by Velvet Veers
He placed his hand on her arm, rubbing it tenderly. “You know, Claire, I wish it could be different. You know ... between us."
"I know, Sam. Me, too.” She ran her hands through his hair, returning his gesture of affection. “But we both know it's better this way, Sweetie."
Sam sighed. “I know that. And I know you're right. I'm busy enough during the day, but when the dark settles in and I have to go back home to a cold, empty bed, well ... let's just say fantasies about you comfort me greatly, Claire."
Tears stung her eyes. This was the most open Sam had ever been with her. It had been ten years since he'd lost his beloved wife, Sarah, and she could see him still struggling with the loss. Her heart swelled in sympathy for him and she wanted nothing more than to give him comfort. But she could never replace his Sarah, nor would she ever want to.
* * * *
Claire booted up her computer and went through her email. Delete. Delete. Mostly just spam, but wait, something interesting caught her attention. On the subject line she read, “Urgent. Fishing Commissioner Info."
She opened the email and began reading.
"I have to meet with you immediately. From the grapevine, I have learned you are investigating the fishing commissioner. I have information that may be of use to you. Don't wait. I'm in danger!"
Excitement bubbled up; this was a real lead, the kind of lead that sent adrenaline surging through her like a dose of speed. She had hit a brick wall in her research for this story. This could be her breakthrough.
Claire sent the potential informant a message, asking him or her to meet her that afternoon. But where? Where could she meet this person where they wouldn't be seen? Someone had obviously threatened the whistleblower.
Snapping her fingers together, she typed in, Madame Tarot, on the corner of Harry Hines and I35E at 3:00 p.m. today. She'd used the Madame in a feature story once. It was the perfect cover. The informant could be going in for a reading as far as anyone watching was concerned, and Claire could be there waiting in the back room to talk.
Claire received an instant reply, indicating the mystery person would be there at the designated time. She would have just enough time to hop in her car and make it to Madame Tarot's before the person arrived.
As she dashed for her car, Claire called Madame Tarot from her cell phone and secured approval to park behind the building and use the backdoor.
With five minutes to spare, she pulled up to Madame Tarot's. Claire quickly ducked inside the unlocked back door. She could hear Madame speaking to someone in the front room.
A few minutes later, a thin man dressed in a crisp white shirt, maroon tie, and conservative navy blue suit came through the door. Madame closed it silently behind him.
Claire walked over to him and extended her hand to shake his, “Hello, I'm Claire 0'Malley."
He shook hands with her and said, “My name is Rodney Rosenberg. I'm the fishing commission's senior accountant."
"So nice to meet you. Please have a seat."
"Thanks.” He set his briefcase on the table and opened it. Pulling out a stack of papers, he slid them over to Claire's side of the table. “The fishing commission pays for the fry to be delivered early spring to stock the lake. We paid for ten tank trucks to be loaded with fry and we only have invoices for six dumps."
"Wait a minute. Who are you feeding with this fish fry?"
For the first time, Rodney broke out in a smile and actually cleared his throat, as if trying not to laugh. “Fry are baby fish, Ms. O'Malley. We stock the lake for fisherman."
"Oh, I see.” She felt her face heat with the flush of embarrassment.
"So you see, if we only logged in six tankers, but paid for ten, where's the rest of the money? That's quite a chunk of taxpayers’ change."
"I see your point. Did you talk to the commissioner about this?"
"Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. I was politely told to stay out of it and he would take care of the matter. That was a month ago and I haven't seen any indication that things have been corrected. I did call the company we paid to send the fry and they say it had all been delivered."
"Very interesting. May I keep these papers?"
"Yes. Those are your copies."
"Rodney, I can't tell you how much this means to me for you to have come forward with this information."
"I've long been a fan of your journalistic talent, Ms. O'Malley, and your dogged persistence in uncovering the truth. There's not a shred of doubt in my mind that you're perfect to do the story. The least I can do is give you the information you need to bust this case to the public.
