Once in the parking garage, Lannie tossed her purse on the passenger side seat, buckled up, and headed to Watertown to visit Noni. She had until the end of the month, two weeks, to find lucrative employment, or her sweet grandmother would be turned out. The drive up and back would provide a little time to formulate a plan, the best strategy to get the NYC bomb squad hero to agree—after the heartbreaker article.
The trip north wasn’t too bad, but after eight hours on the road, she wanted to crash into a soft bed, even if the dash read six o’clock. She hadn’t seen Noni in a month and missed her. The need to check in on her grandmother’s wellbeing kept her from following through on the thought.
She couldn’t let her down. All her life, her grandmother had been there for her—after her mother had abandoned her for a drug habit, new boyfriend, and a Hollywood dream of becoming the next great starlet twenty-four years before. Days after her fourth birthday. Noni had been the only mother she’d ever known.
She’d been there for her first prom, when she took Best of Show at the state fair for her photojournalism display of a dying farm, and when her heart had been broken the first, second, and third time she’d fallen in love with the wrong man. No matter what event in her life, good or bad, Noni had always been there, and now the time had come to return the favor, give back some of the love she’d so generously shared.
Lannie stepped out and stretched, inhaling a deep breath of the crisp air. Snow and ice covered the parking lot, when the Big Apple’s streets had been bare. Weather upstate proved unpredictable. With Lake Ontario to the West, snow and ice were more common than not, so it shouldn’t surprise her to see a crusty layer coating everything, even though they were halfway into May. Lannie shivered and retrieved her suit coat from the back seat, having forgotten how big a temperature difference there could be between the two places, cursing she’d been in too much of a hurry to change into something less—professional. A big mistake. Damn, the wind is cold.
Halfway to Watertown, she’d stopped to use the bathroom and address a huge run in her nylons. Her toe had popped through the end, so she’d taken her pantyhose off, instead of putting up with the annoying nylon strangling her big toe whenever she stepped on the brake or gas. And since she’d forgone underwear to avoid panty-lines, not only did she sport bare legs, but had gone commando, too. As she looked at the glazed concrete, she kicked herself for not going to her room first to change.
Not one hour had passed after she left the city and her feet throbbed. She’d been forced to shell out good money for the ridiculous slippers. Too late to go home and change, she’d had to bite the proverbial bullet and get them from a gas station’s tourist corner. Big, furry orange feet. The slippers were a horrible attempt at looking like the SUNY mascot, Otto, complete with eyes, and ram’s horns. Go Syracuse!
Bad enough she had to part with her hard-earned money for them, no way would she wear the monstrosities in public. One, they weren’t made for the outdoors and two, she didn’t want anyone to know she owned something so—juvenile.
She never did anything that would make someone take her less than seriously—other than work for a gossip rag, but that couldn’t be helped, and she made her stories as serious as they could be, given the circumstances. Public image had to be maintained at all times, because she intended to be back in a respectable position someday.
Which left her with one alternative. Walking in the stilettos across the ice would be interesting. She’d be lucky not to land on her ass and break a leg. Well, at least Noni wouldn’t have to worry about her wearing clean underwear.
She snorted back a laugh.
Well, she was here now and had no intention of traveling the half hour to the hotel to change. By the time she got back, they would’ve shut down to visitors for the evening. Lannie eyed the parking lot. How hard could navigating the hazard be? In the city, women wore the spike heels all the time, and she’d never watched one land on her ass and she’d never found herself in that situation, but then again, the walk outside her brownstone had always been clear and salted, and she used the parking garage directly attached to her place of work.
Still, she needed to see Noni. Her grandmother always had a way of helping her figure things out and she needed her solid advice. So, she’d brave the next great ice age in her above-the-knee pencil skirt and five-inch heels—with or without panties.
Stupid choice. She’d worn the outfit hoping to score her bonus points in the interview. In the cutthroat world of male-dominated journalism, she’d learned to use every advantage available. If a girl had great legs, she made sure to show as much of them as she could, while still maintaining a professional appearance. She could get in the trenches with them, but crawling through the mud didn’t stop her from being female.
