The Man For The Job Page 3

  "Sorry,” Mike apologized and shoved a handful of bills at the driver. “Keep the change."

  "That broad's nothin’ but trouble. High maintenance, I can tell,” the cabby offered.

  Mike grinned. “I know, but I'm the man for the job."

  He stretched his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. There she was, striding along as if her panties were on fire and she didn't want anyone to notice, much less make a scene. As long as he could still see the top of her blond head bobbing through the crowd, he knew he could follow her home. After all, he was a detective.

  Four

  Like an armored tank brooking no obstacles, Gwyneth strode along the busy streets of the Big Apple. For once she wasn't worried about being mugged or stalked—just let someone try.

  "Wilford Wells, just wait until I get hold of you. I'll wring your wrinkled old neck for the trick you've played on me,” she muttered, knowing she must look as demented as half the people around her. And for once, she didn't give a damn what anyone thought.

  'Now then, sugar', Uncle Wil had said, ‘This Mike Carlton, I checked him out. He's the best.'

  The best? If that phony cretin was the best, she'd hate to see the worst. She'd show her uncle what she thought of the best. She'd pull his gray, stringy ponytail out by the roots.

  Dammit. She'd presented herself at Mike Carlton's office, expecting to be treated with due respect, and instead he'd hit on her like she was a lap dancer in a stripper bar.

  He'd even had the nerve to kiss her in the back seat of a taxi. Never mind that Richard's kisses had never made her hot and squishy inside. Mike's lips were tender and warm, and he'd tasted of his morning coffee. How could one kiss—a kiss that reminded her of a rich burgundy, dark and earthy—upset her so?

  What was the matter with her? She had no business thinking about Mike's lips or his earthiness—no matter that she already had. Keeping her head on straight was of paramount importance. At least it always had been.

  Gwyneth turned into her office building and managed a semblance of self-control while riding the creaky elevator to the tenth floor. True, she and her uncle could have afforded offices in a better location, but Uncle Wil had argued that their clients might be intimidated by more ostentatious surroundings. And these were certainly humble.

  Humble or not, the sight of Wells and Wells, Attorneys-at-Law always made her feel proud, even if the faux gold paint was a touch tarnished. She loved her uncle, but he was in for a shellacking. And she was just the woman to wield the brush.

  "He in?” Gwyneth asked the assistant she shared with her uncle. Without waiting for an answer, she flung open the door to his office.

  "Good afternoon to you too, sugar."

  She leaned across her uncle's desk, resisting the urge to throttle the only relative with whom she could stand to be in the same room. “You have some explaining to do."

  An expression of total bewilderment took up residence on her uncle's grizzled face. Rearing back in his chair, he frowned. “What the hell's the matter with you?"

  "Th-that detective you referred me to—he's a joke. That's what's the matter with me."

  "You saw Mike Carlton, right? Not one of his flunkies?"

  "Yeah, I saw him. He's arrogant, rude and a throwback.” Maybe it was the glint in her uncle's faded blue eyes and the twitch of his lips—or maybe it was the prickle on the back of her neck, but something made her stop mid-rant.

  "He's standing right behind me, isn't he?"

  "You got that right,” came the already too familiar voice.

  Gwyneth whirled. “You!” Advancing on the arrogant upstart who stood leaning against the door frame, looking ever so pleased with himself, she shouted, “I can't believe you'd have the effrontery to show your face in my office after your unconscionable behavior in the taxi."

  "You hired me, counselor,” Mike replied with a shrug, turning his palms upward. “What else could I do?"

  "No, I distinctly remember firing you,” she bluffed, all too aware that she'd done no such thing.

  His forehead furrowed, but crystal green eyes shone under thick, dark eyebrows. “Fired? No, I think I'd remember if you'd fired me."

  "I did,” she insisted, barely refraining from stamping her foot. “I'm sure I did."

  "Were we in the taxi when you supposedly fired me?"

  "Of course we were.” The nerve of the man—acting so innocent, when all the time he knew exactly what had transpired between them.

