by Dianne Emley
PUSHOVER
AN IRIS THORNE MYSTERY
Book Five in the Series
By
Dianne Emley
BOOKS BY DIANNE EMLEY
Iris Thorne Mysteries
Cold Call
Slow Squeeze
Fast Friends
Foolproof
Pushover
Detective Nan Vining Thrillers
The First Cut
Cut to the Quick
The Deepest Cut
Love Kills
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Dianne Emley.
Pushover is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
ISBN-10: 0-9847846-4-0
ISBN-13: 978-0-9847846-4-6
Originally published in the United Kingdom as Pushover by Dianne Pugh in 1999 by Headline Book Publishing, a division of the Hodder Headline Group.
Cover design by Kimberly King.
Published by Arroyo Bridge Books, a division of Emley and Co., LLC.
First publication of Arroyo Bridge Books e-book edition and first United States publication February 2012.
For Rowland and Pearl Barber,
with love and gratitude
CHAPTER ONE
Iris Thorne opened her eyes and squinted at the bright sun, low in the sky. She touched her lips. “Did you kiss me?”
Garland Hughes leaned down, bracing his arms against the back of the Adirondack chair and lightly brushed her lips with his. “Yes.”
She ran her hand through his hair, holding his face close to hers, then let him go, only then noticing that he was dressed to leave. “What time is it? I must have dozed off.” She yawned and stretched, wriggling her toes in the grass of her backyard.
It was a warm September afternoon. The air was still and the Pacific Ocean, down the cliff and across Pacific Coast Highway, was calm and glassy.
“Time for me to leave. You must have had a nightmare.”
“Why?”
“You were moaning.”
“I was?” The dream, as ethereal as a residue of perfume on a long-closeted garment, had nearly dissipated, but his comment brought it vividly back to her.
She was in Paris. It was night, a light rain was falling, and she was running down the street, wearing only a slip. Her bare feet were unsteady against the slick cobblestones, and the thin slip, damp from the rain, clung to her skin. She either wasn’t aware of her state of undress or didn’t care, feeling neither cold nor shame.
She stopped in front of Le Café des Quatre Vents and peered through its double doors, past the daily menu written on the glass panes in black wax pencil. The café was clogged with smoke and crowded with workers having a drink before heading home. She looked this way and that and finally saw him sitting at the back table. She saw Todd Fillinger and was happy.
She pushed down on the tarnished brass door handle, rubbed shiny in spots, and opened the door. A rush of warm air billowed the hem of her garment and her hair. Across the room, Todd stood to meet her. Suddenly, without having walked there, she was next to him. They kissed. No one paid any attention to them. He pressed her against the table, sending a demitasse, spoon, and saucer of sugar cubes clattering to the floor. Still no one noticed them. He raised the slip above her head and pulled it off as she unbuckled his belt, his pants dropping to his ankles. They made love. A ceiling lamp bathed them in a harsh light and images danced behind her closed eyelids.
Iris blushed as she recalled the dream, the heat ascending her neck to her face. She cupped her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes against the bright setting sun that had migrated into her subconscious. The gesture also hid her eyes from Garland. “I did have sort of a funny dream.”
He was too rushed to ask about it. For once, Iris was glad instead of irritated. He jerked his arm forward to uncover his watch beneath the cuff of his shirt. “I have to go. I have to drop off the rental car before my flight.”
She took the hand he offered and let him pull her up from the deep chair. Cinching the belt of her terry cloth bathrobe more tightly around her, she walked hand-in-hand with him across the small yard, taking the steps to the redwood deck and moving past a French door that led to the bedroom of her 1920s bungalow. “Garland, I wish you’d change your mind and come with me. It’s only for a week.”
“I have a slew of meetings I can’t change. Plus, you don’t want me to go with you.”
She didn’t respond.
His rubber-soled casual shoes squeaked against the polished hardwood floor as they walked down the hallway and into the living room. At the front door of the small house, he turned to face her, running his thumb across the backs of her fingers. “Iris, I trust you, in Moscow or anywhere. You know I don’t mean that. I just have a…” He sighed as he carefully chose his words. “I’m uncomfortable with this. Something about it seems strange."
“I agree with you.” She stood with one bare foot on top of the other. “But if you knew Todd Fillinger, it wouldn’t seem strange. Turning up in Moscow, sending me a letter out of the blue after not being in touch for years, asking if I want to get in on the ground floor of his latest business venture is very Todd.”
“He was very Todd when you left him standing at the altar in Paris five years ago. How do you know he’s not carrying a grudge and this isn’t some sort of a setup?”
She angled her mouth with amusement. “A setup? Pretty elaborate, wouldn’t you say? Especially when he asked me to bring a boyfriend, husband, or whomever with me.” She slipped her arms around his waist. “It’s a chance to see Todd and clear the air. I’m not proud of how I treated him.”
“I have to admit it made me a little nervous when you told me about it.”
