“You’d do that for me?” asked Chet. “But won’t you get cold?”
“Good point!” Melanie smiled. “Besides, it’ll be even more effective if I’m wearing a coat and I snap it open at a crucial moment. Either of you fellows got one I could borrow?”
Hal and Chet nearly tripped over each other in their race to their closets. It was gratifying when Melanie selected Hal’s full-length trench coat. It looked a lot better on her than it ever had on him.
Grimly, he forced his attention elsewhere. He would need all his wits about him tonight.
It was possible that, in saving Chet’s relationship with Grampa, Hal would permanently antagonize the man he had struggled all his adult life to please. The fact that it would reinforce his own reputation as a shark proved little consolation.
It was only as they were leaving the suite that he wondered why Melanie had decided to help him. Maybe, he thought, she wasn’t quite as bad as Rita had painted her, after all.
MELANIE SCARCELY noticed the chill evening air or the downpour on the way to the dining room. Snuggled inside the coat, with Chet holding an umbrella over her and Hal, she felt only a refreshing bit of spray on her face.
As directed, the cooks had prepared a meal of crisp bacon, boiled potatoes seasoned with parsley and butter, and orange-and-carrot salad. Melanie made a point of sending her compliments to the chef, but other than that, her mind was in such a whirl she could hardly concentrate.
Why would Hal “the Iceman” Smothers put himself on the line as a favor to Chet? Was there some nefarious motive behind his decision to forgo potential profits?
She knew him to be a ruthless murderer and a vile henchman of Rita Samovar’s. At least, he had some connection to the woman, according to what Bone Crusher had said last night…or was that this morning?
Gangster upside-down time, and the opaqueness of Hal’s motivations, were rendering her less than sharpwitted. As she finished her meal, Melanie wished she could sink back into that dream about the tango.
A gust of wind hit the side of the building and set the dishes rattling with a shock so strong it felt like an earthquake. The Swamp Fox and Cha Cha, she noticed, both ducked under their table, then pretended to be searching for dropped napkins.
Hal slipped one arm around Melanie. In the dampness, his thick brown hair had become unruly, and his heavy tweed jacket smelled like Earl Grey tea. He reminded her of a nineteenth-century English adventurer, the kind she’d always wanted to drag into bed.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “That was quite a jolt.”
“It startled me,” Melanie admitted, allowing herself to be snuggled. “I don’t suppose they get hurricanes around here, do they?”
“The water’s too cold,” Chet informed her.
“They just get storms from Alaska,” Hal said.
“You could have fooled me.” But Melanie didn’t mind the prospect of a deluge. When she lived in the desert, the occasional flash flood was the only excitement they ever got Storms like this invoked a painfully pleasant nostalgia.
Grampa kept eyeing Chet and Hal. That old man didn’t trust anyone, Melanie reflected. He would have made a good reporter.
Finally he stood up, and the other gangsters followed suit. “Here we go,” said Hal. “Show time.”
Melanie pulled the coat tighter as she imagined what it would be like to show off her skimpy green dress to a half-dozen leering men. Although a seasoned observer of other people’s actions, she’d never deliberately made a spectacle of herself before.
Well, she would only do it if the talks broke down. For all their sakes, she hoped that wouldn’t happen.
GRAMPA WAS NOT TAKING this well.
When Hal revealed that he had offered to go into business with Chet, the old man glowered and a hush fell over the room. The only sounds were the pounding of rain and the rasp of Drop Dead breathing through his nose.
“But I, uh, wanted to talk to you first,” Chet said. “About raising some, uh, venture capital.”
Grampa’s face got so red, Melanie feared he might suffer a heart attack. “You think I do not see through you two louses?” he roared. “You are in cahoots!”
“No, Grampa,” Chet protested, but not very forcefully.
“A blind man could see it,” snarled Drop Dead.
