The Man For The Job Read online

  "Don't be absurd. I don't want to see him again. Especially not with you along for the ride."

  Mike leaned forward on her desk, his face too close to hers. “I want to meet him face-to-face.” He leaned closer. “I want to see what you saw in him."

  Gwyneth leaned back in her chair—anything to get away from him. Yet the memory of Mike's kiss sent heat rushing to her face. “Back off."

  Mike grinned, but he gave her some space. “You might as well get used to my being around. From now on, we're Siamese twins."

  "I'm not meeting Richard for dinner, and I...” The thought of being joined with Mike sent the heat rushing to her face again. Damn! She absolutely should not think such thoughts in the middle of the afternoon.

  "Humor me, counselor. I need to know if he's the one having you followed. One dinner and we can eliminate him."

  "Well...” She hesitated, “I suppose you have a valid argument."

  "Now, you're cooking. Where're we going?"

  "Giordello's at eight."

  "Great, I love Italian."

  "You really don't expect to stay with me twenty-four hours a day, do you?"

  "Sure do. That's why your uncle's paying me. He's given me office space. And after office hours, I'll hang out at your place. I can sleep on the sofa or the floor. I'm not picky."

  "Well, I am. And I don't need a roommate. I like my privacy."

  "Look, counselor, if you want to make up with your ex and have him spend the night, you can shut the bedroom door. I promise not to listen. I don't get my kicks that way. Besides, I'm sure I'd be bored to death."

  "You are as disgusting as you are rude."

  Mike shrugged, then fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind?"

  "Yes, I do. This is a nonsmoking office. It's a nasty, filthy habit. You can't smoke in my apartment either. That's another reason you can't stay with me."

  "Okay, I'll quit.” He slid the pack back into his pocket.

  "Just like that—you'll stop?"

  "Sure. I've been meaning to one of these days."

  "Right,” she told him as derisively as possible. If quitting were that easy, the tobacco companies would have gone out of business a long time ago.

  "I can do anything I make up my mind to do,” he told her with a grin.

  "Is that supposed to be a warning?"

  "Statement of fact."

  "I'll take it as a warning."

  A Brooklyn-accented voice over the intercom interrupted Gwyneth and Mike's verbal sparring. “Miss Wells, your two o'clock is here."

  Thank God. Gwyneth breathed a sigh of relief. “Give me a minute, Gale,” she replied, then turned back to Mike. “You'll have to leave. Surely you don't suspect one of my clients..."

  Shaking his head, Mike stood up. “I'll be outside the door. Just in case."

  "I won't need you,” she told him as firmly as she knew how.

  "You never know,” he replied, not moving from the doorway.

  "Believe me, I know.” Dammit. Would he never leave her alone? Maybe he needed the persuading toe of a Sergio Rossi planted in his behind. “Mrs. Damico will be in here any second."

  "Damico? Any relation to the mob boss?"

  "Everything about my clients is privileged information. Now get out."

  "Tut-tut, counselor, so rude."

  Gwyneth sighed. “Subtlety seems a bit beyond your grasp."

  "All right. I can take a hint, even one dealt with a very heavy, albeit lovely, hand."

  Albeit? The man talked like a Raymond Chandler reject one minute and a professor the next.

  Who is he? What is he? Questions she would have to ask her uncle later.

  Much later, since Sylvia Damico, who was indeed the wife of a Mafioso and desirous of a quick divorce, stood gazing up into Mike's green eyes, her mouth gaping ever so slightly. Any minute the poor woman would drool, and the most outrageous private investigator in New York City would've made yet another conquest.

  Another conquest? Surely she wasn't counting herself as one. No, not at all.

  * * * *

  Mike grew thoughtful as he closed the door to Gwyn's office. Her client, a petite lady of obvious Italian heritage with enormous dark brown eyes and trembling lips, intrigued him. In spite of Gwyn's taking refuge in privileged communication, he was certain that Mrs. Damico was none other than the wife of Gianni Damico, well-known to the police department as successor to John Gotti's empire.

  He turned and strode down the hall to the office space Wells had designated. The office was small and clean with a desk and chair, filing cabinet and telephone. Perfect. He pulled out the chair and sat down.

