The Man For The Job Read online

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  Wings ePress Books

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright ©2004 by Mary Varble

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  "Don't be ridiculous! You are the most arrogant man I've ever—"

  "Been kissed by?” Mike finished.

  "I'm perfectly capable of completing my own sentences,” Gwyneth told him, her eyes ablaze.

  "I'm sure you are, but...” he paused, not for emphasis, but because he'd lost his train of thought while staring into her fathomless eyes. His heart slammed rat-a-tat-tat like an Uzi, and his mouth had gone Sunday-morning-hangover dry. He snapped out of his daze. “B-but..."

  "But what?” Her frosty tone went sub-zero. However, Mike fancied he saw the tiny muscles around her eyes relax as her eyelids dropped half-mast, her feathery lashes fluttering against stellar cheekbones.

  Dammit. She seemed pleased by his inability to form coherent thought, much less speech. And the tiniest dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth as her lips twitched in an effort to keep a straight face.

  Then disaster. The words escaped without his volition. “Marry me?"

  What They Are Saying About

  The Man For The Job

  The Man for the Job is a combination of Spillane and Poirot. This fast paced mystery is hard hitting and gritty, yet instilled with a deep romance that cannot be denied. The characters are real and the reader cares about them instantly. This story is not one that can be read in segments; once you turn the first page, you must keep turning until you reach the end. And the last page leaves me wanting to read more of Marie-Nicole Ryan's work. Bravo!

  —Dee Carey/Wings Author www.adeecarey.com

  Fox in the Mist—October 2004

  Mark of the Fox—January 2005

  The Man For The Job was surprisingly good! I expected something like a Mickey Spillane novel, but this was nothing like that. Ms. Ryan created characters that had emotional depth, and winning personalities. Gwyn was sensational as a fiercely independent woman, with a heart of gold. Mike was just the sort of man most women dream of marrying—charming, romantic and protective, with a great sense of humor. It was wonderful to watch these two stumble towards each other. And stay there.

  The Man For The Job is a must-read! It's the perfect way to spend a few hours. Even if it does make you wish all men were as clear and decisive in their emotions as Ms. Ryan's hero! 4 Slippers.

  —Tracy Atencio

  Romantic Interludes

  Other Works From The Pen Of

  Marie-Nicole Ryan

  Praise For See You In My Dreams, Golden Wings Award Winner

  "Ryan's tale of star-crossed lovers who have loved and lost is a poignant—and sometimes gritty—tale that will resonate in readers.” Four Stars

  Faith V. Smith, Romantic Times.

  "See You In My Dreams is jam-packed full of suspense, mystery and action. A page turner from start to finish. Strong characters abound in this riveting novel about two people whose lives are connected both in the past and present. This story explores two souls that always find each and leave the reader thinking of the possibilities “could this really happen?” Four Angels,

  Penny, Fallen Angel Reviews.

  "See You in My Dreams reminded me a lot of Judith McNaught's first contemporary romances. It had a very mainstream style...” Four and Hearts,

  Tara Black, The Romance Studio.

  "Once you start See You In My Dreams, you will not be able to put it down. Come and experience a world where fairy tale dreams really do come true.” Four Blue Ribbons,

  Robyn Reo, Romance Junkies.

  Love On The Run:

  "The dialogue is witty. The plot is well-constructed and believable. The action is constant with enough tension to keep the reader's interest throughout. Truly a delight to read."

  Barbara Buhrer, Word Museum.

  Wings

  The Man For The Job

  by

  Marie-Nicole Ryan

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Romantic Suspense Novel

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

  Copy Edited by: Leslie Hodges

  Senior Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Cover Artist:

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2004 by Mary Varble

  ISBN 1-59088-391-8

  Published In the United States Of America

  August 2004

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  To my father

  because he would be so proud.

  Daddy, I wish you were still here.

  One

  MIKE CARLTON, Private Investigations—at least that's what the sign on his office door said. Had Mike been able to afford the extra words, the painter could've added Deadbeat-Dad Locator, Photographer of Extra-Marital High Jinks and Occasional Guard of Some Downright Useless Bodies. But the work was steady, and it paid the rent. At least he didn't have to meet his clients downstairs in the bar anymore. His old man would be so proud.

  And he had a nine-o'clock appointment. Most of his clients, if they bothered to make appointments, showed up at the last minute—probably trying to decide whether or not they needed his services.

  Most of them did.

  At 9:00 am, a leggy blonde waltzed into his office with an expression of well-mannered disdain written across her well-bred face. Her pinched expression told him something else, too. She'd already decided she was out of his league.

  His mouth grew dry. His heart stuttered in his chest before slamming into a new rhythm. And testosterone surged. He'd always been a leg man—and hers were spectacular.

