The Man For The Job Page 11

  "Well, I need to finish things here."

  "Okay, but you take care of your sweet self. And don't give that P.I. of yours too much trouble."

  Still giggling after she hung up the telephone, Gwyneth wondered how her uncle could be so different from her father. Brothers from the same womb, but Uncle Wil had all the warmth and emotions. All her father had had was a steel-clad heart, impervious to those who tried to love him.

  Now what else did she need to do before leaving? The kitchen. She rushed to the table, snatched up their morning coffee cups and placed them in the dishwasher. In midstride to rinse out the coffeemaker, the telephone rang again.

  What now?

  Picking up the receiver, she gritted her teeth at the sound of Richard's arrogant whine.

  "Have you come to your senses yet? Gotten whatever it was out of your system?"

  Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she sank down in the nearest chair. “Richard, you have to understand. It's over. We're through."

  "What do you mean over? I told you I'd overlook this unfortunate indiscretion."

  "Don't belabor the obvious. We've already covered this ground. I thought we could remain friends, but I realize it's impossible."

  "You're being rash. You'll regret this."

  "Is that supposed to be some kind of threat? Who do you think you are?"

  "I'm coming over. We have to discuss this face to face."

  "No, don't bother. I'm going out of town. Leaving in just a few minutes, in fact."

  "Out of town?"

  "That's what I said."

  "That's crazy. You don't know anything about him. I won't allow it."

  Still trying to control her, was he? “You don't have anything to say about it. I have to finish packing. I'm going to hang up now."

  "I insist—"

  Gwyneth broke the connection. “Screw you, Richard.” Not that she would ever speak so crudely if he were actually listening.

  * * * *

  Crime boss Gianni Damico had had a pisser of a day. If he'd been a kid, he would've lain on the floor and thrown a tantrum. Unfortunately, as the head of New York City's premiere crime organization, he didn't dare indulge in emotional displays.

  Instead, he'd just have someone killed. It had been a long time since he'd done any of the dirty work himself. Maybe too long.

  Many layers of protection shielded him from loose lips, but omerta in America was a damn joke. No longer did anyone have respect for tradition. Two bullets in the head was how he rewarded anyone dumb enough to betray him. He wasn't about to let someone grow fat in a Federal prison after singing to the government.

  To make matters worse, his stupid bitch of a wife was trying to divorce him. Whatever happened to family loyalty? If a wife didn't know her place, she deserved a smack in the mouth. And now, she'd run off and left him. No doubt gone to see her fancy, do-gooder lawyer again.

  Damn that pasty-faced, kiss-ass Klein. He didn't have his woman under control either. What was the use of paying thousands of dollars to a lawyer, if he couldn't get his fiancée to drop a client in a lousy divorce case?

  Another instance that Gianni would have to take matters into his own hands. Miss well-to-do Wells would have to go—if he could find her.

  He turned to his aide. “Find Klein and that bitch he's engaged to. If you can't find her, find me the detective,” he roared at his assistant. “They're bound to be together. One of them will know where my wife is."

  "Yes, sir.” Squeaky, whose voice matched his nickname, Deloroso backed out of the study, nodding like the Mafia version of Uriah Heap.

  * * * *

  Back and forth Gwyneth paced, until she was certain she'd worn a path in the hardwood floor. Would Sylvia get there before Mike returned? And what would he say about the small detour they would have to take before leaving for Virginia? Of course it didn't matter what he said, she still had a responsibility to her client. And of all people, an ex-cop should understand responsibility.

  Glancing at her Rolex, she saw that Mike had already been gone nearly forty-five minutes. Somehow, she had the feeling that he would be very punctual. It was still early, not quite eight. Hurry up, Sylvia.

  The intercom buzzed. Gwyneth rushed over to answer it, hoping it was Sylvia. “Yes?"

  "A Mrs. Damico, Miss Wells?"

  "Send her up.” Thank heaven. With Sylvia already here, Mike would have to behave himself. At least he'd better.

  As soon as the doorbell rang, she ran to open the door.

  To Gwyneth's horror, the poor woman's left eye was swollen and discolored in shades of purple and blue.

