The Man For The Job Page 10

  "I'm speechless. Veronica Lake just walked into the kitchen."

  "Veronica Lake?” she replied, giving him an arch smile. “Who are you trying to con? You're so full of it, and you're never speechless."

  "Can I help it if I find you inspiring?” Mike leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms and still devouring her with his gaze.

  She walked up to him, invading his personal space, and looked into his eyes, challenging him. “Inspiring. Is that so?"

  "You know it, counselor.” He put his arms around her, then cupped her buttocks. He pulled her against his hard body and grinned. “See how inspired I am."

  "Is that what you call it?"

  "Among other things."

  Clasping her hands around the back of his neck, she playfully rubbed her pelvis against him. Hard as a damn rock.

  Mike's grin widened. “Careful, Little Mikey's been known to have a mind of his own."

  Gwyneth giggled. “That another one of the things he's called?"

  "You're awfully fresh, for someone who just had her way with me against the wall."

  Her mouth dried at the memory. She swallowed, then chewed her lip before admitting slowly, “I seem to have a vague memory of the incident to which you're referring, Mr. Carlton."

  "Well, counselor, I'll never forget it."

  "Good, because your testimony will be invaluable, if this should ever come to trial."

  "And the charge would be?"

  Gwyneth paused, considering her answer carefully. “Animal cruelty."

  A dangerously wicked glitter flashed in his jade eyes. “And just what animal was mistreated?"

  "Oh, no. You're getting into dangerous territory,” she warned, stifling a giggle.

  "I love danger."

  "I've no doubt of that. You strike me as a daring man—a risk taker."

  "I've taken a few in my time."

  "Judging from your performance—more than a few."

  "One shouldn't judge by performance alone. Enthusiasm has a way of lending expertise. Now, if I were to make the same statement regarding your performance..."

  Her face grew hot. “I see what you mean.” Biting her bottom lip again, she admitted, “It was special—for both of us—wasn't it?"

  "You are a master of understatement, counselor. It was damn extraordinary.” Leaning forward, Mike kissed her forehead. “Still is. More than ever."

  Tears stung Gwyneth's eyes. If Mike kept up the sweet talk, she'd fall in love with him for sure. And he'd be nothing but trouble. Thirty short years had taught her that men couldn't be trusted.

  First there'd been her father, remote and critical to the nth degree, then a parade of boyfriends who were more interested in her money. And then, there'd been old Richard, and all he wanted was the pleasure of running her life.

  Why should Mike be any different? Sweet words now, but it wouldn't last. Better she should guard her heart. Let him use her body as long as it suited her, but keep her heart out of it—if she could.

  Tears rushed to her eyes, but she fought them back and pulled away from Mike. “Let's eat. I'm starving.” She tried keeping her tone casual—not that she did casual very well. She turned and headed for the dining table, but he caught her wrist.

  His dark eyebrows were drawn together. “Something I said?"

  "No, I'm just ready to faint from hunger."

  "Then dinner is served.” He made a sweeping, formal bow and pulled out a chair for her. Damn. What happened? One minute Gwyn was playful as a kitten, and the next she was fighting back tears and treating him like a client's ex-husband. He searched his memory. Had he been too crude? No. Gwyn had instigated the banter, even influenced the direction.

  Feeling lower than a slug's belly, Mike speared a bite of Szechwan beef and navigated it clumsily to his mouth. He watched Gwyn eat, handling her chopsticks like a pro. But she wouldn't spare a look for him.

  "You must eat a lot of Chinese food?” he asked in what he judged was the lamest ever attempt at small talk.

  She looked up from her plate and glared at him for a second, then shuttered her gaze and finally gave him a weak smile. “Lots. Why?"

  "Your skill with the chopsticks.” Oh God, why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut?

  Companionable silence. Yeah, that's what was needed. Good, old, companionable silence.

  A raised eyebrow was the lady's only response.

  Shit.

  Frustrated, Mike threw his chopsticks and napkin down on the table. “Dammit, Gwyn. What's wrong?"