“It was a weird time in my life. It was a stupid, impulsive, nutty thing to do. I’ve always wanted to tell Todd I was sorry. I wrote him a letter some years ago, but I guess he never got it. And it has nothing to do with us.”
Garland checked his inside jacket pocket for his airline tickets. He was flying home to New York City. “Maybe he wants to see if he still has a chance with you.”
“Garland, I told him about us.” She frowned. “If you don’t want me to go, I won’t go.”
“I’m not going to be the man who tries to stand in your way.” He rested his hands on top of her shoulders. “Look, it’s a good business move for you. The Russian Federation is an emerging market. It couldn’t hurt politically at your firm to have first-hand knowledge of the region.” He gently shook her shoulders. “But please be careful.”
“I’ve lived in Los Angeles my entire life. How much worse could Moscow be?”
“Don’t go anywhere alone—”
“I won’t.”
“And try to blend in. Don’t look like an American.”
She sniggered. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m just a phone call and an airplane flight away.”
They kissed. He opened the door and picked up his suitcase. “I’ve had enough of this bicoastal romance. We need to talk about a more permanent arrangement.”
“I’ll line up some negotiators,” she joked.
They kissed again.
“But I’m not living year-round anyplace where snow falls from the sky.”
“She’s stated her opening position. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He gathered his belongings and she followed him out t
he door, standing on her front lawn and waving until his car disappeared around the curve at the bottom of Casa Marina Drive. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked at the empty street that matched the hollowness she felt inside. From her pocket, she took Todd Fillinger’s letter. Tucked inside the envelope was the snapshot he’d sent of her and him in front of Le Café des Quatre Vents. Through the windows, she could glimpse the corner table from her dream.
CHAPTER TWO
When Iris awoke after the jet engines had finally lulled her into a fitful sleep, her first thought was that she was thirsty. Her next was: What the hell am I doing? But it was too late to turn back.
Her tendency to act first and think second had usually served her well. If she’d thought too hard about some of the bold steps she’d taken in her life, she probably would have talked herself out of them. Her blue-collar background and dicey family life provided little guidance for navigating the hardscrabble world of high finance where she’d desperately wanted to be a player. Without a mentor’s firm hand to guide her, she’d had to rely on her gut instincts.
Now, as the jet flew through dense clouds as it made its descent to Sheremetyevo International Airport over a landscape of forests broken by farmland and towns, that little internal voice was coming through loud and clear. Swept away by the promise of adventure, she’d ignored it until now. Coming to Moscow was a bad idea, Iris , it chided.
She defiantly shook her head and whispered aloud, “It’s going to be great.” Since she’d already broken her first rule about following her instincts, she’d follow her second: never look back.
Sheremetyevo airport was ragged around the edges and too small for the traffic that passed through it. Iris waited in a long line to retrieve her luggage from a scant number of carousels, then stood in another line queuing at too few passport-control kiosks.
The official there wore the same stern, skeptical expression that she’d seen at ports of entry from Los Angeles to the Virgin Islands. Iris couldn’t take her eyes off this one though—he bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Nicholson. He scowled at her papers, which she knew were in order, and barked a few questions at her in passable English. She responded with a silly smile on her lips, which didn’t improve his demeanor, but she was unable to keep from picturing him wearing Ray Ban Wayfarers. He stamped her passport and slid it across the counter.
She entered the crowded terminal, pulling her wheeled suitcase and searching for Todd Fillinger. People surged around her with no regard for personal space. She was accustomed to the standoffish attitude of Los Angelenos, except when driving, of course. To have strangers so close always made her feel wooden and suspicious, adding to her distress when she didn’t immediately see Todd.
The crowd was comprised of the same cultural cross-section that passes through any major airport, but here she’d seen more fur coats in ten minutes than she’d seen in twenty years in L.A. Everyone seemed pallid, but that’s how Iris saw most of the rest of the world. Living a lifetime in L.A. had permanently skewed her perceptions. There was one constant—the teenagers here also wore urban gangsta outfits of grossly oversized clothing and backward ball caps.
She held her suitcase close and more tightly clutched the strap of her shoulder bag as she pressed through the crowd, suppressing a wave of panic. She exhaled in relief when she saw an outstretched hand above the crowd and glimpsed Todd’s face behind it. Pushing and shoving with the best of them, she finally reached him.
Todd squeezed her in a bear hug that lifted her feet off the ground.
“Hi, you!” she exclaimed.
“You’re here!” he enthused.
“Yes!” was the only response that came to her mind.
He put his hands on her shoulders, held her at arm’s length, and looked her over. She was vividly reminded of why she’d fallen in love with him.
“You look great,” he said.
“You don’t look too shabby yourself.”
He took the pull-handle of her suitcase and put his other arm around her waist. She put hers around his in a long-unused gesture that seemed completely natural.
“You grew a beard,” she said.
“It’s cold in Russia.” He grinned and scratched his cheek. “I need all the fur I can get.”