Bone Crusher nodded grimly, his stiletto mustache wiggling at the ends as if eager to stab someone. “Your own flesh and blood has turned on you, Grampa. The little weasel is tryin’ to squeeze you for dough, and then he and the Iceman is gonna steal the profits.”
Hal wore a hooded expression, like a hawk. To Melanie, he had never appeared more dangerous, or more desirable. “Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Nichols?”
Before Bone Crusher could reply, Cha Cha spread his hands placatingly. “Nobody’s accusing anybody. The men are just counseling Grampa to be cautious. After all, we did see the two of you talking at dinner.”
“Thick as thieves,” growled Drop Dead.
“I object!” said Chet.
“This is not a trial,” muttered the Swamp Fox.
“Well, it feels like one!” The young man, who had remained standing when the others took their seats, began to sway angrily. “I love my grandfather and I wouldn’t cheat him! I resent anybody saying that I would!”
“Big talk,” grumbled Drop Dead.
“You gotta admit, you have been awful palsy with the Iceman,” said Grampa. “But I will give you another chance. Let us say you and I go into this robot business.”
“Okay.” The swaying stopped.
“Of course I gotta bring in my buddies for a piece of the action,” Grampa said.
“Like, just for investment purposes?” asked Chet
“Do we look like bankers to youse?” Drop Dead had stuck his glasses atop his beaked nose, but he was right, Melanie thought. He still didn’t look like a banker; he looked like a gargoyle wearing specs.
“My friends are my family.” Grampa gestured expansively. “We do everything together.”
“You wanna work for us, you better accept the situation, and quick,” added Bone Crusher.
“I’m not working for anyone,” Chet said. “I’m talking about an equal partnership.”
“Equal to who?” sneered Drop Dead.
“Yes, kid, we do not see you putting up money,” said the Swamp Fox.
“I’m the brains of this operation,” said Chet with more spunk than Melanie would have given him credit for. “If my grandfather wants to be my partner, that’s fine. Otherwise, I’m going in with the Iceman!”
Grampa gritted his teeth so hard Melanie feared he might have emergency need of a dentist. Finally he said, very stiffly, “You reject my terms? To hell with you, you ungrateful pup!”
Tears glistened in Chet’s eyes but he stood his ground. “The same to you, Grampa!”
Bone Crusher sprang to his feet and whipped a pistol from his belt. “Nobody talks that way to Grampa!”
Around the table, men reached into their jackets. Even Hal made a subtle move toward a pocket
“Now!” cried a little voice inside Melanie. She didn’t dare give herself time to think. Instead, she jumped onto the table and yanked open her trench coat.
“Hey, fellas!” she said. “Let’s not fight about this! Let’s party!”
Everyone stared at her as if she’d just grown reindeer antlers. Melanie had never been so humiliated in her life.
She was almost grateful when lightning turned the world white and then, with a shrieking crunch like a ship knocking over a lighthouse, a tree fell on the conference room.
6
PANDEMONIUM REIGNED. Melanie gathered that the roof had collapsed, but at first she attributed its failure solely to the accumulation of water now drenching her.
Then a thick, shaggy trunk crunched down, knocking off Drop Dead’s glasses with a swish of palm fronds as it fell across the length of the table. “I can’t see!” roared the gangster.
No one paid
attention to him. Chet was vaulting the fallen palm tree to reach his grandfather, while the other gangsters fled like drowned rats.
Except Hal. He lifted Melanie off the crazily tilted table and began kissing her passionately. “I am glad to see you are not hurt,” he said gruffly, between kisses.
Melanie could feel her soaked dress beginning to steam from the heat With the walls groaning around them, she had the notion they ought to flee, but when Hal’s tongue connected with hers, she forgot everything else.
The man overwhelmed his surroundings, and her senses. Earl Grey tea and gangster cologne were a heady mix, she reflected as she wound her arms around him.
It was a relief to finally have the freedom to touch that thick hair of his, and rub her cheek against the slight roughness of his jaw. Under such circumstances, a natural disaster became irrelevant.
