The Man For The Job Page 9

  Mike consulted his list again. “Also check out Lilith Sand and her son, Edmund Everley."

  Sid shrugged. “Anyone else, like the Greater Manhattan phone book?” Then he grinned. “Shouldn't take too long. Piece of cake."

  Gwyneth smiled at the young man. Mike expected a lot from him; she just hoped he was up to the task. “Thank you for your help, Sid."

  "I'm taking Gwyn down to Virginia for the weekend.” Mike scowled. Did Gwyn turn on the charm for everyone but him? “If you come up with anything of interest, you can reach me on my cell."

  A knowing smirk spread across Sid's face. “You're my hero, Mike."

  "Nothing heroic about it.” Mike gave his assistant a get-lost wave. “Thought it'd be a good idea to get her outta Dodge, while you do the research gig, capeesh?"

  "Yeah, I can dig it, man. You and the Gwyneth chick are taking off for a little rest and re-lax-ay-shun."

  "Yeah, that's right, and don't you just wish you were?"

  "I do—sincerely."

  The chick in question planted her feet wide apart and set her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like a washerwoman. “All right, you two bad boys. That's enough trashy talk. I am in the room, you know. And I'm not deaf."

  Mike flashed a wide smile at Gwyneth. “No way could we could forget you're in the room, counselor."

  Sid raised his eyebrows. “Kind of sassy, isn't she?"

  "Mike Carlton, just because you have a way with words doesn't mean you're going to have your way with me—"

  Mike watched, delighted, as Gwyneth broke off, turned a deep shade of pink, then gasped, “Nice meeting you, Sid."

  "Yeah, you too.” Sid ducked his head and giggled like a girl. To Mike's amusement, the young man's face turned almost as pink as Gwyn's.

  "I—uh, guess I'd better be going. I'll e-mail you any files that show promise. Uh, g'bye, Gwyneth, Mike."

  * * * *

  By the time Gwyn returned from walking Sid to the elevator, Mike was already engrossed with his computer search and—smoking a cigarette.

  "I'm pretty sure I told you no smoking in my apartment—ever."

  "And you have to know any P.I. worth the name works better on cigarettes and coffee."

  Hands on hips again, Gwyneth raised her chin a notch. “Not if he wants to live to be a ripe old age,” she paused, waited a telling beat, “and not in my apartment."

  Pacing from one side of the living room to the other, she wasn't through with her lecture. “You said you would quit—just like that. I knew you couldn't do it.” She pointed at the door. “On the balcony—and not in the hall either. The owners’ association will have me blackballed."

  He looked around the room. Of course, she didn't have an ashtray. “You're worried about what your neighbors will think?” She reached out, snatched the butt from his hand and rushed to the kitchen with it. He heard water running.

  So much for his nicotine craving.

  * * * *

  Gwyneth returned, still not through with him. She could put up with a lot, but not cigarette smoke. “You don't know these uptight people like I do. They have nothing better to do than make my life a living hell if they get it in for me."

  Mike stood up and walked toward her. “You're such a worry wart, Miss Wells."

  "I think I like counselor better.” Her heart jack-hammered against her sternum worse than it had during her first appearance in court.

  "Do you?” Mike slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. Dear heaven, there was a hard bulge pressed into her middle. “That your gun or...?” she quipped, ready to vamp like Mae West to the hilt.

  Mike narrowed his gaze as he looked down at her, but he couldn't hide the desire that glittered in his eyes.

  An enormous lump formed in her throat. Why did the morning after have to be so difficult? Not that this was really the morning after, just after.

  "I'm glad to see you.” His gaze softened, then lowered his lips to hers.

  Fifteen

  Elinor Carlton rolled her husband's wheelchair into the sun room. Ever since his stroke, his taciturn nature had turned irascible—that is to say, mean. But he did enjoy having tea with her amidst the flowers and chintz. At least that hadn't changed.

  She sat down before the Queen Anne pie crust table, picked up the Georgian silver tea set and poured the steaming, fragrant Earl Grey into the delicate Royal Doulton teacups. It did so please her to have things from her native country.