  Blank look. “Nothing."

  Maybe a little humor would help. “I've done or said something wrong, but being a man, I'm challenged to know what. Work with me, Gwyn. I need help."

  Gwyn solemnly brought a piece of cashew chicken to her mouth and chewed.

  "Fine.” Mike stood up, nearly knocking his chair over. Two could play that game, he decided. He stomped back to the living room and booted up the laptop. If she were going to indulge in the silent treatment, he'd just get some work done.

  Pay dirt—six e-mails from Sid, all with attachments. Mike downloaded all of them and started reading.

  Pages of stuff. “Gwyn? I need to hook up to your printer. Sid's e-mailed me a ton of background material."

  A desultory voice drifted out from the kitchen. “Sure, go ahead."

  "Gracious to a fault,” he grumbled.

  "Did you say something?"

  "Who me? Not a word.” Not a fucking word.

  While he printed out the files, he heard Her Sulkiness milling about in the kitchen—cleaning up, he supposed.

  Then she glided into the living room, a frown creasing her forehead. “Do you think you could put on a shirt?"

  "Now?” He looked up, irritated. “Actually, I'm quite comfortable. Hot-natured, you know?"

  She sniffed. “Well, that certainly doesn't surprise me."

  "You weren't exactly complaining a while ago,” he snapped.

  Without a word, Gwyneth whirled and stalked from the living room. A door slammed.

  Mike rolled his eyes. Screw it. She was too damned distracting—in the room or out of it. Just what he deserved for letting his dick do the thinking for both of them.

  He forced himself to focus on the pile of paper her printer was spitting out. As he scanned the material, he reached an alarming realization. He didn't have a clue who was after her. The more he read, the longer the list of suspects.

  Exasperated, he declared, “All right, I've had enough of this.” He stood up and padded down the hall to Gwyneth's closed door. He tapped lightly. “Gwyn?"

  "What?"

  "I'd like to go over this material with you. Get your impressions.” That is, if you can get over your snit-fit long enough to act like a reasonable adult, he finished silently.

  The door opened, and a still-sullen Gwyneth strolled out, still refusing to meet his gaze.

  Not knowing what else to do, he followed Her Highness back to the living room where she sank down on the sofa across from him. She arranged the folds of her wrapper to cover her legs and primly crossed them at the ankle, then she folded her arms across her chest. Unmistakable body language—she'd moved into self-protection mode. But why?

  Mike sighed. It was going to be a hell of a long night.

  "First of all, your ex-fiancé has had only one client for the last year."

  "So?” She gave an elegant shrug, her face a picture of ennui. “Then I guess,” she argued, none too patiently, “it's no wonder Richard was so hot to have me drop Sylvia Damico's suit for divorce."

  "Now your Aunt Lilith—she's an interesting piece of work. She's had four husbands. They all died, each one leaving her wealthier than the one before. By the way, your aunt—the one who drowned—Auntie Lilith was supposed to be watching out for her, but no one could ever prove it was anything but an accident."

  Another shrug. “Old history. Not relevant."

  Dammit, he had to shake her out of this mood. “There was an FBI profiler by the nam
e of Sikes who thought she was a black widow, but he had an accident and is no longer with us. Again, suspicious circumstances. With your inheritance, she could have a major reason to harm you."

  "If she's already wealthy, why bother?"

  "Her reasons don't have to make sense to us, only to her."

  "And my cousin Gregory?"

  "He's a Silicon Valley genius, but likes to hang around his mom a lot and is reputed to be a major pain in the ass by anyone ever unfortunate enough to work with him."

  Another blank look. Gwyneth's silence was pissing off Mike in a major way. “Bored?"

  She shrugged.

  Instead of choking her beautiful neck, he flipped through another printout. “And there are at least seven of your clients whose husbands have threatened you."

  No response.

  "Dammit, Gwyn. This is your life we're talking about.” He glared at her, but was instantly sorry for his harsh tone. She'd fallen asleep, dark smudges under her eyes.