  "Oh, no. He really did a number this time, didn't he?"

  Setting down her bag with a determined thump, Sylvia nodded. “For the last time. I'm not going to be his punching bag anymore. I'd rather be dead."

  "Well, you won't have to worry about him again. The shelter is very discreet and very secure. We'll leave as soon as Mike gets back."

  "Mike?” Sylvia frowned and started pacing.

  "My friend, he's a private detective. We're going to visit his parents in Virginia. You met him at the office yesterday. Tall, with wavy, chestnut hair."

  A tiny smile pulled at Sylvia's mouth. “Yes, I remember."

  Before Gwyneth could respond, the intercom squawked again.

  * * * *

  Mike knocked on the door of Gwyneth's apartment. A sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach told him they didn't have any time to waste.

  "Gwyn?” Where the hell was she? He'd left the rental car double-parked at the curb. His stomach lurched again.

  The door opened.

  "Finally.” Exasperated, he strode inside, then stopped short. Damico's pretty, little wife sat hunched on the sofa, holding an ice pack to the side of her face. “What's going on? We have to leave."

  "We're ready, but we need to make a little detour first."

  "Gwyn-eth—"

  "Shh.” She shut him up with a light kiss. Okay, so he was a sucker for her lips—no matter where she happened to put them.

  "Since you're in such a hurry, I'll explain in the car. Come on, Sylvia."

  Gwyn grabbed the Damico woman's bag and shoved it toward him, then shouldered a small one herself, while pulling another along behind her. Good God, it looked like she'd packed for a trip to Europe, not a weekend in Virginia.

  What else could he do in the face of a steamrolling, protect-the-innocent-at-all-costs heroine? He nodded his assent and hoped like hell he wasn't making a big mistake.

  * * * *

  Richard Klein shifted uncomfortably under Gianni Damico's unwavering stare. “I'm afraid Gwyneth was gone before I made it to her apartment."

  "That's too damn bad, Klein. That little blond twist of yours is going to be your downfall."

  Klein swallowed. His only client wasn't happy, and his historic way of dealing with those who didn't please him was reputedly unpleasant, to say the least. “Technically, she isn't my little blonde anymore."

  Damico's sallow complexion darkened in an ugly mask. “What do you mean?"

  "She's broken our engagement. I thought I could get her to change her mind, but she's gone off with that detective."

  "Hah. Dumped your sorry butt, did she? Well, can't say I blame her, if you didn't do her any better than you've protected my interests."

  "Sir, I assure you, I...” Richard felt his face grow hot at the insult. If anyone but Gianni Damico were making such disparaging remarks, Klein would've reacted physically and swiftly.

  "Aah, forget it.” Gianni gave an off-hand wave of dismissal. “Broads. They're all alike. Go figure."

  Richard refrained from mopping the perspiration from his brow. Showing weakness in front of his powerful client wasn't a good idea.

  "If I knew where Gwyneth was going, I could find out where your wife is. The doorman told me that Mrs. Damico left with Gwyneth and the detective."

  "Why didn't you say so in the first place?” Damico growled. “Knock yourself
out. I've got my own sources. I probably have a better idea where your ex-fiancée is than you do."

  Klein gritted his teeth, disliking his client more by the minute. “Really?"

  "Well, well,” Gianni Damico smiled as he shifted through the papers on his desk. “Here we go. Want to know who's putting it to your blonde?” Without waiting for an answer, Damico continued, “Carlton is an ex-cop—a gigantic pain in the ass when he was on the force. Now here he is, sticking his nose in my business again."

  "So?"

  "Wait, there's more. You might be surprised to know that Carlton's father is a high-level Washington consultant who dabbles in diplomacy. In other words, he's a government spook. CIA or worse. His mother is a genuine British blue blood. They live in a pricey townhouse in Georgetown and spend their weekends on a farm in Virginia. So where do you think she is?"

  "Well, I'd say that in all likelihood—"

  "Never mind,” Damico droned. “If I were a betting man, I'd say Carlton has run off with your blonde to Virginia."

  His client smiled, but the man's half-shuttered eyes were dead—a combination that chilled Richard down to his toes.