  She positioned his cup so he could reach it easily with his right hand, since his left remained weak and trembled. “What do you think, dear? Should I let Michael know that Marina will be here?"

  "Hell, no."

  Nothing wrong with his powers of speech, she thought.

  "Maybe you ought to warn Marina that he'll be here."

  "But he's bringing someone with him. If I'm not mistaken, I think our son's smitten. She sounds special."

  "Huh. Who is she?"

  "All I know is she's a client, but still he had this tone..."

  "She'll have to be checked out. And don't hand me any bull about his tone. I don't care. He has other responsibilities."

  Elinor drew in a deep breath. Patience is a virtue, she reminded herself. “Michael lives up to his responsibility. He can't help it if he doesn't love her."

  "He should've thought about that before—"

  "Enough, George. You're impossible. For once, be happy our son is coming for a visit. Let's do keep it civil for a change."

  George grunted, then picked up his cup of tea and sipped it.

  All in all, she considered, it had gone quite well. Maybe Michael's visit wouldn't be a total disaster, unless something that ranked with the sinking of the Titanic wasn't classified as a disaster.

  * * * *

  In spite of a bone-melting kiss that hadn't lasted nearly long enough, Gwyneth found herself looking for things to do. So she spent hours reviewing her case files, looking for any possible fiends who might wish her harm, while an entirely too focused Mike used his laptop to communicate with Sid about said possible fiends.

  Finally deciding she'd had enough, she checked her watch. Nearly seven. “Hungry?"

  Mike looked up, his expression blank. “Is it time for dinner?"

  "It's seven. We could go out, or I can order in."

  Mike shook his head. “No way. Order in. I want to keep you under cover until we leave for Virginia."

  "Hmm. Undercover, I think I like the sound of that."

  Mike stood up and started a slow prowl toward her. “Why, counselor, are you propositioning me?” His lips twitched as he tried to hide a smile, while his green eyes glowed with mischief.

  "Propositioning you?” she started to flare, but the sudden flush of warmth between her thighs told her she protested too much. “You don't think I'd proposition you, do you?"

  He continued his slow progress around the room, running a tan hand along her bookshelves. “No, you wouldn't have to. A look. A touch. That's all it would take. You wouldn't even have to open that kissable mouth of yours."

  Gwyneth backed away. “I don't know what to make of you sometimes. No one has ever talked to me the way you do. Or made me feel the way you do."

  "Not even the ex-fiancé?"

  "No, definitely not.” She took another step backward.

  "So, counselor, tell me—how do two lawyers get married? I'm sure it's a very business-like deal. You already have a pre-nup signed? He's already named as beneficiary in your will?"

  Mike was entirely too close to the truth. “The pre-nup was still under discussion when I broke it off,” she admitted, her heart kicking into fourth gear as he continued his leisurely stroll toward her.

  "Was it now?” He grinned, the satisfaction written across his face. He followed her backward journey around the room.

  She couldn't move. Her back against the wall ... She gulped, wondering at the welling of emotion and passion his nearness provoked. Would it be as good this time? Could it
be?

  "You're not sorry, are you?” He pulled her into his arms.

  "About what? No ... I'm relieved.” And truthfully, she was. The proverbial weight had been lifted from her; there remained a definite uncertainty about where things were headed with Mike. How could she have fallen into bed with him after knowing him a mere twenty-four hours? She'd never done anything like that before. But it had seemed so right at the time—not to mention the best sex of her entire life.

  "Doing some of that thinking you talked about earlier?"

  She gazed up into his half-shuttered eyes. His mouth was so close, she could almost feel the beard stubble on his upper lip with its perfect divot, or taste the last of his coffee laced with cream. “Does it show?"

  "Just a storm cloud in your sunny blue eyes."

  She looked down. He could read too much in her expression. “I don't understand what's happening between us—or why it's happening, I guess."

  "I know I rushed you—but I don't regret it."

  "Rushed me? You knocked me on my—"

  "Very shapely ass."

  "But why? Why me?"

  "Don't try to explain the unexplainable. It's magic or it's not. Why were you attracted to me?” He wound his arms around her waist, drawing her into his embrace.

