by Cook, Lori
“Find the place all right?” he asked, clasping both hands together and lifting his eyes to meet hers, his gaze just a little strained as he forced himself to avoid looking at any part of her body other than her face.
“Yes,” she said, meeting his stare.
He was in pretty good shape, she told herself, now that she’d had a closer look. Square jaw, just enough fat on the chin to suggest that he didn’t deprive himself of the better things in life, and a tan to confirm his commitment to the outdoors, mowing mostly.
“So,” he said, palms open, sweet smile, “what can I do for you?”
“I got your name from a good friend of mine,” she said. “Sadly no longer with us. Raine Dowler?”
His eyes narrowed, just for a moment.
“Mrs. Dowler, yes. A client of mine. You knew her?”
“Oh, yes. From way back. And she spoke very highly of you.”
The satisfaction in his expression was genuine enough, and it didn’t seem to convey any great surprise. Yes, his face seemed to say, he knew that Raine Dowler’s opinion of him had been very high indeed.
Just over a year ago Raine Dowler had died, an eighty-two year-old woman with no children or other dependents. In the three years prior to her death, she had taken out a loan against her home on pretty poor terms (the only one she could get), using a half-decent pension for the repayments. She had also begun to send cash to a Panamanian charity called Grace Homes, making each donation small enough to avoid raising the suspicions of the banking authorities, but over a period of time the payments accounting for almost her entire savings, and including the money freed up by the loan. It was as if Mrs. Dowler, a life-long spinster, had decided to make a difference, helping to fund a charity which built homes for poor families in Central America, rather than leaving a nest egg for the IRS to gobble up on her death.
Grace Homes had benefitted to the tune of $160,000, all legally sent to an account in Panama, and now untraceable. Her house had been left to a charity in her own state, although after the loan was repaid and legal fees paid, there was not a great deal left. And who charged those fees? Jerry Hobbs, the man who had also managed Mrs. Dowler’s spree of charitable giving. The man now looking across his desk at Carol.
“From what Raine told me,” she said, timidly, as if she didn’t really want to share confidences, “you are an honest person to deal with, and you might have the, ehm, skills I need.”
“And what would they be, Mrs. Denvers?”
He said it like it was a game. And not one he wanted to lose. There was intrigue in his eyes, but any sexual excitement at her fabulous body had vanished now; this was clearly work.
“My husband died recently,” she said, holding up a hand as if to stop any expressions of sympathy. “He was a shit, and he died because of what he did. But that’s not relevant, can we leave it at that?”
Hobbs nodded slowly. “Client confidentiality,” he said with a friendly shrug. He could sense that she meant business, and he wanted it to be his business.
“My husband was strictly cash-only. I mean, strictly. He didn’t treat me badly. But when he died all I got was a stack of dollar bills. Well, hundreds.”
“I never heard of piles of greenbacks being a problem.”
“They are when every financial move you make is being watched. My husband kept this money out of the system. I can’t put it back in. I’m his widow. And he wasn’t exactly loved by the authorities.”
There was a hint of caution in his eyes now. Money laundering with a stranger? Shit, no. He was not getting into that. Not a chance.
He almost got up out of his seat, the meeting over.
Almost.
“OK,” he said, very slow, “so what can I do for you?”
“I just need some advice,” she said, moving fractionally in her seat and feeling the hem of her skirt move another inch up her thighs. “Nothing else, absolutely nothing. And, well, that’s covered by client confidentiality, right?”
“Absolutely,” he said, his eyes now down on her lap and making little effort to drag themselves back up to a more decent level. It had taken perhaps a minute, but his resolve was gone.
“I’m not some spy from the IRS or anything,” she said, quite seriously, straightening her legs and running her hands down her skirt as if making an attempt to cover herself up. “You can search me for wires if you like.”
Her smile was so modest it almost hurt. He would have searched her there and then, across his steel and glass desk. Because however modest that smile was, the woman sitting opposite him was promising a great deal more than smiles.
*
She arrived as the sun was beginning to set, the sky a dazzling pink, the evening air warm and just enough breeze to make it feel like silk against your skin.
“Hi!” he said, opening the heavy door to his villa. “Good to see you again. Come in.”
He was in Chinos and a white polo shirt. There was the slightest hint of fat around his waist, but it was outweighed by the toned upper body and strong arms. There was nothing vain about him; he was naturally solid, and his butt was firm too, she noted.
He led her into a vast open-plan living area. It was a deluxe bachelor pad, all leather and plasma screens, but with a substantial library as well. There was also an impressive collection of whiskeys on an antique table in the corner. The place smelled of his cologne, not overpowering, but enough to let her know she was in his inner sanctum, his natural habitat. And she liked it.
“What can I get you?”
“Whatever you’re having’ll be fine,” she said.
“Two Pinot Grigios, then!” he said, disappearing into the kitchen, which was partly visible behind a couple of pillars, and looked equally massive. “You hungry?” he shouted as he uncorked the wine. “I have moussaka on the go, and there’s plenty.”
