Читать книгу With Private Eyes - Eileen Wilks, Eileen Wilks - Страница 10

Uncle Miles had always told him his sense of humor would get him hanged one of these days, Ethan reflected. Maybe today was the day.

“I’d like to start as soon as possible.” The blonde sitting on the other side of his desk gave him a bright smile. “This is going to make a terrific article.”

Maybe it was his curiosity that would get him in trouble this time. As much as it tickled his sense of the absurd for Claudia Barone to present herself in his office posing as a reporter, he wouldn’t have let her run through her spiel if he hadn’t wanted to know what she was up to. “I haven’t agreed yet,” he pointed out.

“Oh, well.” She said that tolerantly and crossed her legs, sliding one long, silky thigh over the other. “How can I persuade you?”

Then again, those legs might be the real culprit. The moment she’d appeared in his doorway in her lipstick-red suit he’d wanted to get her into the visitor’s chair in front of his desk. He’d wanted to find out how far that one-inch-too-short skirt hiked up.

They were world-class legs, he thought regretfully. And she knew it. She’d crossed and uncrossed them four times since she sat down. “I don’t imagine you can.”

Not a whit discouraged, she launched into a repetition of her asinine story, her hands flying enthusiastically. It was an intriguing contrast, he thought. Her posture was very proper—shoulders squared, spine straight—and she certainly didn’t raise her voice. But her gestures were as loud as the color of her suit.

Even on ten minutes’ acquaintance, he could tell Claudia Barone was crammed with contradictions. She looked like the prototype for a tall, cool sip of blond elegance. She was pale and slim—skinny, he told himself—with blue eyes and classic features marred by a nose too assertive for its setting. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a kind of a roll at the back, very sleek and polished. The cut of her suit was conservative, too, if you ignored where the hemline hit.

And the color. Which was echoed in the siren-red gloss she’d sleeked over a cute little rosebud mouth.

Her story might be crazy, but her voice was worth listening to, even if it did tug at memories he’d prefer stayed safely buried.

She didn’t really look like his ex-wife. Bianca had been a blonde, too, but the color had been courtesy of Clairol, not nature. Not that he knew for a fact Claudia Barone’s sunny shade hadn’t come from a bottle, too. There was one sure way to find out…. Don’t go there, he told himself, even as his body enthusiastically endorsed the proposed investigation.

But she sure sounded like Bianca. That smoky alto was uncannily familiar, though that had to be sheer coincidence. The Contis and the Barones were no more related than the Hatfields and McCoys had been, and for similar reasons. Her accent was the same as Bianca’s, too, but that was no fluke. Upper-class Boston was Miss Claudia Barone’s natural habitat.

Unlike the office of a thoroughly working-class detective. Ethan steepled his fingers on the desk and smiled at her blandly. “How can you call the article ‘A Day in the Life of a Private Investigator’ if you’re planning to follow me around for a week?”

“Oh, it will be a composite day.” She waved that away. “Not a literal day. That would actually be deceptive, wouldn’t it? Any given day might not be typical at all. It’s much more accurate to pick and choose parts from several days.”

“Then you should call it ‘A Typical Day.’ Or ‘An Average Day.”’

“Perhaps you’re right.” She turned the wattage up on her smile. “Whatever I call the article, it will be great publicity for your agency. Free publicity. And I won’t be any bother, truly. What do you say?”

“Free publicity is usually welcome. The only problem I can see is that you aren’t a reporter.”

She didn’t even blink. “What makes you say that?”

Maybe it was her casual attitude toward her own lies that made him decide to do it. Or that perverse sense of humor his uncle had warned him about. Or maybe it was those legs—those mile-long, silk-clad legs she’d been showing off ever since she sat down. “First, there’s your shoes.”

“My shoes?” She looked down as if checking that the red-leather pumps were still there. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

“Not a thing. Except that no one on a reporter’s salary can afford custom-made Italian shoes. The coat looks too expensive, too.”

