"Leeches."
Mortimer had to fight to hide his amusement as Sam muttered that word with a loathing that went bone-deep. His gaze traveled over her back where she lay before him on a towel on the table in the cottage, and he shook his head at the sheer number of the little bloodsuckers. There must have been a whole nest of them living on that boulder, he thought, and silently berated himself once again for setting her on the boulder rather than carrying her the few feet to her towel on the beach. If he had, he'd probably be buried inside her warm heat, shouting out his release. Instead he stood, frustrated and bare-chested, in the now damp, uncomfortable jeans he'd dragged on, removing leeches from Sam's back. Well, her back, her buttocks, her legs... He still had to do her front too.
Grimacing, he bent to slide one finger next to where a leech was feeding and used his nail to push the sucker away from the wound until he broke the seal. At the same time, he used another finger to detach the posterior sucker and then quickly plucked it from her back before it could fasten itself to her again. It was a time-consuming process.
"Can't you just burn the little bastards off," Sam snarled, shifting uncomfortably on the table.
Surprised by the first curse he'd heard from her, Mortimer glanced up to find her glaring back over her shoulder with resentment.
"I already told you that it's best not to," he said patiently, knowing she was embarrassed. On top of that, every spot where he removed a leech was probably itching like crazy... and being covered with leeches was just gross, really. Well, it would be for her. Not that it was exactly a joy to see her so, but he wasn't shuddering with horror every couple of minutes as she was.
Mortimer's gaze slid over the spots where he'd removed leeches, noting the free-flowing blood coming from the wounds. He was glad he'd fed-and fed well-on the fresh supply of blood that had waited in Decker's truck when he'd met them.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Sam muttered, drawing his attention again. "If you burn them off, they regurgitate their meal, spitting up their stomach contents back into the open wound, and that could cause infection because of the bacteria in their bellies and blah blah blah."
It seemed obvious to Mortimer that Sam was angry at him. He supposed she held him responsible for this mess. He couldn't blame her. If he'd just chosen the towel over the boulder, or, hell, even the sand-
"This could only happen to me," she said suddenly. "It is so me to be... er... relaxing in the water and end up covered in leeches."
"Relaxing, huh?" he asked dryly. If she'd found what they were doing relaxing, he'd been doing something wrong. When Sam blushed, she apparently blushed everywhere. Mortimer could see the color rising under the pale, naked skin splayed before him. Feeling bad for adding to her discomfort, he tried to distract her and said the first thing he thought of. "Actually, I'm sort of relieved that leeches are all it was. When I first felt it, I feared you had some kind of strange growth."
Sam was not impressed, he realized as she rose up slightly on her arms to swivel her upper body and look at him. The glare she turned his way could have singed the hair off a cow. Mortimer soon understood the true source of her resentment and anger, however, when she snapped, "Why did they all attack me? You haven't got a single one on you, but they're on my back, my front, my sides. What kind of karma is that? You picked the damned boulder."
Mortimer bit his lip as she flopped back on the table. He really had no idea why not him. The only thing he could think was that an immortal's blood was somehow unattractive to leeches. He couldn't say that to her, however. Clearing his throat, he bent to remove another one and said apologetically, "Perhaps my blood is bitter."
Sam released her breath on a gusty sigh, dropped her head on her folded arms, and moaned. After a moment, she raised her head and said quietly, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so snappy. It's just that my back itches like crazy, and my skin feels like it's crawling with the horrid little things, and this is just plain humiliating. I'd rather be dunked in boiling oil than suffer this, and all I really want to do is get into the hottest bath I can manage, scrub every inch of my skin off, and go to sleep and forget this night ever happened."
Mortimer said quietly, "Not all of it, I hope."
After a brief silence, she admitted into her arms, "No. Not all of it."
His lips curving with relief, Mortimer turned his attention back to the leeches. As he worked, he got quicker at removing them. Still, it was a relief to drop the last one into the pot where he'd been placing them.
"I'm done with your back," he announced. "If you'd like to roll over, I'll get the few off your front too."
