The Man For The Job

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  Mike waited until the door shut, then walked to his own room. Striding to the adjoining door of their suites, he grinned.

  Unlocked.

  His grin widened as he tapped on the door. Without waiting for her response, he whipped it open to find her half-naked. Fate was kind indeed.

  Grabbing her blouse to cover her breasts, she squeaked, “Mike."

  "I didn't say when I'd find the killer."

  She dropped her blouse and shot him a sultry glance. His heart revved up at the sight of her breasts. Perfect twins they were.

  "Come to think of it, you didn't,” she purred, dropping her gaze.

  "I'm all yours, counselor."

  "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

  He closed the distance between them and drew her into his arms. “I do."

  Thirty-five

  In spite of the inferno pumping through his body, Mike heard a noise from his room. He held his breath, wishing he could surrender to the blaze.

  Then, “Where's Daddy?"

  At the sound of Adam's voice, Mike groaned. Reluctantly he pulled away from Gwyn. “I have to see what he wants.” He sat up and grabbed his shirt and jeans.

  A flushed Gwyn leaned back and took a deep breath. “I understand, I understand. I really do."

  Mike jammed his feet into his shoes and stumbled toward the connecting door. Thank God he'd shut it, or his son would've received an early course in foreplay. With a last parting glance over his shoulder, he mouthed, “Sorry.” Pasting a smile on his face, he opened the door.

  "Daddy!” Adam squealed and made a running jump into Mike's ready arms.

  "Hey, fella. What's happening?"

  "Mommy says I have to go home with her. But I want to stay here. She says it's up to you."

  "Oh, she does, does she?” Mike shot Marina a good-natured ‘Thanks-a-lot’ expression and set his son down on the floor. “You know what? Your mommy's right. Some bad things happened last night, and I'd feel better if you took your mommy back to the city. You can watch out after her there better than I can here. Will you do that for me, partner?"

  "Take care of Mommy? Sure!” Adam nodded vigorously. “I'm a big boy."

  "Yes, you're a very big boy.” Marina nodded and hugged their son. “Thanks, Mike."

  Mike grinned. “Only too happy to oblige."

  Adam's eyebrows furrowed as he looked up at Mike. “Daddy, your shirt is funny.” Adam glanced at his mother. “Mommy, Daddy needs help getting dressed, doesn't he?"

  She flushed, then bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Just sometimes."

  "Uh, sorry.” Mike cleared his throat and wished the floor would swallow him up. Nothing like shoving his relationship with Gwyn in Marina's face.

  "Well, maybe you should get some help this time.” She turned to leave, then turned back. “I almost forgot. Sid's got something for you. Something about fingerprints."

  "Great. Just take Adam and get back to the city before anything else happens, okay?"

  Marina nodded. “I will—right after lunch. Don't worry."

  "And I am sorry,” he told her softly.

  "It's okay, really. I've made peace with it."

  "I'm glad."

  "And besides, I sort of like Gwyneth."

  "Yeah, she's not so bad once you get to know her."

  "Obviously.” Marina kept smiling; there was even a sparkle in her brown eyes.

  Mike restrained a sigh of relief. In spite of his dread of Marina and Gwyneth's first meeting, things had gone pretty well.

  Adam tugged on his mother's arm. “Do we have to go now?"

  "Yes, we do—right after lunch.” She turned to Mike. “Good luck, and maybe you ought to—uh, fix your shirt."

  * * * *

  Gwyneth massaged lemon-scented shampoo through her hair as the steamy hot water sluiced down her body.

  Finally. She felt a little more human and a little less like someone who'd spent the night in the county lockup.

  Just as well that Mike's son interrupted their lovemaking. As confused as she was by the way her body reacted whenever she came within ten feet of him and as much as she craved his touch, it scared her. Control—with Mike, she just didn't have any. Logical thought abandoned her, and all she wanted was to lie in his arms. This thing with him was so new ... and unexpected. It couldn't stay like that, could it? she wondered while she rinsed the shampoo from her hair.

  With one hand, she shut off the water, while she groped blindly for a towel with the other. Cold, marble tile—yes. Towel—no. Strong, muscular chest—yes.

