by Louisa Trent
"And your point is...?"
"You know how a burglar operates as well as I do, Ron. A cat-thief engaged in the stealing of art is a savvy animal. He knows enough to get in and get out of a mark's house real quick. A second-story man does not take a detour to a curio shelf and help himself to an obscure hood ornament ... unless, of course, maybe that burglar owns, or knows someone who owns, antique cars. Maybe even the 1930 Dusenberg that angel originally belonged on."
Ron nodded. "And Fritz, the now deceased art dealer, owned a 1930 Dusenberg."
"Precisely."
"I still don't understand why you had to buy the old heap," Ronnie groused. "The car's just a bunch of old rusted nuts and bolts. You could've just bought the angel."
"That would've looked suspicious. Besides, the car's much more than rusty nuts and bolts. She's a classy lady fallen on bad times." Steve ran his hand over the car's sleek hood. "I've always been a sucker for hard-luck stories and when I saw the Dusenberg on the block at Bernard Fritz's estate sale, I couldn't resist her. I'll get her fixed up and take her out for Sunday morning rides. It'll be great."
Before the car even went on the block, Steve scheduled a private pre-auction viewing of the antique. While the auctioneer looked away, he unscrewed the stolen angel from the hood, replacing her with a counterfeit look-alike. Because if anyone-like the cops, for instance-got wind that the angel on Fritz's car was hot, tongues would start flapping all over the place. He would never find Emily Parker if there were the least bit of doubt cast on the honesty of her employer; she would go so far underground, only the moles would find her. He wasn't about to let that happen.
On the night of his death, Fritz had admitted to squat during their ten o'clock meeting, and so Steve still had no concrete proof that the guy was guilty of anything, except being one real smart operator. The angel was a lead, but in terms of evidence, she meant very little. In fact, when Steve put the question of the ornament to him, Fritz neatly covered his ass by saying the angel was a gift from a friend, purchased at a Saturday morning flea sale, that neither he nor his friend realized it was stolen, and of course he would return the hood decoration to its rightful owner.
What did Emily Parker know? Steve wondered. Was she involved in her employer's secret life of crime? More importantly, did she know the location of The Cuzin?
Lots of questions, lots of speculation, lots of theories, absolutely no proof. To get answers, his hunch told him he needed to find Emily Parker.
"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something, Steve," Ronnie grumbled, and took a step closer. "You've never kept secrets from me before on a case. Why now?"
He folded arms across his chest. "Down, Ron. My whip is up at the house."
Ronnie's nostrils flared. "Whip? Now that sounds like so much fun."
Ron and her S&M tendencies, Steve thought with a sigh. He had been known to indulge in that scene too, but his partner would have to find herself another master, because he wasn't going there, not with her.
Steve grabbed a rag, wiped his greasy hands on it, and then slyly brandished it in front of his fastidious partner. "Uh ... you might not want to get too close, Ron. I could use a shower."
The possibility of her Donna Karan suit getting messed stopped Ron dead in her high-heel tracks. Nose wrinkled, she waved a red-manicured hand before her nose. "Yeeew! A rose, you are not, honey."
Steve hid a grin. His partner's amorous feelings for him were on the fluff side of superficial. When would she finally wake up and realize it?
"S-t-e-v-e!" Four skinny inches of high-heel seduction scraped concrete, the sound worse than fingernails on a blackboard.
A shiver was shaken out of him. "Do you have to do that?"
"I do, if I want to get your attention! Can't you get someone else to do all this dirty automotive work for you? A mechanic or something?"
"I happen to like doing all this dirty work," he said, and then quickly changed the subject before his business partner did the concrete scrape thing again. "By the way, any paper trail yet on Bernard Fritz's missing assistant?"
Ronnie brushed a microscopic speck from her raw silk suit. "I'm all over it, sugar, but so far it looks like the girl disappeared into that hole in the ozone."
"What about the airlines?"
"I checked, specifically all European departures. There's no indication Parker ever left the country. But she's involved in this stolen painting somewhere. She was probably doing the transport...
"Maybe."
With an amazingly feminine snort, Ron replied, "Of course, she was involved, sugar."
