Hunting Hannah Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Thank You

  CHAPTER ONE

  HANNAH

  "How'd the trip go?" Annabeth asked, locking the back door behind me.

  I wheeled the trolley of boxes in, spinning the sturdy wheels to rearm direction for the vault.

  Three deadbolts, and a heavy metal bar I insisted on using whenever my vault was open. I took both security and my business seriously. I couldn't do the same with the glass frontage - bars tended to put off customers - so I'd had to settle for technological protection.

  A less than satisfactory solution, hence the vault.

  I worked until I had all but the heaviest left. I carefully lifted the last box onto a long metal shelf. Cripes, it was heavy. A twinge in my lower back reminded me that I hadn't lifted with my knees.

  I wiggled the trolley out from under the final box and rolled it aside. However, this cargo was too precious to stack high. Or even to rely on anything other than my steady grip. Locks, carrying everything by myself - guess I was a control freak.

  News to no one who knew me.

  Annabeth hovered directly behind me. So near, I felt her eight-month pregnant belly brush my sore back.

  As my only employee since opening the store five years ago, she'd been invaluable in every aspect of running Treasure Trove. Efficient, savvy with admin, and not afraid to get her hands dirty. She also had an almost mystical ability to sell.

  She was petite, with dark brown hair with curls reminiscent of Shirley Temple, and the widest smile in existence. She also had a knack of leading prospective buyers to precisely what they wanted even if they hadn't wanted it when they'd entered the shop.

  I had no clue how I was going to manage without her after the baby arrived. Today was her last day. I insisted, as did her over-protective husband, despite her repeated requests to stay until her water broke. And not just because the idea of her amniotic fluid on my Persian carpet horrified me.

  "So, what treasures have you brought back for me to drool over?"

  Annabeth moved along the shelf, perusing in each box’s label.

  I reached for a utility knife, flipped open the blade, and sank the sharp tip into the duct tape that secured the box labeled 'Darnington Estate, first drawing-room.'

  "First drawing-room?" she exclaimed, now back at my elbow, ready to peer inside.

  Annabeth loved this part almost as much as I did. Even though I'd already examined, um'd and ah'd over each piece, reopening them inside my own space was better than any Christmas morning I'd ever had.

  "They have more than one drawing-room? Must have been one hell of an estate. Especially considering the term ‘drawing room’ belongs to the sixteenth century. Just imagine, a young lady waiting in the drawing room, in a pearl-beaded white gown, waiting for the first debutante ball. Her coming-out, as it was called.“

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve been reading regency romance again, haven’t you?”

  “Ryan goes for the corsets and stockings. How do you think I got this way?”

  “Jeez, Ann. Way too much info.”

  “You asked.”

  Not really, but I knew better than to continue the conversation.

  “Ok. Well, the Darnington's go back that far. There was also a ballroom. It felt like they’d transported a castle from Mother England.“

  I sliced through the tape and opened the cardboard sides.

  "So why are they selling their goods?"

  "Same reason as always."

  "Dead and money."

  As in, the reigning matriarch or patriarch died, and their heirs wanted cash instead of antiques.

  "Yep."

  I pulled out the top level of the protective wrapping, followed by the items double wrapped within.

  “You won’t believe me, but this is actually a Patek Philippe 18-carat gold pocket watch. Broken, but I know a man who can fix it."

  Annabeth, who was an avid student of all things antique since her first day on the job, whistled. "The heirs have no clue, do they?"

  I shrugged. Their lack of interest equaled my gain. That’s the antiquities business.

  "They didn't care enough. Luckily it was stuck inside a crate with other broken, non-valuable items in the attic. Johnson was still in the dining room when I found it."

  Johnson, another antique dealer, was more than mere competition - he was the devil incarnate. A swindler of the highest order. If Annabeth had an evil twin, albeit Johnson was male, he'd be it. Good looking, smooth-talking, and able to convince sellers he was their gift to riches.

  Jerk face asshole.

