The Man For The Job

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  Mike grinned. “A very fair damsel."

  "Tell me more—officially, that is,” Dillinger pulled out his notepad.

  "Why don't we find the coffee shop and talk there?” Mike suggested, then couldn't resist adding, “Is that shiny head of yours regulation now, or are you just trying to hide how bald you really are?"

  "Asshole,” Dillinger swore under his breath. “I knew I couldn't ever be as pretty as you, so I don't try anymore."

  "Prick."

  "You're repeating yourself. Losing your touch, old man?"

  Laughing, Mike admitted, “Guess I'm just a little worried over the fair damsel."

  "Should've known. You haven't changed much. You never did have any brains where the ladies were concerned."

  * * * *

  Damn. The loud click-clacking of the CAT scanner nearly drove Gwyneth out of her mind. She already had a headache. She'd been injected with radioactive dyes, stuffed like a sausage into a smooth, round coffin of a machine, then bombarded by some kind of radiation death ray. Next thing she knew, she'd be glowing in the dark.

  "Another minute, Miss Wells, and it'll all be over."

  The reassuring voice of the technologist who was safely hidden behind a foot-thick wall of concrete only irritated Gwyneth more. Fine for you. The tech could afford to be reassuring. He wasn't the one clinging to sanity by long, acrylic fingernails.

  Silently she counted, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, and so on, until finally the machine stopped its infernal noise.

  "That's it. You're all done."

  Finally she felt the machine slowly sliding her back to freedom—and air.

  "I thought I was going to stay in that torture chamber forever."

  The technician chuckled, then stopped. It must have been the sharp look Gwyneth shot him. “Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. Normally when patients are claustrophobic, we can sedate them, but since you have a head injury, too much sedation could mask any symptoms of..."

  "Yeah, that's okay. I understand,” Gwyneth admitted, trying to salvage her normally good nature and not wanting any more detail. “I've been a real pill,” She attempted a smile.

  "No problem.” The technician flashed a big grin. “No one's at their best when they're in the hospital."

  * * * *

  Ten minutes later, Gwyneth was back in the crowded ER. How anyone managed to work in the chaos mystified her. And it registered that there were a few patients with worse problems than a headache.

  Where was Mike? she wondered. After all, he did ride in the ambulance with her—and held her hand, too. That was kind of sweet when she actually thought about it. On the other hand, if he'd really been up to the job, she never would've had her head used as a volleyball ... Or maybe if she hadn't rushed from the restaurant like it was on fire...

  Mike was probably talking to the police. Had he called Uncle Wil yet? Actually her head was feeling better, and she was more than a little tired of the whole ER experience.

  The curtain whipped back, and the doctor entered. “Good news, Miss Wells, your scan is normal. No signs of bleeding."

  "Great, so then I can go home?"

  "No, I'm sure you can appreciate that we have to be careful with head injuries. That's why I'm keeping you overnight for observation. Tomorrow, if you remain stable, I'll be more than happy to write your discharge order."

  "Will I have to stay down here all night?"

  The doctor shook her head. “No, as soon as there's an empty bed on neurology, you'll be transferred. By the way, I think you have some family here to see you."

  "Thank you, Doctor."

  The physician stepped aside, allowing Gwyneth's two favorite people in the entire world to enter the cubicle.

  "Uncle Wil, Aunt Belinda, I'm so glad you're here."

  "Darling, are you all right?” Her aunt rushed over and gave her a hug. “The doctor says she's going to keep you overnight."

  "Yes, but I'm fine. Just have a big, old headache and a knot on the back on my head. Anyway, it's for observation.

  Uncle Wil took up a spot on the opposite side of her stretcher. “Sugar, what happened? Where's Mike?"

  "Haven't seen him since I returned from the CAT scan. He must be talking to the police."

  "How'd this happen?"

  "Well—uh, we were having dinner, and I got a little ticked off at Richard and Mike. Richard was telling me how to run my practice, and he and Mike got into some macho, testosterone-induced frenzy, so I ran out. By the time Mike found me, the mugger had already dragged me into the alley and was bouncing my head against the wall."