“I like it. I never imagined you with a beard.”
“You look great. Just like I imagined you.” He hugged her tighter.
She felt his ribs through his cashmere pullover sweater. “You’ve lost weight.” She ran her fingers down his side. “You’re a lot thinner than you were in Paris.”
“Been busy.”
“Look!” Iris touched a ring that he wore on his left pinky finger. “My class ring. You’re still wearing it.”
He self-consciously closed his fist. “I told you I’d never take it off.”
Iris gleaned the unspoken message: And I follow through on my promises. She let the topic drop.
They walked through the concourse past the usual conglomeration of airport concessions. Todd pushed open the outside door and Iris stepped into a chilly, gray day.
“Brrrr,” she said.
He helped her put on her coat. “It’s been in the fifties. We had a little rain, but it’s supposed to have passed through.”
“It’s been in the nineties in L.A. Typical hot and dry Indian summer.”
“I haven’t been in L.A. in…probably fifteen years. How is it?”
“Always changing and always the same.”
Walking again, they passed tour directors counting heads and herding their charges onto buses, businessmen filing into a stream of waiting taxis, and college students with backpacks studying maps.
“Everything looks fairly normal so far,” Iris commented. “If you go by what’s on the news, Russia’s going to pieces.”
“There’s definitely instability, but she’s gonna make it. There’s still plenty of money to be made.”
A slender man in jeans and a black leather jacket who’d been leaning against a large Mercedes sedan moved toward them, his lit cigarette still between his fingers.
“There’s Sasha,” Todd explained. “My driver.”
With his buzz cut hair and fresh complexion, Sasha looked like a Boy Scout, which made the handgun that Iris spotted stuck in his waistband at the small of his back even more discordant.
He muttered, “Hello. Welcome to Moscow,” and shook Iris’s hand, then stuck the cigarette between his lips to better fumble with the release on the suitcase handle.
Seeing Iris’s eyes widen at the sight of the gun, Todd explained, “He’s also my bodyguard.”
“Part of doing business in Moscow?”
He smiled wryly as if she’d guessed correctly.
While Sasha stowed Iris’s coat and suitcase in the trunk, Todd held the Mercedes’ rear door for her. Walking around to the opposite side, he reached in to remove a tan camelhair coat from the back seat, then climbed in after her.
“We have about a half-hour ride to the city. You hungry?”
“Starving.”
He smiled fondly at her. “That’s my Iris. I thought I’d take you to a little bistro I know for a snack. For dinner, we’ll get dressed up and do the town.”
“Sounds great.” Iris ran her hand across the black leather seat. “Nice steel.”
“Like I wrote in my letter, Moscow has been very good to me.”
Iris was glad to see Sasha toss his cigarette on the ground after one last, long drag. He climbed into the driver’s seat with a squeal of leather on leather. He turned the key in the ignition and unnecessarily gunned the car’s big engine.
“Mercedes six hundred,” Iris observed. “The car of choice for Moscow’s wealthy businessmen and mobsters. I read that Mercedes six hundreds are such frequent targets of car bombings, mothers warn their children not to play around them.”
Todd laughed. “If you’re afraid of Moscow, why did you come?”
She smiled. “It’s more a fascination with the sensational.
”
“So why did you come?”
“To look at investing in your art galleries, primarily for myself but also for my clients.”
“Come on, Iris.” He cocked his head at her. “I want you to invest in my business, but I’m surprised you came halfway around the world just for that.”
She looked at him coyly. “What other reason could there be?”
“From what you said on the phone, it sounds like things between you and your boyfriend are getting serious.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So maybe you came for one last fling with your favorite bad boy. Your rogue across the waters.” He smiled crookedly and drew his fingertips across the back of her hand. The atmosphere grew prickly. “We hit that clear, singing high note, didn’t we?”
She blushed, moved her hand to her lap, and tried to make light of it. “That’s why you thought I came here, huh? Sorry to disappoint you, but, no dice.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “Well, like my sister used to say, ‘Live in hope and die in despair.’”
She had to grin. “Isn’t just being friends okay?”
“Oh, sure. I love being friends,” he replied sarcastically.
She pointedly glowered at him.
“Then my guess is you came to see if you still have feelings for me before you wander into the sunset with whatsisname…Herb, Beowulf…”
“Garland ,” she corrected him, laughing.
“Garland. How could I forget?”
She jabbed him with her index finger. “You think you know all about me, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“You’re still a smug son of a bitch.”
He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “That’s what you love most about me.”
As his eyes traveled her face, she looked at his lush, dark brown hair, expressive lips, and deeply set sable eyes that gleamed with devilishness. In the cool light provided by time and distance, the depth of her attraction to him had come to seem irrational. Now, she had to agree—there was nothing rational about it. She removed his arm and slid to the opposite side of the car. “Look, Todd, I hope I didn’t say anything to mislead you. I’m in love with Garland. But I am happy to see you again.”
