Free Love Spell by Stan Crowe Page A

learn of our services, Mister…?”
    “Call me Clint. I don’t go by ‘Mister’ anything, unless you want to call me ‘Mister Awesome.’ Or maybe ‘Mister Master of the Pencil.’”
    Lindsay groaned inside, and typed a few notes before hopping on the Internet. She let the client—yes; she could call him that—stew in his chair while she scowled at her computer screen and hammered away on the keyboard. Some minutes later, she had everything she was looking for. She smiled to herself, vindicated.
    “How was it, again, that you learned of our services?” she asked, still looking at the information she’d quickly dredged up.
    “Well, Miss Self…”
    “Sullivan.”
    “Whatever. I saw an online ad. Free consultations are nice, and it seemed you might offer a good deal. I’ve never been a huge fan of paying for name brands if I don’t have to.”
    Lindsay turned back to glance out the window to hide her crestfallen look. It wouldn’t do to let him see that, nor would it do to admit how much it hurt to think that he didn’t even recognize her. Of course, she had improved with time, so perhaps his ignorance was a good thing?
    The question now was whether to kill it here, where it was easy, or to take the case and the risks that came with it. Mrs. Ashworth’s polite rejection passed through her mind, and a downward glance caught a glimpse of the stack of bills from Monday. Still unpaid.
    Was there really any choice but to bite the bullet? Sigh.
    “Yes, Mister… um, Client. Clint ,” she hastily corrected. “That’s correct. We offer the most competitive prices in the industry. Now, what is the nature of the work you would like to hire us for?”
    “Before I get into that, since you’re cheap…,” he started.
    She resented the remark instantly.
    “…Could you maybe present some kind of credentials? Something to help convince me you’re worth the cost?”
    Forcibly swallowing a glower, she turned back to the work she’d done online. This was perfect. “Your last name, sir?”
    “Christopherson. Spelled s-o-n.”
    She glanced at him, and then back at her screen. A few more keystrokes, and she pivoted the monitor to where the client could see it. With the barest of effort, she was able to set before him his entire life profile, complete with the mug shot taken after he was arrested during a party for UCSF’s Delta Sigma Pi.
    “This is you? Clint Christopherson?” she asked.
    The dumb, bug-eyed look was adequate retribution for his remarks. His date of birth, home address and phone number were easy finds. His driver’s license—not much harder. Just to prove herself, she’d pulled his social security number, bank account information, all four of his e-mail addresses (including one he hadn’t used since high school), photographs of him from as far back as thirteen years ago, his job history, and a list of his residences since he moved out of Reseda in the late ’90s. Last was a list of at least a dozen online dating sites he was registered with. And that wasn’t even the most intimate information she knew she could get.
    Finally, he found his tongue. “You don’t know what kind of boxers I wear, too, do you? That’s… scary… that you can find out so much about me in five minutes or less.”
    She merely smiled. “Your underwear is of no consequence to me. I do hope, however, that this convinces you that I may have some clue about what I’m doing.”
    A nod.
    “And so,” she began, not bothering to hide a note of triumph, “what is it that you need me for?”
    A flash of worry flickered through his eyes (don’t look at the eyes Lindsay!), and she felt a pang of fear tinged with scandalous curiosity. Had he gotten himself into some kind of trouble? How satisfying would it be to stick it to him by leaving him to broil in his own juices? She could simply pronounce her judgment here and now, and he would be cut adrift to sail the stormy seas of his own problems. The thought made her feel a