  “Pig,” Annabeth snorted, echoing my thoughts. "Forget about him. What else did you get?"

  I tucked the pocket watch into a velvet-lined box on the third level of a glassed-in metal rack bolted to the vault walls. I kept a stock of such boxes, prepared to hold my treasures before they moved on.

  “Four Eighteenth-century perfume bottles, some jewellery, Edwardian era furniture that I'm having shipped. A lot of good finds. Also, three paintings I sent to Professor Zander for identification and restoration. I think one is a Jackson Pollock."

  "No f'ing way!"

  "Not sure. You know my painting knowledge isn't as good as I'd like. I just had this feeling, you know? Anyway, those are the highlights. Everything else falls into the good sellers, bread and butter, category."

  She watched as I removed each object, going from box to box, placing them all in protective casings. I closed the thick glass doors as each shelf filled.

  Then we reached the last box and my favorite find. Unlike the others, this was narrow and tall. Six feet. Only sheer determination got it inside. In hindsight, I should have hunted up some help. It didn't matter. I wrapped it thicker than anything else; the chance of breaking was minimal. But not impossible.

  I slit the box on all sides so I could pull the cardboard and wrapping away rather than lifting the object within. With Annabeth helping me keep it upright and steady, I pulled the last of the wrappings away.

  Annabeth gasped. "That is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I've seen the Las Vegas Australian Male strippers, so you know I mean it."

  "I'm telling Ryan you said that."

  An ornate, intricate gold mirror. But not just any mirror. I unfolded first the right-side and then the left-side. It was a three-sided vanity mirror, with numerous emeralds and rubies set into the knots and contours of the frame. In its early life, it would have a pride of place is lady's dressing room.

  "The curves at the top - just wow."

  "I know," I murmured, gliding the tips of my fingers along one side.

  There was nothing standard about this mirror, even for its time.

  "Mirror, mirror, leaning against the metal bench," Annabeth intoned.

  I burst out laughing, then immediately sobered when the mirror wobbled. Annabeth hurriedly adjusted the side mirrors to their appropriate angle, so that it was self-supported.

  I stepped back, taking it in, just as overwhelmed as I had been at first sight. I’d found it tucked in the closet of a closed-up bedroom, hidden by moth-eaten dusty fur coats. The mirrors themselves were tarnished, and the entire piece needed attention, but…

  "Alright, Boss Lady, now that you've unpacked all the goodies, we have something important to discuss."

  "Hmm?"

  She snapped her fingers in front of my nose.

  "Listen up, or I swear I will bear down and make this baby come here and now."

  That got my attention.

  "Don't be stupid. You can't just force - "

  "Look at that woman," she pointed to the mirror.
<
br />   "Um, Annabeth, that woman is me, you know that, right? Are you feeling ok? It is a lot of gold, maybe the bright light in here is making a bit wacky. Let’s go have a glass of cold water.”

  "That woman," she continued, ignoring my comment. "Is gorgeous. A total stunner. I'd kill for those legs. Hell, they're half my height. That flat stomach too, and no, that's not just the jealous elephant-sized pregnant woman talking. Not bad boobs, either."

  "Hey!"

  "Yeah, ok, they're knock-out. At least that's how I heard one of Ryan's friends describe your rack after our last fourth of July bbq."

  "What? Annabeth Jane Olsen!"

  "And that face. Maybe a little pale, and those bags you're toting under your otherwise pretty green eyes aren't exactly come-hither. But those high cheekbones almost make up for it. So do these golden-brown waves. Guys find long hair sexy. That is the only thing your physical neglect has improved - I doubt you've had a cut in ages."

  I turned away from the mirror, fed up and to be honest, a little unnerved by Annabeth's matter-of-fact catalog.

  "I don't have time for this. Crazy woman. It's the pregnancy brain, right?"

  She grabbed my arm, and damn, the woman had claws.

  "Ow!"

  "Look at that woman in the mirror," she demanded.

  I did, shrugging, "So what? What in the world are you trying to say? Spit it out. I’ve got stuff to do. “

  "That woman needs a man!"