  "Humph,” she tried to protest. “I wasn't attracted to you. I was appalled. You were rude and politically incorrect.” Her hands splayed down the strong muscles of his chest. She unbuttoned one button of his shirt, then another.

  "You weren't attracted to me?” His dark, bushy eyebrows rose in disbelief.

  "No.” She opened the third button, revealing his finely furred chest. Swallowing hard, she opened a fourth.

  "But you went to bed with me—less than twenty-four hours after we met."

  Gwyneth grinned up at him. “Well, I-uh, you caught me at a weak moment. I had a concussion."

  "Yeah, yeah. It's the old ‘you caught me when I had a concussion routine.’ Won't wash with me, Gwyneth.” He cupped her breasts through her blouse with his strong hands. “You've a very distracting way of conversing, counselor."

  "But effective?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Mike shut his eyes and began a tender assault on her bottom lip, nibbling until Gwyneth thought she would go mad. When her head fell back, arching her neck, she felt his lips igniting a trail of fire as they worked their way down to her breasts. A low, feral moan escaped her throat when his teeth worried her nipples through the knit fabric.

  His hands skimmed underneath her troublesome garment, and he slipped it over her head. It went away, not that she was in any shape to care exactly where. Now he was free to lavish his attentions, unfettered, on her breasts—first one, then the other. Oh, God, if he kept it up, she would come without his ever entering her.

  She gasped, “Hurry.” Her breathing grew ragged. She fumbled with his belt. His pants slid down over his butt and he kicked them away, his mouth never losing contact with her skin. He ground his pelvis against hers, his erection hot and hard. She gasped again, “Now."

  He jerked her loose-fitting skirt down over her hips. It fell in a puddle on the floor at her feet. He knelt before her, and his mouth was at the apex of her thighs. “No, not yet,” she begged, but he nudged her legs apart and brought her to a fast, shattering climax with his tongue. The waves overtook her before she knew what happened. Heat suffused her body until she would surely combust.

  "My love,” he murmured. Then his mouth was on hers again, and she tasted herself on his lips. He lifted her up until she wrapped her legs around his waist. He hesitated, then buried himself deep within her, impaling her against the wall. So hard, so hot, he thrust.

  And she met him thrust for thrust like an animal in the wild—clawing, biting, anything to assuage the raging desire assailing every cell in her body.

  Faster and faster until the sweat fell from his forehead and mingled with hers. “Come for me, Gwyneth. Come for me,” he pleaded, his voice a bare rasp in her ear. With each powerful thrust, she felt herself lifting away, spiraling into heights never before experienced. Her climax started, her inner muscles clutching and releasing, never letting him go. “Oh, God,” she moaned, losing herself as the waves racked her entire body.

  His breathing quickened. His body shook. He penetrated deeper and deeper as her body imprisoned his, until he too shuddered and spilled his seed into her still spasm-racked warmth. He groaned, as her body continued contracted around, him, milking him of every last drop. Gasping for air, he tried to clear his head. What had he done?

  God, not again.

  "I'm sorry."

  A lazy smile curved Gwyneth's lips. “What for? That was the most indescribable experience I've ever had.” Still panting, she pressed a kiss against his neck. Her legs were still wrapped around his waist, but a sudden weariness overcame her. “I think I need a little lie-down."

  "Protection,” he managed to say. “I don't think—” Carrying her, he started walking toward the bedroom.

  Gwyneth's head popped up off his shoulder, her blue eyes wide with surprise. “Crap.” She'd never forgotten to use protection before. Of course, she'd never coupled like a wild beast against her living room wall either.

  "But I-I'm on the pill."

  "But, Gwyn, pregnancy isn't th—"

  "I know,” she interrupted quickly, then chewed on her bottom lip. He was right ... again.

  Mike carried her into the bedroom.

  "Set me down. I can't think straight like this.” He deposited her gently on the bed, their bodies parting. Pulling the sheet around her, for protection ... a little late for that. She really didn't want to discuss her prior relationships, and she certainly didn't want to hear a lengthy recitation of his. Yet the time had come. She kneaded an edge of the sheet, twisting it into a bigger mess than it already was.