"Maybe." Ducking his head under the antique's hood, he got back to work.
"Humpf! I guess I know when I'm being ignored. See you tonight, sugar."
Still under the relative safety of the Dusenberg's hood, Steve waved off his miffed partner.
Bernard Fritz didn't confess to any wrongdoing during their ten o'clock appointment. He didn't admit to any knowledge of the stolen Cuzin, either. But Steve read fear in the art dealer's eyes. That cornered look prompted Steve to offer him a deal: the whereabouts of The Cuzin in exchange for twenty-four hours lead time, during which Fritz could get his act together with a lawyer before Steve went public with what he knew.
Pure bluff. Steve's evidence wasn't worth diddly, and he had no intention of going public; his client had demanded complete privacy. But as long as there was even an outside chance of getting his client's painting returned on the QT, Steve had to go for it.
Had there been something else going down with Fritz? Something internal to his organization that Steve was unaware of? Had his band of thieves turned cutthroat, and with pressure from outside and in, Fritz knew his time had run out? Had he known it was too late for deals? Is that why he had taken his own life?
In hindsight, it seemed that way to Steve.
Fritz was under medical care for depression, the gun beside the body belonged to the art dealer, as did the prints on the weapon. The preponderance of proof pointed to suicide as the cause of death. Emily Parker was nowhere to be found, but she wasn't under any criminal suspicion for anything. The cops did want to question her about her boss' suicide, but it was all pretty standard procedure, done strictly by the numbers, the preponderance of proof pointing to a self-inflicted gun wound with depression as the underlying motivation.
Steve kept his suspicions of Fritz's involvement in illegalities to himself. Since Emily wasn't around to say she had arranged his ten o'clock meeting with Fritz, and as there were no witnesses to it, Steve kept his mouth closed about that too. The way things stood now, he could bide his time and look for Emily and The Cuzin on his own, without any pesky interference from the DA's office...
"Excuse me. I'm here about the Help Wanted sign out front."
At the sound of that familiar female voice, Steve whipped his dark head out from under the hood of the Dusenberg.
That soft, lyrical rhythm-those dulcet tones-the slightly breathless manner of speaking-all haunted his dreams at night.
Emily Parker, the ethereal lady from Fritz's garage, the could-be thief he had been searching for, the car-savvy woman he had spoken to at some length on the phone, now stood in the middle of his garage. He would know her anywhere, despite the disguise. What the hell was she doing here in Cape Cod, her gray eyes scrutinizing him? And, man, but he hoped like hell that was a black wig under her beat-up baseball cap...
"I just happened to be walking by and noticed the posting," she offered.
Yeah, right! She just happened to be walking by! The world wasn't that small, and coincidence didn't cover this visit.
But Steve nodded, everything cool. "My partner strongly suggested I get some summer help. And I suppose she's right-the house is the pits," he said, giving himself chance to adjust, to come to grips with this new twist in the case. "So I asked her to stick the sign in the planter."
"Well, it worked." A slender hand was extended to him. "Lee Packet."
"Steve Gallagher," he sai
d. He gave her palm a brisk shake and then let go, the pleasurable sensation of cool fingers on his hot flesh startling him. "Pleased to meet you, Lee."
"I think I should tell you-I do housework, but I don't cook." Visibly holding her breath, his job applicant dropped her gaze to the garage's oil-stained floor.
Steve used the opportunity to sneak a look-see under the brim of the grimy baseball cap.
Ah, but Emily is a pretty one--despite the ton of glop plastered on her skin, despite the black raccoon circle painted around her eyes, despite what he now realized was not a wig but a bad dye job. He knew the thick makeup hid pearl-skin, the perfect canvas for gray eyes that even from a distance had immediately reminded him of Falmouth Harbor on a raw and rainy day, the kind of quiet, tourist-free day he loved the best. He had taken plenty of pictures of her that night inside Fritz's garage and he had memorized each one, committed each variation of expression to memory, from tearful to determined; each graceful sway of her slender body was etched in his mind.
And wasn't she smart, Steve thought in admiration, to select an alias so close to her real name. That way, she wouldn't ever get caught with a vacant look on her face when somebody addressed her.
