Winters & Somers

by Glenys O'Connell

  Then the couple picked up their room key and headed towards the elevators accompanied by much bowing and scraping from the hotel staff and several guests who’d cottoned on to who Winters was. Gimlet eyed, Cíara noted that only one room key was handed over.

  One suite, eh? The man wasn’t even bothering to feign propriety!

  She flew up the stairs, finally coming to rest out of breath at the fire door entrance to the corridor on which Winters’ suite was situated. She bent over, clutching her burning sides and gasping from the unaccustomed exertion. Just as she was promised herself more time at the gym the elevator doors opened, spilling out the man himself and his chattering companion.

  Grateful for the dim lighting in the hallway, she used the fire door as a shield as she aimed for another couple of shots of the couple entering their suite. But the angle was all wrong, the light was terrible, and there was nothing for it but to try to slip quietly around the door – which let out a mortified wail of hinges – and creep closer to her quarry.

  A few feet further in and she was out of film. Damn! Maybe it was time to go digital! Struggling to change films without being noticed was a challenge. Not that it was likely either of them would notice her; they were so engrossed in each other! She slipped the exposed film into an inside jacket pocket and was just inserting the new one, hoping against hope that the noise of the winding motor would not attract attention, when a hand grasped her wrist like a metal band.

  “Geroffme!” she yelped, then the cry gave way to a strangled wail as she looked up into burning dark eyes and a very angry, very handsome face. J.V.Winters looked positively furious as he glared down at her. Cíara gulped.

  “So! Time and time again I’ve made it plain to you newspaper people that there are to be no unauthorized photographs – can’t you understand plain English?”he demanded through gritted teeth as he dragged her towards the open door of his room. Despite her struggles, he pulled her inside as if she were featherweight, and she found herself spluttering indignation all over one of the most luxurious hotel rooms she’d ever seen. The pique of pride managed to calm her down a little as she noticed the blonde, slender legs crossed, sitting watching the entertainment from a white leather sofa. It was obvious from the other woman’s nasty smile that she was enjoying the scene, and Cíara made a big effort to calm down and spoil the blonde's fun.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing – dragging me in here against my will! I want to call security!” she declared with all the dignity she could muster. The expression on her captor’s face told her that her act was cutting no ice.

  And ice it was, his attitude towards her. Ice that burned. Slowly, mockingly, he handed her the telephone receiver from the small desk. “Go ahead, call security. I’d be interested to hear your explanation,” he drawled sarcastically. Face flushed, she dropped the receiver back into its cradle with trembling fingers, and stood silently willing herself to meet the cold flame of his eyes.

  “So, who do you work for?”

  “I…I freelance,” Cíara croaked, thankful at least to be able to tell the truth.

  If not the whole truth.

  “What’s going on?” The silky voice sounded very young.

  “Paparazzi.” Winters spat out the word as if it tasted disgusting on his tongue. “Give me the film.”

  “Go to hell,” Cíara shot back, her response more a knee-jerk reaction to being bullied than to his request. Which, she had to admit, was probably reasonable in the circumstances. A large male hand reached out, grasping the camera. He flicked it open, and saw the tail of the film loose, and raised a quizzical eyebrow to her.

  “I was just changing the film,” she snapped. “I’d just rewound and got the camera open when you grabbed me.” Okay, not a lie, but stretching the truth a little. Even so, she was amazed when, after pocketing the film, slamming the camera door shut, and studying her face for a moment or two, Winters' arm snaked out pulling her tightly to him in an embrace that had her heart pounding treacherously. She had to close her eyes and take a deep breath to stop herself swooning like one of his bodice-ripper heroines – and then she shrieked in indignation as his hand slipped – into her pants pocket.

  He gave a smug grin as his hand came out with a roll of exposed film. “Is this it?” he demanded, but Cíara had had enough. Glaring up at him as she scooted backwards to put some distance between them, she stood stubbornly silent, chin held high.

