Free Mission Canyon by Meg Gardiner Page B

them my agent’s name. We stepped onto a patio, where coffee and snacks were set up. The sun was intense. The tile floor radiated heat, and the potted plants throbbed. I took a peach from the snack table.
    ‘‘We have a proposal for you,’’ North said, and looked at his wife. ‘‘Jax?’’
    She was selecting an apple, examining it for bruises. The diamond in her engagement ring looked as big as the grapes on the table. It matched the stud earrings she wore, and the solitaire stone in her necklace, all shatteringly brilliant.
    She said, ‘‘We want to hire you.’’
    Halfway through biting into the peach, I stopped. ‘‘To do what?’’
    ‘‘To ghostwrite our memoirs.’’
    This was not what I was expecting, and she knew it. She regarded me with the cool and intense gaze of a cat. I felt pinned.
    North said, ‘‘We’ll pay you far more than you’re earning in your current publishing contract.’’
    ‘‘Now I am truly flattered,’’ I said. ‘‘But I have no experience as a ghostwriter.’’
    Rivera said, ‘‘You do journalism, though. You know how to interview people, and how to portray them insightfully. ’’
    North said, ‘‘And frankly, you know how to write about men. A bloke wouldn’t mind having you put his thoughts on paper.’’
    Rivera said, ‘‘And we do know a bit about you. We like what we’ve seen.’’
    ‘‘What’s that?’’
    North said, ‘‘You stood up to that religious terror group last year. Really, you bloody well sorted them out. That impressed us.’’
    Disquiet wriggled up my back. ‘‘I don’t regard that as résumé material.’’
    His wife said, ‘‘Honey, you should.’’
    I looked at her. ‘‘Who are you?’’
    North said, ‘‘Miss Delaney, we wish to engage you to write our memoirs. We will pay you a hell of a lot of money to do so.’’
    My disquiet was turning to apprehension. ‘‘Don’t be cryptic. Tell me who you are and why I should spend one minute of my life writing a book about yours. What do you do?’’
    ‘‘We’re retired,’’ he said.
    ‘‘Sorry. Find yourself another girl.’’ I started walking away.
    ‘‘Wait,’’ Rivera said. ‘‘Tim didn’t tell you what business we’re retired from.’’
    She waited until I looked at her. Those feline eyes pinned me again.
    She said, ‘‘Espionage.’’
    Jesse wiped his hands on a napkin. ‘‘Say that again.’’
    ‘‘I laughed at her.’’
    ‘‘And walked away.’’
    ‘‘They were a joke,’’ I said. ‘‘I didn’t waste any more time on them.’’
    ‘‘Weird joke.’’ He drank his iced tea.
    ‘‘So what did Chris Ramseur say about the computer harassment?’’ I said.
    ‘‘He went into deep-thinker mode. He’ll investigate.’’
    The waitress bustled by, putting the check on the table as she passed. It was nine p.m., and the restaurant at the Holiday Inn was nearly empty.
    ‘‘How’s the lobster?’’ I said.
    Jesse clucked like a chicken.
    Around the corner in the banquet room, the Garcia family reunion was revving into high gear, with slide shows and laughter at the dessert buffet. In the cocktail lounge, a tenor turned up the vibrato on the Hammond organ.
    Jesse said, ‘‘If he sings ‘Memory’ one more time, I’m getting a flamethrower.’’
    I rubbed his hand. ‘‘I’m on duty now. Go home.’’
    He paid his $9.99 for the dinner and we left the restaurant. Outside, I kissed him good night, and put fifty cents in a vending machine for a Snickers. Feeling lonely at the thought of sleeping alone, I put in another fifty cents for a Payday.
    I was mulling the York Peppermint Patties when I saw Brand’s door swing open. My pulse jumped into fourth gear. He came out and I followed him to the parking lot. When he drove away in a gold rental car, I followed him.
    He drove through Santa Barbara to Montecito, eventually turning toward the beach and pulling in at the Biltmore, the grande dame of local hotels.
    At the entrance