Mortimer braced himself, expecting a protest and having to convince her, but it appeared she'd rather have the leeches off than preserve what was left of her dignity. After the briefest hesitation, Sam sighed with resignation and began to shift on the table. Mortimer schooled his face into a neutral expression as she turned over. His gaze ran over her clinically once she settled on her back. Much to his relief, there were only a couple of leeches here. There had been ten times that on her back and sides.
Mortimer was quick to remove the ones from her front. At least the ones he could see. His gaze slid to her groin as he removed the last visible one from her thigh. He turned away to drop the last leech in the pot and set the plate back over it before saying carefully, "I think I have them all, but you might want to check the spots I can't see."
Sam peered at him with bewilderment as she quickly sat up and pulled up the towel she'd been lying on to cover herself. "You've seen everything. And in glaring light," she added unhappily.
"Not everything," he pointed out, gesturing vaguely toward her groin as she slid off the table.
Sam froze.
"No," she breathed, paling. In the next moment, she'd disappeared into the bathroom.
It was a tiny bathroom. Mortimer had noticed as much when they'd toured this cottage. It had a toilet, sink, and shower all crowded in so tightly, one would have difficulty turning around in the room. He bit his lip as he heard her banging about inside, presumably performing acrobatics in an effort to get a look between her legs, and then remonstrated with himself about finding any of this amusing. This was a terrible situation. One that had put a halt to any possibility of their finishing what had started in the water. Perhaps ever. Sam might think of leeches every time he kissed her from now on and shrink from him with disgust.
That wiped the smile off Mortimer's face.
Aware of the silence now from the bathroom, he moved to the door and listened briefly before asking, "Sam? Are you all right? Do you need a mirror? I have one in my shaving kit I could fetch for you."
"No, there's a hand mirror in here," she said, sounding strained. "It's just hard-It's so tiny in here-Just a minute," she ended finally, not bothering to explain.
"Okay." Mortimer said, managing to bite back the words shout if you need help. He didn't think she'd appreciate the offer.
Another moment passed, and then he heard her relieved sigh through the door. "No more leeches. I'm going to take a shower."
The hiss of the water turned on immediately, so Mortimer didn't bother to answer. Moving away from the door, he peered around the room, his gaze landing on the plate-covered pot. Deciding it might be best to get rid of that before she came out, Mortimer quickly scooped up the pot and headed out of the cottage. It was on the edge of the small front porch that he paused, unsure what to do with the little critters. His first instinct was to somehow kill them, but they had only been doing what they needed to do to survive. Just like his people did.
Mortimer's gaze dropped to the pot in his hand, and he grimaced. He didn't fancy pulling them out one by one and stomping on them for that. He also couldn't think of another kinder way to kill them. He'd heard salt might do the trick, but if so, he suspected it would be a long, painful death. Rather like being staked out in the sun was for his kind.
Nope. He just couldn't do it. It was back to the water for them, Mortimer decided, and immediately started down the path, eager to get the chore done before Sam came out of the shower. He was pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate his solution to the situation. She'd probably like to roast them all slowly in the oven at this point.
Dark as it was, Mortimer had no more trouble now negotiating the path than he had when he'd gone in search of Sam on returning from meeting the boys. He released the leeches in the lake and was leaning off the dock, waving the pot in the water, rinsing it out, when he heard the growl of engines. At first he thought it must be boats, but after a moment a group of riders on Sea-Doos came into view around the point.
Lifting the pot out of the water, Mortimer gave it a shake and then sat back on his haunches to watch the four Sea-Doos. It looked like two men and two women, and they appeared to be having a good time. Too good a time. The group were obviously drunk and likely to get themselves killed mucking about on the lake at this hour, Mortimer thought as he watched them turn, narrowly missing one another, and then roar back around the point and out of sight again.
Shaking his head, he stood and headed back toward the cottage, but wondered if there was somewhere to rent Sea-Doos up here. They did look like fun, and he wouldn't mind trying them out. He did have a rogue to find, and now the missing Cathy Latimer too, but surely they could find a free moment at some point to enjoy themselves.