“Well, damn.” The mild epithet came out sounding quite ladylike. “I spent three hours shopping for this suit yesterday at a couple of those chain stores that pop up like mushrooms at all the malls. I wanted something with a touch of class, even if it had to be modestly priced to suit the image. Why should being a reporter mean one lacks taste?” She paused expectantly.

“No reason, I suppose,” he said, fascinated. She had to be a natural blonde. She sounded blond.

“That’s what I thought. Stacy wanted me to wear this shapeless pants suit in a dreary shade of brown. Of course,” she added with the tone of one wanting to be fair, “she can wear earth colors. They turn my complexion muddy. But the style was impossible.” She glanced down at her suit with some satisfaction. “I found this on sale for eighty-seven dollars. Can you believe that? But I do so dislike off-the-rack shoes. They always rub or pinch somewhere, especially when they’re new. And I didn’t think you’d know enough about women’s shoes to spot the difference.”

“Because I’m not from your background?” His voice took on an edge.

She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re a man. Men never know the least thing about women’s clothing, not unless they—” Now she blinked, startled. “You aren’t, are you? Inclined toward women’s clothing yourself, I mean.”

“Good God. No.”

This time her smile crinkled up the corners of her eyes. It looked more natural that way. “I must say, I’m pleased to hear that. Though I shouldn’t be. It’s none of my business, but one learns so little if one is overly concerned about that sort of thing, don’t you find?”

It was time to get rid of her, before he became too fascinated by the prospect of what absurd thing she’d say next. His uncle had also warned about Ethan’s tendency to let his fascination with people distract him. Ethan shoved his chair back and stood. “You didn’t have to pretend to be a reporter, you know.”

“No?” She watched curiously as he rounded his desk. “Does that mean you’ll let me be part of your investigation?”

When frogs fly. “It means that a lot of women find P.I.s…appealing.” He loaded the words with innuendo and let himself enjoy a leisurely visual journey over her body. Small, high breasts…slim waist…smooth hips…and those drool-worthy legs. Pity he had to chase them, and the rest of that enticing package, back out the door. “Not many are as gorgeous as you are, though.”

With that, he bent and clamped his hands on the arms of her chair, penning her in. At last her eyes turned wary. “You’ve misunderstood.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” He leaned in closer. Her breasts were rising and falling a little too fast beneath the red wool jacket. He turned his smile into a smirk. “I’m flattered. I’m sure we can work out a way to get better acquainted.”

Up close, her eyes looked different. The irises were summer-sky blue, but they had a darker ring around the outside that was almost green. His gaze dipped to her red, red lips. She licked them. His heartbeat jacked way up.

Something stabbed down on the arch of his left foot. Hard. He yelped and straightened. Why, that little—! She’d stomped on his foot with the heel of one of those wicked red shoes.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said sternly. “Sexual intimidation is not playing nice.”

“Playing nice?” He snorted. “What about that thing you kept doing with your legs? And the way you licked your lips just now?”

Guilt flashed across her face, but she tilted her chin up. “That wasn’t intimidation.”

“No, that’s not the word I’d use for it.” He propped his hip against his desk, crossed his arms and scowled at her. He’d try plain old intimidation this time. A man his size usually didn’t have any trouble pulling that off. “Unless you plan on following through with what you were offering, I’d say it’s time for you to leave.”

She didn’t budge. “I think you knew who I was all along.”

“Of course I did. I’m investigating the fire at the Baronessa plant. I’ve got a newspaper photo of you in my file.”

“But I don’t have anything to do with the plant or the company.”

“You’re a Barone, and I’m a thorough kind of a guy.” And she’d had her face in the paper often enough—the society pages, of course.

She leaned forward. The neckline of her suit gapped enough to give him a glimpse of cleavage. “Listen, that fire was— Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She glanced at where he was looking and straightened. “I know you think of sex seven times a minute or something like that. You can’t help it, being a man. But could you please try to pay attention? This is important.”