Someone bumped into her. “Get me outta here!” roared Drop Dead.
Reluctantly, Hal released Melanie. “Just a moment, Mr. Cimarosa. I will find your specs.”
Despite the imminent danger of the walls collapsing, Hal searched the floor until he found the glasses. The nosepiece had been severed, but, using one half as a monocle, Drop Dead regained a measure of calm and accompanied them outside.
In the courtyard, the elderly man headed toward Grampa’s room on the other side. Through the window, they could see Chet helping his grandfather dry off.
Rain was sheeting down as if the sky gods had decided to upend their buckets. Bolts of lightning jagged behind veils of mist and the sonic booms called thunder reverberated through an unseen sky.
“Fabulous.” Melanie stared about her in delight. She’d never experienced such a violent storm, even in the desert. It was almost as exciting as a battlefield.
From behind, Hal’s arms encircled her. A gust of wind lashed them, and she felt his hips press into her derriere. It reminded her of a dream, or had that been a dream, after all?
She swiveled against him and held up her arms. “Let’s tango,” she said.
HAL HAD NEVER seen anything as beautiful as Melanie Mulcahy in a tempest. Wild light sparked from her eyes and, in her clingy dress of green seaweed, she came as close to being a mermaid as he ever hoped to meet
Another thunderclap detonated and, laughing, Melanie danced against him. It occurred to Hal that this might be dangerous, standing here like a pair of lightning rods, and then he wondered who was in greater peril, them or the lightning.
This woman loved danger; he’d seen that risk-taking hunger in the eyes of Las Vegas stuntmen, and, in his younger days, had felt it twist in his own gut But in Melanie, right here and now, he could see it transmuting into intense sexual desire.
As a gentleman, he ought to bundle her off to some place where temptation would not dare to intrude. Unfortunately, he could not imagine where such a place might be.
He could picture only their suite, and their room, and their bed. And as he thought of them, Melanie led him there.
They were so wet that he hardly noticed when they escaped the rain. He scarcely heard the thump of the bedroom door shutting behind them, either.
All he saw was the trench coat crumpling around Melanie’s ankles, revealing the next-to-nothingness of her dress. The green mesh caressed her delicate bosom and played peek-a-boo with her golden skin.
Hal could have sworn he heard music, but perhaps it was only the rain lashing the roof. In any case, it set Melanie to undulating as if she were indeed performing the tango, a dance into which he himself had been inducted several times in Las Vegas.
But never like this. Those earlier times, the woman’s eyes hadn’t connected with his, luring him in and then deliberately breaking the connection when he came close. She certainly hadn’t drawn him to the edge of a bed and whirled close enough for him to feel the softness of her breasts before she slipped from his grasp.
It was a game that reawakened the hunting instinct in Hal. He knew instantly that his tactics must be adapted to suit the prey.
Melanie could not be approached directly, or she would whisk away, her laughter floating in the air. He could not seize her, either, any more than a man could grasp a mermaid.
But Hal knew how to wait just long enough for his prey to wonder if he was ever going to stir at all, and then make a subtle move that entranced rather than frightened. Now, the loosening of his tie drew Melanie’s fascinated gaze.
He pretended to fumble as he unworked the knot, and felt her palm smooth the silk cloth. When he glanced up, she withdrew quickly, then watched to see what he would do next
He removed the tie, laid it over the back of a chair and straightened it infinitesimally, as if keeping it wrinkle-free were the sole purpose of his existence. Melanie bit her lip and remained standing half a dozen feet away.
Casually, Hal unfastened his jacket He deliberately missed the second button.
“You skipped one,” said Melanie.
“Did I?” He quirked an eyebrow as if it hardly mattered.
“There.” She came closer, he could feel the warmth of her breath on his chest, through the fabric. Her attention was focused on that one button, and he could have grabbed her as she unworked it, but he didn’t.
What had begun as a prelude to lovemaking could easily end instead with a painful kick in the groin if she disliked his technique. The only thing that would prevail with this woman was the belief that it was she who set the pace.