  Her uncle frowned. “Why didn't you just give him your purse? You've lived in this city all your life. You know better."

  Gwyneth sat up. “You don't understand. He didn't want my damned purse. He was trying to kill me."

  "Now, now, sugar, lie down. Getting upset won't help anything."

  Reluctantly Gwyneth lay down again and continued her tale. “When I passed out, I thought I was going to die, but Mike saved me. I heard one of the nurses say he nearly beat the guy to death. He's in one of the major trauma rooms—worse off than I am.

  Wilford shook his head. “That was too close. You'd better stay in your apartment and let Mike handle the investigation."

  "I can't stay hiding away. I have clients who don't have anywhere to hide."

  "I can take over your caseload, sugar. Please."

  "I don't think so. Some of my clients don't want a male lawyer."

  "All right, all right. I know you're going to do whatever the hell you want, anyway."

  Gwyneth smiled. “You know me so well. I think Mike's gotten lost, so why don't you go find him for me, while I talk to Aunt Belinda."

  Her uncle nodded. “Yeah, I'll find him for you."

  At that moment, Mike poked his head around the privacy curtain. “Someone looking for me?"

  He stepped into Gwyn's cubicle. Standing beside the retro-hippie lawyer, better known as Uncle Wilford, was a statuesque and elegant honey blonde, who appeared at least fifteen years younger than the graying attorney who was sixty, if he was a day.

  Way to go, Wilford.

  Wilford nodded at Mike. “Belinda, this is Mike Carlton, the detective we hired to look after Gwyneth. Mike, this is my wife, Belinda, who in spite of her obvious beauty and intelligence, married me anyway."

  "I've already heard so much about you, Mr. Carlton. Gwyneth's very fortunate to have you.” Belinda Wells extended her hand, which Mike bowed over in his most courtly manner, ignoring the soft snort from Gwyneth. “I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wells."

  "How gallant you are, Mr. Carlton,” she replied with just the hint of a Southern drawl.

  "Old habits die hard.” He turned to his favorite client. “How's your head? I see you're already holding court right here in the ER."

  "Sorry to break the bad news. I'm going to live. I hope we didn't interrupt any clandestine linen closet maneuvers,” she teased with a touch of her old, saucy attitude.

  Mike favored her with a grin guaranteed to soften the hardest of hearts, then replied, “No, I was between nurses."

  The smile worked, because Gwyneth couldn't hide the twitching of her luscious lips.

  Unfortunately, on Mike's other side, Dillinger was nudging Mike in the ribs. Reluctantly, he stepped aside. “Gwyneth, this is Detective Dillinger. He has some questions about the attack."

  Gwyn rewarded the detective with a wide smile. “Of course, Detective, ask away."

  Chicks seemed to dig his old partner for some strange reason. Mike couldn't fathom it himself, but then that was probably on the order of a good thing. Besides, he'd already warned his old partner that la femme Gwyneth was off-limits. Way off.

  Wilford frowned. “Sugar, are you sure you're up to it?"

  Gwyn reached over and patted her uncle's forearm. “I'll be fine."

  A nurse in scrubs entered the cubicle. “Okay, young lady, your room is ready. It's time for you to head upstairs."

>   "Couldn't I just go home?” She still hated the thought of staying in the hospital all night long. And what about the chances for medication errors?

  "No, ma'am. Someone will be waking you up every hour during the night to make sure you know who the President is and the day of the week."

  Gwyneth grimaced. “Oh, so I'll be getting a lot of rest. I understand."

  "I know it sounds like fiendish torture, but it's really necessary."

  "Yeah, I think I remember something about all that subdural hematoma stuff.” Gwyneth couldn't hold back the shiver. Hospitals gave her the absolute creeps. Too many chances for things to go wrong.

  "I could wake her up every hour, couldn't I?” Mike offered.

  "Never mind.” Gwyneth shook her head. “I'll spend the night here."

  "That's gratitude,” Mike muttered good-naturedly, but the lady ignored him.

  The nurse nodded. “Why don't you folks head up to forty-two-fifteen, and I'll bring Miss Wells up as soon as the doctor completes her orders."