  Removing his fedora, Mike ran his fingers through wavy, dark-brown hair, while he appeared to consider her words. Honestly, if she weren't so mad, she wouldn't mind tangling her fingers in those curls and...

  Great! The man had cast a spell over her. She was on the verge of turning into a gibbering, over-sexed hedonist.

  Then he smiled. Actually, he had such a sexy mouth and gorgeous eyes, but she didn't trust his expression. She took it as a sign that he was about to say—or do—something totally outrageous.

  "That's not what I remember happening in the taxi.” Then as if remembering they weren't alone in the room, Mike stepped around her and approached her uncle. “Sorry, Mr. Wells. We weren't properly introduced. I'm Mike Carlton.” Mike offered his hand to her traitorous uncle who was actually smiling at the P.I. “Your niece has hired me to find out who's stalking her."

  "I fired you!” Gwyneth gave in and stamped her foot.

  "You didn't."

  "Well, I am now.” She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a roll of bills. “Here. Take this for your time and no effort. You are officially fired—as officially fired as I know how to fire anyone."

  Mike took her money, ruffled the bills, then handed them back to her. “Too much, and besides, the taxi ride was pure pleasure on my part. You're very entertaining, counselor."

  Outraged, she turned back to her uncle. “See what I mean? He's ... he's..."

  "Got you all stirred up. That's what I see, sugar.” Uncle Wil's shoulders shook with laughter.

  Exasperated, Gwyneth took a deep breath in a feeble effort to regain control—then another. “Why aren't you leaving?” she managed to ask in her most dulcet tone. “You have been dismissed. I no longer have any need of your services. Must I say it in another language perhaps?"

  "I understand English, counselor. It was my first language.” He nodded at her uncle. “Sir, it was a pleasure meeting you, however brief our acquaintance."

  "What's this act you're putting on for my uncle? That's not how you talked to me."

  All she received for a reply from the outrageous phony was a smirking half-grin as he turned to leave.

  "Mike,” Uncle Wil called after the wretched detective. “I think we can do business. Since my misguided niece has fired you, I take it you're free for another job?"

  "No!” she cried, unable to stop herself.

  Ignoring her, Mike stopped, turned around to face them and gave a casual shrug. “Yes, as it happens I am."

  "Good, ‘cause I'm putting you on retainer. I want you to find Gwyn's stalker."

  "I'd be more than happy to work for you, Mr. Wells."

  Gwyneth stormed from her uncle's office and down the short hall to her own.

  Once inside, she banged her head against the door. Her entire body shook with the effort it took to keep from screaming aloud. Betrayed. Her dearest uncle had gone against her express wishes. Now she would never get rid of Mike Carlton's leering face—or his hard body.

  * * * *

  Mike took the chair Wilford Wells indicated, then glanced over his shoulder in the direction his heartthrob had taken.

  "I don't think I made a very good impression on your law partner.” He turned back to the older man.

  "Ya think?” Wells replied, his face deadpan.

  Mike grinned. “I may have rushed her a bit."

  Wilford Wells’ bushy, white eyebrows rose. “Judging from her reaction, I'd say you did. Probably did her some good. She's just broken her engagement to a high-priced mouthpiece for the mob.
She doesn't think she's ready for another relationship.” The elder attorney cast Mike a cagey look. “Put the moves on her, did you? That's what all the hysteria is about?"

  "Maybe a little,” Mike admitted, finding sudden interest in the ceiling tiles.

  The older man grinned back. “I tell her to ‘get out there and meet someone new.'” He shrugged. “I talk till I'm blue in the face, but she doesn't listen."

  "That's not a big surprise.” Mike settled in his chair. “What do you think? Is the ex-fiancé keeping an eye on her or..."

  "To be honest, I don't know.” Wilford Wells frowned. “For that matter, it could be a client's ex-husband who didn't like the way things went in court."

  "Gwyneth also mentioned her Aunt Lilith. Something about the will?"

  "Yeah, Lilith's a long story. I'm not sure anybody knows the real scoop on her. She and her nerd of a son turned up, expecting something from the will, right after Gwyn's mother, Cynthia, passed away. Lilith's made a general nuisance of herself ever since."