Sam was still in the shower when Mortimer reached the cottage. Steam was wafting from the cracks above and below the door of the bathroom, suggesting she was trying to boil herself alive. He wouldn't doubt she was probably scrubbing herself raw as well. Sam had really been upset by having the leeches on her. He could have told her tales of them being used for medicinal purposes when he was younger, but she would have thought him nuts if he announced that he was eight hundred years old and had seen pretty much everything there was to see in this world.
Mortimer set the pot and plate in the sink and then headed back out of the cottage again. He'd left the cooler in the SUV when he'd first returned. He hadn't wanted to carry it inside while Sam might be up and about, so had brought in only their clothes and groceries earlier. The bathroom door had been closed when he'd entered, and he'd at first assumed she was in there, so had quickly unpacked the groceries and stowed them away. It was only after he'd finished that he'd found she wasn't in the bathroom after all and rushed outside in search of her. He'd been relieved when he'd heard the faint splashing of water from the lake and followed the sound to the shore to see her there.
He should have headed back up to the SUV to retrieve the cooler then and plug it in, in his room. However, the blood had been the last thing on Mortimer's mind when he'd seen the pale glow of moonlight reflecting off her skin.
Now he was thinking of the blood, however, and hurried out to the car to retrieve it, grateful to find her still in the shower when he returned. Once he had it plugged in, in his room, Mortimer moved back out to the kitchen and glanced around. When his gaze landed on the pot and plate he'd set in the sink, he decided to wash and put them away so there was no evidence to remind Sam of her unfortunate adventure when she came out of her extremely long shower.
Grabbing up the bottle of dish soap on the sink, he poured a healthy amount into the pot and then turned on the hot water. A sudden shriek from the bathroom made him whirl and rush toward the door, but he found it locked.
"Sam? What's happening?" Mortimer shouted.
"Nothing! I'm fine," she gasped at once, probably afraid he was about to break down the door. She had a right to that worry, as he'd been about to do just that. "The water just went cold. I guess I used up all the hot."
Mortimer's eyes widened, and he hurried back to turn off the tap as he realized he'd probably diverted all the hot water by turning on the sink tap.
"I'll be out in a minute."
Mortimer grimaced at her words and set about frantically cleaning the pot and plate and then rinsing and drying them both to remove the evidence that it was he who'd ruined her shower. He'd just finished putting the two items back where he'd found them and was laying the dish towel on the counter to dry when the bathroom door opened and Sam stepped out.
Mortimer turned to offer her a smile, his eyes widening when he saw that she was red as a lobster from head to toe. A result of the combination of hot water and scrubbing, he suspected. Her hair was slicked back and damp, and she had wrapped her towel around herself toga style. She was also sidling toward the hall to the bedrooms.
"I'm going to bed. Thanks for... everything. G'night," she mumbled, flushing even redder.
"Good," Mortimer began, but she was already whirling away and rushing off up the hall as he finished, "night."
So much for their first night alone together.
The insistent, not to mention irritating, ring of her phone woke Sam in the morning. Rolling over in bed, she reached down to feel around on the floor for her purse and then dragged it up onto the bed with her as she sat up. She didn't bother digging through the contents, but simply upended the purse and then snatched up her phone when it tumbled out with everything else.
"Hello?" Sam said groggily into the phone.
"Good morning, Samantha. I'm sorry. Obviously I've woken you up."
Straightening at the disapproval in Clarence Babcock's voice, Sam cleared her throat. "Yes. I stayed in one of the cottages here at the Latimers', but I hadn't realized I'd be staying when I headed here and had no clothes or groceries, which meant a bit of a drive to collect them. It was quite late by the time that was accomplished," she explained, framing her words carefully so that she wasn't lying. There was no need to mention that it was actually someone else who had made the drive and that she had merely stayed up to wait for him. She'd rather leave Mortimer out of it for now.
"I am sorry about intruding on your vacation this way, and I sincerely appreciate your aiding us, Samantha," Mr. Babcock said solemnly.
"That's all right, sir," Sam said at once, feeling guilty. She hadn't meant to make him feel bad. She just hadn't wanted him to think she was a layabout. Clearing her throat, she changed the subject. "I haven't heard from Sergeant Belmont, so I'm guessing there's no news yet, but I'll call and check with him and then get right back to you."