  Hell. He was a no-good bastard. The woman was still suffering the effects of a concussion, and here he was yammering at her nonstop—not to mention the other stuff, which wasn't exactly the prescribed treatment for her injury.

  He leaned over her and brushed away a stray wave of blond hair that had fallen across her lovely face. He marveled at the texture. Strands of spun silk couldn't be any finer.

  "Gwyn,” he murmured, so as not to startle her.

  Her eyes opened. She stretched and yawned. “Was I snoring or drooling?” She gave him a sheepish grin.

  "No. I think you should go to bed where you'll be more comfortable. You've had a long day."

  She nodded, then started to stand up, but her knees buckled. Mike caught her before she could fall. Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her down the hall to her bedroom.

  Gently he lay her on the bed. “Are you all right? Should I call the doctor?"

  She gave a dismissive wave. “I'm just tired."

  Mike wasn't convinced. “Are you sure?"

  "I'm all right, really."

  Awkwardness claimed him. “I-uh, I'll probably be up quite late. I don't want to disturb you, so I'll use the other bedroom."

  "That's very considerate, but you don't have to."

  Mike pulled the sheet over her shoulder, resisting the heady impulse to caress the ivory slope of her arm. “G'night, counselor. Sweet dreams.” He leaned over and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

  "'Night, Mike."

  A tiny glimmer of a smile played about her lips as she snuggled into her pillow. It gave him hope.

  "See you in the morning.” He tamped down his need and forced his feet to take him from her room.

  * * * *

  He poured over the printouts until the words ran together. Finally he turned off the computer, arranged the stack of printouts into a moderately neat pile, then headed down the hall to the guest bedroom. He halted his stride at the door to hers. Should he check on her, make sure she was all right?

  Yeah. He should. He gave a light rap, but heard no response. He opened the door and walked to the side of the bed. Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating Gwyneth's face. Once assured that her color was good and she was breathing easily, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Mike turned toward the hateful barrier and rested his palm against the cool surface of the carved wood.

  Whether they made love or not, he wanted more than anything to hold her in his arms all night. Silly, but there he was. But he'd left it up to the lady in question, and she hadn't protested his using the guest room. So be it.

  Gwyneth awakened to the sound of the door closing and was pleased he'd come to check on her, even if he hadn't stayed. It was kind of sweet. Still she wished he were there with her now, just so she could feel his strong arms around her all night.

  Never had she felt so protected, warm and well-loved. But what she felt couldn't really be love. Could it?

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and got as far as the door, then stopped short.

  No. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't go to him. He must think she was a real ditz, acting the way she had after dinner. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door and sighed.

  Might as well go back to bed. Whether or not she'd sleep was anybody's guess.

  Seventeen

  "I'll pack and won't even notice you're gone.” Gwyneth took another sip of coffee. Just imagine, Mike had been up at dawn, prepared coffee and brought a steaming cup of the fresh brew right to her bedside. As far as she could tell, he'd forgiven her moodiness from the night before.

  Damn, but she could really get used to having a man like him around. Not that she even remotely believed a relationship with her own private eye would last as long as the coffee in her cup would stay warm.

  "If I leave you long enough to pick up a change of clothes, will you promise to stay put?"

  "I'm not exactly anxious to get killed."

  "So your answer is ‘Yes, I will stay put'?"

  Gwyneth clenched her teeth and forced a smile. “Yes, I will stay put."

  "You won't call anyone?"

  "No, I won't call anyone."

  "Keep the door locked,” he warned, chucking her under the chin. “Don't let anyone in. I'll be back in forty-five minutes or less."

  "Okay.” Forty-five minutes. Truthfully, she was a little nervous about being alone. “Can't I just go with you? Wouldn't we save time?"

  "We might save time, but there'd be greater risk of exposure. When we leave, we'll head straight out of the city. Keep the door locked,” Mike warned, his expression intense. “And if someone comes by, you're not here."

  "Enough, already. I'm not a child. You keep forgetting who had the most to lose here."

