family or boyfriend. She was a loner, the right height and weight of the woman he was looking for; in short, a decent fit. But the eyes and hair color were off—red hair and pale brown eyes instead of blond and blue.
Like Ella, Gabrielle Litte wasn’t an exact match.
He sipped his coffee and went over his mental checklist. After observing this woman for nearly a week, he was all but certain Gabrielle wasn’t his true target. For one thing, the redhead was slightly bow-legged. If there was one thing Nate remembered about the woman he needed to find, it was that her legs were magnificent. For another, he could trace Gabrielle Litte’s personal history back all the way to high school, something he shouldn’t be able to do if she had done her best to cover her tracks.
It was Ella Little’s past that was MIA.
This should be the deciding factor to jettison Gabrielle Litte off his list of possibilities, but the poisonous insecurity gnawing away at his insides kept her there. Six months ago he would have been happy to listen to that instinct. Even when his gut feelings had let him down, they’d still whispered to him in a constant stream that eventually pointed him to his goal of finding that which had been hidden.
Now, there was nothing. No whispers. No feelings. As far as he was concerned, that meant he was nothing.
His mother would have been thrilled.
Jaw knotted, Nate curbed the urge to once again reach down inside himself in the hope of finding that special other sense that went deeper than emotion or thought. There was no point in looking for something that was gone. For six months he’d groped around like a blind man for the internal compass that had nudged him toward the hidden and the lost, only to come up against a blank and terrifying darkness.
Maybe this was his punishment for not hating his family’s genetic gifts.
Frustration clawed at Nate’s insides until there was nothing left but bloody strips. Unlike everyone else in his family, he’d been proud—hell, he’d been honored—that he’d been born special, even if he was the weakest. That pride had turned to arrogance, and in that arrogance he’d taken his meager gifts and wielded them without thought. He’d delighted in proving his mother wrong, that the family curse she’d rejected was in fact a worthy trait. With every case he’d solved by using his gifts, he’d thought he was validating his existence.
Never once had it crossed his mind that while he was proving how goddamned awesome he was, there were some things that needed to remain hidden.
The buzz of the smartphone startled him. His expression collapsed into a grimace of distaste when he saw who it was. “Nate da Luca.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. da Luca. I trust I didn’t wake you?”
“Mr. Archibald.” It was almost scary, how easily Nate could imagine smashing his fist into the soft, unlined face of Carver Archibald, senior attorney of Archibald and Associates. He was the epitome of the old Southern gentleman, with his snow-white coronet of hair, waxed pencil moustache and a penchant for looking down his bourbon-flushed nose at every being who dared to breathe his air. The less time Nate spent dealing with the well-paying but self-important prick, the better. “I’m working, so I’d appreciate it if you made this quick.”
“How admirable, to have such dedication to your job,” came the drawling praise that wasn’t really praise at all. The need to Hulk-smash the pompous blowhard inched up another notch. “I’m afraid I must have missed your update yesterday.”
“You didn’t. I didn’t contact you yesterday.”
“That’s what I thought. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear the last time we spoke. My client has made it quite plain he would like for you to report in on a daily basis regarding your search.”
“You made yourself abundantly clear, Mr. Archibald.” Nate glanced up at the clock tower. By now Gabrielle Litte would be heading downstairs to the sub-levels, where the janitorial offices and supply areas were located. “You seem to be the one who didn’t understand our last conversation, so allow me to repeat myself. When I’m positive I’ve located Gabriella Littlefield, you and Richard Rainier will be the first to know. Until then, I have nothing to report.”
“It’s been six weeks since the death of Claudine Pierpont-Rainier. Six weeks since you were retained to carry out that gentle woman’s final wishes. Need I remind you of the time constraints?”
“Not at all. And if