That was it. The smell wasn’t just his cologne. It was the rich aroma of fresh herbs. It reminded her of being back in Marrakesh, where she spent a good deal of her free time these days. And she had lots of free time, absolutely loads of it. The Cardinal was a demanding employer, but the work was sporadic, and jobs rarely took her more than a couple of days. In the case of Mr. Hobbs, with his firm ass and that easy way he had, she hoped it might stretch to three.
He returned with glasses of chilled white wine.
“So,” he said, handing her one. “Here’s to you!”
They touched glasses and tasted the wine, which was light and florid, and perfectly cool, not freezing. This guy knew how to treat his Pinot Grigio, which was a good sign.
There was just a hint of expectation in his tone, though. They both knew that they weren’t here to taste wine. There was business to attend to, and he was not going to let that slip his mind, however attractive she looked tonight.
And she did look attractive. The same short black skirt, but now a low-cut T-shirt was hugging her breasts, which sat there appealingly but not too provocatively, as he did his level best to avoid looking at them.
“I have,” she said, “a problem. And it’s here.”
In her hand was a small attaché case. She had been holding it the whole time, and he had studiously avoided looking at it, as if that had been the polite thing to do. What with her cleavage and the case, it had been a challenge for him to find anywhere at all for his eyes to settle.
“That,” he said, “looks like a problem just waiting for a solution.”
“Well, it’s a problem that I don’t quite know how to resolve.”
With that she sat on the edge of the nearest leather armchair and clicked open the case. In it, not surprisingly, was money. Neat, new bills, the bundles lined up neatly.
“One hundred fifty thousand dollars, which I need to deal with.”
Deal with. He still wasn’t sure about the money part. But the rest of the package, bursting to get out of that black T-shirt, was drawing him in.
“Deal with, how?”
They had not discussed the details in his offic
e. She said she needed to be sure, see him on his own territory, so to speak. It was the way she liked to do things, good and personal, old fashioned.
“I know you have done money transfers out of the country before. Legal, of course. I need this cash taken out of the US.”
“Where to?”
She sighed. “I have family in Latin America. You can tell?” she said, gesturing to her dark eyes, her slightly dusky skin. “My dad was Argentine.”
“So you want your money in Argentina?”
She shook her head. “Central America. I’ve been told it’s a good stop-off point for money.”
He nodded. “Sure can be.”
“Panama, somewhere like that,” she said. “I’ve looked it up on the Internet, read about it. I’m getting out of here, leaving the country. I just want the cash somewhere I can pick it up after I’m gone.”
“But this needs to be legal, I mean, if I’m involved.”
“Oh, wow, yes. I mean, of course. Completely. All I want is your advice.”
He thought for a second.
“Are you hungry? Dinner’s about ready.”
The moussaka was outstanding, and Carol has tasted the real stuff in Greece on numerous occasions. Following the entree was a mango sorbet with a raspberry sauce so light and piquant that it made her heady with delight. A man who could cook like this deserved the very best she had to offer. And that’s what he was going to get, if she could orchestrate this properly. First, though, was the matter of the money.
By the time he served coffee, the contents of the attaché case had still not been mentioned again. Instead they’d talked about travel and music, about sports and politics, all of which he seemed to be knowledgeable about, yet not overbearing.
Had he flirted? Not really. His stare across the dinner table had been serious and concentrated, as if he was taking her in, her opinions, her observations, everything. He was, quite simply, the perfect host. Which was a shame, because he was also a conman who had cheated lonely widows out of more than two million dollars.
With coffee over, there was a pause. He wanted her, badly. And as for a hundred fifty thousand bucks, he didn’t really need the hassle. Fifteen, even thirty grand in commission? He’d gladly have paid that to sleep with her tonight. Money from unknown, unregistered sources was not his game. But he couldn’t let her go. That much was obvious.
“OK,” she said, rising from the table. “I have to be leaving. Thank you for a wonderful evening, Jerry. Really, thank you.”
She let him hang there, unprepared for this.
“Can I,” she added, “can I leave the case with you?”
“Leave it here?” he asked, taken aback, the request jerking him out of his confusion. Should he be making a move on her right now? Feeling those lips against his, and that body too? He had to have her, whatever it took. She was amazing. But now she was leaving...
“Like I said,” she told him, smiling sweetly, “I do business the old-fashioned way. I came here tonight to see if I could trust you.” She moved over to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I know I can.”
He felt her hand take his.
“W-what shall I do with it?” he asked.
Leaning into him, she whispered in his ear: “Put it in the bank! I don’t want it in my hotel room.”
“Hotel?” he said, pulling a frown. “I thought you lived in...”
“Until today I did,” she said. “The sale of the house was finalized this morning. As of now I have nowhere to go. Two, three days and I’m leaving for good. South America here I come!”
He dithered. She liked that. The whole you can stay here line would have been too forward, not classy. In any case, even with a window of just a few days he’d get everything he wanted. She would guarantee that, now she’d seen him in his natural habitat. She would enjoy a couple of days with Jerry Hobbs, no problem.
“Jerry,” she said, moving around and kissing him square on the lips, “let me trust you. I want to, really I do. Please help me make these last few days the best ever. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
With that she was gone.
Jerry Hobbs spent a long and very sweaty night dreaming of Mrs. Carol Denvers, and wondering what the hell he was going to do with her money.