  Gianni Damico.

  Just what he'd always wanted—a chance to mix it up with the mob. Again.

  Tamiko.

  A standoff. His wife had been the NYPD hostage negotiator. And everything on the operation that could've gone wrong, had. The hostage dead. The perp dead. And his wife dead.

  Tamiko. Even now, thinking of her made his stomach churn.

  Her death had been ruled as an unfortunate mishap: Lost in the line of duty.

  Lost in the line of duty? Hell. The perp had been one of Damico's button men, and the whole scenario smelled of setup. Mike and his partner, Dillinger, had been ready to bring the entire Damico Crime Family down. The dead hostage had been the police department's informant. Yet in one completely fucked-up operation, the entire investigation was dead in the water.

  No witness.

  No wife.

  Mike banged his fist against the desktop. What he wouldn't give to put Damico behind bars.

  Seven

  After her appointment with Sylvia Damico concluded, Gwyneth added her notes to the woman's file. She'd already tried convincing the woman to go to a shelter for abused women but had met with resistance—not an unusual circumstance, but a troubling one nonetheless. Closing the file and locking it away, she took a deep breath. Time to get some answers from her uncle.

  She marched into his office and closed the door behind her. No point in feeding Mike's already over-inflated ego by allowing him to think she had any personal interest in him.

  "I think you need to tell me a little bit more about this private detective you've hired for me."

  Uncle Wil looked up and gave her a smart-ass grin that he didn't have the decency to hide, his blue eyes alight with obvious mischief. “He's the best, sugar. What else do you need to know?"

  "I mean, like what did he do before he became a P.I? What's his background? Who really recommended him to you?"

  "Okay, okay. Stop with the interrogation, already. I'll talk.” Her uncle heaved a sigh, then continued, “Mike's a former police detective. He was on the fast track for lieutenant, till he ran afoul of Gianni Damico—and the Police Commissioner."

  "Ran afoul, how?” If she was any judge of Mike Carlton's character, he probably tried to seduce the Commissioner's wife.

  Leaning back in his chair, he laced his hands across his stomach. “It's a long story."

  "Then cut to the chase."

  "Well, they say he and his partner had an informant in the Damico family who was about to give it all up. Everything and everybody—the entire operation."

  "So what happened?"

  "A SWAT team balls-up. Everybody who mattered ended up dead, including Carlton's wife."

  "His wife?” That Mike had been married surprised her. He didn't seem the type to limit himself to one woman a week, much less marry and tie himself down.

  "She was a hostage negotiator. Anyway, Mike went a little crazy for a while, told everybody who'd listen that someone high up in the department was in Damico's pocket. As you might guess, this sort of irritated the Commissioner. He and your P.I. went head-to-head. No telling what would've happened if Mike's partner hadn't pulled him off the Commish. Mike turned in his badge—and became an entrepreneur."

  "Oh."

  "Is that all you have to say?"

  "Uh, yes.” Totally at a loss
, she had entirely too much to think about—a disgraced detective and one with a temper on top of all his other, more obvious faults. Finally, she managed a feeble, “I just needed to know."

  "Uh-huh."

  More to cover for her obvious confusion than any real desire to know, she asked, “Who recommended him?"

  "An old friend of mine,” her uncle replied, suddenly finding the office ceiling of great interest.

  "Why are you hedging? What old friend of yours?” Pulling information out of her uncle was as tedious as watching a baseball game. What was the matter with him?

  "I can't tell you his name. Let's just say he's highly placed in government."

  "City government? Or state?"

  "No, more like national government,” he admitted, drawing his response out slowly.

  "That doesn't make any sense. Why would anyone in DC know anything about Mike Carlton?"

  "His father and I go way back, okay?"

  "But he told me that his father...” She stopped, suddenly remembering what Mike had told her about his father being in the diplomatic service and a consultant. “His father's CIA?” She lowered her tone to a stage whisper.

  Her uncle leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. “You didn't hear it from me."

