The Man For The Job Read online

  "Gwyneth,” Klein prompted in a tone so pompous, Mike considered stuffing his fist down the jerk's throat just to shut him up.

  "I'm going home alone. Mike, I'll see you in the morning. Eight would be—"

  Klein grabbed Gwyn's elbow. “I must insist."

  "Stop it!” She jerked her arm away and headed toward the front entrance.

  "Bastard,” Mike barked at Klein, then rushed after his headstrong client. He reached the front door, but a sudden influx of patrons delayed him.

  Finally, he worked his way though the group of tourist types. “Excuse me.” He extricated himself after tripping over one zaftig matron.

  Reaching the street, he glanced in both directions. Damn. He'd lost her.

  * * * *

  Taking a deep, ragged breath, Gwyneth tried hailing a taxi.

  Dammit. Never a cab when you needed one—and it wasn't even raining. She tucked her purse close under her arm and held it to her side. Okay, no taxi in sight, she'd just walk home. It wasn't all that far, and she needed to blow off some steam.

  The very idea of Richard's ordering her around like that. How dare he tell her to drop a client! Further evidence of his autocratic behavior—she'd made the right decision in breaking up with him. After listening to her clients describe the domineering and controlling men in their lives, how could she have been so stupid to get involved with one?

  Although normally, the sound of rapid footsteps behind her would've made her turn around and check out whoever was there, there was nothing normal about this evening or the thoughts she had. Mike, no doubt, had run after her. Well, he could just eat her dust.

  Damn. If Mike had to take on the persona of a fictional private detective, why couldn't he have modeled himself after Robert B. Parker's Spenser? Now he was a detective she could handle.

  She rushed on, passing a darkened alley.

  "Where you goin’ in such a damned, big hurry?"

  She pulled her purse even tighter against her body, then whirled around and faced him. He was medium-height and stocky; his wise-guy silk suit pulled at the shoulders. His feet were planted firmly on the pavement.

  He looked like trouble with a capital T.

  "Excuse me.” Heart pounding, she attempted to go around him, but he stepped into her path.

  "We have some business to discuss. You're pokin’ your nose in where it don't belong.” He jerked her around and pulled her into the alley, then slammed her up against the wall so hard it knocked the air out of her. He held a gun to her throat.

  Dazed, she gasped, “Here, take my purse. There's money. Take it."

  Blowing his beery breath in her face, he rasped, “My boss don't want your purse. Stay outta his business.” He drew back his fist, then slapped her head against the wall. Her vision blurred and the light faded. She slid down the wall...

  But why ... ?

  Eight

  Mike stood on the sidewalk and cursed Gwyn for her rash behavior.

  Not a damned cab in sight. Her apartment wasn't far, maybe five or six blocks. He'd hoof it. Granted, the neighborhood was upscale, but a determined stalker ... She'd be okay, as long as she'd hailed a taxi. But in her headlong rush from the restaurant, his client hadn't been in a wait-for-a-cab kind of mood.

  Turning in the direction of Gwyn's apartment, he took off at a brisk pace. Keeping up with his impetuous client and keeping her out of danger was a challenge, but he was up to it.

  First things first—he had to find her.

  Intent on catching up with her or, at the very least, getting to her apartment building, Mike wasn't sure why he gave the alley a second glance. Something caught his attention. A thud? And a groan?

  But fortune smiled. Mike stopped and peered into the dark littered passageway.

  His heart stopped. Bruised and motionless, Gwyn lay crumpled on the ground. A man stood over her, his foot drawn back poised to kick her in the head.

  "No!” He launched into the air, tackling the mugger. The man hit the ground with a loud grunt, and Mike landed on top of him. Over and over they rolled in the detritus of the alley.

  Mike gouged. He pummeled. “You—son—of—a—bitch!” He accented each word with a powerful punch. For good measure, he bounced the perp's head off the asphalt until he stopped fighting back.

  Satisfied the hood wasn't going anywhere, Mike knelt beside Gwyn's motionless body and felt for a pulse. Relieved by the steady beat against his forefinger, he took a deep breath. A dark bruise on her left temple seemed to be the only sign of damage—until he felt a knot at the base of her skull. The bastard. If she dies...