  "Is she a beneficiary of Gwyneth's will?"

  "Nope."

  "Then what would be the benefit of having Gwyneth stalked?"

  "Gwyn herself has no issue—not yet anyway.” Wells gave a half-grin, but his faded blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

  Mike nodded. Greedy relatives, ex-fiancé with mob connections and angry client spouses—protecting Gwyneth Wells’ charming posterior might prove more difficult than he'd imagined.

  "I've a kid in my office who's a whiz with computers. I'll have him set up a data base and cross-reference her clients, friends—whatever.” Mike continued, “That's the easy part. And then there's Gwyneth. She's reckless and doesn't pay attention to her surroundings. Someone's stalking her. She has to listen to me. Not thirty minutes ago, she jumped out of the cab and took off by herself."

  "That would be right after you shocked her sensibilities?"

  "Yeah."

  Wells’ eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. “I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what you did to get her so shook up?"

  "I assure you I meant no—"

  "That's all right. I mind my own business. My niece is a big girl. She can take care of herself, but she's a handful. I just hope you know you're in for it."

  Chuckling, Mike agreed. “Had the same warning from the cabby."

  Wells guffawed. “It must've been something she wasn't expecting. She came in here all flushed and ready to rumble."

  "I kissed her. I enjoyed it,” Mike admitted, grinning.

  Wells nodded and smiled. “She needs a little shaking up."

  Pleased by Wells’ approval, Mike decided he'd better get back to business. “I'm going to need a desk—here in the office if possible. I need to stay close by if I'm going to protect her."

  Wells nodded. “We've got an extra office, used to be a storeroom. Just cleared it out to make room for an intern. But the little gal decided Wells and Wells wasn't high profile enough for her, so she ditched us to clerk for a judge instead."

  "Sounds fine. Computer access?"

  "Phone lines are in, but no computer yet."

  "No problem. I'll have Sid bring over my laptop."

  "You're set then?"

  "As soon as I beard the lioness in her den."

  Five

  Attorney Paul Winston surveyed his domain. The polished woods and soft leather warned new clients that his firm was well-established and they could expect a large bill. He glanced at his solid gold Rolex. One more appointment and he could cut out to the golf course. He would give this new widow and her son fifteen minutes of his valuable time—but charge them for a full hour. Yes, then he would just make his tee time. Being the senior partner of Winston, Weiner and Rappaport did have its advantages after all.

  "Mrs. Sand and her son to see you, sir,” Paul's administrative assistant interrupted.

  "Send them in,” he barked.

  The door opened, and all thoughts of golf—or anything other than bed sport—flew from his mind. Like a runway model, the auburn-haired beauty glided into his office. Attired in an expensive, black suit, her gaze caught his and held it. Entranced, he stared into her chocolate brown eyes. Standing up, he extended his hand. “Mrs. Sand, I'm Paul Winston."

  "Lilith Sand. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Winston.” She glanced at the dark-haired young man beside her. “My son, Edmund Everley."

  Paul dismissed the sulky-looking teenager as a wimp. “Everley?"

  The runt nodded back, his disdainful expression all too clear to Paul's experienced eyes.

  "Yes, my first husband passed away, too."

  At this statement, a hint of a smile played about her lovely lips. Wealthy widow twice over? His firm could always use another wealthy-widow client.

  Motioning for them to be seated, he asked, “How may I assist you, Mrs. Sand?"

  "I want you to investigate the will of my late sister, Cynthia Kimbrough Wells. She passed away almost two years ago and left her daughter everything. I'd like to contest it."

  "Why?"

  "Due to an unfortunate misunderstanding in my youth, my mother disinherited me and left my sister everything. I'd like a share of my rightful inheritance. It isn't fair for my sister's daughter to have it all."

  "I'm not sure you have a legal basis for your inquiry."

  "You're averse to taking my money?"

  "I'm averse to taking money I haven't earned. I'm a lawyer, not a crook.” At least he had to say that. And he was averse to wasting his time.

  Lilith Sand smiled again, her gaze warm and inviting. “Some would argue that there's a fine line between the two."

