Good to Be Bad (Double Dare Book 1)

by Patricia Ryan

  She reached for her glass automatically. This time she noticed it was the whiskey before she put it to her mouth, but she steeled herself and drank it down anyway. Why not, if it’ll relax me? I could use a little calming down right about now.

  “If I could write like you do,” she said, dragging the whiskey bottle toward her, “I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing, I can fucking well assure you of that.” Whoa! She never said ‘fucking’. Yet she just had. And it felt great. “Fuck, yeah,” she added resolutely as she poured.

  “Uh...” Gage wrapped his hand around the bottle and gently extracted it from her grip, setting it next to him, out of her reach. “Maybe you’d better have a little more to eat before you and Dr. Daniels get too chummy there. I’m not fixin’ to get you hammered. I just meant to help you unwind a little.”

  “I won’t get drunk.” She waved a hand airily, and it seemed to move in slow motion; she’d never felt so graceful. “I’ve never been drunk in my life.” Leaning forward, she wagged a finger at him to emphasize the point. “Not once.”

  “Let’s just keep it that way. Why don’t you eat some of that burger? It’s really very good.”

  “Will it make you happy?” she asked winsomely. Another hurdle leapt; she’d never been winsome before.

  “Exceedingly.”

  “Well, then.” She lifted the burger, took a bite, chewed. He watched her the whole time. She discovered that she loved being watched. “It is good!” she exclaimed in genuine delight. “That charcoal crust around the meat? It really adds something.” She tossed back the rest of her whiskey; he frowned. “Don’t worry. I told you. Never drunk a day in my life.”

  After she’d polished off the burger—it really was extraordinarily good; she’d never imagined a hamburger could taste like that—he said, “So you want to write novels.”

  She paused in the act of oh-so-delicately dabbing her mouth with her linen napkin. “Did I say that?”

  “Not in so many words, but it’s obvious from some of the things you said, and your whole attitude toward writing.”

  Silently marveling at his perception, she said, “I think about it sometimes. Sometimes I think... no, you’ll think it’s stupid.”

  “No I won’t.” He leaned forward on his elbows, his gaze riveted on her. “I want to hear about it.”

  “I’ve never told anyone.”

  His voice grew softer, deeper. “Tell me.”

  She bit her lip. His eyes zeroed in on her mouth. His throat moved as he swallowed.

  Emma saw herself from his perspective, a flushed young woman, inky hair askew, eyes glittering from just a bit too much Dr. Daniels, biting her lip...

  She felt beautiful... desirable. She’d never felt desirable before, never felt the heat of a man’s gaze, the hunger, the wanting....

  She liked it. It thrilled her, speeded her heart, made her shiver with anticipation.

  Yes. Anticipation. She knew what Gage Foster saw as he looked at her, and she knew what he wanted. And, to her astonishment, she wanted it, too. For the first time in her life, she finally wanted—really wanted—what she’d denied herself for way too long. In less than a month she’d be thirty years old. Did she really want to be a virgin when she blew out thirty candles?

  Omigod, I think I might actually do this.

  “Zara,” he said in a soft rumble that vibrated right through her. “Tell me.”

  Zara. Zara, tell me.

  It was Zara he wanted, Zara he desired. Of course.

  She was wearing Zara’s clothes, not to mention her man-killer rep. Zara, queen of the broken hearts. Of course he wanted her. Everyone wanted Zara.

  “Tell me,” he repeated. “You want to write novels?”

  Emma nodded.

  “What kind? Glitzy romance, right?”

  She shook her head.

  “A roman à clef about the publishing industry?”

  She shook her head again. “Mysteries. Whodunits.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Whodunits.”

  “Cozy ones.”

  “Cozies?” he laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, I just... it’s just that I wouldn’t have imagined Zara Sutcliffe writing about little-old-lady sleuths and crime-solving cats and the like.”

  “Well, imagine it,” she said testily.

  “Look, don’t take offense,” he said. “Actually, I think it’s really cool.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can I let you in on a little secret?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I watched every episode of Murder, She Wrote when I was a kid.”