"Good, good. That will be fine. In the meantime, I'm afraid Martin and Trisha are stuck in Europe for the moment. It seems a rather severe weather system has all flights canceled. Martin's hoping to catch one of the first flights out, but I've been checking with the airline, and they don't seem to think they'll be able to start moving planes until tomorrow morning."
"Oh." Sam bit her lip and waited to see what else he had to say.
"I intended to drive up there with them when I talked to you yesterday, but I'm afraid in all the worry, I quite forgot about the Manning case starting today."
Sam stiffened at the mention of the Manning case. It was a big deal for the firm, and she wasn't surprised when he said, "I have to be there. I might even have to have my son collect Martin and Trisha from the airport and drive them up tomorrow, though I'm hoping I can arrange something so that I can get away."
She shifted on the bed and almost sighed aloud at the expectant silence that followed, but finally offered, "Did you want me to stay here then and keep an eye on things until tomorrow?"
"That would be very kind of you, Samantha. Thank you. I appreciate it."
"Right," she sighed. "Well, I'll call Belmont now and see if he has any news."
"Thank you. Be sure to call me back right after."
Sam assured him she would and then said good-bye and snapped her phone closed, ending the connection. Grimacing at it, she then set it on the bedside table and quickly scooped everything back into her purse before tossing the sheets aside and getting up. She wasn't calling Belmont until she was dressed. Sam just didn't have the heart to talk to the odious man in her nightie, especially not the one she was presently wearing. The short, see-through black lace camisole belonged to either Alex or Jo. Sam was very surprised when she'd found it among the things they sent, but then she'd realized that she shouldn't be. Her sisters were trying to get her laid. How humiliating was that?
Shaking her head, she quickly stripped off the delicate nightie, pulled on clothes, and then grabbed her phone and left her room.
Sam wasn't at all surprised to find the kitchenette/living area empty when she entered. It was early yet, and she had no doubt Mortimer was sleeping. She set her phone on the counter and moved to make coffee. Once that was done, she grabbed her phone and moved out onto the front porch to make her call so that she wouldn't wake Mortimer.
What followed was the most frustrating ten minutes of conversation she'd ever suffered. When the phone was answered with the O.P.P. spiel, she asked for Belmont and was told to hold. She held... for several minutes, and then the very professional-sounding woman who had answered explained that he was out investigating an "incident." Since Sam had been asked to hold at first as if he were in, she didn't believe that for a minute, but could hardly call the woman a liar.
Instead she asked, "May I speak to Constable Mack then, please?"
"He's off today," came the reply.
Sam began to tap her nails impatiently against her thigh as she considered what to do next. Finally she asked, "Well, then, is there anyone there who might be able to update me on the progress in the search for Cathy Latimer?"
There was a hesitation and then the woman asked her to hold again. Sighing, Sam waited impatiently for the woman to return, stiffening when she heard the click of the call being reengaged.
"I'm afraid there's no one here who can help you at the moment," she was told. "I'll have Sergeant Belmont call you when he returns. Have a good day."
"Oh, but-" Sam began and then growled with frustration as a click sounded, followed by the dial tone. Snapping the phone closed, she forced herself to take a deep breath and calm down. She'd just have to wait for his call. Unfortunately, while she did, she'd have to report back to her boss that she'd learned absolutely nothing. So much for her riding herd on the police, Sam thought dryly as she punched in the number for the office.
Much to her relief, she found herself talking to Mr. Babcock's secretary, Madge. Mr. Babcock had already left for court and wouldn't be available for the rest of the day unless it was an emergency.
"Is it an emergency?" Madge asked carefully.
"No," Sam said at once. "If he calls in looking for a message from me, just tell him that the police have no news yet and I'll get back to him as soon as they do."
"All right," the woman answered easily, and then added, "I hope you're at least getting to have a little fun up there, Samantha. You are supposed to be on a well-earned vacation."
"Yes, well... such is life," Sam muttered.
"No, such is how you're allowing life to treat you, dear. Don't sit up there in the Latimers' cottage waiting to hear from people all day. You have your cell phone. Go have a little fun while you wait for calls."