"I'm sick and tired of politician's greedy fingers eating up the taxpayers’ hard-earned money, feeling no remorse for ripping off the trusting constituents who put them in office.” He stood up and slammed his briefcase shut, as if punctuating his anger.
Claire rose and extended her hand. “Thanks for putting yourself on the line like this. I'll be very careful to protect your identity as the informant."
"Thank you, Ms. O'Malley. Oh, by the way, these men are very dangerous. Please watch your back. And be careful."
"I will. You do the same.” She shook his hand and closed the door behind him. Sitting at the table, she examined the papers. The fish vendor was called Frey Hatchery, Inc., located in Garland, Texas. Not far from Dallas. Good.
She could take a trip to Garland and sniff the place out tomorrow. She picked up her cell phone and punched in the auto-dial for Sam. His secretary answered the phone on the first ring. “Hi, Sue. Can I speak to Sam?"
"Sorry, hon. He went home early today."
"Thanks.” Frowning because it was so unlike Sam to leave work early, she decided to make a trip over to Sam's, and fill him in on new developments.
* * * *
Sam allowed the stream of warm water to fan hard against his tense muscles. Claire had really unnerved him today in that sexy outfit. He couldn't get it out of his mind and that made him even more depressed than just coming home to an empty house ... a silent, lonely house, haunted by the absence of Sarah. That's why he stood in the shower until the hot water turned cold. Then he stepped out, drying himself off with a thick towel, donning his robe and slippers to endure the rest of the evening.
He'd poured a glass of merlot and made some popcorn in the microwave when he heard a rap on the door. Who could that be? He wasn't expecting anyone. Opening the door, his heart missed a beat. Claire.
Suddenly self-conscious of his attire, Sam motioned for her to come in. “What brings you to my neck of the woods this time of day, dear Claire?"
"Sam,” Claire said, now appearing a bit self-conscious herself. “I've just stumbled across the most amazing information. I had to come right over and tell you about it."
Sam said, “Have a seat. I'll get us some wine."
"That sounds good. Your place looks nice."
Sam didn't respond, but walked over and placed a second wine glass on the coffee table. Claire picked it up and took a sip. Sam followed, too self-conscious to propose a toast. Sam felt his shaft swell at the sight of Claire's tank top that dipped to reveal creamy white cleavage. She was sexy as hell in an earthy, natural way.
Claire proceeded to tell Sam everything she'd been told about the commissioner, then showed him the papers.
"Good work, Claire.” He tipped his glass to clink with hers. “Here's to the story."
Then in an act of unprecedented daring, he took her wineglass, setting them both on the table, and pulled her over to him. To his surprise, she didn't resist. He smoothed her hair back and slid his finger down her face. Her skin felt as smooth and satiny as a rose petal. He tipped her chin up and drew her lips to his, nibbling on her lower lip.
Oh, the taste of wine and woman, he thought.
Then he parted her lips with his tongue, teasing, exploring, knowing whatever was ahead of them would begin and end tonight.
Her tongue met his and a new energy coursed through him. It had been so long since he'd taste
d a woman, melted into her healing softness. Claire parted his robe, rubbing her hand gently along his leg, exploring upwards to his waiting erection. She enclosed it in her hand, the warmth penetrating through to every fiber of his being. He felt his grief that he'd carried for so long finally crumble into a thousand pieces as he unfastened her pants. She stood on her own and pulled them down before tugging her shirt over her head.
Standing there in her crowning glory like an offering, he stood to meet her, letting his robe fall to the floor. He took her hand in the mutual silence, leading her into his bedroom, and pulled her onto the bed with him.
So many times he'd dreamed of Claire, when images of Sarah had faded into the past, still leaving behind the wisps of pain he couldn't shake.
