by Brad Latham
HER EYES WERE BIG WHEN SHE
LOOKED AT HIM
“Skoal.”
“Skoal.”
They stood in the kitchen, eyes on one another as they drank.
She put her glass down first. “It’s been a year,” she said.
“A year?”
“A year since Harry—died. And it wasn’t that good to begin with.”
She moved toward him, and her arms opened, and then closed around him. “People like me, we’re losers,” she said, “but not all the time. Not always. Sometimes we know when to take.”
Her lips neared his. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. After.”
Books by Brad Latham
Hook #1: The Gilded Canary
Hook #2: Sight Unseen
Hook #3: Hate Is Thicker Than Blood
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1981 by Warner Books, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Warner Books
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56608-7
CONTENTS
HER EYES WERE BIG WHEN SHE LOOKED AT HIM
Books by Brad Latham
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MEN OF ACTION BOOKS
CHAPTER
ONE
“Take off your shirt.”
Bill Lockwood complied.
“The undershirt, too.”
Lockwood shot & look at the doctor representing the Transatlantic Underwriters insurance company. The bullet wound was in his arm. That’s where the bandage was. Why the hell should the undershirt come off, too? But after a moment he did as asked.
The physician moved in close, hand brushing against Lockwood’s chest, as if accidentally. An odd look came into Lockwood’s eye. Why had the doctor insisted on removing the bandages here, in Lockwood’s hotel room? Standard practice had patient visiting medic in cases like this. It didn’t add up. Unless…
The hand casually brushed his chest again, and this time he seized it, gripping it tightly.
“Don’t,” Doctor Venable cried. “You’re hurting me!” But the look in her eyes said something else.
“You told me I’d be able to resume normal physical activities after today,” Lockwood, sometimes known as The Hook, said to her.
“Yes, if you’re careful and don’t overdo it,” she said, trying to keep her tone normal, everyday, in spite of the fact that she had sunk down onto the bed beside him, impelled by the strength of his grip, seated there, her gaze a mixture of fear and something else.
“Well, I’m ready to resume them. Normal physical activities. Right now.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered, looking away.
“I think you do.”
She said nothing.
“This isn’t the way it’s usually done, an insurance doc going out of his way to treat a patient. Correction—her way.”
“I resent—” she began.
“I think the only thing you resent is all the time we’ve wasted.”
She looked at him quickly, then turned away, her chest suddenly beginning to rise and fall to a quickened tempo.
“There’s something chemical between us. I felt it the first time you touched me, all those weeks ago, even through all the pain. I think you did, too.”
She was facing him squarely now, a helpless look on her face.
“And each time I visited you, each time you treated me, whenever your flesh met mine, even if it was just fingertip-light, it was like electricity, running through me. And I think it was the same for you. No. I know it was.”
“I’d better leave. You can see Dr. Ippolito…” She tried to rise, but his grip kept her there.
He reached out with his free hand, gentle against her face. “It’s too late.”
Her lashes fluttered, her head moved almost imperceptibly, this way, then that, like a fawn responding to the zephyrs in a forest, her lips parting slightly, then closing, then parting again.
His hand moved down along her neck, reveling in the warmth of it, the silken smoothness. Her eyelids dropped for a moment, and her gaze lost its focus.
“No!” She pulled herself together. “You don’t know what you’re talking—” she stopped short, as his fingers coursed over her lips, then slowly traced a path under her chin, and down the front of her throat. She was beginning to tremble.
His hand continued to descend, down to the hollow where her neck began, and past the open collar and on to the first closed button of her blouse. Slowly he opened it, gazed at the alabaster smoothness now revealed, gazed some more, and then began to caress it.
She seemed to shake herself, and again struggled to stand. “Please … let me go. You’re hurting me!”
“All right.” He released his grip, and she sprang up, moved forward two steps, and then stood there, not looking at him.
“I won’t force you into anything,” he said, not moving. “But I know what I feel, and I can’t believe you don’t feel the same thing. Something like this; something that’s beyond just one human being responding to another; something that’s almost molecular; it’s not anything we may ever find again. To me, giving it up without exploring what it all means would seem wrong. Criminal, almost. A waste.”
She stood there, saying nothing, and appeared to be weeping, silently.
And then she came to him. Slowly, eyes down, head bowed, sinking toward him, kneeling, finally, beside him, one hand lightly touching his bandaged arm, the other tentatively resting on his chest. And again the electricity was there. He looked down at her, and ran his hand up behind and into her long, shining brown hair. His palm cradled her head, as he slowly brought her toward him. This time she did not resist.
Her lips were moist and scorchingly hot; a match for his. Every part of him felt charged; wherever their bodies came together, it was as if an electric field were created, silent transmissions feeding back and forth from the one to the other. She went limp in his arms for a moment, and then pressed so tightly against him it seemed that one of them would have to break.