"Well, Lee, as it just so happens, cooking isn't part of the job description," he said, putting her out of her misery before she turned blue from holding her breath. "I'm fairly creative in the kitchen. I just don't like cleaning up the mess afterwards. Ten bucks per. Think it over." To put her at ease, he picked up his tool, and returned to his tinkering under the hood.
The strategy worked. Breezy as a puff of warm summer air fanning across a sandbar, she sidled up close, coming to a stop directly behind him.
Steve looked over his shoulder at her. "Can you see all right? I wouldn't want to get in your way or anything."
"I can see just fine."
"Glad to hear it," he said dryly.
Emily Parker was graceful enough to moonlight as a cat-thief. Savvy enough to trace him to the Cape. Cunning enough to use an alias. And enough of an actress to do a fairly decent job posing as an applicant for a summer job, all while wearing an outfit she had to have pulled straight out of a dumpster. She had gone through an awful lot of work to find him and disguise herself. Why?
Surer than a stray mutt doing his business in a bed of prized roses, Emily's visit had a reason behind it, and he meant to find out what that reason was.
"Stop!" the little fraud cried. "You'll break the stem off the bolt if you keep tightening it like that."
His eyes crinkled up at her. "Ya think?"
Her palm reverently smoothed the Dusenberg's dented grill. "She's in fragile condition; you'll need to take care with her."
Oh, he planned on taking care ... with Emily. Because she was looking fragile, just like the car.
Moseying on over to the driver's side, Emily looked under the chassis, the threadbare denim of her jeans molding her raised rear end.
She had no damned business bending over like that, not in worn jeans! He was thirty-eight, not quite old enough for a dirty old man classification. Yet. Though, that was the way he felt looking. In that god-awful outfit, with that god-awful make-up, Emily looked like a barely pubescent Lolita. For crissakes, he had a sixteen year-old niece who, in the midst of a hormonal surge, looked and dressed the same way. How old was Emily, anyway? At Fritz's party, wearing little in the way of make-up and dressed sophisticated, she had looked young, but not this young. He thought she was early twenties, maybe twenty-seven or eight. Now, she looked barely legal. Did he ever need that dossier Ronnie was working up on Emily! The first thing he was checking was her DOB.
"There's a little corrosion near the tie rods," she said, righting herself. "Other than that, the car's a beauty."
He would have to respectfully disagree-Emily of the sad, gray, stay-away-from-me eyes was the real beauty in this garage. Even with the heavy-handed application of make-up, even with the ugly disguise and defiant attitude, she was getting to him.
His gaze lowered.
Looked like Emily Parker had forgotten to hook on a bra. Graceful posture, a clingy black tee-shirt and a pert jiggle made the oversight a little too clear for his comfort level.
Shit! Emily was one complication he didn't need in his life. If he wanted jiggles, he could get jiggles anywhere. No reason at all why he should go around with hurting nuts. He was a wealthy man. He was also as cynical as hell. And because he was both, he knew he had his pick of beautiful women, all sizes, all shapes. He didn't need to get emotionally involved to get laid. All he had to do was pick up the phone, and order in. A gorgeous girl would come calling at his door in less than an hour, credit card machine in tow, time clock running. If he didn't want a call girl, he could hit the private club circuit, and do the one-night-stand routine.
After his wife's death eighteen years ago, he did both. He partied hard and often. Fortunately, it didn't take him any too long to figure out that fast food, like fast sex, satisfied in the moment but was not too healthy in the long run. So he quit. Everything. No sex. Total abstinence. For years. And he didn't miss it. So lusting after Emily Parker came as a big surprise.
"I bought the car at an estate auction," Steve offered, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the sharp points under Emily's black tee-shirt. "Lucky break for me, not so lucky for the former owner. He blew his head off."
Emily's cosmetically darkened complexion bleached out.
He pushed. "Yeah, it happened during his birthday party at his Chestnut Hill estate. Pretty gruesome scene, or so I'm told. Supposedly, the blood splattered everywhere. Quite the mess for the clean-up crew."
With a strangled sound, his prospective employee swayed on her feet.