Sam lowered himself over Claire, sliding his hands down her curves, showering her with a thousand small kisses, devouring her sweet essence and giving. Spreading her legs with his fingers, he dipped into the honey, loving the wetness that sprang from her. Then he slid his manhood inside her, and a timeless passion took over along with the rhythms of the age-old mating dance. Harder and harder he plunged, and she came with him, bucking her rounded hips with a force he'd never known, as one with him.
And he felt whole once more—healed by this woman beneath him. Now he could live again.
* * * *
Claire walked along the sidewalk, still basking from the glow of the comfort sex she'd shared with Sam. Her cell phone rang and she made a grab for it. “Hello. Hello.” It was still ringing.
Damn, it must be the Companionship, Inc. phone, she thought. Digging into her purse she pulled it out and answered.
An automated voice spoke to her. “Job availability for this date, Friday, March 10th at 7:00 p.m. The location is the Anatole on I35E. This is a semi-formal affair with a man named Walleye Joe. He's been instructed to hold a red rose for identification. Please punch in your pin number to confirm you have accepted this assignment."
Claire punched in her pin number and pressed “end.” Once she checked the time, did some quick calculations of what to wear, and how long it would take her to get ready and drive to the hotel, she was ready to think about her assignment.
Oh, man, did she say Walleye Joe?
What in the world would a Walleye Joe look like, she thought? Like some kind of bug-eyed fish? Yulk. Ohmigod!
Then she groaned. Had she really bet she'd get the first man she escorted to hit the sack with her? Walleye Joe? Man, oh man, I'm in deep ca-ca.
CHAPTER 3
"So nice to see you again, buddy.” Walleye Joe shook hands with the conference director.
"You, too, Joe. How was your flight?"
"Bumpy and compact. They need to make more room for long legs and broad shoulders."
The conference director looked up at the six-foot-five legendary ice-fisherman from northern Minnesota, who looked more like a retired NFL football tackle.
"Well, at least you'll be able to stretch out in the room we have ready for you here at The Anatole. A luxury suite with all the amenities. You're already checked in. Here's your key. Drinks and appetizers will be served in the hospitality room two hours before conference time. Dinner begins promptly at 8:00 p.m. after the awards ceremony.
"After dinner we'll call you to the podium as guest speaker. Your escort will meet you in the main lobby at 7:00 p.m. Here's the red rose for identification.” The director handed Joe a long-stemmed red rose.
Joe's hands flew up in the air and he backed up a few steps. “Whoa! Hang on already. Did you say escort? You mean as in date?"
"Yes, sir. The escort is one of the conference perks for guest speakers. Our way of giving you a little bonus in addition to your speaker's fee.” He winked at Walleye Joe.
Still refusing to accept the rose, Joe said, “That may be the case, but the truth is, I don't need or want a date—or an escort. Do you want to call this agency and cancel or do you want me to do it?"
The conference director cleared his throat and looked at his watch. “I'm sorry, Joe, but it's too late to cancel. I can look into placing the escort with someone else, but I don't have much time to do it. She may end up just having to go home without getting paid tonight."
Walleye Joe frowned at the director, but knew he didn't have much choice but to go along with this date thing. The conference director didn't have time to mess with setting the escort up with someone else, and the woman must need the money or why would she be working as an escort. Joe might as well go along for the ride. In reality, what could it hurt? Bloody hell, he hadn't had a date in ... well, a bloody long time. He'd forgotten how to act.
"Give me the blasted rose. I'll escort her.” He snatched the rose out of the director's hand. He didn't miss the director's smile. Bloody hell!
The director motioned to the bellhop. “Please take Mr. Joe's things to room twenty-fifteen. Joe, if you need anything, please page me personally at number twenty-one on your telephone."
Walleye Joe followed the bellhop to his room, apprehension growing by the second. Maybe a nice stiff drink and a hot shower would help calm his nerves. Damn, he knew he should have insisted on turning down this engagement, but he'd promised his good friend from the Texas Tourist Association he'd serve as guest speaker for this conference.
