Winters & Somers

by Glenys O'Connell

  “Look, you two – you're only here for the night. I've a new roomie moving in and he'll not be happy to be crowded,” she warned them.

  Short Eddie smiled vaguely in her direction and Smokey waved a hand. “You're a saint, Cíara Somers, so you are.”

  When she came back from blow-drying her hair and dressing, the only sound in the room was the dull symphony of soft snores. The two were sleeping like babies.

  Let's hope to God they stay that way, she thought, then cursed as she tripped over a rucksack, probably containing all Smokey's worldly possessions, dropped casually in the doorway.

  It was full dark as she left the apartment, and in her black leather coat and black pants, with a black beret covering the shine of her red hair, she was almost invisible. The MG purred obediently to life, and she slipped out onto the night roads.

  * * *

  Winters had just arrived back and pulled into a lucky parking spot a few spaces down from the big Georgian house that housed Cíara's flat. Our flat, he thought with a rueful grin. He kind of liked the sound of that, and found the realization disturbing.

  His grin didn't last long – wasn't that herself, tricked out all in black and moving with the gait of the guilty? He heard the engine of the little MG start up – beautifully tuned, he thought to himself enviously – then sat up straight in his seat. Somers was slipping out into the night like a thief.

  The Diamond Darling was on the loose and could be a woman…Jonathon shook his head. He was letting his cop's imagination run riot. The journey back from Dunmore East must have tired him more than he knew. Even so, he waited until Cíara's car was on the other side of the green, then started up his own engine and slowly trailed her.

  * * *

  “Feck it!” Cíara muttered viciously to herself as she unsnagged a thread of her sweater from the window latch. Imagine, a huge house like this, the front door locked like the Vatican but the alarm system left off and the kitchen window open a crack!

  She'd really hoped to use the key she'd picked up from the rack in the kitchen when she'd been a dinner guest there the previous week but hadn't reckoned on the dead bolt. The howling gale made the thought of shimmying up the ivy to the second floor bathroom an unattractive prospect, but she'd be damned if she was going to go empty handed after her long drive out here.

  That the open window was a lucky break, sliding up with the slightest whinge of the sashes. And people wondered why they got burgled! She slid over the kitchen counter below the window, cracking her elbow on an electric can opener and swore loudly enough that the old Irish Wolfhound dozing on the kitchen mat looked up and wagged his tail.

  Cíara went over and rubbed the big beast's ears. Wish all males were as easy-going as yourself, she told the dog, slipping him a sausage she'd saved from her chip shop supper.

  Shadowlike, she moved through the sleeping house, stopping in the hallway to enjoy the soothing tick, tick, of the big Grandfather clock, one of the many beautiful things she'd admired in this house. She wished she could slip some of them into her pockets, but you couldn't do that with furniture. Not like precious stones.

  Wraithlike, she ascended the sweeping staircase. The thick carpet buried her footfalls, and she jumped at a sound from the kitchen below.

  Was someone else up and wandering around this night? Or was her querulous conscience playing tricks?

  Then she heard the dog's sharp toenails clacking as the he strolled across the slate kitchen floor. Then a sharper click and the sound of the dog flopping back down onto the floor and licking something.

  Probably a midnight doggy snack.

  She relaxed and continued upstairs, slipping silently into the room at the end of the corridor.

  * * *

  The dog was a bit of a shock.

  He'd just slid through the window and the mutt had appeared out of nowhere. It was the size of a horse and had the teeth of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, breathing ancient dog breath in his face. It nearly gave him a heart attack as his hand reached for the gun tucked into his ankle holster. He uttered a little prayer of thanks that he’d been granted a special permit as a visiting police detective, especially in view of the vengeful crooks he’d arrested in his last case.

  Never leave home without it, he thought, as his fingers closed on the gun’s grip.