  The nurse turned to leave. “How's the man who attacked me?” Gwyneth asked.

  "He's in the OR."

  Dillinger rolled his eyes at Mike. “How soon will I be able to interview him?"

  The nurse shrugged. “I don't know. It'll depend on his status after surgery."

  Mike turned to Wilford. “Why don't you and your wife go on up to her room?” He nodded at Dillinger. “We'll stay here—just in case."

  "Yes,” Wilford's wife agreed. “I packed up some night things from your apartment, Gwyn. I'll put them away for you."

  Wilford nodded his agreement, which was quickly replaced by a frown. “Listen, Kemosabe, I want to know how this happened in the first place."

  Mike hung his head. “It was my fault. I couldn't keep up with her."

  "No, it was my fault,” Gwyn insisted. “I got mad and ran out of the restaurant."

  Wilford arched his bushy gray eyebrows and glanced at Mike.

  He'd already screwed up by letting his client nearly get killed—nothing like having it pointed out to everyone. “I got jammed up by a bunch of tourists. By the time I caught up with Gwyneth, the perp had already pulled her into the alley. He must've been waiting for her."

  "Mike saved me—not that I remember his doing it,” Gwyn admitted.

  "Say thank you, sugar,” Wilford Wells told his niece.

  "I did."

  "Say it again."

  "Thank you, Mike. I mean it, really. I should've waited for you."

  Mike nodded. Gwyn's acceptance of her responsibility didn't negate his guilt. He wouldn't let her out of his sight again.

  * * * *

  After her uncle and aunt left, Gwyneth did her best to ignore Mike, who stood with his arms folded across his broad chest. She smiled up at Dillinger. “I believe you have some questions, Detective?"

  The detective fumbled around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a notepad and pencil. “Mike says someone is stalking you?"

  "Yes. I've seen him everywhere I've gone for the last two weeks."

  "Everywhere?"

  "Yes, he's been outside my apartment building. He shows up in the courtroom every time I have a court appearance. He's even followed me to Bloomingdale's into lingerie and the shoe department in Neiman Marcus."

  She didn't dare glance at Mike. He was bound to make something of her shopping for lingerie—not that he would ever see her in it. Pity, too. She had some lovely things.

  Detective Dillinger, thank heaven, was all business. “Describe him."

  "Hmm, medium height, very muscular, always wore a suit, middle-aged."

  "That fits the general description of your mugger. Could be your stalker problem is solved."

  "I'm not so sure, Sam.” Mike leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “My opinion—he was working for someone else."

  "Miss Wells, you'll need to vary your schedule from day to day."

  "Detective, I'll to the best I can, but I'm an attorney. I have set hours when I'm in the office and days when I'm in court."

  "Then I'd advise you to keep Mike close by. The department can't give you twenty-four-hour protection."

  "I understand.” She glanced at Mike who had a very pleased smile plastered across his face. “He'll have to do a better job of keeping up with me from now on.” Not trying to be a smart ass, she just wanted to take the wind out of his sails. A tiny bit. The man was entirely too smug.

  Placing his hand over his heart, Mike pulled a long face. “Counselor, you wound me. I've saved your life once already."

  Before Gwyneth could respond, the nurse entered. “Orders all signed. Time to go.” The nurse batted her eyelashes at Mike and Dillinger. “We're sure gonna miss these handsome fellas. We don't have hunks like them in here every day."

  Gwyneth snorted. Mike and his detective friend barely managed to keep from slobbering all over themselves, but only just.

  Ten

  Getting Gwyn settled in her hospital room turned into a much bigger deal than Mike could've imagined. Surely the nurse down in the ER had already asked Gwyneth every question about her medical history, but another one had gone over them again. Rashly he'd insisted he remain in the room, and his lovely client had agreed.

  Now he had entirely too much information about Gwyneth. Allergic to shellfish and penicillin, racing heart and claustrophobia—the counselor was the perfect picture of a nervous wreck.

  His cell phone rang, startling him out of his contemplation. “Yeah."

  "Darling, must you answer in that common way?"

  "Elinor.” What did his mother want now? he wondered. “How are you?"