  "Then I'll go to Virginia. I can persuade her to tell me where your wife is. I know it."

  "Hah. I've got a man already on the way to Virginia. He'll find that interfering bitch all right."

  "Then what?” He pulled at his collar, which was suddenly too tight.

  "Well, then...” Damico started patiently, “he'll grab her and ask her oh-so-nicely to tell me where my wife is, you idiot!"

  "Y-yes, sir."

  * * * *

  Uptown in his penthouse, an anxious Paul Winston waited until Lilith Sand came to the telephone. What he was about to do was reckless, but so what?

  "Lilith Sand.” Her rich contralto reached through the telephone and stirred him on a primal level beyond anything he'd experienced in the last ten years.

  "Mrs. Sand, this is Paul Winston."

  "Mr. Winston. Surely you don't already have news about my case?"

  "I'm afraid your case is still in research, but I wonder if you would like to spend the weekend in Virginia."

  "Mr. Winston, do you ask all your clients away for the weekend?"

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Only the wealthiest and most attractive.” So what if she had all the appearances of a black widow? He could handle her.

  "Well in that case, how can I refuse?” Her low laughter came over the telephone, curled through his ear and sent a shock straight to his groin.

  "I apologize for the short notice, but I have good friends with a farm in the Powatchee Valley who indulge in the quaint British custom of having weekend house parties. And I thought of you."

  "I'd be delighted, but what will your wife say?"

  "I'm a widower."

  "I see."

  Through the telephone, Paul could almost see her seductive mouth curve into a smile. And again, his groin reminded him that it'd been too long since—

  "Dress for dinner?"

  "Resisting the temptation to descend into adolescent vulgarity, I'll just say yes."

  "Lovely. I don't know my son's plans for the weekend, but I'll tell him of your kind invitation."

  Her son? “Yes, we'll go by private plane.” He recovered quickly. “I keep one at my disposal, since my client base is international."

  "Sounds delightful."

  "I'll pick you up at five. We'll arrive in time for dinner. I'm sure you'll fit in admirably. They always have an eclectic group of guests."

  "Sounds charming."

  "Five then. Good-bye."

  He broke the connection. Eclectic group, indeed. Why had George Carlton called earlier and asked Paul to bring his newest client? And how had his old friend even known about her?

  * * * *

  Mike saw to it that Sylvia Damico was settled comfortably in the 1957 Ford Thunderbird convertible he'd leased from Retro Rentals. Then like a good soldier, he loaded the trunk with their luggage, gritting his teeth, but not so that Gwyn or the battered woman in the back seat could tell. He slammed the trunk, walked around to the driver's side, opened the door and slid into his seat.

  Time to get the hell outta Dodge.

  Turning the key in the ignition, he glared at Gwyneth over his shades. “I think you mentioned something about an explanation?” He pulled out into the street without waiting for her answer.

  "I-I'm sorry to interfere with your plans,” came the feeble voice from the back. “Please don't be angry with Miss Wells. It's my fault,” which made Mike feel like pond scum.

  "Okay, so I'm a jerk, but I at least need to know where we're going, don't I?"

  "Agreed on both points, Detective,” came Gwyn's snippy reply. “Don't pay any attention to him, Sylvia. His bark is worse than his bite."

  "Truce, ladies. Honestly, my mother did bring me up with better manners. But will someone please tell me where we're going. I'm the driver. I need to know.” He hit the steering wheel in frustration.

  His partner in crime reached over and ran her fingers across the back of his hand, then gave him a playful slap on the wrist. “If you'll kindly keep your eyes on the road—and your hands on the wheel—I'll tell you."

  Okay, so he'd tried to cop a judicious feel of her knee. It was right there—handy, so to speak.

  "We're meeting the go-between in Queens. She'll take Sylvia to a shelter. That way she can't be traced through us."

  "Queens? Why didn't you say so in the first place? I'm headed in the wrong, damned direction.” Mike flicked on the turn signal and made a right turn. One more right and he'd be headed toward the Queensborough Bridge.

  "You do know how to get there, don't you? I know how men hate to stop and ask directions."