  * * * *

  Mike stood on the opposite side of the door to Wilford Wells’ office. He strained to hear what was being discussed, but beyond the low murmur of voices, he couldn't make out a damned word.

  Damn. If Gwyn was trying to worm her way out of being his client, he needed to know. Besides, if she had any silly ideas of going to dinner without him, she was in for a big surprise. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't had a bite since breakfast, and that had been a bagel and coffee. Not exactly what an active P.I. needed to keep the old fires stoked.

  Besides, meeting the ex-fiancé was a damn near necessity. Dinner with Gwyn and the mob lawyer sounded just fine.

  Without warning, the door opened. The ever-lovely Gwyneth asked with a sneer, “Is eavesdropping another one of your talents?"

  "One of many,” Mike admitted, then smiled and buffed his fingernails on his lapel. Being cool and casual was another of those talents, but belaboring the obvious wasn't necessary. Gwyn, being intelligent as well as an eyeful, would've already figured that out.

  She attempted to brush past him.

  He stepped into her path. She glared at him, sending his heart rate into the stratosphere. Her breathing quickened, her blue eyes full of ire—no, make that fire.

  "Gwyn-eth,” he drawled, enunciating the syllables, “what's next on our agenda?” The subtle scent she wore left him giddy. Something familiar, yet unique to her.

  "Our agenda?"

  "Let's get your routine down."

  "All right,” she sighed in apparent resignation. “I'll prepare a schedule. My usual court days, my appointment days—everything you need to know. If you'll give me about thirty minutes, I'll work up a printout, then we can discuss our options."

  "Okay.” Mike stepped back. Where was the hostility, the frank disdain she'd treated him with since they'd first met? She'd turned quiet and professional on him.

  Why? Was she giving up to the inevitable, or was she up to something?

  * * * *

  Several hours later, in the back seat of another taxi, Mike relished his state of pleasant confusion. His client had kept her word and discussed security arrangements with him in an adult manner. He wasn't certain he liked this new turn of events. He was more comfortable with the reluctant, but feisty, temptress he'd kissed that morning, rather than this ice maiden.

  He looked over at Gwyn. She sat on the far side of the cab with her lovely knees together and hands folded primly in her lap. It was obvious she wasn't about to allow another spontaneous demonstration of affection. He'd lost the element of surprise. Dammit.

  Still, he couldn't resist looking at her shapely legs.

  "Will you give it a rest?” She glared at him, daring him.

  He held his hands up in surrender. “What? I haven't tried anything.” Then he grinned. “Or maybe you want me to try something? And you're upset because I haven't."

  Gwyn's eyes widened and her jaw tightened. Her struggle was obvious to anyone with his keen powers of detection.

  "I would appreciate it—” she began.

  Mike seized the opening and scooted over toward her. “Anything to oblige, Miss Wells."

  "—if you didn't,” she finished with a prissy emphasis that sent him back to his side of the taxi.

  "All right,” he continued with a good-natured smile. “I just want you to know I'm available—"

  "Available?"

  Her tone was meant to be withering, but Mike knew better. She'd enjoyed the kiss they'd shared. “Yeah, available. For—uh, protective services, guarding your body and emotional support—the usual."

  "I hardly think those are the usual services. You're just a renaissance man, aren't you?"

  "Have gun, will travel."

  "Or in your case, have lips, will travel."

  "Touché, counselor."

  Gwyneth favored Mike with a tight little smile. Maybe she was more concerned about dinner with her ex. Was she regretting the breakup?

  The taxi slowed, then stopped in front of Giordello's.

  "Finally.” Gwyneth heaved a sigh. “There he is.” She indicated a tall, slender man, who smoked while he paced back and forth in front of the restaurant at a fevered pace.

  A greyhound in a three-piece suit—the ex-fiancé. Already Mike disliked him. “Counselor, you let him smoke in your apartment?” he asked and nudged her ribs with his elbow.

  "No, I didn't. He used the balcony.” She huffed and hurried forward.

  "Richard.” She offered him her cheek for a peck, then backed away before he could pull her into his arms.

  Hot damn. Here we go. I'll show this little prick how to treat a woman like Gwyn. She's as good as mine, or I'll give up women for good.