  "Ok, that is definitely the pregnancy brain talking."

  She huffed out a frustrated breath.

  "You're gorgeous and could have any man you want. You're financially secure and have a kind of self-confidence that any man worth having will find sexy as hell. Trust me. Plus, three last things. You haven't had sex in, what - three years?"

  Oliver. God, that had been a disaster.

  "And you are lonely."

  I whipped away my arm, grateful I chose a long-sleeved cotton shirt this morning.

  My personal life was something I didn’t want to discuss. Annabeth was a python once that door cracked open, even the tiniest bit.

  I was lonely. But Oliver kind of stomped all over my heart, and all over my interest in actively pursuing any kind of love life. Which meant I was sexually deprived as well. No not entirely. Vibrators work just dandy. And most days I was able to ignore the lonely part.

  So lovely to have a happily married pregnant woman point that out.

  "I don't have time. I have a business to run. Remember, I'm doing your job as well as my own. Speaking of maternity leave - it's four o'clock. I'm sure Ryan's on his way. Bye, bye. Let me know when the baby comes."

  I strode out of the room, going for my desk. Escaping.

  "That's another thing," Annabeth followed me, leaning against the desk.

  "Stop harassing me."

  "But - "

  I yanked open my bottom drawer and pulled out an envelope, handing it over.

  "Happy baby…I’m not sure what the standard congratulation phrase is. Good luck?"

  Annabeth's cornflower blue eyes welled with tears.

  "I don't know a thing about babies, but I do know useful, practical gifts trump frilly dresses in the end."

  She tore open the envelope and read the card and voucher inside.

  "Six months of cleaning service?" she squealed.

  "I figured you'd be too busy to worry about scrubbing toilets. Especially since, you know, gross diapers."

  "You're thoughtful and funny! What man wouldn't want you?"

  "Seriously? I give you a present, and it still doesn't distract you? I was wrong - you aren't a python. You're a damn pitbull."

  "Huh?"

  She shuffled the papers, trying to stuff them back into the envelope, unable to see through her free-flowing tears. Another sheet fell out, drifting to the floor like a lazy feather.

  "What’s that?”

  "Oh yeah, I forgot about that one. Don't!" I snapped as she started a sideways hunch, her stomach preventing a regular squat pick-up. I swiped it. "Although, now I’m tempted to keep it for myself after all that abuse.”

  But I handed it over, anyway.

  "Meal delivery service! Oh my God, Hannah!"

  "Well, cooking while sleep-deprived is dangerous."

  She threw her arms around me, and I felt a giant kick near my hip.

  "I love you so much. How could any man - "

  "Would you please just stop?"

  A knock sounded on the back door. Thank God.

  "That has to be Ryan." I said, gasping for air around her strangle-hold. "I'll get it. You'll probably break something."

  "Wait," she hiccupped, released me and wiped away her tears.

  She pulled a sheet of paper from the top level of my inbox, handing it over. A spreadsheet?

  "A little present. You, my friend, and Treasure Trove, are squarely in the black. I did a thorough audit and - well, business stuff. The point is, you don't have to work as hard. So there’s plenty of time for a man. And sex. Lots and lots of sex. And to give you a mental head start - how about your sexy neighbor, the good cop Jake Lancaster?"

  Jake

  "What do you guys think of hiring a transcriber? We could all pitch in.”

  Andrew called out from somewhere behind his stack of files. ”Pay per hour, and we each cough up the dough for the time she spends on our own individual files."

  As my pile was higher than my partner's, I had to admit the idea had some value. Open cases with no leads, those with a few promising leads, and the dead as doornail cold cases destined for storage. On the very bottom of my pile were two crime files I refused to let go, even under my Captain’s threat of discipline.

  Every cop understood. Some unsolved cases would haunt you to the grave.