His hands worked at her blouse as she sighed, murmured, and crooned. Every part of her felt red-hot, aquiver with desire. The blouse fell off, and he saw her breasts were larger than he’d expected, round and full, heaving and straining, as if trying to free themselves of the brassiere that straitjacketed them. A deft, practised twist of Lockwood’s wrist, and the garment fell away, hanging for only a moment from the stiff, rosebud-colored nipples.
She was undressing him. As he touched her breasts, caressed them, gently squeezed them, her feverish fingers worked at his trousers, ripping open the belt, clawing at the buttons of his fly, then groping inside, her hand greedy and exploring.
He took one breast in his hand, and placed it in his mouth, sucking on it, licking it, while gently kneading it with his fingers. Her breathing quickened and deepened, and a low moan escaped her.
&nbs
p; “I want you,” she whispered. “Oh, God, I want you.”
“I want you, too. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”
His hand was at her side, pulling down the zipper of her skirt, then helping the skirt and the silk half-slip beneath travel down and off her body. He rose, and pulled her up with him. Kicking off her shoes as she rose, she stood there half-nude, clad only in black silk panties and sheer silk stockings. He held her close against him, each of them reveling in the feel of naked flesh against naked flesh, their bodies hot against each other. Every part of her was shaking as he slid his hand down to her waist and then beyond, pulling the delicate undergarment away from the moistness that lay between her thighs. She sank to the floor, groaning, stripping him as she did so, then rubbing her face against him, against his thighs, and up to his throbbing phallus, nuzzling against it, taking it in her hand, and rubbing it over her face, her eyelids, her cheeks, against her lips. And then taking it inside her mouth, hungry for it, her lips soft and hot against it, her tongue rapid and exultant as it darted up and down the inflamed shaft.
He took her, and lowered her onto the bed, and then stood there a moment, drinking her in as she lay there, half-crazy with passion, vulnerable and open to him, her nipples pointing up toward him as if begging, her inner thighs beaded with moisture. He sank down toward her and ran his hand along her outer thighs, then moved to the inside surface, as she dug her nails into his back and pressed her lips against his. She was shaking uncontrollably.
His hand brushed up against her vulva, and she stiffened, then pressed herself against him, tight, then tighter; as if trying to melt into him. She was wet down there, dripping, and his finger plunged in, then two, then three, exploring her, swimming in her, the fluid thick and steaming, the walls of her contracting against him as he plunged his fingers in, then pulled them out, then plunged them in again.
Abruptly, she pulled away from him, then lay down beside him, her head against his penis, her pulsating vagina pointed toward his lips. He needed no persuasion as he brought his mouth full onto her vulva, kissing it, stroking it, running his tongue up along its slit, and then deftly working the little engorged section at the top. Once again, she took him in her mouth, excitedly working her lips up and down the length of him.
Soon she began to convulse, slowly at first, then more and more rapidly, violently. He allowed himself to relax, to finally allow expression to his own impatient, raging fluids. Her whole body was vibrating, shaking, sharp cries escaping her as they devoured each other. Faster and faster, until, finally, they exploded against each other, into each other, for a brief moment that seemed to expand into the outer reaches of time.
They fell away from each other, drained and exhausted. Then his hand brushed against her thigh, and it all began again, the chemistry of them reigniting. Her hand groped for his penis which was still rock-hard.
“Put it inside me,” she implored. Her eyes were wild and he knew, if she had to grovel for it, she would. If she had to debase herself, she would. She had to have it.
He moved over her, and she clutched at him, forcing him against her. He slipped easily inside, astounded at her heat, a heat almost searing in its intensity.
As he pushed inside her, then started to draw back, she contracted her vagina, squeezing him tightly as he tried to pull away, then relaxing in exultation as he again plunged all the way back up her feverish channel. It was pure chemistry, two bodies attuned to an ultra-rare degree; all of it primal, pure animal in nature.
They slammed against each other, harder and harder, bodies slippery with sweat, gurgling sounds pouring from between her legs, bellies slapping noisily together, his mouth on her breasts, her hands digging into his flesh, tearing at him, clawing, shredding.
And again it came. Powerful, tearing through him till he felt as if the top of his head would rip off, she screaming and praying and crying out, incomprehensibly. This time it was even greater than before, as if two gods had mated, everything seeming to tremble and shatter as they detonated, lost to everything but pure sensual feeling.
As Lockwood fell back against the bed the telephone rang.
He tried to ignore it, in fact had to ignore it, as his body slowly recovered from the force of all it had been through. But by the seventh ring, his hand reached out and he put the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“Lockwood?” a voice whined at him. “This is Mr. Gray. I understand your wound has healed.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Get over here right away. I’ve got a case for you.”
Lockwood’s body was soaked with perspiration. “I’d been planning on taking a few more days convalescent leave.”
“No need for it—this is an easy case. No fuss, no strain. I’ll see you in—will ten minutes do?”
From the tone of Gray’s voice it would have to. “All right,” Lockwood replied, then hung up.