  “You did not.”

  “Every frickin’ frackin’ one—” he held up his hand “—as God is my witness.”

  “Me, too,” she confessed in a winsome whisper, loving her winsomeness, loving this conversation, loving... liking him. A lot. Despite the fact that he thought she was Zara. That wasn’t really his fault. Well, it was, kind of. Actually, very much so, seeing as he stubbornly refused to let her correct the mistaken identity, but she could overlook that because of extenuating circumstances—to wit, his really very admirable character.

  An inventory of Gage Foster’s admirable character traits scrolled through her mind:

  1. He was ruggedly good-looking. That one just popped up first; it didn’t mean she was shallow.

  2. He was honest and honorable. To a fault, probably, but can there really be too much of a good thing?

  3. He was brave; he’d jumped down on those subway tracks to save her.

  4. He was a doctor. Or ex-doctor, depending on what mood he was in.

  5. He was The Next Grisham, for crying out loud.

  6. He liked Murder, She Wrote.

  7. He was sexy as hell.

  Emma had never really—really—thought of a man as sexy. Until now. But, boy, was he. Ever.

  “So,” he asked, “have you written any cozy whodunits yet?”

  She struggled to redirect her train of thought to the subject at hand. “It’s hard to find the time.” A lame excuse, now that she heard it coming out of her mouth; she should have written one while she was freelancing, because if she couldn’t find the time then, she sure wouldn’t find it now.

  “You live a hectic, high-powered life,” he said, “but if it’s important to you, you’ve gotta find time.” Leaning across the table, he took her hand and squeezed, looking at her with those neon blue eyes that seemed to drill right into her soul. “If there’s something you really want, sometimes you just have to go for it.”

  The image of a birthday cake ablaze with thirty candles materialized in Emma’s mind’s eye.

  “You think?” she asked softly.

  “Absolutely.” He squeezed her hand again; actually, it was more of a caress, a slow massage with those big, slightly rough fingers of his. “Life’s too short to wait around for it to happen to you. Sometimes you just have to go ahead and make it happen.”

  The breath seemed to have gotten sucked from her lungs; all she could do was nod.

  He rose and gathered the remains of their dinner on the big room-service tray, all except the bottle of Jack Daniels and the two glasses, which he left on the table. While he was taking the tray out to the hall, Emma quickly poured herself a fortifying shot of whiskey and drank it, relishing the heat that slid down her throat and bloomed in her stomach. It felt like courage—false courage, to be sure, but right now she’d take anything she could get.

  She was going to do this. Omigod, she was really going to do this.

  MACGOWAN BYRNE, sitting with his feet propped on a lacquer-and-ormolu desk that had once belonged to Czar Nicholas II—but then everything in Russia had once belonged to him, lucky bastard—took another gulp from his bottle of Grey Goose and listened to his latest voicemail message again:

  “Mr. Byrne, this is, um... Zara Sutcliffe....”

  Right. Mac plucked the driver’s license out of the tacky faux leather wallet on his lap and held it under his Ti
ffany lamp for the fiftieth time since acquiring it, along with the rest of that grotesque pile of crap in the middle of his desk. He squinted at it through a haze of slowly escalating wrath, seeing Zara Sutcliffe’s face, but reading Emma Sutcliffe’s name.

  “I’m sorry I had to miss our meeting this afternoon,” asserted the soft, smoothly credible voice of the lying bitch who had the nerve to try and scam him; correction, one of the two lying bitches who had the nerve to try and scam him, because Zara was in on it, of course. Zara had no doubt masterminded this little masquerade. When would he learn to stop trusting people?

  He’d been in his office all evening, drinking and stoking the roaring flames in the fireplace as he sorted through the effluvia of her pathetic life—the only remotely useful item in that bag being the can of pepper spray, which the stupid little twat should have used on him and didn’t—searching vainly for clues as to what the devil these two lying, scheming bitches were trying to do to him.