"But Cathy-"
"I've known Cathy Latimer since she was a child," the woman interrupted, reminding her that she'd been Mr. Babcock's secretary for nearly thirty years. "That girl is constantly running off and doing this or that and scaring everyone silly. Don't let her antics upset your vacation; you need to take some time for yourself today and have fun."
"She may have been troublesome in the past, Madge, but I think she might really be in trouble this time," Sam said quietly. She'd dealt a lot with the woman while working for Mr. Babcock and always liked and respected her opinion, but this time she was sure Madge was wrong. "The door to the house was unlocked and ajar, and there was an uneaten sandwich and drink there and-"
"I know, I heard all of that from Clarence," Madge interrupted. "I still think it's just Cathy being irresponsible again. But whether it is or not, you're not expected to hunt for her yourself. That's a job for the police. From what I understand, Clarence just wants you to keep calling and harassing the police in the area so that they don't forget to look for the girl. You can have fun between phone calls, can't you?"
"Yes, I suppose," Sam said reluctantly.
"Well then, do it," Madge said firmly. "Life's too short to work as hard as you do."
"Yes, Madge," she murmured, wondering if the woman wasn't right. She could have fun between phone calls to Belmont. And if he didn't call by noon, she'd call again. And if she still couldn't reach him, she'd go down to the O.P.P. office in person and hunt him down.
Finding her mood lifting immediately, Sam smiled and said into the phone, "Thank you, Madge."
"You're welcome. Now hang up and go have fun."
"I will. Have a good day." Sam closed her phone more gently this time. Feeling much better than she had after the call to the O.P.P. station, she slid it into her front pocket and then headed back into the cottage.
There was no sign of Mortimer yet, but the coffee was done. Sam poured herself a cup and then started checking out what groceries he'd brought back with him. She would have settled for a piece of toast or a bowl of cereal. What she found was a box of pancake mix, some maple syrup, and sausage links. Her sisters had always bugged her about needing to put on weight, and she supposed this was their attempt to try to help in that area. However, Sam had always had difficulty putting on weight. She ate like a horse and never gained an ounce. It was depressing. She had met several women who claimed they could gain a pound just looking at food and didn't doubt them for a minute, but she'd give a lot to trade her metabolism for theirs for a couple of months just so she'd look less like a half-starved war camp victim.
Sam set to work making pancakes and sausages. It was nearly done and she was just wondering whether she should wake Mortimer up or just set his aside to be warmed later when his door opened and he stumbled up the hall into the kitchen. He wore just his jeans and carried a stack of clothes that only half hid his gorgeous chest. He also looked half asleep, his hair standing up in all directions in a manner she found adorable.
Mumbling something about a shower, he ducked into the bathroom.
Sam let her breath out on a slow hiss as the door closed, hiding all that male beauty. Had she nearly had sex by the lake last night with that specimen of male perfection? It must have been a fantasy. No one that pretty would be interested in someone as bony and flat as her.
Shaking her head, Sam turned back to her cooking and pondered why he'd bothered with her. A drive downtown could have garnered him at least half a dozen willing beauties. And every one would probably have had a better figure than she. Sam was very aware that she had not exactly been blessed in that area. She had been teased and called names like Twiggy, Olive Oyl, and "the boobless wonder" as a teenager. And then her figure had been one of the things Tom had complained loudest about in the months before leaving.
It wasn't just her lack of figure that made her wonder why he'd bother with her. Added to that was the fact that it seemed she hadn't been much blessed with grace or luck lately either; first there was this ear infection and the way it made her constantly trip over her own feet, and then there was last night. Sam doubted there were many people, men or women, who could have gotten themselves nearly eaten alive by leeches in the middle of an intimate moment.
Aware as she was that she was presently lacking in anything resembling a figure, grace, or even luck, Sam found it hard to imagine Mortimer might be interested in her in that way. She wasn't completely without self-esteem. Sam knew she was smart, and she did have a rather successful career, but it wasn't a woman's career or her brains a man was interested in taking to his bed, so-all in all-it was pretty hard for her to believe Mortimer could really be interested. It made more sense that last night had been some sort of an aberration. He'd been there and horny, and she'd been available, naked, and easy... at least until the leeches latched on and ruined things. She supposed Mortimer had just settled for her because she was on the spot. It was a depressing thought and one she tortured herself with while she waited for him to reappear from the bathroom.
