The Man For The Job Page 2

  "Gwyneth."

  Her cupid's bow lips spread into a wide smile. “Michael?"

  Dropping his private eye persona for a second, he shook his head. “To be honest, I'd rather you call me Mike."

  "Hmm, an honest man.” Her eyes widened. “I think I like the sound of that."

  An honest man? He wouldn't go quite that far. Honesty was an overrated commodity in his line of work.

  Two

  By the time Gwyneth and Mike reached the sidewalk of his office building, she'd asked herself over and over, what in the world she'd done. If it weren't for Uncle Wil's assurance Mike Carlton was topnotch, she wouldn't have discounted his ridiculous hard-nosed P.I routine. Although to give him credit, he had abandoned it somewhat after she called him on it.

  Okay, so the P.I. was a total hunk with crystal green eyes that seemed to read her mind, a dimple in his chin and a sensual mouth that made her want to jump up on the desk and kiss him until both of them were senseless. So what? Not that she ever would.

  Unfortunately, he wasn't much taller than she was, and if she wore her spike heels, she might tower over him. Damn. She hated being five-feet, ten-inches tall. That's why she always dated men with some real height, like Richard. But Richard didn't possess one iota of the intensity which seemed to sizzle from every single pore of the terribly masculine body walking beside her. When she compared the two, her ex-fiancé came up very short. In fact, further comparison made Richard seem a bit on the effeminate side.

  Mike struck her as a man's man. He probably watched football with his hand inside his belt. Maybe he even carried a gun. Well, of course he did. He was a private investigator, wasn't he?

  She'd been unprepared for his overt stares. He'd made her tingle in places Richard had never discovered. Frankly, she still wasn't sure what the big deal about sex really was.

  Orgasm, smorgasm. It all seemed so mechanical. Insert part A into part B, and screw. Besides, it was pretty undignified, and some of the things Richard had suggested they do were simply undoable—at least for her.

  What was the matter with her? she wondered, restraining a giggle. Why was her mind on sex at ten o'clock in the morning? Maybe it was the light pressure of Mike's hand, placed so protectively in the small of her back which sent waves of heat to places best not thought about in broad daylight.

  "Penny for your thoughts.” Then the corner of his mouth kicked up in a very sexy grin.

  She blinked. “Uh,” she gulped, then the tattletale warmth started creeping up her neck. “I-I don't think they're worth that much."

  "Must have something on your mind. You've haven't moved for five minutes, and we've already lost one taxi."

  "We have?” Taxi, what taxi? Startled, she looked first at Mike, then at the street. “I guess my mind wandered."

  "See here, Miss Wells—Gwyn—you're gonna have to pay attention. If I were a hit man, you'd be toast, and I'd be on to my next job."

  "Well,” she managed with a little heat, “that's why I hired you, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, but I'll need a little cooperation from you.” He turned, put two fingers to his lips and whistled for another taxi, giving her at least five seconds to pull herself together.

  To her horror, she found herself babbling. “All right. It's just I've never needed a private investigator before. I didn't know I would be responsible for anything.” She shut her mouth. Men hated it when women talked too much. Hell, why did she care what he thought? She'd hired him, not the other way around.

  As soon as the cab screeched to the curb, Mike opened the door for her. At least, her P.I. had a smattering of manners, in spite of the fact she still thought he was missing a clue or two.

  "Thank you.” After all, she knew how to be polite, too. After making sure she wasn't about to sit down on chewing gum—or worse, she slid into the back of the taxi.

  Mike scooted in beside her and gave the driver her office address. Good Lord, he certainly seemed bigger, up close and personal. She gave what she knew was a pathetic attempt at a smile. Still, he didn't seem to mind. He even grinned back, proving he'd had excellent dental care.

  Damn. Did he have to smile? She was nervous enough without feeling like she was a big piece of apple pie à la mode. Her heart raced—and that was a concern, too. Her father had died from some kind of coronary problem, and she most certainly had something going on in hers. Surely it wasn't supposed to flitter and flutter around like it was.

  "You all right?” He reached over and caressed the back of her trembling hand.

  Amazed by how gentle his touch was, she shook her head, and admitted, “Not really. I-I'm just nervous, I guess.” She kept her eyes directed toward her knees. Looking at them was a lot safer than looking into his see-all, know-all eyes.

  More gently still, he extended his hand and with one callused finger, turned her face toward him, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You're going to be all right. I'll protect you. No one, and I mean no one, will get past me. You have my word."

  How she wanted to believe him. “Honest and a man of honor, too?” she managed to say, but her trembling voice gave proof that she was still worried to this side of Wednesday.

  "I am,” he told her. Then, without warning or so much as a ‘by your leave,’ he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers; the bristled hint of a five-o'clock shadow grazed her cheek. Stunned, she returned his kiss. He tasted of coffee. Now she knew he liked it sweet—the coffee, that is.

  "Oh, God,” she gasped, aware she'd definitely descended into the depths of debauchery. Putting her hands in front of her, she pushed him away. “I'm engaged."

  He grinned, then leaned back on his side of the taxi. “Not anymore."