  "Yeah, yeah.” he groused. He glanced in the mirror at Sylvia's battered face. “Shouldn't we take her to the hospital or something?"

  "I don't need a hospital,” Sylvia protested. “I need a divorce."

  "There's a nurse at the shelter. She'll check Sylvia over and give her whatever she needs."

  "This place is safe?"

  "Yes, it looks like an ordinary row house, but it's been rehabbed on the inside to accommodate ten women and the staff. We're lucky they had an opening."

  Mike nodded. “Security?"

  "All windows and doors are wired, and they have a hotline to the local precinct."

  "Okay, ladies. Queens it is.” He made his second right down Lexington Avenue, hoping like hell for a break on the traffic lights.

  Eighteen

  Mike sat in front of a small coffee shop, cursing the day he was born. The trip to Queens had been complicated by a fender-bender in the middle of the bridge, which tied up the eastbound lanes. Traffic came to a halt, and everything remained at a standstill until the police arrived on the scene and started directing traffic around the crash. All in all, it had been a forty-five-minute delay.

  He glanced at his watch for what had to be the tenth time. Gwyn had been inside for a good ten minutes. If they didn't get on the road soon...

  Hell, so what if they were late to dinner? Other than his mother's thinking they were boorish for being inexcusably late, what could happen? It certainly wouldn't make any difference in what his father thought.

  The sound of the front door closing shook him from his thoughts. He looked up. Gwyn strode toward the car; her long, beautiful legs might be hidden by a pair of slacks, but there was no hiding the way the fabric clung to her shapely thighs and hips. Not only that, he had a damn good memory of those gorgeous limbs wrapped around his waist.

  Blood rushed to his groin. Damn. If he didn't get his dick under control, how was he going to walk around in polite company the rest of the weekend? The only option would be to stay in bed—yeah, great idea.

  Opening the door, Gwyn slid into her side of the car. “What's up?"

  "What's up?” Mike threw his head back and roared with helpless laughter.

  "Hmm, I see what you mean."


  Leaning toward him, a smile of feigned innocence playing about her lips, she ran a pink-tipped fingernail up his inner thigh.

  He groaned. The woman was dangerous or demented—possibly both. No, delicious was more like it.

  "Can you drive with Little Mikey like that?” Gwyn's tone was so sweet, she might've been asking him if he'd like one sugar or two in his morning coffee.

  "I can drive all right."

  Mischief lit her blue eyes until they sparkled. “Yes, well, we both know you can do that, but can you drive the car? That's what I'm asking."

  "Counselor, if you'd take your hand off my leg, it might help."

  "Turning on the key might help.” Gwyneth reached toward the ignition. “Weren't we going to Virginia?"

  "Hold your hands where I can see them,” he ordered in his most authoritative, cop's voice. “Move away from the victim and remain on your side of the vehicle.” He paused, then softened his tone, “Or we're not going anywhere but the nearest Motel Six."

  Gwyneth held up her hands in mock surrender. “Motel Six?” Pursing her lips, she added, “I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

  "I knew it was a mistake to drive to Virginia.” He turned the key; the motor roared to life, all 380 horses raring to go.

  "Why is that?"

  Mike pulled out into the street. Keeping his tone casual, he laughed. “I had some silly idea about watching your hair blowing in the wind, the sun shining on your face. Romantic claptrap stuff."

  "And that was the mistake?"

  "Yeah, you're going to drive me crazy, counselor. I'll be on testosterone overload by the time we roll into my parents’ farm."

  "I'm afraid I don't see the problem, Detective.” She folded her hands primly in her lap. “You already act like a testosterone junky."

  Mike grinned. “I do?"

  "You are guilty of the most heinous behavior."

  "Now you're the judge, too?"

  "Most assuredly. And I'm ready to pronounce sentence on you."

  Straining to keep his eyes on the road, he told her, “Go ahead, Your Honor. I'm prepared to pay for my crimes."

  "Good. Michael Carlton, I sentence you to spend the rest of your nights with the woman at your—” Gwyn broke off. Had she said more than she meant to? “I mean—"