Chapter Fourteen
It was a little less balmy the following evening when he opened to the door to find a slightly wind-swept Carol standing there.
“Hi,” he said, trying not to seem like a puppy that’d been waiting all day for its owner to come home.
He almost managed it too, she told herself as she kissed him on the lips, just a touch longer than necessary, and moved into the hall.
“Bad day?” he asked, taking her coat and inhaling the alluring smell of her, something fresh and soft, like summer fruit.
“Last bits of business,” she said. “Shipping my stuff off. Just a big pain in the ass.”
“Where to?”
“Like I said,” she answered, running her fingers through her hair and looking as if she was in desperate need of a drink, “Panama. A distant cousin of mine works in Panama City. I’ll be storing my stuff there for a few weeks, ’til I find my feet.”
“Wow, you work fast.”
“Not really. I’ve been planning the move for a while. It just kind of crept up on me.”
“You were going to move with your husband? To Panama?”
She looked temporarily confused. “With him? Oh, God, no. We’ve been separated seven years. Kept on good terms, though.”
“Well, at least he left you a little something. Talking of which...”
She squeezed her eyes closed. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we? I’m frazzled.”
He led her into the living room and sat her down, immediately plying her with a glass of white wine that he had chilling in a bucket.
She took a long drink, sighed, drank some more. It was even better than yesterday’s wine, fuller-bodied, smoother. He kept touching the bottle, eyeing the label, as if he was excited by it. Perhaps the wine was his best stuff, something that he wouldn’t have opened just for anyone, a special bottle for a special evening. She didn’t bother to ask what it was. If he was toasting his own good fortune in advance, that was fine by her.
“Here’s to a lovely evening!” she said, grinning up at him as they both drank. “And, here’s to you, for agreeing to help me at such short notice. But now,” she added, placing her glass down on the coffee table right in front of her, “after I have taken advantage of your generosity so completely, I have yet another favor to ask.”
“Ask away.”
“I had absolutely no qualms about leaving that case of money with you yesterday. Could I trust you with my clothes as well?”
Was it a come on? It sounded odd, a bit out of character, not quite fitting for the situation.
A cute smile crept onto her mouth. “I really need a shower. Would it be so forward to ask if I can use your shower room?”
A moment’s pause. Then he laughed, nervously, trying to make it into a joke, something between old friends, as if she hardly had to ask to use the shower at all.
“Top of the stairs on the left. There are fresh towels in there,” he added.
She stood up and embraced him gently, cupping the back of his head with her hands.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, kissing him on the lips again, and letting her mouth open slightly this time, until their tongues flicked each other fleetingly.
As she began to pull away he gripped her waist tight with both hands and kissed her harder, his fingers digging into the top of her buttocks, firmly but not too firmly.
There they remained, both of them loving it, that first surrender to what they both knew was inevitable, the headiest, sweetest kiss of all. In Jerry’s case, there was also an element of hope; he was still unsure what he was going to get tonight. For Carol there was no doubt. There never was with her.
She headed toward the shower without another word.
> The water gushed over her shoulders and down her back, the power jet doing a great job of exciting every muscle in her body until she was alive with anticipation. It wasn’t just that she was horny for him, or that the wine was now getting into her system, it was the fact that she was in charge. God, she loved her job sometimes. Seductress? You could hardly put that on your CV. But that’s what she was, and at times like this, when she would gladly have screwed the guy anyway, it seemed like she had won the lottery. The expression win-win had never been more appropriate.
She soaped her ass, let her hands run around the perfectly round cheeks and up between her legs. The bathroom door had been left slightly ajar, and she’d left the glass shower door fully open. Now she turned and let the water cascade down her front, closing her eyes, knowing that at any moment he’d be there at the door watching. When he did finally approach, she knew, he would be unable to resist touching her butt, and she wanted there to be a little soap there for him to work with. She stood still, the steam rising around her, her tits flushed hot, the nipples big and relaxed as the powerful jets of hot water washed over them.
Sure enough, a moment later he was there, watching. She could see his reflection in the chrome of the faucet fittings. He was still in his clothes. Let him take the lead, she told herself. She turned her head a fraction, just so he knew that she had sensed his presence. Then she waited.
A hand brushed the small of her back. She tried not to overreact, but her back arched a little, such was the sudden electricity in his fingertips. For a while he didn’t move them, then he pressed a little harder as one finger began moving slowly up and down, not more than an inch or two, but enough for her to know that she wanted this man to touch her all over.
The movements became unsteady as, with one hand free, he deftly removed his clothes. A moment later he was right behind her, naked.
“You found the shower, then?” he asked, both hands now on her ass, then running round her hips and up her flat belly until they found her breasts.
She shuddered, letting her head roll back until it rested on his shoulder. He cupped her breasts in his hands and caressed her ear with his mouth. The water was gloriously hot, and they stood there, not saying a word. It was perfect, and they said nothing. That’s what she liked most about this guy, his silence, that he wasn’t telling her how much he wanted her. She knew exactly how much he wanted her, every man she had ever known had wanted her. But this one had the sense not to tell her.