  "Well,” she huffed, “you confused me.” Taking a deep breath, she regained some self-control. “You have some nerve. I-I don't know why you did that.” She clasped her hands in front of her—anything to keep them from shaking.

  "It's simple,” he explained, as if she were in kindergarten. “I wanted to."

  "Do you always do whatever the hell you want?"

  "Usually,” he replied with a cheeky half-grin. Folding his arms across his chest, he beamed and set her to wondering if their children would have his beautiful eyes.

  She took a deep breath and struggled for control. “Well, it's just not acceptable behavior. What we have is a business relationship, and you've overstepped the boundary of what is appropriate."

  There, argue with that.

  Mike heaved a sigh. “Perhaps if I threw myself on the mercy of the court and told you it was an irresistible impulse and I couldn't help myself?” He pouted with his bottom lip stuck out just like a kid who'd wrecked his favorite toy.

  Gwyneth chewed her lip, wishing it were his. Damn. She was in trouble. How long could she hold him at bay?

  "Well, what does the court say?” he challenged her.

  "The court might look with favor on your pathetic excuse, if you were to promise to keep your hands and your lips to yourself from now on."

  The rumble of low, masculine laughter erupted from the far side of the taxi. “You're asking the impossible."

  Refusing to admit defeat, Gwyneth glared at him as if he were the worst wife-beater in the world. “I must disagree. All I'm asking is that you mind your manners."

  "Or a reasonable facsimile thereof?” Mike kept a watchful eye on his new client. Her posture relaxed, her gaze softened, and a hint of a smile visited her mouth.

  "So, tell me why a New York private investigator has a slightly foreign accent."

  "My father was in the diplomatic service. My mother's a Brit. They met in London and married. We kicked around most of Europe while I was growing up. I speak several languages.” Her question caught him by surprise, and that's why he'd answered her truthfully instead of going into his usual I'm-an-orphan routine.

  "And now?"

  He tried to think of an appropriate response, but couldn't help wondering how long her hair was. Not that he'd be surprised if she slept in th
at French twist. She was as uptight as any client he'd ever seen.

  "Mr. Carlton?"

  "Oh, right. My parents—they divorced when I was fourteen. My father brought me back to the States. And don't think I haven't noticed how you've changed the subject from you to me."

  He watched her kissable lips spread into one of the smuggest smiles he'd ever seen. Imagining her in a courtroom, he knew she'd be a dynamite litigator. Every male in the vicinity would be dreaming of what it would be like to crawl between her thighs, until she blind-sided them with her sweet brand of interrogation.

  "Ever see them?"

  "See who? Oh, my parents?” He shook his head. “Not if I can help it. My mother remarried, but then divorced number two and remarried my father."

  "Married your father twice? How interesting."

  "It's unusual,” he agreed, “but they're so much alike, it's difficult to imagine them with anyone else."

  "How long have you been an investigator?"

  "Now, counselor, I thought you had me investigated. Why the twenty questions?"

  "Well, since I had my uncle's personal recommendation, I didn't ask to see your dossier or anything. I was more interested in results than your life history."

  "My dossier?” If she only knew...

  "Is your father still living?"

  "Yeah, does consultant work in DC."

  "Consultant work, diplomatic service?” She raised an eyebrow. “Those cover a lot of territory."

  "It does,” he agreed, his tone more grim than he'd intended.

  All right, time for a change in topic. “What about your father? Was he proud of his Harvard Law daughter?"

  Her expression clouded as she looked down at her hands. “No—I mean, yes—he was."

  "You were an only child?"

  Her face clouded and her gaze turned from his, while she worked on the inside of her bottom lip. His client was holding something back.

  "I don't want to dredge up unpleasant memories,” he began, reining his impatience, “but anything you tell me could be important."

  "You really need to know about my father's mistresses? He had so many.” She gave a casual shrug.

  She didn't fool him for a minute. Her father's screwing around had hurt her—hurt her badly.

  "You knew about your father's—uh, infidelities?"

  "Not as a child, but in my late teens I figured it out. Actually, I saw him with one of them—at the opera. I've never cared for Madama Butterfly since."

  "Poor butterfly,” he murmured, wishing he could comfort her.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Just thinking out loud,” he said, attempting to cover his blunder. Somehow he didn't think she'd appreciate his empathetic urges.

  "Still, not like having your father around all the time for your field hockey games."

  "My father wasn't around for anything.” Her beautiful full lips twisted into a wry smile that tugged at Mike's heart. “He was a very big Camembert on the New York Stock Exchange. A very busy man."

  "So he had lots of women,” he commented as neutrally as possible.

  Gwyneth sighed. “My parents lived separate lives for the last ten years of their marriage. I think my father's unfaithfulness drove my mother to drink. He couldn't stand her drinking, and my mother couldn't stand my father at all."

  "So they put the fun in dysfunctional. Happens a lot.” Mike shrugged, but he wanted to put his arms around her and make the pain go away.