  Winters shrugged, handed back the camera, and opened the suite door. “If I ever find you hanging around me again, it’ll be the police, okay? And the same goes for the rest of your buddies, so pass the word along.”

  She raised her Somers chin even further, looked at him disdainfully, and walked out through the door he held open. It closed behind her with a finality that made her shiver, and once she was sure she was unobserved, she skedaddled down the stairs and through the lobby into the warm spring air of the street. She found an empty bench and collapsed on it, breathing heavily as if she’d just run a marathon.

  My God, the man was gorgeous! When he'd pulled her into his arms she'd wanted to – her cheeks reddened as she remembered the hot wave of lust that had hit her right there in the hotel room. Talk about lousy timing. No wonder a poor country wife like Peggy O'Keefe fell at the man's feet! Pity he was also an arrogant pig.

  Then she smiled as her hand felt the roll of exposed film in her inside jacket pocket! She could hardly believe her luck when he'd fallen for the decoy film that he’d found so easily in her pants pocket where she’d slipped it earlier in the day. A hot shiver shimmered cross her skin as she remembered that large hand against her stomach through the thin wool of her slacks, and she sternly told her hormones to behave.

  Now all that Mr. Smarty-Pants Winters had was a few snaps of traffic scenes and some cheeky kids playing Gaelic football in the street outside the squat building that housed Somers Investigations. Thank God he’d taken it all at face value and not searched for other films! Her heart beat a hormone-happy tattoo at the thought of being body-searched by the tall American, and she looked guiltily at passers-by, wondering if her thoughts were readable on her face.

  Once the shaking had stopped, Cíara got up and ran for a bus that was just pulling in. She wanted to put as much space between herself and Winters as she possibly could. As she swung herself up the steep steps, she had the sudden thought that Winters was somehow familiar in some way – and she wondered where he’d gotten the nasty bruise on the side of his face.

  Some other cuckolded husband?

  She flowed onto the bus with the early evening rush hour crowd, put on a little spurt of speed to snag a vacant seat and turned to smile sweetly at the purple-haired teenager she'd beaten to it. Some days, even small victories counted

  * * *

  “Bill? Listen, I’ve a favor to ask you…”

  “Well, let’s see, is this quid pro quo?” Bill didn’t miss an opportunity.

  Jonathon Winters sighed. “I’ll keep an ear to the ground about your damned diamond thief, yes,” he agreed reluctantly, silently thinking there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell that he’d be hearing anything much about the notorious thief.

  Not with his fingers glued to the keyboard, where they should be right now.

  “You got yourself a deal, Jon. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I'm looking for a woman…” But he didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence. Bill’s hearty chuckle probably hit a nine on the Richter scale. “Jeez, man, I thought you were pretty proficient at finding them for yourself. Maybe I could get Sórcha to look up a couple of her girlfriends for you.”

  Impatiently scrolling the computer screen, Winters rolled his eyes. “Okay, Bill you’ve had your fun. Now, the woman I want to find is…”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Frank? It’s Cíara Somers here. Listen, I think you can probably stop worrying. Winters spent the two days of the conference either involved in conference workshops, at the guest reception, or out
visiting a small semi-detached house in Swords. The residents there appeared to be friends of his – a married couple with a brace of young kids. I’ve got a full report here for you.” She flipped through the photographs she’d just received back through An Post from the lab.

  “And, er, in his free time…?” the man at the other end of the line asked delicately. Tension hummed along the line and into her ear, making her own shoulders bunch.

  “He rented a room for himself and a gorgeous blonde, who looked about sixteen – and when he retired for the night, about 10:30 each evening, neither of them emerged until the next morning.”

  “And Peggy?”

  “He had coffee and cake with her and a bunch of other librarian types after his afternoon talk, spoke to her for about two minutes surrounded by a mob of other women at the evening reception, and as far as I could see, there was no other contact.”