  "Mr. Carlton?” the lithe goddess asked, her demeanor far too shy for someone who wore an expensive, white silk suit with a blessedly short skirt. On the other hand, her blue silk blouse was buttoned to the neck. Message loud and clear—he could look, but never touch. He'd see about that.

  "I'm Carlton,” he replied, succinct and to the point. After all, that was what people expected from their private eyes, right? “What can I do for you?"

  Right then and there, she nailed him with her fierce, electric blue gaze. “You can cut the cheap detective imitation. I checked you out before I called for an appointment. Besides, Bogart didn't have a somewhat vague European accent."

  Looks and brains too—maybe he could have everything. “I apologize, Miss ... I'm afraid my assistant didn't give me your name."

  "Yes, she did. I heard her.” She extended her long, graceful hand in his direction, even as she turned her elegant nose skyward.

  He took her hand in his and resisted the powerful urge to bow and kiss it. A P.I. cou
ldn't do crap like that—not if he wanted to live long enough to collect his Social Security checks.

  "Then your memory must be failing. I'm Gwyneth Wells."

  "Miss Wells,” he acknowledged, then sat down and took a deep breath. He had a feeling he'd be doing a lot of deep breathing if she hired him. “How may I help you?"

  She beamed at him, one of those dazzling, two-trillion-dollar smiles that made his head swim like poor old Jimmy Stewart's in Vertigo.

  "Let me guess. You're fond of film noir?"

  "Busted,” he admitted. “But enough about my movie habits. I'm still waiting for you to tell me why you chose today to make my day?” Not that he was in any rush. He could spend all day checking out the sweet thing in front of him. Wide-set blue eyes, creamy skin ... and legs a mile long.

  Gwyneth Wells looked around his—what he'd thought was an adequate—office and frowned.

  He jumped up and rushed to grab the teetering stack of files from the only other chair. “Sorry. Here, have a seat,” he told her with his slightly less-expensive smile, “and tell me all about it."

  He sat on the corner of the desk, all the while watching her as she sat and crossed one long, tan leg over the other. He did his best to keep his eyes on her face, but the smooth expanse of her skin kept pulling his gaze downward.

  "Thank you.” Gripping her white, Italian leather bag, his new client took a deep breath. “Someone's stalking me."

  "Who?” He grinned and shrugged. “Can't say I blame him."

  His new client huffed. A sure sign he'd gone a little too far with his hard-nosed P.I. routine; she had him off-kilter.

  "Mr. Carlton, I must insist you take this seriously. I was told you're ethical and the best detective this city has to offer, but I must confess I find your flippancy most disconcerting."

  It wasn't so much his new client sounded like a walking advertisement for a fancy finishing school, it was the quaver in her husky voice and the tears shining in the bluest damned eyes he'd ever seen—yeah, that's what got him. He couldn't resist a damsel in distress.

  "Sorry. I am the best, but I'm afraid I've become addicted to my new persona,” Mike told her with a shrug. “You know the old saying, when in Rome..."

  She nodded in response, giving a well-bred sniff.

  He shook his head. “Now let's get back to who's stalking you. He took another deep breath and let it out slow and easy. Coping with his pounding heart, a certain rebellious body part and the lovely creature sitting on the edge of her chair, might prove more than he could handle—but he was willing to give it a go.

  She looked up, as if eager to tell him her story. And now he was more than eager to listen.

  "Someone's been following me. Everywhere I go, I see him. At first I thought it was a coincidence, but he doesn't even seem to care if I notice him or not. It's quite annoying and frightening."

  "When did you first notice him?"

  "About two weeks ago—since I broke up with my fiancé."

  "Could be the ex-fiancé keeping an eye on you?"

  "I don't think so. I made it quite clear we didn't have a future, not after..."

  "Not after what?"

  "...not after I discovered his main client is a mobster.” She heaved a sigh and frowned. “I disapproved and told him so quite vehemently. We argued. I returned his ring.” Miss Wells stroked the back of her hand as if she missed the rock.

  Mike smiled. Kismet? Fate? She was a free woman. “One of his clients? What does your ex-fiancé do?"

  "My fiancé—ex-fiancé—is a corporate attorney."

  "So what's his name and address? For my records."

  "Richard Klein.” She rattled off a pricey Park Avenue address.

  "How did he take the breakup?” Mike swiveled from left to right, then back in his chair while he enjoyed the view.

  His new client wrung her hands and moistened her lips. “He was furious. In fact, he made quite a scene at Giordello's—that's the restaurant where..."

  Mike laughed. “Oh yeah, the old breakup-in-a-nice-restaurant-so-he-doesn't-make-a-scene routine. Works every time."

  "I assure you, it wasn't funny.” The Ice Queen glared at him, her face flushing. “I was embarrassed by his behavior."

  "Okay, I'll check him out. It's like this. He's probably hired someone to keep an eye on you.” He shrugged, then continued, “Could even be a P.I."