  * * *

  The jewels were smooth and coolly welcoming beneath her fingers. Cíara held an emerald and diamond choker up to the light, admiring the sweet sparkle of the stones in their rich red Irish gold setting. But she only allowed herself a moment to savor their beauty before tucking the precious gems into the fanny pouch she wore around her waist and returning to rummaging in the velvet lined walnut burl box. The jewelry box was a valuable antique in itself, but not what she wanted. She knew a little about antiques and a lot about jewels, and soon she'd found exactly what she was looking for.

  Two more precious items – diamond drop earrings and a matching solitaire drop pendant in a simple gold setting – were tucked away in her pouch. Her fingers touched a small item at the bottom of the box – a tiny teddy bear brooch. The exquisite piece, made for a spoiled Victorian child, had a ruby for its tummy, ruby chips for eyes, and tiny, perfect diamonds made its plump body sparkle. Should she? She'd already got what she'd come for, but this piece was so…

  And then a big hand grabbed her wrist, making her jump and stab herself with the open pin of the brooch.

  “What the hell are you doing!” Cíara whirled around, slamming into a hard muscled body that was so achingly familiar…

  * * *

  “I could ask you the same question – what the hell are you doing?” It wrenched his guts to see her there, the evidence of her intentions grasped in her hand, the glint of other diamonds winking at him from the open pouch around her waist.

  She tried to yank her hand away from him, and a small table lamp clattered to the floor. She was no match for his strength but that didn't stop her being ambitious. Her free hand swung through the air, fisted, clearly intent on causing him pain, but he easily caught it. Ruefully remembering her upraised knee technique, he dragged her hard against his body to prevent a repeat performance.

  She struggled harder and he was ashamed of the delicious way his body responded to her soft nearness. Distracted, burying his face in her lemon-scented hair, he didn't hear the door behind him swing wide until something jabbed at him and he turned to find himself looking right down the barrel of a hunting rifle.

  Behind the rifle stood Liam Henley, apoplectic red, and behind him, his wife trembled, white as the wrap she wore. “Unhand my granddaughter this moment!” Henley demanded, the gun barrel aimed steadily between Winters' eyes.

  He complied immediately, narrowing his eyes at the look of triumph that flashed across Cíara's face.

  “Eejit,” she whispered, rubbing her wrist and looking the picture of innocence.

  He wanted nothing more at that moment than to put her over his knee and spank her. A delectable thought, but the heavy gauge rifle made him think twice about carrying it through. Although it could be worth the risk…

  And then the old man's words got through to him. Granddaughter? Somers was the Henley's granddaughter? “You hired me to catch the Diamond Darling. I've caught her,” he told the couple brusquely. And felt like a fool as they roared with laughter.

  “Our Cíara? The Diamond Darling? That girl doesn't have any appreciation of good jewelry. Cheap baubles from the second hand shops is more her style.” Margaret Henley laughed until tears ran down her cheeks.

  Winters at least had the pleasure of seeing the fury that reddened Cíara's cheekbones – and was glad it wasn't directed at him.

  “I'll have you know I studied jewelry, I know a lot about this stuff – and I never wear cheap baubles!” She caught the meaningful look at the big enameled ring on her forefinger, and snarled: “This is genuine Art Deco!”

  “Yes, dear, of course it is. If you say so,” Liam Henley placed his hand on his granddaughter's
arm. A braver man than me, Winters thought, watching the way Cíara's narrowed eyes glared at the offending hand.

  But Henley just gently tugged her out of the room, shooing his wife ahead of him, and told Winters over his shoulder to follow them down because they could all use a good glass of something warming.

  In the big kitchen, with the heat from the wood burning Aga cooker combining with the glasses of good Irish whiskey to warm them, he began to relax a little. The old wolfhound came and nudged him, and then nudged again, refusing to be ignored. Finally, he shrugged and pulled out his gun.

  “Don't you dare hurt Waggers!” Cíara screamed, launching herself across the room, only to stop short as the dog began to lick at the grey-black metal barrel.

