Page 18 of Colton's Secret Weapon
She sat in the moment, letting the present happen around her. Until he said, “Preventing disaster before it strikes is half my job. I’m thinking I need separate tones for each of my brothers. For my cousins. And some of my problematic clients, as well.”
Soft chills spread through her. Followed by a mellow warmth. And she smiled a little as she asked, “You consider your siblings and cousins problematic?” Since she’d never had either, and he had a plethora with whom he was reputed to be close, she was truly curious.
Without looking up from his phone, or ceasing the sound bombing, he shook his head. “They just expect me to seepotential issues and prevent them if I can, though I don’t know if any of them are consciously aware of doing so.”
“Then, wouldn’t just one tone do it for all of them?”
The next shake of his head snared her attention. She couldn’t explain the sudden pull from him to her except that somehow the conversation had become personal. Almost intimate. “Why not?” she asked, sitting forward as she focused entirely on him, needing to hear his answer. He was giving her a private piece of himself. And that mattered.
“Because they’re all different. I’m aware of their individual pitfalls, and I think it might be productive to have rings that remind me of them prior to our communications.”
Leaning back against the wall again, Dove stared at him. Mitchell Colton was truly taking her seriously.
Learning fromher?
She wasn’t sure anyone had ever done that outside her studio. And at Namaste, all anyone came to her for was cleansing and calm. Things they could do on their own if they’d trust themselves enough to try. And had the discipline to make it happen.
An intrusive beep sounded, interrupting her happy mojo, and she looked over at the phone and then raised her gaze to the man’s face in time to see his frown.
Fear speared through her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Deep breath.
He shook his head, then, tapping his phone screen a couple of times, held the cell up to his ear. “I set an alarm for nine. Clint Schumer is a client of mine. I trust him not to mention our conversation to anyone.”
Clint Schumer. Owner of the bar that had become her father’s second home. “You’re calling him about my dad?”
Just like he’d phoned Eli, not once, but twice, without first cluing her in.
Dove needed to have a word with him about that. After she got over being grateful for his help. His initiative. And the contacts he had who took him far more seriously than they’d take her.
Mitchell was nodding, then, tapping his phone screen a couple of times, held the cell up to his ear and said, “Clint? Mitchell Colton here.” Dove stood up and walked over to her dad’s desk. Stood there. Saw him lower his phone to tap the Speaker icon and set the device on the desk and then say, “I’m calling to make a discreet inquiry,” he said.
Dove heard the bar owner reply with, “Of course. Who do you need to know about?”
As though it wasn’t the first time Mitchell had made such a call.
Some of those preventative measures he’d just been talking about? The wondering helped distract Dove from the sound of the lawyer’s voice mentioning her father’s name. Asking when he was last in the bar.
“I haven’t seen him since Friday night,” the man said. And Dove’s good vibes dropped to her toes. Slithering away even as Clint continued with, “Someone said he was in yesterday afternoon but didn’t stay long.”
“Any word as to who he might have been with? Did he leave with anyone?”
“No, but I can ask around,” Clint offered. Asking no questions at all. And Dove understood why Mitchell had called the bartender first.
“I’d appreciate that,” Mitchell said. “Call me on my cell if you hear any more.”
“Will do,” the deeper voice said, and the call ended.
Leaving Dove staring at the man who’d just the day before agreed to take her father on as a client. Would he change his mind?
The question lurked but wasn’t the one screaming so loudly in Dove’s mind, forcing her to ask, “Where in the hell is my father?”
Just before she burst into tears.
Mitchell wasn’t good with the crying. Its unpredictability made him uncomfortable. And its lack of problem-solving capabilities interrupted his ability to process concisely.
Dove’s tears seemed to multiply the effect on him tenfold.
Disliking the situation in which he found himself, Mitchell stood. “We need to focus,” he said aloud. Realizing, even as he spoke, that the words weren’t his best effort. “Where else would your father go? Who might he be with? Or have seen or heard from him?”