  Mike reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911.

  "Emergency service. What is your emergency?"

  "A woman's been mugged. She's unconscious."

  "Is she breathing?"

  "Yes, you have to—"

  "Your location?"

  "We're in an alley off fucking Sixty-Eighth Street between Second and Park."

  "Don't hang up, sir. Help is on the way."

  "I won't. Just hurry."

  "Don't move her,” his lifeline insisted. “Wait for the paramedics."

  "But—"

  "No. Sir, listen to me. Describe her injuries."

  "Bruise on the left temple. Large knot at the base of her skull. Scrapes on her legs. That's all I can see."

  "You should be hearing sirens any time now."

  Mike listened. Nothing.

  Desperate, he wanted to flag someone down, but he couldn't take his eyes off Gwyn. “Dammit, why didn't you wait for me?” he cried, the blood pounding in his ears.

  Her eyes fluttered. He dropped the phone and pulled off his jacket, covering her with it.

  Relief surged through him. “It's me. You're safe. Can you hear me?"

  "Not deaf,” she mumbled, then moaned.

  "Not brain-damaged either. You're still your charming self.” He hid his concern behind a flip response. At least she was conscious.

  "Not so loud,” Gwyn groaned. “My head hurts."

  The shrill wail of the sirens pierced the air. “Police and paramedics are on the way. Just lie still.” He wanted nothing more than to cradle her in his arms, but feared moving her.

  "Gwyn,” he murmured, “don't you ever listen?"

  "Not often.” She tried to sit and groaned.

  "I told you not to move."

  "But—"

  "Shh.” He pressed his lips to hers. A sharp intake of breath marked her surprise, but her soft lips parted. He deepened the kiss, tasting her sweetness, his heart shooting into jackhammer mode.

  If only he could stay glued to her forever—not that she would allow it if she weren't semiconscious. At best, he'd found the perfect way to preserve her strength.

  When Gwyn regained her senses, she'd tell him where to head. But for now, she was soft, warm and willing to be kissed.

  Pounding feet and rattling equipment echoed in the alley. Reluctantly he ended the kiss and placed a peck on the tip of her delightful, pert nose.

  "Over here!” Mike yelled at the police and paramedics.

  Mike backed away, leaving the EMTs to do their thing.

  The EMT shined a light into Gwyn's eyes, then checked her pulse. “Pupils equal and react to light, but heart rate's a little fast."

  Mike hid a grin. He'd had a hand in jacking up her heart rate. “She's going to be all right?"

  "We're taking her to CPMC. They'll x-ray her head and probably watch her overnight.” They slapped a padded collar around Gwyn's neck and moved her, in tandem, to a backboard.

  "I'm riding along with her."

  A uniformed officer stepped up. “Hold on, here. I've got some questions about this incident.” He jerked his head in the direction of Gwyn's assailant who still lay unmoving.

  Another paramedic knelt beside the creep. “Not sure this one's gonna make it."

  "You know anything about what happened to him? Like who he is and why he attacked her?” The officer asked, a
s if he were ready to arrest Mike on the spot.

  Mike eyeballed the officer's name tag. “Officer Mahoney, I happened to him. I found him ready to kick Miss Wells in the head. I made sure he didn't. She left the restaurant before I did. Sort of in a temper, you understand?” He looked at the silk-suited tough-guy lying on the ground. “Looks like a mugging, but it could be more. She hired me because someone's been stalking her."

  "And you are?"

  "Mike Carlton. I'm a P.I.” He stopped, pulled out his license and showed it to the officer. “Her uncle hired me today. I don't know if this guy's the one who's been following her, but she can tell us later."

  "Used to be on the job, didn't you?"

  "Yeah, the Fifteenth.” Mike glanced over his shoulder.

  The paramedics were loading Gwyneth into the ambulance. “Look, I want to ride along with her. Can we finish this at the hospital?"

  "Yeah, sure.” The officer scratched his head. “You had quite a lip lock on her when we entered the alley. You two old friends?"

  Mike grinned. “More like love at first sight."

  "Yeah, right,” Mahoney agreed, shaking his head. “Listen, kid, if you're aiming to go with your lady friend, then you'd better move it. I'll see you at the ER. Hav'ta bring in this skel, too."