  Unless Winters was a wily, athletic bird who could climb down the outside fire escape, after jumping several meters from his room window…and unless Peggy O’Keefe was quite the sex siren to lure him away from that leggy blonde…

  She thought it wiser not to mention any of this to Frank. She didn’t want to stir his unease again – or to elecit thoughts of insulting his wife. Peggy O’Keefe had seemed a very pleasant, middle-aged lady who’d enjoyed socializing with her colleagues and who retired early to bed each evening, probably with a copy of one of J.V.Winters’ books for company.

  “A 16 year old blonde, you say?” Frank’s voice was filled with indignation.

  “She had to be barely that – looked at least half his age.”

  “The slimy bastard! That’s a disgrace, that is,” Frank declared, although she could still hear the relief in his voice.

  Better that Winters was fooling around with an 18 year old than with his beloved Peggy!

  She grinned at the irony of it all. Putting down the phone after promising to contact him when she had her report written up, she paused for a moment. Surely that was a noise in the outside cubbyhole that passed as a reception area?

  Good Lord, not Granny Somers after a job again!

  But the reality proved to be much worse. The door to her office space opened decisively and in walked none other than J.V. Winters, looking more than a little peeved.

  No, not simply peeved. Thoroughly angry.

  She had just about enough time to qualify her thought before he leaned over her desk and snatched the photographs from her hand.

  “I’ll take those,” he told her, perching one hip on the side of her battered old desk, giving him the advantage of both crowding her and towering over her at the same time. It was all she could do not to cower. Summoning up the Henley temper, she surged to her feet and faced him nose-to-nose.

  “What in hell do you think gives you the right to come in here, a private office, and snatch hold of documentation intended for a private client’s eyes only?” she spat at him, anger making her red hair bob and spark in the sunlight from the window.

  “Calm down – you look like one of those Roman candle fireworks.” Winters face sported a malicious grin. A grin Cíara would have smacked away, if she’d dared. But most of all, she wanted to know how this man had gotten to her office.

  “By taxi,” he replied dryly when she asked him.

  “You know what I mean – how did you find me?”

  “Red haired working girls who spy on men and lie about their photography aren’t that common, not even in Dublin,” he said, enjoying the curiosity that burned in her eyes. Taking pity on her, he added then: “I also have a friend in the Gardai Siochana who was very helpful. Bill O'Malley.”

  Bill! One of the officers she’d thought of as a buddy when she worked out of the same station as a civilian administrator. She’d wring his bloody neck when she got her hands on him, she vowed silently to herself. Oh, yes, she could imagine him and Winters, and probably a crowd of her former workmates having a great laugh down in the pub about this.

  Cíara’s eyes narrowed. “Give me back the photographs.”

  But Winters was already leafing through the dark, grainy shots. There was no mistaking him and the lovely blonde clinging to him featured in each shot. Twin angry creases framed his mouth. “Not until you tell me what you wanted these for. Bill told me the type of work you do – picking up men and…well, if the cops here want to turn their back on that sort of behavior, who am I to give a damn?” He glared at her. “But if you're going to extend your activities to blackmail, then I'll make sure you get what you deserve.”

  Looking into those deep, deep eyes, Cíara wondered if she'd get to choose the punishment she deserved. Her hormones could suggest a few acts of penance she wouldn't mind…………

  “Why don’t you just feck off?” she exclaimed, trying to pull herself together. She was actually talking to those errant hormones, but Winters seemed to take it personally. He loomed taller over her, his expression black.

  “It’s not blackmail! Look, I have a client who thought his wife was.. well, that you and she…oh, lord.” She suddenly saw how ridiculous the whole thing had been, how farcical the case was. But she could understand Winters’ anger, and the honest part of her realized he deserved an explanation for the invasion of his privacy.

  “This will probably sound funny,” she began.