  “Waggers, if that's his name, scared me half to death as I followed you in through the kitchen window. I drew the gun just in case – and the fool animal began to lick it,” he told her.

  Liam Henley laughed. “Have you cleaned the gun recently?”

  “Always keep it clean,” Winters retorted.

  “Waggers used to be a gun dog in the days when we had hunting parties here. He got a taste for gun blue – it's a wonder the eejit dog wasn't poisoned.”

  “Come on, Waggers,” Margaret said as she hauled the huge animal away and Winters replaced his gun. Waggers slurped and slobbered over a plate of leftovers, and peace descended on the comfortable kitchen.

  Old habits die hard. He was soon questioning the Henleys – as politely as possible – about their relationship with Cíara. She was for sure their granddaughter, although she didn't seem to want to admit it, the only child of their beloved only son who'd died in a car accident after she was born.

  “She's head strong, of course, like her own father – he crashed his car after leaving here in a fury because….”

  “Because you wouldn't accept his wife and child!” Cíara interjected angrily. Winters could see this was a hurt that had long simmered.

  Henley's eyebrows raised in surprise. “Why no, not at all. We weren't happy about the marriage, that's for sure – they were both so young and my son hadn't established himself in a career, hadn't a penny of his own…”

  “It's all about money with you, isn't it!” Cíara spat at him.

  “Cíara, we asked him to bring yourself and your mother to live with us, but your mother was happy where she was and we didn't press it. We gave your father money, every month, more than his trust fund allowance from his grandfather. But he gambled, you know. That's what the row was about – he wanted us to foot the bill for a racehorse he wanted to buy, a nag I thought was little more than material for the knackers' yard…”

  Cíara was staring at them horrified, feeling the foundations of old hates if not exactly crumbling, then definitely shaken. But she was still able to turn a nasty glare on Winters as he asked: “And was it? Bound for the knackers' yard?”

  Henley took a deep drink of his whisky, and sighed. “Actually, no. The nag was nothing to look at, spindly and close to sway backed, but she could run. Outrun the rest of the field, in fact – went on to win in major events.”

  “He knew horseflesh, that's for sure. He was right about this one – it would have made his fortune.” Mrs. Henley brought four mugs of cocoa over to the big kitchen table. Cíara was shocked to see that her grandmother's eyes were wet.

  “You regret not lending him the money, don't you?” She couldn't keep the amazement out of her voice. She'd never heard them once admit to being wrong about anything.

  “My dear, if it would have kept your father – our son – alive, we'd have mortgaged this whole damn place and bought him as many horses, crippled, lame, swaybacked or whatever – as he wanted,” Liam Henley said.

  Then he put down his glass and walked out of the kitchen.

  “He'll never get over it, you know,” Margaret Henley said, watching her husband's departing back. “You never get over losing your only son, one you've loved so much and pinned so many hopes on. Cíara, dear, take whatever you want. You know everything in that room is yours. Goodnight, Jonathon, it was nice meeting you again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Winters followed the perky taillights of Cíara's MG sports car and again his mind was filled with questions. He'd never met a woman who – what was it the Irish said? –left him so gob smacked. A word that said it all. Somers left him gob smacked.

  Why would a woman who came from the wealth of landed gentry like the Henleys want to make her home in a Dublin flat and make her living on the streets? Had she been abused as a child, made insecure and unable to cope with normal relationships? His hands tightened into fists on the wheel as he thought of anyone causing pain to the child Cíara had been.

  He pondered the revelations of the evening – both the spoken ones and the unspoken that had buzzed in the air around the Henleys and Cíara. He guessed that a lot of what she was hearing was new to her – and she was shaken by it. Yet why did she deny her relationship to the elderly couple, especially when their eyes announced so graphically that they loved and wanted this last remaining kinswoman?