  Scowling, the ex threw down his cigarette. “Who's your friend?"

  "This is Mike Carlton, the detective Uncle Wil recommended. Mike, Richard Klein."

  "Kling.” Mike gave the man a peremptory nod, then repeated, “Kling,” purposely mispronouncing his name a second time.

  "Klein,” the ex-fiancé corrected and placed a proprietary hand at Gwyn's waist.

  "Yeah, right, whatever.” Mike believed in the old adage that names conveyed power. And he'd be damned if he gave any to the jerk standing beside Gwyn.

  Gwyn smiled brightly. “Shall we have dinner?"

  "He's having dinner with us? Gwyneth, there are things we need to discuss ... privately."

  "Sorry, but my client needs twenty-four-hour protection."

  "Really. Nice job. Bodyguard to someone as wealthy as Gwyneth here. You have deep pockets, darling, and he's mining them."

  That's enough. Mike jutted his chin and stepped into Klein's personal space. “Listen, you condescending putz. Maybe you don't care that someone's stalking her, but I do."

  "I doubt you'd be so attentive if she didn't have a healthy trust fund."

  Gwyn placed her hands on her hips. “Hold on a minute. I don't like being discussed as if I weren't here. Stop this macho sparring right now. You're both being ridiculous."

  "Stand guard, then,” Klein replied, with a shrug and a half-snarl of his thin lips. “We don't eat with the hired help."

  "Mike's joining us for dinner,” Gwyneth insisted. “I'm sure he hasn't eaten since breakfast.” She glanced up at him, her moistened lips slightly apart, as if hoping he'd agree.

  "True enough. Miss Wells has kept me quite busy."

  "Fine.” Klein glared at Mike, then pulled a beeper from his pocket. “Table's ready. After you, Gwyneth."

  Klein was already losing patience, and Mike was damned glad. Gwyneth's ex was a jerk. What had been the attraction?

  * * * *

  All through dinner, Mike seethed but kept his mouth shut. Klein was arrogant and belittl
ing in turn. Why did she let the ex talk to her that way? Where was the spunk Mike had witnessed all day long?

  Klein leaned forward, eying Gwyn. “There's a client I want you to drop."

  Gwyn's eyes widened as she straightened her back. “I beg your pardon. This had better not be the same song, second verse."

  "My client, Mr. Damico, would appreciate it if you did not handle his wife's divorce action, and I would consider it a personal—"

  "Don't be absurd.” Her beautiful blue eyes flashed as she stood up. Mike held his applause.

  "This is the same old argument,” she continued. “If you choose to represent her husband, that's your problem, but I will not have you dictating whom I can and cannot represent."

  Mike restrained the impulse to stand up and cheer the return of her spirit. All was not lost.

  Klein looked around the room, a frown distorting his thin features. “Gwyneth, sit down. You're making a scene."

  "Listen, pal, watch how you talk to the lady."

  Klein settled his gaze on Mike like he'd just stepped on a dog turd. “Are you for real? I feel like I've stumbled into an old forties movie."

  Mike jumped up, his fists clenched. Klein was asking for it. “I'll show you who's—"

  "Both of you, be quiet,” Gwyn demanded and sat down.

  God! He loved a confident woman.

  Gwyn shot him a pointed glare. “I'm perfectly capable of handling this. Please don't interfere."

  Mike nodded and sat down. “Yes, ma'am.” Hopefully, the fireworks weren't over. This could still turn out to be a fun evening.

  "Richard, my clients and my practice are mine, and I resent any attempts at coercion from you."

  "Way to go!” Mike offered, in spite of having just agreed not to interfere. And he more than deserved the sharp glare she darted at him. Damn. The woman was hot.

  Gwyneth shoved her plate away, snatched up her purse and stood. “I've had more than enough. Gentlemen—and I use the term loosely—I'm calling it a night."

  Klein sprang from his seat. “All right, I'll see you home."

  Mike interrupted, “Maybe you will and maybe you won't. I think that's up to the counselor here. Gwyn?"

  Her wide blue eyes glanced back and forth between him and Klein, her slender fingers drumming against her thigh.