  “You’re the only one laughing right now,” he said, his mouth forming back into a hard, thin line. Her lips were still twitching, but she pulled herself together and, in a brisk and businesslike way, explained the situation.

  “And just who the hell is this client of yours? I’ll break his fool neck….”

  “Oh, migodno – Frank didn’t mean anything, he was genuinely worried…”

  “You’re sure you weren’t just trying to set me up for the press? I never have photographs taken without the shades and a hat - and you’ve got some good shots of me and my niece there..”

  “Your niece?” Cíara knew her bottom jaw was probably parked on the floor, but this was a shock. “The little blonde bimbo is your niece?”

  “She’s a straight A student, not a bimbo, if you don’t mind. She lives in London with her parents and there’s been some trouble with some undesirable boy – my brother sent her to me for a couple of days, see if I could sort her out…” Realization slowly dawned on Winters’ face. “You thought that she and I…. that Kizzie was my…my lover!” He gave a great hoot of laughter. “What an idiot you are – an idiot with a mind that needs a good washing out!” he added nastily. “To be expected, I suppose, given the way you earn your living!”

  Cíara bridled at that – enough was enough, after all. “My client thought you were having an affair with his wife. I simply took photographs and watched your activities at the conference…”

  “Wait a minute – the wife was someone at the library convention?”

  The man was sure quick-witted. “Yes, Frank O’Keefe’s wife, if you must know….”

  “Peggy O’Keefe – that lovely lady who’s almost mothered me to death with apple pie and home-made cookies? You must be kidding!”

  “Well, Frank seemed to think…”

  Still chuckling, Winters eased himself off the desk and went to stand looking out of the office’s one window. It had been a while since he’d really laughed – in fact, this whole damned writer’s retreat thing was getting to him. He loved Ireland, certainly, but the peace and quiet of the countryside, staring at that blank, flickering screen day in, day out, was driving him mad.

  Some stimulus was just what he needed. A bit of excitement. He remembered how he’d almost salivated at Bill’s request to snoop around after the Diamond Darling.

  But now he had an idea that should prove altogether much more fun.

  He turned around with an evil smile.

  “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse,” he told her, sidling away from the window and towards where she still stood by her desk.

  That smile alone was enough to alert her that something nast
y was afoot. Winters grinned wolfishly as Cíara stepped backwards instinctively. And then he stepped forward and she moved back again, until she ran out of space. The wall was cold against her back, and she shivered.

  His smile widened.

  “Touch me, and I’ll hurt you,” she intoned.

  “Yeah, Bill told me you were quite the little street fighter.” Winters chuckled again.

  “Bill had no right talking to you about me, and I’ll see to it that he regrets it,” she snarled.

  * * *

  Winters leaned forwards, one hand on either side of Cíara’s head, flat against the wall.

  “I’ll look forward to witnessing that,” he said softly. “Now, I have a proposition for you.”

  She was just about to hurl back a quick rejoinder when she realized that Winters was leaning back to look into her face, his lower body was pressed lightly against hers. But not lightly enough. She figured the man wasn’t carrying a gun, so that meant he was definitely happy to see her! A delighted grin began to spread over her face. Gotcha!

  But maybe not. Most of the men she knew, finding themselves in a similar situation, would have moved away – at least when sober - and done that funny twitchy thing guys do to the pleat of their pants, adjusting for comfort but thinking they just look as though they’re straightening the crease.

  But not this guy. Winters stared her down, unashamed. And then out of the blue, Cíara Somers, who’d always known her own mind and body, was taken by surprise into a whirlwind of primitive feelings. A jungle beat of lust, a….

  “So, Cíara, I figure you owe me – and you can repay that debt by letting me become your partner in the private eye side of your business.”

  The whirlwind dropped her right down to earth. The jungle beat stopped abruptly. Now she knew why Winters hadn’t pulled away – he knew he’d get a knee in a very tender spot if he hadn’t had her pinned against the wall.