  Gwyneth heaved another sigh. Mike watched her small breasts rising and falling under her silk blouse. His breath caught in his throat. He'd wager his highly prized Yankee season tickets—not whole season, mind you—that the counselor's breasts were perfect and rose-tipped, even if on the dainty side.

  He itched to touch her, but having his butt kicked out of a taxi in the middle of Forty-Second Street traffic wasn't his idea of how to start a meaningful relationship.

  The counselor could be worth wooing. But would wooing Miss Wells be worth it? All his instincts screamed, Yes! Wooing Miss Wells would be wonderful if he wooed her with every wishful bone in his worthless body.

  Damn, all she had to do was sit there and breathe, and he was so turned around he'd invented a tongue twister.

  Her brow furrowed in a not exactly unpleasant frown. “Something amusing?"

  He really needed to work on his blank stare. “No. Why?"

  "You're lying."

  "Sorry, private joke."

  "You're not thinking about kissing me again, are you?"

  "Of course not. Unless you want me to."

  Three

  "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?"

  Gwyneth's eyes widened. Her jaw dropped.

  No, I didn't say it out loud. Taking a deep breath, he tried to think of a graceful—hell, it didn't even have to be graceful—exit line.

  Recovering before he did, Her Loveliness told him, “This is a big mistake. I don't know what my uncle was thinking when he recommended you.” Opening and closing the fastener on her purse, she stuttered, “You're j-just not a serious person. This isn't going to work."

  "Oh, but I am, sort of.” His struggle for clarity was a symptom of something much worse. Gwyneth Wells had shredded and rearranged his brain into something resembling strings of mozzarella.

  "But see here, counselor, you're too serious, and we both know I'm not, so we balance, right?"

  "I'm not looking for a bathroom scale,” she snapped. “I need someone who can keep his wits about him long enough to find out who's stalking me."

  "Then I'm your man."

  "You're not my man.” Her shoulders trembled with obvious anger. “You're someone who's lost his less-than-tenuous hold on reality."

  Mike straightened his shoulders, then eyeballed her, but didn't say a word, keeping his facial muscles under control. And watched.

  Her face turned pink again. Her eyebrows raised in question as she waited for his next response. He contented himself with watching the rise and fall of her breasts. They would be lovely. He was certain of it. Quality rather than quantity.

  "Well, say something. Don't just sit there with a blank look on your face. Maybe you're having a petit mal seizure? My dog Eloise—poor little thing—had spells like those for years,” she babbled, balling her fists, clenching and releasing them over and over.

  His silent treatment worked.

  Finally he took pity on her. “You need the best. I am the best. Which one-syllable word did you not understand?"

  Gwyneth huffed. “I'll have you know—"

  "Dammit.” He shook his head. “I knew your being a lawyer was the kiss of death for our future relationship.” He glanced down and casually inspected the backs of his hands. “If you remember, I mentioned that fact earlier. Besides, it appears you lack the quality I most admire in a woman."

  "Oh? And what would that be?” She tossed her head back, sweeping her fingers through the fringy bangs that softened her lovely face.

  Casual took all his self-control, but he persevered. “Miss Wells, you have no sense of humor, and that's something I find alm
ost impossible to ignore."

  "Almost?"

  "Oh. Was I mistaken?” Mike grinned. “Perhaps, there is hope for you after all. You picked up on the subtle nuance of my words. It gives me hope that somewhere lurking deep inside that lovely silk suit of yours resides a real human being."

  "Bull!” Gwyneth shut her mouth, then added with a frown, “You're a bad influence.” She leaned forward and rapped on the glass partition that separated them from the driver. “Stop and let me out. I'll walk the rest of the way."

  "Now, Gwyn-eth,” Mike began, deliberately lowering his voice and caressing the syllables of her name. He'd been told that his voice was a formidable weapon in his arsenal of seductive techniques. He'd better pull out all the stops, if he expected to get anywhere with his new client.

  "M-Miss Wells to you,” she stuttered.

  And damn if she didn't smile.

  All right, it was a tiny smile, one that barely deepened the dimple at the corner of her lush, kissable lips, but it was a smile for him alone. He'd take his victories where he could find them.

  Capturing one of her fidgeting hands in his, he leaned closer, prepared to celebrate his victory. “Miss Wells...” He paused, until she leaned toward him, her soft lips parted, breathless for his next words if he were any judge of women, “...how much are you worth?"

  The lovely creature stiffened. Disbelief flashed across her face as if he'd picked his nose or broken wind.

  "What?” she gasped, her hand clutching the base of her ivory-columned throat.

  "I need to know the state of your finances.” He grinned. “Just for the case."

  She huffed as if she were offended by his mere mention of money. “If this is about your retainer, I assure you..."

  Drumming his fingers on the car door, Mike heaved a sigh. “There you go, again—boring and predictable. Counselor, if I were worried about my retainer, I'd—"

  The cab shuddered to a halt, shutting off the rest of his reply. Gwyneth threw open the door and jumped out. The sight of her long legs flashing as she exited the taxi damn near gave him heart failure. What else could he do? He jumped out after her.

  "Hey, buddy,” the cabby reminded him. “My fare."