  "Mm. Mike."

  "Need some help with your back?” He sighed theatrically. “But I see you're finished."

  She tiptoed and peeped over his shoulder. “Where's Adam?"

  "He's going back to the city with his mother. He'll be safer. Marina just needed my help in convincing him."

  She gazed into his shining eyes. “Mm, so are you gonna take off that shirt which, by the way, is buttoned wrong?

  A sheepish grin spread across his face. “Adam spotted it, too. Thought his Daddy was pretty funny."

  "I bet he did, but you didn't answer my question. And I notice you aren't taking your shirt off either."

  "Very observant, counselor."

  Mike handed her the towel. She wrapped it around her body and stepped out of the shower.

  "'Bout time I find the killer."

  "You weren't thinking about it ten minutes ago."

  "No. I wasn't.” He ran the pad of his thumb down the side of her neck. “I have to tell you. Something happens to me every time I get near you."

  "Oh, yeah, and what would that be?” She slipped from his reach, then grabbed a bottle of lotion, opened it and poured some into her hands. Slowly she slathered the pink liquid over her arms and legs, while Mike stood with his tongue hanging out. Not literally, but he had that look.

  "I have a severe hemodynamic relocation reaction."

  "That's a pretty big term for a P.I. to use. I'm not even sure what it means.” She kept her tone teasing and playful. Tempting him was so much fun.

  "Yeah, it means the blood leaves my head—"

  She interrupted him with a laughing, “—and relocates to the little Mikey brain.” She slid her finger down his zipper. “Hmm, I believe you're having another one of those—whatchamacallits."

  "That's it.” He took her teasing hand and placed it between both of his. “Marina told me Sid has some initial intel back on the fingerprints, so..."

  "This...” She leaned forward and kissed his nose. “This'll have to wait."

  "Yeah, ‘fraid so."

  She stepped into his arms. “Okay, then, you go play detective.” She ran her fingers through his wavy hair. He shuddered.

  Focus.

  "I'll find Uncle Wil, and we'll work on my defense. But you know, if you're really a good detective and find the real killer, I won't need a defense."

  Mike groaned. “Being near you is driving me crazy, Gwyn.” He shook his head as if trying to clear it. “That's my plan. I will find Klein's murderer. I promise."

  "I know you will.” Gwyneth rested her head on his shoulder, letting out a long sigh. If she wasn't careful, she could get addicted to being in his arms. Oh, hell, she already was.

  Mike marshaled his self-control and stepped an arm's length away from her. “We've got to stop meeting like this,” he quipped, giving her a wink, then turned and strode from the room, not trusting himself any longer. Wrapped in a towel, the naked Gwyneth would try a monk's self-control—much less his.

  He flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He found his assistant hunched over his keyboard. In Mike's absence, Sid had worked his magic and transformed the library into a state-of-the-art control center.

  Sid looked up from his monitor. “'bout time you dragged your ass down here."

  Mike ignored the younger man's grousing. His assistant's attitude was par for the course, but Mike didn't mind. Sid's genius with computers made putting up wi
th a little attitude more than worth it.

  "Marina says you have something."

  "Well, if Marina's the hot chick with long, black hair, the answer's yes. Who is she, anyway? Got a cute kid, too."

  "Cut the crap.” Mike wasn't about to give his assistant even a short version of his bio.

  "Well, it seems you had some interesting guests here last night.” Mike watched over the computer whiz's shoulder. “Looks like one Lilith Sand has had a run-in with your former co-workers in upstate New York."

  "Her prints are on file?"

  "Arrested for the death of her last husband. Here.” Sid spun around and tapped on a second laptop. A printer started spitting out sheets of paper. “You spent so much time upstairs with your girlfriend that I had time to find the local newspaper coverage of the trial."

  Mike grabbed the printouts. “She was acquitted."

  "Yeah, but according to popular opinion, she bought someone off. Check the letters to the editor after the trial ended. Evidence disappeared. Witnesses changed their stories. It was a regular cock-up."

  "That's all?” Lilith Sand, Gwyneth's aunt. Some kind of coincidence—or was it?

  "Her son's had a scrape or two—juvie stuff."