Dressing for the interview had been a delicate balancing act, and she’d thought she’d nailed it until she walked into that office and came face to face with a Greek god who could care less what she looked like, or that she’d won a Pulitzer Prize. He’d exhibited interest only in her connection with Tanner North—a man who despised her.
She should have told him to piss off, but the job held too much importance to let her ego get in the way. But she hadn’t expected Lucifer to be sitting at the desk, and she’d thought for sure she could sway him in her favor by leaving a button or two undone, showing a touch of her cleavage in the red lace of her two-hundred dollar demi-cup.
Yeah, her idea had gone well. He hadn’t even looked at her until he saw Tanner’s photo. All business. Leonidas Russo had taken her down a notch—hell, he’d knocked her off her pedestal and convinced her he didn’t care if she had legs to the moon, a nice set of ta-tas, or gasp-worthy awards.
Oh no, she wouldn’t get the job unless she booked Tanner North. There would be no schmoozing her way into the position. He’d given her a mission and, if she failed, there wouldn’t be a second chance.
Lannie picked her way across the icy patches on the parking lot, looking for any spot with crunchy snow that might provide a little traction. She didn’t want or need a broken ankle and had already stretched her budget enough to cover Noni’s medical expenses.
She stepped on what looked like a safe patch and her feet flew out from under her, sending her to her backside before she realized what had happened. It took seconds to realize the only damage done was to her pride. Lannie twisted to look at the car halfway across the lot, and back down at the shoes she’d chosen to wear over the safe slippers that she’d left tucked into the front, passenger-side floor. Stupid. What had she thought she’d accomplish? Only the elderly resided inside, and they could care less about how she looked.
Gah! She slapped the ice and bent to unbuckle the shoes, slipping them off. Barefoot, across the ice. Oh joy. Two minutes later, she arrived at the front door, frozen, her ass and toes tingling, irritated she hadn’t taken five minutes before leaving town, or a detour to the room she’d reserved to change into jeans, a sweater, and something with better tread on the soles. Such foresight would have made her trip to the front door easier, and less hazardous.
Worse, she would repeat her icy dance on the way out.
By now, almost seven-thirty, Noni would have taken her medications, and preparing to go to sleep, not coherent enough to talk about her granddaughter’s troubles. Lannie glanced at her watch and sighed. She should have called ahead, but she hadn’t anticipated the half-hour she’d spend navigating the obstacle course outside, and she sure as hell didn’t want to turn back until she said hello to the woman who raised her.
She slipped on her shoes, walked up to the nurse’s station, and smiled at an older woman with a salt and pepper pixie cut. “Hi, Peggy.”
Peggy looked up and smiled. “Hello, Lannie. I’d begun to wonder where you’d gotten off to. So used to seeing you every other week.”
“I’ve been busy, trying to find work.”
“Yeah, tough market out there.”
“Is Noni up?”
Peggy gave her t
he biggest shit-eating grin she’d seen to date, and Lannie began to wonder what she’d walked in on. “Oh yeah. You’ve never been here on a Friday. She’s always up late on the second Friday of the month. Every red-blooded female around here is. I was about to head over to the break room where all the action is.”
Lannie furrowed her brow. “Why? What’s the second Friday of the month? Bingo? Arts and crafts?”
“Oh no. Something much, much better.” The night nurse came around the station and grabbed her arm, guiding her toward the recreation room. “Tonight is story night. And for the love of all things holy, have you ever seen a finer male specimen? If I didn’t already have a ring on my finger, I’d take a bite out of him.” She pointed a to a group of elderly women huddled around a man wearing a pair of faded jeans, work boots, and a black T-shirt, fitting tight enough to display a six pack that would make sane girls crazy.
His was face buried behind a paperback romance novel. On the cover, the eighties exploded to life all its bodice ripping, Fabio hair and naked chest, glory. Smut.
But damn if he didn’t read well. The deep timbre of his voice moved through her like a liquid orgasm, not sparing a square inch of her body. In a matter of seconds, he had her heart pounding and knees knocking. Holy hell.