  "Not at all. We both have a lot to lose."

  The low timbre of Mike's voice vibrated through her middle. He cared. “Oh, yeah, I'd better call Uncle Wil and let him know where I'll be. I really have to. He's a real mother hen, but he'll go ballistic if I just disappear."

  Mike nodded his agreement, but his expression remained stern. “No one else."

  Gwyneth stood up to walk him to the door. Slipping her arms around his neck, she looked up into his eyes and fluttered her lashes furiously before asking in her cheekiest manner, “You mean, don't call the ex-fiancé, don't you?"

  The intensity of his gaze startled her. “Check.” He leaned forward, slanting his mouth across hers. His lips claimed her, told her she was his forever—and to hell with Richard.

  Oh Mama, you never told me it could be like this.

  Her knees weakened, and her insides sizzled with heat. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her legs around him for the umpteenth time and love him within an inch of his life. Love him until the world was a vague complication that could be ignored. Love him until she forgot all her self-doubts.

  Reluctantly, she broke the kiss—such a lovely kiss. “We're never going to make it to Virginia if you keep this up,” she reminded him.

  "I know. All right, I'm going—now.” As he pulled away, she slid her hands slowly over the hard muscles of his upper arms across his forearms to his strong, tanned hands. He startled her as he took her hands in his and kissed the back of them. “Behave yourself. This is my last warning."

  Speechless, for once, Gwyneth could only nod.

  * * * *

  Gwyneth zipped up the last of her luggage. The Carltons dressed for dinner, so she'd chosen basic black. Like all professional women in New York, she had an extensive wardrobe of the color, suitable for every occasion. Still it was summer ... maybe something in white?

  As she rolled the largest suitcase into the living room, the telephone rang, startling her. Mike had instructed her not to call anyone but Uncle Wil, but he hadn't mentioned “answering” the telephone. While she debated over whether or not to answer or allow it to roll to voice mail, the telephone rang again, more insistently if she were any judge. She'd always made certain her cl
ients had her home number for emergencies. Unable to let it go, she ran and picked up the receiver. Her stomach clenched at the sound of woman's sobs.

  "M-miss Wells?"

  "Sylvia? What's happened?"

  "My husband ... again. I told him about the divorce. He h-hit me again."

  "How bad is it? Shall I call am ambulance? The police?"

  "No, it's not too bad, but I've made up my mind. I've had enough. I want to leave him—for good—but I don't have anywhere to go."

  "Where're you now?"

  "I'm at my mother's house, but this is the first place he'll look. Besides, I don't want Gianni to hurt her, too."

  Damn. A desperate client was the last thing in the world she needed, but she couldn't leave Mrs. Damico in danger. Gwyneth's recent experience had given her a new appreciation for fear and helplessness. “I'll call a shelter for you and see if there's an available spot."

  "Can you take me? I'm afraid."

  "Give me your mother's address. I'm going to call a taxi and send it to you, then have the driver bring you back here. I'll go with you to meet the shelter contact—as long as you understand that they won't allow me to go with you to the actual shelter."

  "I know. You've told me before.” Sylvia then rattled off her mother's address, adding, “Thank you."

  "It's okay, but we don't have much time. I'm on my way out of town for the weekend."

  "I'll be ready."

  After hanging up, Gwyneth placed the promised call for a taxi and made another to the shelter. As luck would have it, there was a space for Sylvia. And there might be just enough time for the young woman to get to Gwyneth's apartment before Mike returned.

  One more call to her uncle, and she'd be ready. “We're going to visit his parents’ farm in Virginia for the weekend."

  "Works fast, doesn't he? Are you sure about this, sugar? Awful sudden."

  "It's not what you think. Mike decided it's a good idea to get me out of town for a couple of days. Can you handle things at the office a little while longer?"

  "Anything for my favorite niece."

  "You're a doll, Wilford Wells."

  Her uncle's deep-throated chuckle resounded in her ear. “Ain't it the truth."