  Everley jumped up. “Mother, we don't have to kiss his ass. New York is full of lawyers."

  Her expression never altered. “Quiet, Edmund. I want Mr. Winston to take our case because he comes highly recommended."

  "You'll need to tell me more about this misunderstanding that led to your being disinherited."

  Lilith Sand leaned forward, motioning for her son to be seated. “It goes back to a childhood incident. We were swimming at our summer home on Lake Canandaigua. Our youngest sister, Deirdre, drowned."

  "Tragic,” Paul Winston weighed in, unnecessarily.

  "Doubly so. Cynthia was supposed to be watching her, but she blamed Deirdre's death on me, even suggested that I had intentionally allowed our sister to drown. Mother believed Cynthia because she was always Mother's favorite. As soon as I was able, I left home for college. We remained estranged, and Mother left everything to Cynthia. That's all there is to it."

  "How much money is involved?"

  "My mother's personal wealth was substantial. She was the only child of an investment banker. My sister's daughter, Gwyneth, received a substantial inheritance from her father as well. She won't miss my portion. I don't think my son should be left out of his grandmother's will. After all, he was her grandson."

  Paul hesitated. The longer he talked to Lilith Sand, the more uncomfortable he felt—her considerable charm notwithstanding. She reminded him of a cobra. He couldn't keep his eyes off her, but he was certain her bite was deadly. Perhaps, he should pass on the intriguing woman in front of him and play golf instead. On the other hand, there would be a sizable retainer involved.

  "How long ago did your mother die?"

  "Mother died five years ago."

  "You've waited this long to contest her will?"

  "I felt my niece will be more amenable to reason now that her mother is gone. And I was occupied caring for my husband who was quite ill at the time."

  "I see.” Paul drummed his fingers against the chair arm. Mrs. Sand wasn't telling him everything, but the lure of a large retainer for the firm was too difficult to resist. “All right. One of my clerks will get right on it. If you'll leave your name, address and other particulars with my assistant, we'll look into the matter."

  Lilith Sand rose in one fluid motion. “Thank you, Mr. Winston. Come, Edmund."

  Still as Paul watched L
ilith Sand and her son leave his office, he wondered if he'd made a mistake.

  Six

  Nervous and downright twitchy, Gwyneth tapped her fingernails against the surface of the desk. “Mike Carlton can't treat me like this. He's used to women falling at his feet because he's so damned good-looking. I'll show him."

  But before she could show him, her private line rang. She recognized Richard's number on the caller ID.

  What does he want?

  "Yes, Richard?” she answered.

  "Meet me for dinner tonight. We simply must talk about all this."

  "There's nothing left to say.” Yet she found herself inexplicably pleased by the familiar sound of his voice. And Mike Carlton had absolutely nothing to do with her sudden fondness for Richard.

  "I don't think we have. Our client lists shouldn't dictate our personal relationship. You're being extreme."

  "No, I'm being ethical. You have one client. He's a gangster, and his wife is my client. That's a clear conflict of interest."

  "Business-wise, perhaps, but it's business. We can't allow it to affect our lives."

  "It already has. You're not the person I thought you were. It's over, Richard.” Why couldn't he understand?

  "I have more to say on this subject, but my next appointment is waiting. I'll expect you at Giordello's at eight,” he insisted, then broke the connection.

  "Bastard,” She remembered, a little late now, that Richard's high-handed manner was his least attractive feature. Breaking the engagement had been the right decision.

  "Problem?” Mike leaned against the door frame and gave a belated knock.

  His unctuous tone grated on her last nerve. “Not unless you consider that I seem to be surrounded by jerks today.” There, he should know he's not the only man in the world.

  Mike turned a chair around and straddled it. “The ex-fiancé? What did he want?"

  "None of your business."

  "Temper, temper. The more I know about your ex, the better prepared I'll be to protect you."

  Gwyneth sighed. “He wants—no, he demands that I meet him for dinner. He wants to talk about us."

  "So it was the Honorable Richard Klein, Esquire, who called. Good, we'll go."