The women giggled like schoolgirls and fluttered their lashes, flirting as though they were on a date. She couldn’t blame them a bit. He even tempted her to plop her ass down on the couch next to them and stare at him with doe eyes.
And then he lifted his chin and looked over the cover, right at her.
“Shit.” Lannie dropped her purse, unable to believe who sat on the couch, holding the cheesy romance novel. She couldn’t move, let alone breathe. Forget retreat—or a plan. The impact of her bag on the tile floor echoed across the room, drawing the attention of everyone.
“Sweetheart,” Noni called out. “Come over and sit down. Tanner was about to read the S-E-X scene. Her thighs are quivering and her bosoms are heaving. I think she wants to do him.”
Lannie blinked. Under-freaking-statement of the year. “Hoo boy. Speak of the devil and he appears.”
Chapter Two
One week before....
Tanner scratched his head, staring down at a couple lying in bed, missionary style, with a silk sheet the only thing maintaining any modesty—a little too late. He’d already seen all the goods, and nothing but a bleach eye-wash would scrub that image from his brain. Throwing the sheet over them had been an afterthought. As in, after he wished he hadn’t looked.
“How much longer?” Sweat beaded on the forehead of the older executive, and not from prior exertion. The pair’s fun ended when Mr. Goodwell got a call from his wife an hour before, telling him she’d filed for divorce and left a parting gift under the bed—or more precisely, in it. Then she hung up, Mr. Goodwell called 911, and now here Tanner stood, trying to figure out how to get the lovers out of the sack without blowing everyone to hell.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. A vibrator shoved into one of the men’s rectums continued to buzz in the background, as nobody dared to try to remove the adult toy. Any shift in weight could have disastrous consequences.
Mr. Goodwell, carrying at least fifty extra pounds around his middle, had lost most of his hair sometime in his youth, but the strands he’d swirled to cover his scalp exhibited the “I’m getting older,” denial. Midlife crisis?
Tanner eyed the man on the bottom. Twenty maybe. Bleached blond. Not Mrs. Goodwell, and why they were in this mess.
Thank God the bomb hadn’t been rigged to a timer. At least something worked in his favor. But how to get the couple out of the bed, without taking pressure off the spring-loaded plate on the land mine tucked between the box spring and mattress? Good question.
To further complicate a delicate situation, the bed had to be one of those special, high-tech mattresses. The kind you could set a glass of wine on and jump next to, not tipping or spilling a drop. He’d seen the commercials and had been impressed with the design, until now. Admirable or not, the patented sleep technology kind of threw a monkey wrench into things. So, the weight applied to one spot and one spot only, unable to be dispersed throughout the top, which he could work with, were he dealing with a normal freaking mattress.
Yeah, he’d braved crawling underneath to get a peek, and had cut some of the fabric away to find a serial number. Military grade—WWII. Unstable as hell, but he doubted Mrs. Goodwell cared much about the safety of her unfaithful husband and his lover. Good chance she’d paid a pretty penny for someone else to set the trap. No other way he could explain how the fuck she’d gotten a Bouncing Betty. Despite the age, the anti-personnel mine would do the trick. The minute they got up.
Boom.
Tanner cocked his head. Maybe he’d over-thought this? He had a serial number. Ultrasound technology. He keyed his radio. “You track down where the bomb came from yet?”
“Negative. Still working on the source.”
“Have someone bring the ultrasound up. I want to get a closer look at this mine.” If the mattress dispersed weight the way it did, why hadn’t the bomb gone off while they were getting.... He pointed at the man on the bottom. “How long were you going at it before she called? And before you lie to me, your life could depend on your honesty.”
Two hours later. Tanner removed his bomb suit and shut the back of the tactical vehicle. Dud. Who’d have thought? When he turned around, he found a handheld recorder shoved within inches of his face. “Is the rumor true you found the CEO of UrasTek in bed with another man—and a bomb this afternoon? Do you have any suspects in custody? Have there been any other cases? Can you give us any details on what kind of bomb you recovered?”