Maybe he could meet his date with the rose, explain the situation to her and send her on her merry way. She'd get her pay and a rose for five minutes of work and he could have his evening to himself. Yep, that was his ticket out. Joe smiled to himself. He could find a solution to anything—just by logically sorting through things.
Joe had put a self-imposed moratorium on all kind of female companionship a year ago, with the exception of his Siberian Husky, Sheba. When Jessica broke his heart after a five-year relationship he thought would surely end in happily-ever-after, that was it for him. He'd be damned if he'd start dating again now even though his relationship statute of limitations had expired. Too much time and energy wasted and far too much pain. Who needed it?
* * * *
Claire fished through the hanging clothes in her closet and frowned. There really wasn't much to choose from in the way of semi-formal attire. Well, she didn't have time to go shopping, so one of these would have to work. She chose her favorite tight, black mini-dress with a v-neck open almost to mid-stomach, long sleeves flaring at the forearms—a seventies rendition—simple, but sexy.
The traffic crept along this time of day with people impatient to get home after a dog-hard workday. At 7:15 p.m. sharp, Claire pulled in front of The Anatole and had the valet park her car. People thronged the lobby; Claire worried about finding her companion. She scanned the room and saw no one with a red rose in his hand. She saw no one remotely resembling a bug-eyed fish.
Then she spotted a man sitting at the bar in the middle of the lobby with a rose lying on the table. “Could that be him?” Claire wondered out loud. She scanned the lobby again for another man with a red rose. Nada. The one at the bar had to be her guy.
She walked over to him and cleared her throat. “You wouldn't happen to be ... uh ... Walleye Joe, would you?” Claire's voice cracked from trying to suppress a surge of hysterical laughter. She couldn't believe she was doing this!
For a moment his piecing blue eyes left her speechless until he quirked one of his eyebrows arrogantly, and blatantly stared at her chest, saying nothing.
"Excuse me, I'm Claire O'Malley. If you are in fact, Walleye Joe, I'm your hired hand for the evening."
Joe glanced at his Rolex and gave her a belittling look. “Yes. You're late."
Irish anger surged through her veins—she couldn't believe his audacity! “I'm sorry about that, but Dallas traffic is atrocious at this time of day.” She jerked an empty chair up to the table and sat down. Obviously the man had no manners in addition to being an ogre. What a long evening this one was going to be!
He glared at her.
Claire asked, “Is something wrong?"
"You might as well not bother to sit. You
won't be staying."
"Why not?” Claire asked indignantly.
"Because I don't want an escort. There's been a miscommunication.” He took out his wallet and slid a hundred-dollar bill across the table toward her. “Here's a tip in addition to what you'll get paid from the escort agency. Buy yourself something nice on me."
Claire sat speechless for a minute, then took the hundred off the table and stuffed it in her purse. “Thanks for the tip, but I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to escort you to this damn party whether you want me to go or not. I believe in working for my pay. This is my first gig, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let myself be fired by some hairy lumberjack giving me the brush off."
"Ice-fisherman."
"What?"
Walleye Joe raised his voice. “I'm an ice fisherman, not Paul Bunyan."
Claire threw her head back and laughed. “You could've fooled me.” Well, at least he had a sense of humor, a wry one at that. Maybe the evening wouldn't turn out to be so bad after all.
When he made no comment, she threw her hands up and said, “Whatever. Listen, bud, like it or not, you're stuck with me for the evening. You might as well get over it fast."
They sat glaring at each other for another couple of moments, like two bullies circling each other on the playground.
Walleye Joe leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I see. This is the way it's going to be. How much?"
"Excuse me?"
"How much is it going to cost me to get rid of you? Another hundred?” He opened his wallet.
"Oh, for Pete's sake. Look, it's really simple. I was hired to escort you to this conference. That's a sealed deal. Dyed in the wool. I don't go back on my word, so let's go to this damn thing and get it over with. Then I can leave. You can continue on with your pathetic life in any manner you choose. Okay?” She stood up beside her chair and tapped her foot while she waited.