He turned to Susan Venable, who looked as if she’d been through a war. But a triumphant one.
“Take off the bandage, Doc,” he said. “I’ve got to get to work.”
CHAPTER
TWO
“Well, Lockwood. What’s the contented-looking smile for?”
The Hook eyed the pasty-faced little man. The memory of Susan Venable faded as he viewed the drably-dressed figure who was his boss. Mr. Gray, head of claims at the Transatlantic Underwriters company: smug, arrogant, Scrooge-cheap, cold as ice. But his boss, nevertheless. The Hook shrugged. “Nothing much.”
Mr. Gray viewed him with some distaste, but then Gray looked at everyone of his employees with distaste. Particularly anyone who was making more than a starvation wage, and The Hook’s salary was far beyond that. Time for him to start earning it, Gray obviously thought. Every penny of it. At least.
“Well, then, let’s talk about why you’re here.” Gray picked out a file folder from the neat pile at the side of his desk. “Ah, let’s see. Yes, here it is. Maria Nuzzo. Deceased.” He looked up at The Hook and thought he saw a little flicker of something in the detective’s face.
When Lockwood said nothing, Gray shrugged and returned to the folder. “It’s just a little case, really. She had three policies with us, but only two have been put through as claims.” He leaned back and laughed thinly. “Perhaps we’ll get lucky and they’ll forget about the third.” He wasn’t really kidding.
“Who’s presenting the claims?”
“Um—ah—” Gray’s eyes flicked back to the folder. “Frank Nuzzo. 1513 Burris Avenue, Brooklyn.”
The Hook looked at Gray, then out the window, and reached into his breast pocket to pull out a Camel. “What’re the claims for?” His black and silver Dunhill lighter flicked, and he drew in deeply. Cigarettes relaxed him, and he had a feeling, more of a certainty, really, that it might be quite a while before he could relax again.
“Well, the two that we’ve been hit for—so far that is,” Gray sighed. “The first is for a necklace, a pearl necklace, valued at five thousand dollars, and the second, and it’s a recent one, just six months old, is a $100,000 life insurance policy.”
“Beneficiary Frank Nuzzo?”
“Yes.”
“What about the unclaimed one? The one they haven’t hit us for?”
“Another jewelry policy, only this one’s for several articles of jewelry—a few necklaces, some rings, a bracelet —total of sixty thousand dollars.”
“So that stuff wasn’t missing.”
“I guess not.”
“Anything different about the third policy?”
“I think not. Wait a minute.” Gray studied the document, then looked at the other two. “Yes—the others were filed by Frank Nuzzo. This one was signed by Maria Nuzzo.”
Lockwood paced the thick rug of the richly panelled room. “How’d she die?”
“Murder.”
“It wasn’t in the papers.”
“Many murders don’t make the newspapers, you know that.” Mr. Gray was fiddling with his gold pince-nez eyeglasses, a
trait of his that invariably drove Lockwood up the wall.
“Okay, so how’d she die?”
“Shot in the chest. Twice.”
“Where was Frank Nuzzo?”
“Hmm? Oh, well, let’s see.” Gray rummaged through the files. “Yes, here it is. He and his wife returned home from an evening out. There was an intruder. Masked. He beat up Nuzzo, shot Mrs. Nuzzo, and stole the necklace she was wearing.”
“The cops didn’t catch the intruder, of course.”
“That’s right. Even worse, they didn’t retrieve the necklace. I hope you will.”
“Any word about its being fenced?”
“That’s your job, Lockwood. You know, the Board of Directors is going to be very unhappy about having to pay out the $100,000. It’ll be an additional slap in his face if we have to hand over the extra five thousand.
“Plus, if it’s missing, the sixty thousand that could still turn up as a claim.”
“Oh my, yes,” Gray said, paling even beyond his usual pallid coloration.
“When was she killed?”
“Yesterday.”
“And the claims are already in?”
“That’s what I’m holding here in my hand.”
“Frank Nuzzo doesn’t sound like a sentimental type, does he?”
Mr. Gray looked hopefully up at Bill Lockwood. “That thought had occurred to me.”
“Anything else stolen? Money, whatever?”
“No.”
“You said this would be an easy case. No strain.”
“I think it should be.”
“You’ve never heard of Frankie Nuzzo.”
“Frankie Nuzzo? You mean, Frank Nuzzo?”
“Same thing.”
Mr. Gray’s fingers picked up speed as they scurried over his pince-nez. “Frankie Nuzzo doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as Frank Nuzzo has. It suggests … perhaps a different kind of person.”
“Care to guess his occupation?”
Mr. Gray looked up at The Hook, and his watery blue eyes were filled with hope. “Someone a bit on the wrong side of the law?”
Lockwood took another drag on the Camel. “A bit. Well, more than a bit. He’s a snake—a thug. The lowest of the low. Vicious, and head of one of the most dangerous gangs in the city. Exactly the kind of guy who’d kill his wife for the insurance money.”