  "Those records would be sealed."

  "True, but the self-acclaimed Wall Street whiz kid has made an enemy or two, so I called in some favors. “Sid shot Mike a self-satisfied grin. “Those records are downloading now."

  "What about the other guests?” Mike scanned the printouts. “I'm guessing no, because I've known most of them all my life. The staff? Any hits?"

  Sid chortled. “On the staff? Considering the security your father has around here, I'd guess that he's had them checked out."

  "True, but I'm curious about the housekeeper. She's new."

  "Right. I did get an interesting hit on one of the caterer's staff."

  His interest piqued, Mike leaned forward. “Yeah?"

  "Lowlife scum by the name of Reggie Gruhn."

  "Yeah, I remember him.” Mike clenched his jaw. “Short guy, shaved head. Gave evidence against Gwyn."

  "Crap."

  "Says he saw her in the kitchen, taking the murder weapon."

  "Not good. Any chance he's telling the truth?” Sid asked, then ducked.

  "No!"

  "Okay, okay. Don't pop a blood vessel."

  Mike took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So what did you come up with on Gruhn?"

  "He's connected."

  "Connected?” Mike wondered aloud. “He's a Brit. Only in the country a short time, right?"

  "Yes,” Sid allowed with a smirk, “but his uncle is none other than crime boss Gianni Damico."

  "Damico?"

  "Know him?"

  "Yeah, I know him.” So Damico's fine hand was added into the equation. One of his henchmen had lied to the sheriff about Gwyn. Mike didn't believe in coincidence—not for one damn second where that Mafioso bastard was involved. Klein had been Damico's mouthpiece—no doubt bought and paid for handsomely.

  And Gwyn was Sylvia Damico's divorce lawyer. All Mike had to do was show the connection between Klein, Damico and Gruhn, and there would be reasonable doubt. But if he could prove Gruhn actually killed Klein on Damico's orders, he could get both men sent to the slammer. That would be even better.

  A damn sight better.

  "Give me everything you have on Gruhn. Everything. I want to know if he was breast-fed as an infant. I want to know when he shagged his first piece. I—"

  "I got it,” Sid interrupted. “Everything."

  What if there was really only one agenda? Getting rid of Gwyn. The stalker back in the city—the reason she'd hired him in the first place.

  Dammit. He hadn't done a very good job of protecting her. He'd let his personal attachment get in the way.

  What a dumb-ass fool he'd been. Getting Gwyn out of town was supposed to protect her. But Damico's reach was long—too long.

  "See if there's any connection between Lilith Sand and Gianni Damico."

  Sid frowned, but his fingers flew over the keys. “What makes you think there is one?"

  "Dunno, just don't want to rule anything out.” Mike sat down in front of a free laptop. Hands poised over the keyboard, he watched the screen. “Why don't I do a search on the housekeeper, Millie Grayson, while you cross-reference the lovely Mrs. Sand and the crime boss?"

  "Haven't found anything yet. Use the Hugga Mugga search engine."

  "Hugga Mugga?” He'd never heard of that one.

  "Created by yours truly,” Sid replied with a wide smirk. “Click on the yin-yang icon."

  Mike did as his assistant instructed. “Damn.” The screen suddenly transformed from an ordinary Internet connection to the graphic of a large, blinking eye. “So how long is this thing gonna keep winking at me?"

  Sid sniggered. “Click on the third eyelash from the left."

  Mike's frustration increased. “Bottom or top?” Couldn't Sid ever do anything simple?

  "Bottom."

  Mike clicked on the eyelash. A trumpet blared, and the iris morphed into a kaleidoscope of color. Then a soft, seductive, female voice said, Your wish is my command, master.

  Shades of Jeannie. Mike raised an eyebrow and frowned.

  "Just tell her what you want, Mike. She's voice-activated."

  "Search."

  That's all I know how to do, darlin', but I might make an exception in your case. Give me a little more information. Like a name or—

  Mike interrupted, “Name, Millie Grayson."

  No need to be rude, hon. Searching...

  "Pretty cool, huh?” Sid leaned back and smiled.

  Mike chuckled. “Yeah."