Nice move, Gallagher. He had wanted to gauge Emily's reaction to Bernard Fritz's suicide, not make her faint.
Cursing under his breath, Steve made a grab for her before she keeled.
By the harsh glare of the overhead bulb, he noted the unmistakable signs of tension on her face: the blue smudges of fatigue under the eyes; the pinched look to the mouth; the knotted vein beating at the temple; the weight loss in a woman already too thin. In the future, he would keep Emily's vulnerability in mind.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I... I'm fine, really."
He let her go.
Still pale, but standing on her own two feet now, Emily whispered, "I'm sorry to hear the owner died, but at least the car found its way into good hands. I hate seeing antiques neglected. This car is fascinating."
"Yeah, she is fascinating." And he wasn't talking about the Dusenberg.
Steve scratched a drop of motor oil from his jaw. "Did I mention I'm only looking for part-time help? The most I can offer you is ten-fifteen hours per week," he said, testing the waters, trying to get a hint as to what she wanted from him.
"Oh..."
That one syllable revealed a lot. Sounded to him like Emily wanted them to get close...
Steve held out a carrot. "Suppose, additionally, I offered you part-time hours in the garage as my helper?"
"You would let me work on the Dusenberg!" She gasped, feet leaving the garage's cement floor, definite jiggling action happening under her black tee-shirt as she jumped up and down. "When do I start?"
Everything else about her was phony, but that enthusiasm wasn't faked.
With a chuckle, he said, "Wait a minute! Not so fast. I'm talking a position as a first class grease monkey here. That's a big job and I need to know you can handle the responsibility, that you're not just a girl with enough car smarts to be dangerous."
Her lips, outlined in brownish-purple and filled in with chalky-pink, broke into a radiant smile. "Step aside." Her shapely arms flexed. "I'll finish what you've started."
"Take it easy," he warned.
"I would never treat this car less than easy."
"I meant ... take it easy with your knuckles," he said, terrified she might get hurt. "I just scraped two of mine."
Two elegant hands were held
out in front of him. "Count 'em. Ten fingers. No scars. I've been working on cars since I was old enough to pop a hood, and I've never had an accident."
He swallowed, as his cock woke up from a long winter's nap. "Your hands are ... tiny."
"That's an advantage. They can squeeze into places your hands are too big to fit." She grabbed his wrist. "Feel the strength in my fingers?"
Oh, mama! Did he ever. The handshake was bad enough, now this. Her fingers weren't even wrapped around his dick and he had a hard-on.
"Nice," he rasped.
Her touch fell away. "Now watch me."
Dirty old man classification or not, he had no intention of taking his eyes off her.
As it turned out, she replaced the bolt faster than he could've done. Impressed with her expertise and driven to know her age, he said, "You got papers?"
"I didn't think temp jobs required references." She squirmed.
He picked up a tool, tapped the red plastic handle against his palm, not liking how cornered she looked, how trapped, how skittish. Pushed too hard, she would take off and he might lose her for good. Steve didn't know what Emily was doing here, why she had come to him, but he was not losing her.
"You'll need an employment history and references anyplace you work," he said softly. "Employers need to know certain stuff, like the job applicant's age for instance."
Slender shoulders sagged. Blue smudges under gray eyes got bluer. A tummy rumbled. Emily was a walking, talking, invitation for disaster. If he didn't do something about her, a less scrupulous guy would.
"Forget the formalities," he said. "You're hired."
"Really?"
"Yep. You're one persuasive job applicant."
"I am?"
He nodded. There was nothing more persuasive than aching balls. And not to wax sentimental, he had to do something.
This was not the same as letting her make a fool of him.
Emily definitely wanted something from him. He wanted something from her too. And it had nothing to do with The Cuzin. He wanted to fuck Emily Parker. Not because she was beautiful, though she was decidedly beautiful. He lusted after her not because she had a cute body, though she most decidedly did have a cute body. But to say his need was only physical, to compartmentalize it like that, was taking the easy way out. The truth was, he was attracted to Emily's guts, turned on by her sheer unmitigated gall, intrigued by her gritty determination. The nerve of her! Walking in here, thinking she could take him for a ride! Nobody duped Steve Gallagher and got away with it!