  As difficult as it was, she leveled her gaze on him, took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I've already told you, I'm on the pill. And no matter what you think about the way I've been with you, I'm not promiscuous. Richard and I were together for six months. We always used protection. I've always practiced safe sex. There, that's it."

  Mike sat down on the bed, crossing his legs Indian fashion. “I know it's not easy to bring up this stuff.” Why was he so uncomfortable? He'd had this discussion several times in the last year, but somehow Gwyneth was different. What he felt for her wasn't casual. “I was married for two years, and I was faithful. Tamiko's been gone for four years."

  Four years. In some ways it seemed like yesterday when life as he knew it ended.

  "And since then?” She had to ask, even if her throat had a lump the size of Gibraltar in it.

  "No one—"

  "No one?” Gwyneth couldn't quite believe that a man as sensual and heated as Mike could go that long without—

  "Let me finish. No one for nearly three years, then no one serious. Just—uh, a few casual—but I've always practiced safe sex."

  Warming to the task, she asked, “And before? You've only accounted for six years of your life. I have no doubt you've been active longer than that."

  A glint of humor flickered in his eyes. At least Gwyneth hoped it was humor.

  "Well, counselor, since you're in interrogator mode, you must know that I've always made it a habit to be careful."

  Liar. Liar. He'd failed once.

  Gwyneth had the grace to drop her head, embarrassed, but he agreed with the necessity of her questions. “Okay, that settles it. We're both disease-free, and I'm on the pill. Let's drop it."

  He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Spoils the mood, doesn't it?"

  Gwyn nodded. “Jut a bit.” She yawned widely. “Think you could order dinner while I take a nap?"

  "Chinese all right with you?"

  "Uh-huh, just no seafood or shellfish for me."

  "Right, you're allergic."

  * * * *

  After placing the order and disconnecting, Mike turned to Gwyn and opened his ar
ms. “Wanna neck until the food comes?"

  She gazed back at him from beneath lowered lashes. “I'd like that."

  A languorous smile spread across her face as she scooted into his arms, molding her body to his. He sighed. Contentment settled over him. Holding this woman in his arms felt so right, something he hadn't experienced since his marriage. Within minutes, she fell asleep—deeply, like a child.

  But rest escaped Mike. He extricated his arms and legs from Gwyn's and eased out of the bed. Troubled, he crossed the room to stand by one of the two long windows. Staring out at Central Park, he considered his options. Unfortunately the view didn't give him any answers. When was the right time to tell her?

  The intercom buzzed and jerked him out of his guilt trip. He looked over at Gwyneth's sleeping form, curled in a ball with hair spread over her pillow like a shimmering waterfall of palest gold silk.

  He walked to the intercom. “Yeah."

  "Peking Palace delivery."

  "Send him up.” Mike strode into the living room, grabbed his trousers and quickly slipped them on. He barely had them fastened before the doorbell rang.

  Sixteen

  Awakened by the sound of the doorbell, Gwyneth's mouth watered as the spicy aroma of Chinese food wafted into the bedroom. Damn, but she was within an inch of wasting away.

  She scrambled from the bed, slipped on a white silk wrapper and padded over to the mirror. She shook her wild mane of hair, then dragged a brush through it.

  "Ugh.” Her face was pink from whisker burn, and her lips not only felt swollen twice their size, they looked it, too. Well, if the very sight of her didn't scare Mike off, nothing would.

  Following the smell of food, she wandered down the hall to the living room, then to the kitchen. The sight of Mike in her kitchen—bare chest, bare back, bare feet and wearing only a well-tailored pair of tan slacks—nearly did her in. The muscles in his back and chest rippled as he moved about, playing Suzy Homemaker. For a moment or two, she watched him—and enjoyed the view.

  As if sensing her presence, Mike stopped in the middle of removing plates from an upper cabinet. He turned, a lazy, knowing grin spread across his face. Her cheeks grew warm with the intensity of his gaze as it traveled up and down her body.