for some offhand reference she’d made to the new people in her life. Unfortunately, though, the few days they’d had together just over a year ago hadn’t been spent doing a lot of talking, at least not about the things that hadn’t mattered. That baby was living evidence that they’d spent most of the time in bed, remembering just how good it felt to be in each other’s arms.
“Okay, Harlan Patrick, think,” he muttered under his breath.
For all of its skyscrapers and new construction, Nashville was still a small Southern town in some ways. Surely the music industry was tight-knit enough that everyone would know everybody else’s business. He picked a talent agency at random and dialed.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said to the drawling woman who answered. There was enough sugary sweetness in her voice to make him feel right at home with a little flirting. He had her laughing in a matter of seconds.
“You are sooo bad,” she said in response to his teasing. “Now, tell me what I can do for you.”
“Actually I’ve got some business to do with Laurie Jensen. Any idea how I can get in touch with her?”
“Laurie Jensen?” she repeated, her voice a degree or two cooler. “I’m sorry. We don’t represent Miss Jensen.”
“Could you tell me who does?”
“What kind of business did you say you were in?” she asked. This time her tone was downright chilly.
“I didn’t, darlin’, but it’s an ad campaign. We were hoping to get her to do the spots for us.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, maybe you ought to have your ad agency contact her people. That’s the way it works.”
Harlan Patrick tried to hold on to his patience. “Don’t you see, sugar, that’s the problem. I don’t know her people.”
“Any reputable ad agency will,” she said, and hung up in his ear.
Harlan Patrick stared at the phone, stunned. Then he sighed ruefully. Obviously he wasn’t the first person to try a ruse to get to a Nashville superstar. He resigned himself to an afternoon spent working his way through the phone listings.
He didn’t waste time trying to wrangle information from unwilling receptionists. The minute he discovered the agency didn’t represent Laurie, he moved on to the next. It was after six when he finally struck paydirt—or thought he had.
“Nick Sanducci’s office.”
“Yes. I’m trying to arrange a booking for Laurie Jensen. Can you help me?”
“Who are you with, sir?”
“Does Mr. Sanducci represent Ms. Jensen?”
“He does, but—”
“Thank you.” He hung up and grabbed his hat. Clutching the page from the phone book and scribbled directions from the hotel desk clerk, he drove to a quiet street that looked more residential than commercial. A block or so from the address for Sanducci’s office, he noted the discreet signs on the lawns of modest-sized homes that appeared to have been built around the turn of the century. Law offices, talent agencies, even a recording studio had been tucked away here before skyscrapers had lured most of the business into downtown.
Harlan Patrick pulled into a circular driveway just as a fancy sports car shot out the other side. One car remained in front of the house, a minivan with a child’s seat in the back and toys scattered on the floor. He doubted it belonged to Mr. Nick Sanducci.
He strolled through the front door and wandered into a reception room that had obviously once been the house’s living room. The walls were decorated with gold records and photos of a half dozen of the hottest names in country music, including a blowup of Laurie that could make a man’s knees weak. That wall of photos and records was the only testament to the nature of Mr. Sanducci’s business, however.
Harlan Patrick had to admit the man had excellent taste. The place was crammed with exquisite, expensive antiques. There were some just as valuable up in Grandpa Harlan’s attic, where they’d been stored after Janet had gone through and turned White Pines from a hands-off showplace into a home.
The reception desk was neat as a pin and, with no one seated at the chair behind it, more temptation than he could resist. He edged a little closer, noting that the desk belonged to one Ruby Steel, according to the nameplate that was half-buried in a stack of papers.
He surveyed the rest of the desk with interest. That big old Rolodex probably had phone numbers on it that could do him a whole lot of good. And that bulging desk calendar probably contained all sorts of concert