He narrowed his eyes on the leggy redhead. What a beautiful nuisance. He supposed if a reporter had to annoy the shit out him, he should be at least thankful she wasn’t hard to look at. The woman had proved more than once, she created more than her fair share of trouble. “If you were a serious reporter, Ms. Sawyer, you’d know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“Serious reporter?” She glared, her face going as hot as her hair. “Are you kidding me?”
“I assure you, I’m not. Why don’t you quit harassing me. Don’t you have some, I Fathered a Three-legged Child with a Mermaid story, to work on?”
“I write human interest stories, Sergeant North. I’ve never reported on a mermaid or the interbreeding of such, with humans.”
“Uh, huh.” He plucked the recorder out of her hand and dropped the device, stomping on the case with his boot. An audible crunch told him he’d disabled it. Forever. “So, if you’re writing human interest stories, why are you here, bothering me, when I have real job to do?”
“I’m here, because somebody called my boss two years ago and got me fired from my war correspondent position. You owe me. Fine. If you don’t want to comment on the bomb, let me ask you about something else. Sergeant Tanner North. Now that you are in the running for New York City’s most eligible bachelor of the year, can you tell me if you’ve been dating anyone—any serious relationships?”
“My hand.”
She gasped and her mouth dropped open.
“You can quote me.” He gave her a smirk and brushed past, knowing what he’d said would probably make the front page of her gossip rag. From her eyes popped wide, mouth hanging open, and nothing to say for once—whatever flack he’d reap from the guys at the station, and the ass chewing he’d take from the captain about public image, would be worth the hassle.
“Excuse me, ladies.” Tanner rose and stalked across the room to where Lannie Sawyer stood in her business suit and heels, a surprised look pasted on her face. Not the first time he’d seen the expression. A talented actress, too. The outfit looked ridiculous for the weather conditions outside. He eyed the cleavage she had on display; red lace cupped her breasts. He let his gaze travel down her killer legs. The skirt missed a couple inches of material—he’d not complain, but what an odd choice for a visit to a
nursing home. His dick twitched. More like seductive dress for an office fling. Right. She happened to show up here, dressed in that get-up. He didn’t believe in coincidence.
What the hell did she want now?
She’d pulled her long auburn hair back and off her shoulders, into an annoying, no-nonsense bun. He’d seen her wearing the style on television a time or two when she’d talked about her award-winning story—or recent article in the Star Chaser, which made him the laughingstock of the department and every single woman in NYC’s wet dream.
He growled. Not again. She wouldn’t get anything this time.
With her hair away from her face, her features appeared sharp, almost waspish, and if not for her enormous amber eyes softening the effect, he’d retreat, instead of approach with the intent to throttle her pretty ass.
Pretty ass? Where did that come from? Redheads were not his type. Yet, something about her... damn! Of all people, she was the last one he wanted to see. She’d turned his life into chaos with a capital C. He lowered his voice so the ladies wouldn’t hear him. “Ms. Sawyer. What an unpleasant surprise.”
“I should say so. What are you doing here?” She narrowed her stunning catlike eyes and studied him with more suspicion than he deserved.
Hah! That’s what she reminded him of. A cat. The way she moved, the attitude. Ms. Sawyer was a feline and he happened to love dogs. A bad mix. He’d known something about her rubbed him wrong, beyond the obvious, and he hadn’t been able to put his finger on what—until now. “What am I doing here?” She had a lot of nerve to ask. None of her business. His temper flared hotter.
“Need I repeat?”
“I read to them. The question is, why are you following me?” He glared, hoping to send her running. This night had nothing to do with him or her and everything to do with reading to the ladies like he’d done for the six years since his last deployment. He’d continued long after his discharge from the Army. Talking to them eased his soul, and he couldn’t find a better therapy, nor did he want one. He’d surrounded himself with a bunch of grandmothers who doted on him and told great stories, minus the chicken soup and cookies, and he sure as hell didn’t plan to start sharing his slice of heaven with the woman who’d turned his life upside down years before in Kosovo and, again, the week before, with her special article in the gossip magazine. “Don’t you have a story to write about some actress having a Martian baby?”
Shockwave (Calendar Men: Mr. May) Page 2