  "I don't care who it is. I want him to stop. Why, he even followed me into the lingerie department yesterday at Bloomingdale's."

  "Well, we can't have that, now can we?"

  Gwyneth huffed. “If this frivolous behavior of yours is the best I can expect, I'm afraid my Uncle Wil made a mistake when he recommended you.” She stood up. “Thank you for your time, but I don't think this is going to work."

  Mike leaned forward, his interest piqued. “So who's your Uncle Wil?"

  "Wilford Wells, we're partners. Do you know him? He seems to think quite highly of you."

  Mike nodded. “He knows my father. They were college roommates. I've run across your uncle a time or two here in the city. You're not the first client he's sent me.” He dreaded the answer to his next question, but he still had to ask it. “Please just tell me you're not a damn lawyer, too."

  She stiffened, as if ready to fight. “And if I were?"

  "And if you were? Well, I might have to rethink our whole relationship.” Damn. As a matter of principle and as an ex-cop, he hated lawyers.

  "And why is that?” Her throaty, sexy voice grew steely. Her uncompromising gaze pinned him like a wilted corsage on a strapless formal.

  "Could be, because lawyers either spend their time defending the same scum a lot of good men on the job risk their lives to take off the streets, or maybe because they rack up thousands of dollars in retainers from the idle rich who think they're above the law simply because they have bucks-a-million or their faces on the cover of TV Guide."

  He paused to breathe and narrowed his gaze. “New York City has too many of both, but I guess you don't see much scum in your practice."

  "I work pro bono."

  "Even worse.” He couldn't believe his ears. This vision of elegance ... “You defend scum for free?” Knowing he'd dug himself into a hole didn't help much. He could tell from her rigid posture and the stern set of her mouth, the polar icecap would melt before he felt those lips against his any time soon.

  Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Not that it's any of your concern, but most of my clients are battered women and abused children, who..."

  "All right, I get it. You're Mother Theresa.” Damn. What on earth prompted such a smart-ass comeback? Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut?

  "I take what I do very seriously, Mr. Carlton. I've been very fortunate, so I try to give something back, that's all.” Apparently warming to her task, she added, “And you would do well to avoid stereotypical remarks and jumping to conclusions."

  "Yes, ma'am,” he replied as humbly as a guy who didn't have a humble bone in his body could manage. He could, on occasion, give a respectable imitation of humility. He hoped she bought it, because he really did want to plaster his lips against hers—and soon—sometime before he needed a prescription for Viagra. “So, I'm a jerk."

  Miss Wells didn't hide her smile. “At least we agree on something."

  Mike grinned. Making a woman smile was half the battle, especially one like Gwyneth Wells. Still there was more to the job than good rapport. “Back to business. What about the angry husbands of your clients? One of them could have it in for you?"

  "It's possible. My clients come from all strata of society, and I've been threatened more than once, but...” She shrugged. “I don't know. I suppose it's possible."

  "What about your current case load? Could someone be trying to intimidate you?"

  "Anything is possible, Mr. Carlton. I just want you to find out who he is and stop him."

  "Finding out who should be simple. Stopping him may not."

  Her eyes widened, and a w
orried expression of disbelief crossed her face. “One more thing. It was obvious the minute you waltzed in here, you're loaded."

  "So?"

  "Anybody in your family unhappy about it?"

  "My mother and father are both deceased. There's my Aunt Lilith and her son, and they aren't happy with the provisions of my mother's will. In fact, my aunt has indicated she plans litigation. When Mother passed away, she left me a sizable inheritance, and my aunt feels she should've been remembered in Mother's will."

  "She wasn't?"

  "No. They'd been estranged since before I was born. I'm not sure why. Something happened when they were teenagers, I think. Mother wouldn't discuss it."

  "Maybe this is more than a stalking, Miss Wells.” Mike watched for the flash of awareness to come to her big baby blues. One and one makes two? “How did your mother die—was it natural?"

  "How did my mother die?” She sighed before continuing. “My mother was an alcoholic. Sober for the last year of her life, but it was too late to do any good."

  "I'm sorry. Now, I'm going to need the names of all your contacts, friends and foes, and I'll need your schedule for the next week."

  "All right.” She pulled a Palm Pilot from her purse and began reading him the names. Turning to his keyboard, he entered the information.

  When she finished with the last name, she let out a deep breath. “That should do it.” She stood up and turned to leave.

  "Hold on.” Mike stood up; he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack in the corner.

  Turning back toward him, she frowned, which was almost as dazzling as her smile. “I thought we were through."

  "We are, but I'm going with you."

  "You really think I need a bodyguard?"

  "Yeah. I'm a package deal.” He gave her what he hoped was his most disarming expression.

  "Really?” Her dark blond lashes fluttered as she looked down shyly, then gave him a wolfish half-smile, as if she'd read his mind.

  "In which case, perhaps we should be on a first-name basis. Please call me Gwyneth."