Sam had just flipped the last pancake when the bathroom door opened and a waft of male cologne floated out to intoxicate her.
"Mmm, food," Mortimer murmured.
"Yes, I-" Sam nearly bit her tongue off in surprise as one of Mortimer's hands slid around her waist from behind and he gave her a quick kiss on the ear. He then reached around and above her to retrieve plates from the cupboard.
"I'll set the table, shall I?"
"Thank you," Sam mumbled, feeling her face flush as he gave her waist a little squeeze and moved off with the plates. She stared down at the pancakes for a second, and then glanced over her shoulder at the man.
Okay, Sam told herself as she watched him hum under his breath and set the table, so they were going to play house while they were here, but she shouldn't take it to heart and start imagining that it meant they were in a relationship. He was just taking advantage of the situation, settling for what or who was available. And so was she, Sam assured herself, but was surprised her nose didn't grow.
Rolling her eyes at herself, she asked, "How many pancakes do you want, Mor-Garrett?"
Mortimer paused beside the table and turned a surprised face her way, and Sam grimaced, but said, "I think of you as Mortimer because the guys call you that all the time, but I thought I should probably call you by your first name since we-" She stopped abruptly, not saying the nearly had sex part. Flushing over the words she hadn't said, Sam tried, "I mean if we're going to-" Her words stuttered to a halt once more. If we're going to what? Sleep together? Be boyfriend and girlfriend? Sheesh.
"Most people call me Mortimer, but you can call me Garrett if you like," Mortimer said gently.
Sam immediately wrinkled her nose, and then realizing what she'd done and that he-of course-had noticed, sighed and explained, "I don't really like the name Garrett. It reminds me of a rather annoying relative we had growing up and-" She fell silent as he crossed the room and took her face in his hands, amusement clear in his expression.
He kissed her gently and then confessed, "I don't really like Garrett either. It's not even really a first name. It was my mother's maiden name. And the only time anyone calls me Garrett is when I'm in trouble, then it's 'Garrett Gordon Mortimer,'" he said in deep accusing tones.
She smiled faintly, but then asked dubiously, "Gordon, huh?"
"No better than Garrett, is it?" he asked dryly and laughed at her expression. Releasing her, he said, "You can call me whatever you want, Sam. Mortimer, Mort, Mo." He shrugged and moved to the table, adding, "Or make up a pet name for me."
"A pet name," Sam murmured thoughtfully, turning back to rescue the last pancake from being burned. Retrieving the plate of pancakes she'd been keeping warm in the oven, she slid the last one on it and then turned off the stove and moved to the table. "Any suggestions of what this pet name could be?"
Mortimer tilted his head thoughtfully as she set the pancakes down, then began to lift some onto his plate when she gestured that he should.
Sam settled in her seat and waited curiously, but the man was taking his time. Before he answered she'd taken two pancakes onto her own plate, buttered them, poured syrup over top, cut off a piece, and popped it in her mouth.
"Sweet Toes?" Mortimer suggested finally and then jumped quickly to his feet to rush around and thump her back as she began to choke on her pancake. "God, I'm sorry. Are you all right?"
"Sweet Toes?" Sam gasped with disbelief as he continued to thump her.
Mortimer grimaced. "It was something my mother called my father."
Her eyes widened incredulously at this news and she unthinkingly said, "I can't wait to meet them."
"You can't."
Sam stiffened and then felt herself flush. "No, of course not. I didn't mean to suggest that there would be any reason for you to take me to meet your parents someday, I just-"
"I'd love to be able to take you to meet my parents, Sam," he interrupted solemnly, and then added, "But I can't because they're dead."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she offered quietly.