  “Circumstances... well... anyway, I’m sorry.” Yeah, Mac knew all about the circumstances. He’d engineered them personally, in full costume and makeup, for all the good it did him. He’d intended it to be so swift, so simple: wait outside her office building when she left for their meeting, lure her into a secluded doorway, open her throat—he lifted his exquisite Indo-Persian dagger from his desk and ran his thumb along its razor edge—snatch the ray gun and dissolve into the crowd, another invisible bum in a city teeming with them. No one knew about the ray gun deal—or so he’d thought, but you really couldn’t trust anyone anymore—so with Zara Sutcliffe on ice and the gun in his possession, he’d be beyond suspicion and two million dollars richer.

  A slick plan, only it hadn’t turned out quite so swift or simple after rush-hour gridlock forced his quarry underground. He’d had to substitute a subway train for his exquisite dagger, which would have been fine and good—better, probably—if it hadn’t been for the cocksucker in the cowboy boots who just had to play hero. And if the ray gun had been in the bitch’s handbag, which it wasn’t.

  Why not, if she’d been on her way to sell it to him? Just exactly what little intrigue had the Sisters Sutcliffe cooked up to sucker him out of his—his—two million? They probably thought he was just a harmlessly legitimate dealer in collectibles, a patsy they could dupe out of the money and the ray gun.

  Mac smiled grimly as he brought the bottle to his mouth again. They really had no idea. No idea at all, the things he was capable of... the things he’d done... the things he had yet to do... to them.

  “I still very much want to conclude this transaction.” You and me both, honey; oh, yeah, I definitely feel the need for some sort of closure on this. “Please call me at my home number, 718-555-5734, and leave a message if I don’t pick up. I’m not home right now, but I’ll check my voicemail remotely and get—”

  Beep.

  Queens, for fuck’s sake. Flushing, Queens, of all putrescent stinkholes, which was why he was sucking down vodka the way he was, to get in the proper frame of mind to cross the Fifty-fucking-ninth Street Bridge into Archie Bunkerland tonight.

  Because he had to do it. He had to find that ray gun—that was his first priority. If it wasn’t at Emma’s place, he’d check Zara’s, and if it wasn’t there... well, then he might have to get Indo-Persian on their asses.

  The phone rang. The caller ID said it was William.

  Shit. Mac thunked the bottle on the desk and took the call. “It’s almost nine o’clock, William. Isn’t that past your bedtime?”

  “Do you have the ray gun?” The old guy always got right to the point.

  Mac held the dagger by its bone handle and turned it slowly, admiring the way the watered-steel blade shimmered in the amber glow of the Tiffany lamp. “I’m working on it.”

  There was a second of dead air. “You said you’d have it for me tonight.”

  “Things have gotten... complicated.”

  “I’m paying you two million dollars for that ray gun. You said you could come up with it. That sounded pretty simple to me.”

  “To me, too, till the daughter decided to haggle me into the ground.” Avaricious cunt. Mac had figured she’d want to up the price; he’d been ready to go up into six figures. But Zara Sutcliffe was a real pit bull when it came to negotiating, grabbing on and not letting go till she’d squeezed every last dollar out of him. Two million of them, to be precise. Which resulted in a profit for Mac of exactly zero percent—if he was idiot enough to pay her, which he wasn’t. Her greed had forced him to his present course of action, namely stealing what had proved too costly to purchase and eliminating everyone who could point the finger at him. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone this route to obtain a prized collectible, but it was the first time things had gotten quite so out of his control.

  “Why shouldn’t she negotiate?” William asked. “From what I hear, Zara Sutcliffe’s a smart cookie. Good for her if she got your commission down—more money for her mother.”

  “She robbed me,” Mac growled.

  William chuckled. “She got the upper hand. You’re probably not used to that. Now you know how it feels. But, hey. Whatever deal you struck for that thing, that’s between you and the Sutcliffes. If you screwed up somehow, that’s none of my concern. All I really care about is that I offered you two million dollars for Candy Carmelle’s ray gun, and I want it. Now.”