  Number of exact matches: four thousand. Would you like to redefine your search?

  "Yes, redefine for east of the Mississippi."

  Searching ... Two thousand four hundred and eighty-two. Limit further?

  "Yes, limit to age group twenty-two to thirty-five."

  You're really getting the hang of this, sweetheart. Searching...

  "Thank you.” Was he nuts? He was actually talking to a computer like it was a human. Next thing, he'd be asking Scottie to beam him up.

  Three hundred and twenty-two. Suggest further definition.

  "Go with that, then cross-reference with factors of educational level, occupation by state and criminal record."

  Sid looked up from his monitor. “Now, cross-ref Lilith Sand with the housekeeper and see if Jeannie pinpoints any areas of interface."

  Searching...

  Mike watched as the search engine's working icon switched to an animation of a red-and gold-clad odalisque, who performed a dance with less covering as the search process continued.

  "Sid, you're seriously demented,” he commented, shaking his head, “I think you need more work to do."

  "Nah, this is just a hobby. I wanna be a detective like you, boss."

  "You're already a detective. The real thing, kid. There's more intel found in the computer than skulking around no-tell motels every night of the week. I'd be lost without your skills."

  "Gosh, Mike, I didn't know you cared. But you have a gun. I don't,” Sid protested, “And you have a license. And I don't."

  "When we get back to the city, we'll work on it."

  "Cool."

  "Hey, what's this?” The odalisque had gone away with a puff of black smoke. “Did I kill it?” When the animated smoke dissipated, the screen filled with data.

  Three hits, master, the silky computer voice announced.

  "Damn!” Mike leaned back in the chair. “Would you just look at this?"

  Thirty-six

  Gwyneth sauntered outside onto the flagstone patio. The warmth of the August sun beat down on her face. She relished the simple freedom of moving around—even though before she'd found her ex-fiancé's body, she'd never given her freedom much thought. Spending the night in jail had done wonders for her perspective.

  Besides, if she couldn't nibble on Mike, s
he might as well find some lunch.

  "Well, dear niece, I see you've managed to steal the spotlight, as usual."

  "Lilith, I didn't see you sitting there.” Truthfully she hadn't, yet there was the black widow herself, attired in a melon silk ensemble that flattered her autumn coloring and made the absolute most of her slender figure.

  Her aunt looked over the large, Jackie O-style sunglasses. “No reason you should with a handsome man tripping over his own feet trying to find your fiancé's murderer—which, by the way, he hasn't managed to do,” she finished with an arch smile.

  Gwyneth took a deep breath. Deep breaths were preferable to scratching out the eyes of her mother's sister. “How is it that you're here at the Carltons’ home? Stalking me?"

  "Don't be silly, dear. I'd rather be bored to death than follow you around. You and your pathetic do-gooder life.” Lilith shuddered, then sipped from her glass before continuing. “I prefer to spend my money. I worked hard enough for it."

  "I'm not sure work is what I'd call it."

  Her aunt gave an enigmatic smile. “My dear, you have no idea how much work it is to convince dried-up old men that they are fabulous in bed."

  "You have my deepest sympathy. By the way, I sent flowers for your latest departed spouse. Only two weeks ago, wasn't it?"

  "Three, dear. But then, time flies when one is having fun."

  "I guess it must."

  "Oh, do sit down and have a drink. Drop this holier-than-thou act. I find it rather tedious at this hour of the day."

  "Sorry, but I'd rather be bored to death than drink with you."

  "Touché. Pity you aren't more original.” Her aunt smoothed the wrinkles from her melon silk slacks. Her off-the-shoulder blouse showed her tanned shoulders to perfection.

  Gwyneth rolled her eyes, but she had to admit, compared to her aunt, she felt somewhat colorless. No wonder the woman had married so well and so many times. She had to be fifty if she was a day, but didn't look a day over thirty-nine.

  "You must give me the name of your plastic surgeon. He did a wonderful job this last time.” Her aunt's quick flush ... a scored point.

  "Ah, Gwyneth, there you are.” Her face flushed pink from the heat, Elinor Carlton stepped onto the patio, carrying a basket of cut flowers. “I'm so glad they released you."