Mortimer's lips twisted into what she suspected was supposed to be a smile, then he kissed her cheek, straightened, and moved back to his own chair. Sam watched him, her mind in something of an uproar. He'd said he'd love to be able to take her to meet his parents, and she was now wondering if that was because he liked her, or if he'd meant that he'd just love to be able to take anyone to meet his parents, that he wished they were still alive?
Sam pondered the question briefly and then realized what she was doing and nearly smacked herself in the head. In high school a teacher had once told her she thought too much, and she seemed to be proving his point right there that moment. For God's sake! Was she going to analyze every little thing the man said? She had to stop this. Now. She needed to just sit back and enjoy the experience for what it was. Whatever that was. Or she'd drive herself crazy.
"Okay, so Sweet Toes is obviously no good," Mortimer said suddenly, reclaiming her attention.
"Well, I..." She paused to clear her throat and then admitted, "I just don't see myself calling you that."
"How about something more standard then like dear, or honey?" he suggested, and then added huskily, "I'd like to be your honey."
Sam gaped, hardly believing he'd just said that. Surely there was no way to misinterpret those words? Surely he meant-
The ringing of her phone interrupted her excited thoughts, and Sam scowled and even considered ignoring it until she recalled where she was and why. Cursing under her breath, she snatched up her cell phone and stood to walk toward the cottage door as she snapped it open.
"Yes?" she barked as she stepped out onto the small porch on the front of the cottage.
"Ms. Willan?"
Sam managed not to grind her teeth together as she recognized Belmont's voice. The man's timing was incredible. Pushing that worry aside, she said, "Yes, Sergeant. Thank you for returning my call. I was ringing you for an update on Cathy's case."
A snort sounded, and the man growled, "The update is that she's still not at home. I still think she's off having fun somewhere, but I'm driving around looking for her instead of dealing with other things that need tending because your boss is gonna make trouble if I don't. So why don't you and all his other little assistants and junior this and executive that stop calling and wasting my time making me talk to you all and let me get on with my job?"
Sam frowned at the news that Mr. Babcock apparently had others from the firm calling. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. It was the way he worked, putting as many people on a job as possible and basically driving the other side crazy until they either gave up the case or lost their temper and made a mistake. This wasn't a court case though, and she didn't think it was a smart thing to be driving the sergeant crazy while he was trying to work. She would have actually apologized to the man for it, but apparently Belmont had done all the talking he felt he needed to. A sharp click was followed by the dial tone in her ear.
Sam made a face and closed her phone as most of her sympathy slid away. Truly the man had something of an attitude problem, and she had to wonder how he'd made it to sergeant.
"Judging by your irritated expression, I'd say that was Belmont," Mortimer commented as she stepped back into the cottage. "I take it the man didn't have any news for you?"
"No," Sam admitted unhappily.
"What are you going to do?" Mortimer asked.
She shook her head and then shrugged unhappily. "What can I do? As Madge said, I'm not a police officer."
"Madge?" Mortimer asked curiously.
"Mr. Babcock's secretary," she explained. "She pointed out this morning that Mr. Babcock only wanted me to keep calling the police and making sure they're on the case. She seemed to think that I should be having fun and enjoying my vacation in between calls."
He was silent for a moment and then said, "You don't look happy with the suggestion."
Sam shrugged. "I feel like I should be doing more to help find Cathy, but I haven't got a clue what that more could be. I mean, I have no idea where she's been taken, or by whom. And for all I know Belmont's right and she wasn't taken at all. Madge seems positive that's the case."
"Really?" Mortimer asked with interest.
"Yes. She reminded me that Cathy is a bit... er... well, her parents are kind of indulgent," she finished uncomfortably.
"You meant she's spoiled," he suggested with amusement.
Sam grimaced apologetically. "They're big clients at the firm. I would never say spoiled... but she is," she added heavily. "Very very spoiled. The kind of spoiled that has all the juniors and assistants at the firm fleeing the room when there's even a hint something has to be done involving interaction with her."
Mortimer smiled faintly, but then said, "Perhaps we could do both."
"Both what?" she asked with confusion.
"Perhaps we can satisfy both Madge's suggestion that you enjoy your vacation, as well as your desire to do more to help search for the girl."
Sam raised her eyebrows. "How?"