  “What is this hard-on you’ve got for her?” Mac mused aloud as he scraped the dagger’s blade along his jaw. Not for the first time, he wondered what on earth the old man had been thinking when he offered to pay two million dollars for that gun. Not that Mac didn’t understand the obsessive-compulsive nature of collectors; no one understood those lunatics better. And William had the biggest collection of Candy Carmelle memorabilia—the only collection, probably—in existence. But two million? Maybe he was going senile; if so, Mac would have to milk his dementia for all it was worth. “Candy Carmelle... I mean, she’s a hot ticket and all. Used to be, anyway, back when I was a kid and she was still acting. I was in lust with her myself—what guy wasn’t? But I grew up and got over it. Sounds to me like you’re still nursing a crush on a starlet who’s probably a withered-up old crone by now—”

  “My interest in what I purchase is my business entirely, Byrne, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Chill, William. I was just trying to make—”

  “You were just trying to deflect this discussion from the subject at hand, which is the fact that you have failed to produce the item you promised.”

  Mac lowered his feet off the desk and sat up straight. “Wrong. I may have failed to produce it when I said I would. Circumstances...” Listen to him, whining his excuses like that idiot Emma Sutcliffe. “I’ll get it. No matter what it takes.”

  Another pause ensued, this one crackling with tension. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mac grinned, suddenly enjoying this immensely. He slid open his top desk drawer and admired its contents: the brace of gleaming steel throwing knives in their leather sheath; the Japanese yoroi-toshi dagger with its thick, armor-piercing blade; and a small Indian crutch sword, its hilt damascened in gold and silver. All were good for dispatching problems silently, a boon in a city where privacy was at a premium. And, of course, there was his sleek little Smith & Wesson Sigma—not silent, nor particularly refined, but elegant in its efficiency. “My methods of acquisition are my business entirely,” he said, parroting William’s own words back at him, “and don’t you forget it.”

  “You’re starting to sound a little scorched around the edges, Byrne. I won’t have you leaning on anyone. That was never part of the plan.”

  “The plan is mine,” Mac reminded him, sheathing his dagger and returning it to the drawer. “The money is yours. I’ll do what I have to do.”

  “Mac, don’t do any—”

  “Ciao, William. I’ll call you when I’ve got the gun.”

  Mac stood and began scooping Emma Sutcliffe’s heap of junk into the big, qu
ilted bag it had come out of; all evidence must be destroyed so that no one could ever trace this business back to him. It was a shame, really, because he rather liked the bag. It had a kind of rustic insouciance that might have brought a pretty penny in Europe, where some of his clients had a weakness for naive Americana.

  When the bag was once more bulging with its absurd load, Mac carried it over to the fireplace and fed it to the raging flames. By tomorrow morning it would be a handful of ash. He wished the rest of it could be that easy.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EMMA CHEWED ON HER LIP as Gage reentered the room, locking the door behind him. “Well,” he asked, “what’s your pleasure?”

  “What?”

  “We’ve had dinner.” He slowly approached the table where she sat, his long-legged stride graceful in a kind of a rangy, loose-limbed way. “You’ve gotten your boo-boos fixed.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’ve talked about myself way the hell more than a fella has any right to, but you encouraged it, so it’s really your fault.” He stopped directly in front of her and looked down; he wasn’t grinning anymore, just regarding her with an attitude of quiet expectancy. “What do you want to do now?”

  What would Zara say? How did you seduce someone? Well, maybe seduce wasn’t the right word, given the seducee’s obvious interest and enthusiasm.

  How, then, did a woman who was willing let a man who was willing know how willing she was?

  Zara would know; she’d have all of this down cold by now. Emma remembered that moment back at Zara’s office when Gage wouldn’t let her go, and she’d changed herself into her sister, just like that adopting the mannerisms, the attitude, the poise. It had been quite a transformation—instantaneous, but momentous in its own peculiar way.

  Being Zara had endowed her with power, confidence, cleverness. For once in her life, she’d been able to think on her feet—This author got a million five for the movie rights—concocting a plan of escape on the spur of the moment and seeing it through to victory. And all because she’d put herself in her sister’s mile-high stilettos.