  As I was only thirty-two and expected to remain alive for a long time, I planned to solve them before that fateful day. Much more likely now that Andy and I'd transferred out of under-cover. The last few years had been delicate balance of gaining the trust of criminals who'd shoot you for the slimmest of doubt, and Becca's threat of maiming vital body parts if we didn't transfer out and attempt a nine to five timeline.

  Andy's wife was, well, let's just say, a force. Not sure if she was a force of nature, but a force none-the-less.

  "As long as she's hot and wears short skirts," another voice piped up, his smirk audible.

  I looked up in time to see Andy throw a pen at Jenkins.

  "Sexist asshole."

  Jenkins shrugged. “Hey, if I'm paying for it, why not set out my expectations?”

  Now I threw a pen. Unlike Andy, I had accurate aim. The permanent marker hit Jenkins square on his forehead and spun up and over his thinning combed-over Rogain-attempted brown hair. Hell. I should have taken the lid off.

  Jenkins jerked at the dual assaults, bumping his paunched stomach against his metal desk as his already-wobbly wheeled chair rolled back.

  "Hey!"

  "Yeah, hey," I shot back. "Didn't you take the sexual harassment course last month?"

  "Look, man. It's not harassment if she doesn't even exist."

  "Just like your sex life, right?" Pauly, another cop on our small office floor chimed in.

  His desk was always spotless. Always. I didn't know whether he had ADHD or simply didn't sleep. Added to that, he dressed in three-piece suits. Even in the summer.

  "You're one to talk," Jenkins snarled, all good humor gone.

  "Actually, I am," Pauly stood, straightened his tie. "As I'm off for a date. Hasta luego, Andy, and Jake. Up yours, Jenkins."

  The room quieted again, except the occasional cursing from Jenkins, and the constant tap of our keyboards.

  "One more. That's all I have in me tonight," Andy groaned.

  I dumped the bottom half of my files into my top desk drawer.

  "Naw, let's call it. Twenty minutes to seven."

  Andy glanced up, knowingly, so I quickly added, "Isn't Becca cooking some sort of seafood masterpiece tonight? She'd be pisse
d if you ruined it by being late."

  "Yeah, nice try. You just want to get out of here so you can perve on your neighbor's evening swim."

  "Say what?" Jenkins perked up.

  "Shut up," we both snapped.

  My desk phone rang. I sighed, from deep down.

  It never bloody ended. I needed it to end. Well, maybe not the job. I just needed…something. A break to the constant hamster wheel. Something to look forward to. Something to go home to.

  And, no, not just watching her swim. Though God knew that was as good as it got right now. Watching my neighbor, my beautiful Hannah, swim at the end of the day had become something of a balm for me. Stroke after stroke, and I'd drift off into a world where my hands were caressing her body, not the water.

  I've had a thing for Hannah since the day she'd moved in. Two years ago. I used the undercover excuse as far as it got me. The odds of successfully dating your next-door neighbor weren’t great. I doubt such an odds study existed, but any man in his right mind knew the ‘don’t shit in your own backyard’ saying. As in, don’t screw a woman where you lived. When its over, you’d have to move out.

  That’s what I told myself for the first year she’d lived there. The excuse was hanging by a thin thread, unraveling a little more each day.

  "Lancaster," I answered wearily.

  "Hiya Jake," responded Katie, the front reception desk warden.

  "Hey. What's up?"

  "Um. Well. Here's the thing. I have a woman who needs to speak with you."

  Fifteen minutes to seven.

  "Can you get her to come back tomorrow?"

  "Ah, no. I don't think so."

  Andy strolled over, propped his hip against my desk. A curious but wary expression on his face. A call at this time never meant good news.

  "Why not?"

  Katie's voice dropped to a whisper.

  "This lady is pregnant. Like really pregnant. And bossy. Worse than Becca, if you can believe that. She's insisting on speaking with you, and threatening physical harm unless I let her through - and Jake, I just can't arrest a pregnant woman."

  Becca had a reputation around the station, but she and Katie were friends, so I let that pass.

  I put my hand over the speaker and relayed it all to Andy.