  "Thanks, Officer.” Mike sprinted for the ambulance and clambered in the back door just in time.

  Once inside, he seated himself on a narrow, padded ledge. “Okay if I hold her hand?"

  The taller paramedic snorted, “If she'll let you. She's a little on the feisty side."

  Opening one eye and looking at the paramedic with disdain, the lady in question protested, “Not feisty. Just don't like being manhandled."

  She tried to sit up, but Mike placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. Wouldn't do for her to slug one of the paramedics. “Let them do their jobs."

  She looked up at him and held his gaze. Her eyes grew shiny with unshed tears. “Not every day someone bounces my head against a brick wall.” She blinked away the tears.

  He couldn't resist teasing, “Don't worry. The brick wall's fine."

  Her luscious lips twitched with obvious effort, trying to hold back a smile. “You saved my life. I never said ‘thank you.’”

  He winked. “I thought you said it real nice, counselor."

  Next she worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Dammit. She was driving him halfway to distraction. Life wasn't fair. No uptight, hard-nosed attorney had any business having a mouth like hers. A mouth made for kissing. Must be the reason he'd kissed her at every opportunity.

  And would again.

  But next time, he vowed, he'd let her initiate it. Ah, hell. Who was he trying to kid? The next time those lips were in the vicinity of his, he'd make her forget all about that SOB Klein.

  Not that he wasn't mystified by his own reaction to her. Her beauty was obvious enough. Any man would want her on sight. Gwyneth, with the face of an angel and the personality of a saguaro cactus, would challenge many a braver man. Fools rush in ... Well, maybe he was a fool, ‘cause he was definitely rushing.

  When his wife was killed four years ago, he swore he'd never love again—and he hadn't. And while he hadn't been a monk the last year, his few encounters had been brief—a means to an end, nothing more.

  Gwyn's husky voice interrupted his train of thought. “My heart's pounding."

  Mike glanced at the monitor display over her shoulder. He didn't pretend to understand the squiggles. “Flat line I know, but anything else is a mystery."

  She tugged on the paramedic's sleeve. “Do I have that A-fib thing? My father had it. It killed him."

  "No ma'am,” the shorter of the two paramedics answered, “you got what we call sinus tachycardia."

  "That sounds bad.” Her eyes widened.

  "Nah, it's just a reaction to all the excitement. Now, if you were hemorrhaging—"

  "Am I?” she interrupted, the anxiety causing her voice to squeak.

  Mile rolled his eyes. It certainly didn't take much to set her off.

  "You don't appear to be.” The paramedic took a deep breath. “Just listen, lady. I'm trying to explain."

  Mike piped in, “Listening isn't her strong suit. Thought I'd warn you."

  His helpful comment was rewarded with a flash of blue eyes.

  "Sorry,” she huffed. “Ever since my father died, I've been a little paranoid about heart stuff."

  The paramedic sighed. “I just meant that a hemorrhage would give you sinus tach, too. But,” he hastened to add, “you're not hemorrhaging, okay?” He craned his neck, glancing out the window. “We there yet?"

  "Thank you for explaining it to me.” She flashed the disgruntled man a wide smile.

  Mike sat back and watched the power of her smile. A slow red flush crept up the paramedic's cheeks and a grin spread across his face.

  Damn. No man had a chance when she decided to turn on the charm. Might as well start a Gwyneth Wells’ fan club right here and now. He guessed by the time she came home from the hospital, she'd have acquired an entire entourage of admirers, fetching and carrying—anything to be near that smile.

  And, dammit, he'd be first in line.

  Nine

  Gwyneth shifted uncomfortably on the stretcher—wires and tubes were everywhere. And she had a headache that felt worse than the biggest hangover she'd ever had. Still, she kept a close watch on the heart monitor—at least her heart rate wasn't in the one-twenty range anymore.

  A petite, redheaded woman, dressed in a white lab coat over blue scrubs, entered Gwyneth's cubicle. “Miss Wells,” she began, flipping through the chart, “I'm Dr. Canfield from neurology. How's your headache? Has the medication helped?"