  "I'm quite well. I hoped you might come to the farm this weekend."

  "This weekend? ‘Fraid not. I'm on a case. Bodyguard."

  "Not some disreputable hoodlum, I hope."

  "No, Mother. Just the opposite.” He glanced over at Gwyn. “My client is a beautiful young woman with a stalker."

  "I see. Do be careful. Is she suitable?"

  "For what?"

  "You know what I mean, dear. And if she is, you may bring her with you."

  "I don't know if that's such a good idea. She's been attacked, and I'm sitting in her hospital room right now."

  "I hope she's all right, but I wish you would try. Your father—"

  "He wants me to come?"

  "Of course, he does—not that he will admit it, of course. You know how he is."

  "Yeah, right."

  "I do wish you would not speak in such a common manner."

  "Sure thing, Mom."

  "Mi-chael." His mother paused, her exasperation quite clear over the cell phone. “Please bring the young lady to dinner Friday night. As I told you, we'll be at the farm."

  "Mother, I—"

  "Dress for dinner, of course. Promptly please, at eight.” His mother disconnected before he could protest.

  Mike shot a wary glance at Gwyneth. Damn. She looked ready to laugh out loud.

  "Your mother?"

  "Obviously.” He steeled himself for the comment he knew would come next.

  "Funny.” Gwyn's eyes were wide and bluer than blue, sparkling with mischief.

  He waited. Finally, he caved. “All right, tell me what's so funny."

  She drew her knees up and hugged them, her warm gaze never leaving his face. “I never had you figured for a mama's boy."

  "Mama's boy?"

  "Your mother has your cell phone number so she can reach her ‘sonny boy’ anytime she wants,” she continued in the same vein.

  "My father's been ill. He's...” The idea of his mother thinking of him as sonny—amusing.

  "Mike, I'm teasing. I think it's sweet."

  "Sweet? It's a matter of practicality, counselor. That's all."

  "So is your father going to be all right?"

  He ignored her question about his father. “She invited me to the farm for the weekend. I'm to bring you, if you're suitable, which you are."

  "The farm?" />
  "To be more precise, to the farm in Virginia."

  "Tell me more about your mother."

  "My mother's veddy British. We dress for dinner. That's about it."

  "You called her Elinor at first."

  "She's not your baked-apple-pie kind of mother. I confess I call her Elinor to provoke her."

  "Call me clairvoyant, but I think I'm picking up on some complicated family vibrations."

  No shit, Sherlock.

  She was entirely too perceptive. He clenched his fists. “A few.” He unclenched them.

  "And your father, the diplomatic consultant type?"

  "I'm a disappointment."

  "Hmm,” Gwyn mused. “More complications. This weekend trip should be fun. Now, what shall I wear to a dysfunctional family reunion?"

  "Tell me, would you have applauded when the Titanic sank?"

  "Of course not. Why...?"

  Mike narrowed his gaze. “This weekend will be something on the order of a colossal disaster. I can see you now, standing on the sidelines, laughing until your sides split."

  Gwyneth drew herself up, raising her chin a notch. “For someone who can't open his mouth without making a smart-ass remark, you certainly can't take it, can you?"

  Mike frowned. “My family isn't fun. They're stuffy and pretentious. On top of that, my father wishes I'd never been born. And I'd rather clip the grass on a golf course with hangnail scissors than spend an evening in their presence, much less an entire weekend."

  "Then why are we going? Blow it off."

  "Because it's a good way to get you out of town for a few days."

  "Is that the only reason?"

  "No."

  "Well?” she prompted, raising a finely arched eyebrow.

  "You'll have to meet my parents sometime—before the wedding."

  Taking the pillow from behind her head, Gwyn tossed it at him. “You arrogant dolt. I've never seen anyone so determined to put me in a bad mood. You're..."

  Hoping to deflect the issue of marriage, Mike interrupted with, “Gotcha."

  "And you are giving me a colossal headache."

  "Gwyn-eth.” He loved the sound of her name, so ethereal for such a practical creature. “I think your attacker gave you the headache."

  "You're not making it any better."

  "Then why don't you lie down and rest those beautiful eyes of yours?"