The Temporary Detective

Chapter Twelve

James disengaged his bulk from Jayla's endless, dark chocolate legs and stood up.

"Where are you going in such a hurry? It's Sunday morning," Jayla purred from the mass of brown silk sheets that cascaded around her like the train on a wedding dress.

"Shower."

"Mmmm. C'mon and lie here with me a bit. Where's the fire?"

"You're the fire, baby," James said reflexively. He knew a cue when he heard one. "That's why I need the shower."

"I thought I put your fire out already," she murmured.

Here we go, James thought. Do I have to turn on the sweet talk right now? I just want a goddamn shower.

What he really wanted, of course, was a drink, but a shower would have to suffice. He needed to clear his head. Something strange had happened while he and Jayla were having sex. Right at the critical moment, an image of Isobel had flashed through his mind, completely unbidden and definitely unwanted. She looked pissed off as hell, which he knew she had been the last time they spoke, but the weirdest part was that the fury he'd imagined on her face had turned him on.

He stepped into the shower and ran the water as hot as he could stand it. He did not want to be thinking of Isobel that way. He knew he was the envy of his friends, dating the gorgeous and talented Jayla Cummings, who had two business degrees from NYU and was on the fast track at a hot new consulting firm, but who could still turn on the neighborhood when she wanted. In every sense.

But as much as he was into Jayla, she was starting to smother him. She'd been the one to get him into AA, and while he knew he should be grateful, he couldn't escape the feeling that she was tracking his every move. Worse, she had Plans, with a capital P. At twenty-seven, newly and barely sober, James was nowhere near ready for marriage, but it was hard to take Jayla's comments about single black mothers as anything other than big-ass hints.

He soaped himself vigorously and found himself thinking again about Isobel. Of course she hadn't killed anyone. What had he been thinking? He was a patsy for buying into the detectives' suspicions. Isobel was right, he was chickenshit. When was he going to start thinking for himself?

He needed to sort her out in his mind, like his mother used to do when she separated eggs. The yolk (Isobel's infuriating perkiness) in one bowl and the white (her safety) in another. He had a sudden picture of her swimming in a life-sized bowl of egg whites, slipping under the surface and calling to him to save her, in her best Bond-girl voice.

He shut off the water and wrapped himself in a towel. There was one more thing he could do to set his mind at ease. He had finally confirmed Isobel's extended employment, but why not ask Felice Edwards to lunch? He could find out what kind of people Isobel was in with. Felice might even have a sense of what direction the investigation was taking and how seriously the cops suspected Isobel. Ginger Wainwright was always urging her staff to take clients out to lunch to solidify their relationships. Other recruiting firms didn't bother, but that was what made Temp Zone different, she always said. Relationships.

Yes, he thought, jumping onto the scale, where the needle bounced and landed just above where he wanted it. First thing Monday, he'd call Felice. Isobel would never have to know he was checking up on her.

Neither, he reminded himself, would Jayla.