoe-repair kiosk, did the unforgivable thing of splurging on takeout sushi (albeit after ten minutes of Rachel assuring her it was very fresh, made daily) while waiting for her shoe to be fixed, and back up to a street-level salon where Rachel needed to confirm an appointment.

  Maybe it was the realisation that Rachel’s chatter was entertaining, and she was lonely in her tightly organised, blinkered world.

  Hm. Not good to acknowledge that. It was very distracting.

  “Cal, what the devil has been going on with you these last months?” Rachel demanded.

  “How do you mean?” Defensive was not the best approach with Rachel, for the woman was a tiger when spotting a weakness. “Nothing’s going on.”

  Studiously focused on the spectacular wall display of expensive hair products, she wondered if there existed a product that would tame her ridiculous hair. The search for such a holy grail was about the only financial indulgence she still allowed herself, though her purchases were drugstore house-brand cheapies, not salon-quality elixirs in their mysterious bottles and fashionable designs. Alas, her hair just kept getting worse instead of better. Where had the curls gone? The shine? The occasional manageability?

  “What’s happened to the Callie who looked so put together? You’ve become a train wreck.”

  “Hey!”

  “Don’t even try,” Rachel scolded, beckoning to someone, and Callie was suddenly bracketed by Rachel and her stylist. “What do you think, Todd?”

  Todd plucked at a frizzy corkscrew escaping Callie’s bun. “She has lots of buildup from crap product. Needs a clarifier. And I have a wicked anti-frizz serum that just came in.”