  And why the hell did Cíara Somers have to sneak in to the mansion like a thief in the night and steal jewelry that was her own? Was it an insurance scam? He found it hard to imagine the strait-laced Henleys being involved in a fraud of such pettiness – or of needing to be. So what did Cíara need such a chunk of money for? Drugs? Was she being blackmailed because of her lifestyle?

  He was blessed with finding an easy parking spot again, right behind Cíara's car, and sat for a few moments in the quiet dark as he considered the evening's events. Getting more confused and angry, he felt like beating his head against the drivers' wheel. Instead, he gritted his teeth, pushed a lock of black hair out of his eyes and got out of the SUV, determined to get the truth from Cíara, even if he had to shake it out of her.

  But the thought of her street fighter ways and her reaction to physical bullying had him smiling. Then he remembered the way her body had felt, jammed against his, in the bedroom at the Henleys, and he swallowed hard as the smile faded away. Yes, the woman left him gob smacked!

  She was sitting on the top step of the stairs to her flat, obviously expecting that he would follow her, her head resting against the wall, moonlight streaming through a landing window and casting her hair to copper in its silver light. He had the weirdest feeling as he mounted the stairs, as though there was an invisible thread pulling him up towards her.

  All his years of police experience had trained him to be constantly alert, but this was one ambush he wasn't prepared for. She melted into his arms as he reached the step below her, her mouth capturing his and her soft scent disarming him. Jonathon Winters, who'd never backed down from a fight in his life, surrendered with a soft groan to the force of her need.

  Some minutes later they came up for air, suddenly aware of their location on the very public stairwell and laughing at the situation with the warm intimacy of lovers.

  Even though they weren't lovers. Yet.

  A fact which he meant to change just as soon as possible, now he was sure she more than shared his enthusiasm. Impatient as she fumbled the key in the lock, he took it from her and deftly mated metal to metal, pushing open the door without letting an inch drift between their bodies. As the heavy paneled door swung wide, their mouths locked again, tongues dancing together in the increasingly urgent waltz as desire built.

  His hand slipped beneath Cíara's sweater, his skin tingling and his breath catching at the warm smoothness he discovered there. Her tiny mewl as his thumb stroked her breast through its satin cover made him gasp, a gasp that turned into a groan as her fingers flicked under his waistband and burned a scorching path under his shirt and across his belly.

  “Oh, God, Cíara, I don't think I can wait much longer,” he whispered, his voice a shuddering sigh.

  “Oh, well, don't let us interrupt you. Like, er, just make like we're not here.”

  He acted in a blur – one moment he was in her embrace
, the next he'd whipped the gun out from under his trouser cuff and had a bead direct between Smokey's eyes. Smokey's brain may have been hazy, but his survival instincts were good – he dived for cover behind the settee just as Cíara grabbed Winters' gun hand, yelling: “No, you eejit, they're friends.”

  He stiffened, yanked his hand from hers and slowly replaced the gun. “Friends?” he asked, in a voice that would have scared street punks in some New York back alley. “I wasn't expecting there to be anyone here. I didn't know you had live-in guests – or are they clients?”

  “How dare you! Coming into my home, hauling out a gun – you could have damn well killed him! And what if it had been Mary Margaret, who's pregnant? What could have happened then – you'd have scared her out of her maternity! Clients – what in the saints’ names are you on about?”

  “I was wondering if you supply the pot as well as other services.” His voice was cold.

  “Can we come out now?” A small voice piped up from behind the settee. Then the lanky, long-haired character who'd first spoken slowly rose to his feet, hands in the hair. He watched Winters warily. He was followed by another man, about six inches taller than Jonathon's six foot one, and a good hundred pounds heavier. Man Mountain.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “At this moment I would say they're saving me from making one of the biggest mistakes of my life,” Cíara snapped, pulling down her sweater and stomping off to her room. The door slammed shut with a finality that made all three men wince.

  “I'm, er, Smokey, and this is my buddy, Short Eddie. We're friends of Cíara's – just kipping down here for the night 'cos we lost our place. Sorry if I broke something up, man.”