  Gwyneth grimaced. “Not much."

  "Can you rate your pain for me on a scale of one to ten with ten being the absolutely worst pain you can imagine?"

  Closing her eyes, Gwyneth considered her choices. “About a seven, I guess.” In a gesture born of nerves more than need, she smoothed the sheet covering her. “How soon can I get out of here?"

  Dr. Canfield smiled, then shook her head. “I'm afraid I'm going to keep you overnight for observation."

  "Overnight? I can't stay here all night.” Gwyneth sat up but was immediately overcome by a wave of dizziness and nausea. “Ugh,” she flopped back on the gurney. “I think I'm going to be sick."

  "Take a couple of deep breaths, Miss Wells, and try to lie still.” The neurologist turned and yelled to a nurse, “We need a CAT scan on curtain two. Like now, folks."

  The doctor glanced at the monitors. “Your heart rate and blood pressure are normal, but nausea could be a symptom of increased pressure in your brain. The scan will rule that out. It's normal procedure."

  "Or not?"

  "Or not,” the doctor admitted, then hastened to add, “It's not unusual to have some nausea when you've had a concussion. We just need to make sure you're not bleeding into the brain. That's why we're going to watch you very closely for the next twenty-four hours."

  "But what if there's something wrong?"

  "Then we'll catch it quickly, and you'll go to surgery so the pressure can be relieved."

  "You're talking about brain surgery.” Gwyneth let out a long breath. “Oh my God, you want to operate on my brain?” Panicked, she sucked in rapid breaths, then grew dizzy. It didn't help that the monitor started beeping like a crazed garbage truck in reverse. She grabbed for the neurologist's hand and gasped, “I can't breathe."

  * * * *

  Mike hung up the telephone, leaned back against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. Gwyneth's uncle was on his way to the hospital. From his place in the waiting area, he'd heard the rising note of panic in Gwyneth's voice. He'd fought for self-control, as a couple of orderlies rushed out of the cubicle carrying her on a stretcher.

  The doctor approached Mike. “I'm Dr. Canfield, Miss Wells's neurologist. Are you Mr. Michael Carlton?"

  "Yes."

  "According to her chart, she de
signated you as the person to whom we can release medical information."

  Stunned, Mike nodded. “Okay. What's wrong? Where are they taking her?"

  "She's going up to medical imaging for a CAT scan."

  "But is she okay?"

  "It's normal procedure after head injuries."

  "But I heard her all the way out in the waiting area."

  "She's hyperventilating, Mr..."

  "...Carlton. Hyperventilating?"

  "That just means she panicked and breathed too rapidly which causes the carbon dioxide to build up in her blood. It's scary, not serious."

  "But the CAT scan, what about that?"

  "CAT scan stands for computerized axial tomography. It takes images of the brain in thin slices. We'll be able to tell if she's suffered a bleed or other injury. She's had some nausea, which isn't unusual, but it could also be an indicator of increased pressure in the brain."

  "All right, thank you, Doctor."

  The tiny redhead smiled up at him. “Are you a relative?"

  "No, I'm a friend.” Okay, so he exaggerated the truth. Gwyn, sure as hell, wouldn't describe him as a friend. “But I've called her uncle. He's on his way."

  "I think she's going to be fine, but I'm keeping her overnight for observation."

  "Good."

  The doctor's attention shifted to focus over Mike's shoulder. “I think there's a detective waiting to talk to you."

  Mike looked behind him. “Thanks. But you will let me know when she's through with the scan?"

  "Sure, you can see her as soon as she gets back."

  "Okay, thank you for everything.” Mike glanced at the detective again. “Guess I'd better talk to him. He looks impatient."

  "You're welcome,” the doctor replied.

  Mike turned around and walked slowly toward the familiar figure in black. “Dillinger, how the hell are you?"

  A broad smile wreathed his old partner's face. “You old horn dog, what're you doing mixed up in a mugging? I never thought you'd stoop that low."

  "Prick. Your mugger's in trauma one. I'm the hero.” Mike buffed his nails against his lapel.

  Dillinger rolled his eyes. “Should've known. You always liked that role. So, did you rescue a fair damsel—or just a little, old lady?"