“Men are so helpless,” said Melanie as she stood back to admire her handiwork.
“Thanks.” He removed the jacket and placed it over the back of another chair, aligning the shoulders precisely. After studying it for a moment, he picked off a tiny bit of lint and dropped it into the wastebasket.
“Are you always this careful?” asked his observer.
“Attention to detail pays off in larger ways,” he said. “Has that not been your experience?”
“I never noticed,” she said. “Is that how you, er, disposed of your—your targets?”
“By laying them over the back of a chair?”
“No, I mean, by—well, being finicky about details.”
Come to think of it, she was right “Exactly,” he said. “I leave nothing to chance.”
Her breathing quickened. It was the sense of danger closing in, Hal recognized. Well, she hadn’t seen anything yet.
His hands went to the buckle on his belt. It was a very refined, very expensive belt, and if it ever jammed, the manufacturer would probably crawl over from Italy on his knees to apologize. Melanie, however, did not know that, and so Hal tugged it for a moment and then gave a small shrug of disappointment.
“Stuck,” he said.
“I could get it open,” she said.
“You are welcome to try.” He dropped the words into the air with what he hoped was precisely the right tone of indifference.
She edged closer, regarded him from beneath a veil of lashes and then touched the silver design at his waist. Hal remained motionless, or at least the visible portion of him remained motionless.
Melanie hesitated. He wondered what sort of man she was used to, and decided he didn’t want to know.
Besides, there was no room in his brain to waste on rational thought as her fingers played around his midsection. The gentle plucking raged through his nervous system.
Hal stood firm, lordlike, keeping his face a mask. Any sign of desire might be seen as weakness, or perhaps a threat.
Melanie eased the buckle open. “There.” She took a half step back.
“The zipper is stuck, too,” Hal said.
One corner of her mouth winched up. “Is not.”
“Do you always leave a job half done?” he asked. Still that cool tone. With Melanie, it was the only lure that might work.
“You think you intimidate me?” she asked.
He released a sigh of strained patience. “I think you are mostly bluff.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Hal Smothers!” she burst out
“Pr
ove it.”
“I could strip you right down to—”
“Brave words,” he sneered. His body ached with longing, but he did not stir. A single move and his target would flee across the room.
“Watch me.” Her face agleam with mischief, Melanie came closer and touched the top button on his shirt.
From beneath his nose wafted the fragrance of spring blossoms. It cleared Hal’s sinuses and jolted into a longdormant corner of his brain, which was the only part of him not already on its feet and cheering.
He wanted to take her in his arms, as a man ought to do, to caress and tease and awaken her. But this woman craved conquest, and he was more than willing to allow himself to be conquered.
Melanie slipped loose the shirt buttons, one by one. As she moved lower, Hal feared she could not help but note his arousal. Still, he held himself in check, allowing her to loosen his cuffs, pull his shirttails free and bare his torso.
As she tossed the shirt atop his jacket, Melanie eyed his bare chest appreciatively. Hal had no false modesty; he worked out daily in his private gym, and knew he was well-toned. He also knew that the bullet scar on his left shoulder did nothing to detract from his appeal.
Her finger traced the white mark. “How did you get this?”
“Does it matter?” said Hal.
“You could have been killed.”
“But I was not.”
“Did one of your victims—I mean…” The words trailed off.
“I suppose she considered herself a victim.” It had been between his second and third marriages, when Hal wooed a French perfume heiress. He had pressed his attentions with a bit too much ardor and jarred the tiny jeweled pistol in her clutch purse, which fired.
The lady apologized profusely and even hinted that, should Hal care to renew his attentions after being released from the hospital, he might find her receptive. He, however, had been sufficiently dissuaded by the reception he had received the first time.
“Care to see another scar?” It was on his right thigh, a memento of a bicycle accident when he was twelve, but he did not intend to reveal the truth about that one, either.
Kidnapped / I Got You Babe Page 7