“I can pay attention and look down your top at the same time,” he assured her. “Being a man, I’m used to that kind of multitasking.”

She chuckled. It was low and husky and caught him by surprise. “Your point,” she conceded. “But not set and match. My point is that you’re investigating the weird things that have been happening with Baronessa lately—the tampering with the gelato at the tasting. The arson at the plant. Obviously we need to know who your client is and what you’ve learned.”

“Obviously, I’m not going to tell you.”

“You need the cooperation of Baronessa employees. I can get that for you. All I ask in return is a little information. Or the chance to accompany you while you uncover information.”

“No. And don’t bother to wave a checkbook at me. I don’t take bribes.”

“Did I suggest that?” She was indignant. “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to trick information out of you if I thought money would work.”

His lips twitched. “Just as well. Your brother already tried.”

A crease formed in her forehead. “Derrick? He wasn’t supposed to. We agreed that I’d handle things. Well.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind that. I—”

His phone rang. He picked it up. “Mallory Investigations.”

It was Nick Charles, the arson investigator in charge of the Baronessa case—and a good friend of Ethan’s cousin, Mel. Nick didn’t really have anything for him; mostly he was fishing, himself. Ethan dragged out the conversation, keeping his responses uninformative, just to make his audience squirm with curiosity. Petty, maybe, but a man took what satisfaction he could. Lord knew it was all the satisfaction he was likely to get from Ms. Claudia Nose-in-the-Air Barone.

When he hung up, she had her purse in her lap. “If you’d believed I was a reporter, would you have let me tag along?”

“Probably not. Reporters aren’t entitled to the details of my investigation, either.”

She sighed. “You’re not going to be helpful, are you?”

“Sleep with me and see how helpful I can be.” The suggestion slipped out before he could edit it.

“You don’t mean that,” she informed him, and opened the big clutch-style purse. “Smile.” She pulled out a little camera—one of those new digital jobs that aren’t much bigger than a wallet.

“What the— Hey!” He held a hand in front of his face a second after the flash went off.

“For my collection,” she said breezily, retrieving her coat from the other chair.

No, not a coat, he realized as she slung it on. A cape that fell to mid-calf. Her dramatic side had apparently won out over the proper Boston deb on that particular shopping trip.

Her smile was perfectly polite. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mallory. When you change your mind about working with me, let me know. I’m sure a thorough man like yourself has my phone number in that file of yours.”

He watched the gorgeous legs move briskly out his door and out of his life. She had a damned fine behind, too—high, round and not as skinny as the rest of her.

Not that the rest of her was really skinny. He sighed and reached for his phone. He might lie for a living, but he didn’t lie to himself. Ever. Fact was, she was packaged just right. Incredible legs.

Incredible ego, too. Ethan punched in a number he didn’t have to look up. Conceited little society twit. Did she really think he was going to invite her to tag along just because she wanted him to? He’d have to be nuts.

The phone was answered on the third ring. “Sal,” Ethan said to his client and former father-in-law, Salvatore Conti, head of the family that occupied eight or nine slots on the Barones’ Top Ten list of enemies. “You’ll never guess who just showed up in my office.”

At eight-thirty that night, Claudia had her hands full of milk—two gallon jugs of it, to be precise. She was in her kitchen. Her best friend since the third grade, Stacy Farquhar, stood near the pantry, watching her suspiciously.

Claudia’s kitchen occupied the rear end of her apartment. It was divided from the long, narrow living area by an ivy-covered lattice and the dining table, a glass slab set on a cast-iron frame. Her dining table could seat twelve, and sometimes did. Tonight it held an empty pizza box, two paper plates and a few scattered bits of mushroom and bell pepper.

Claudia was very fond of bell peppers. “Grab the olive oil from the pantry, would you?” she said, using her hip to swing the refrigerator door shut.

“What are you going to do with that milk?” Stacy’s voice was filled with accusation. “You said you’d fill me in while we gave ourselves pedicures. Weird ones, maybe, but so much of what you do is weird.”

“Don’t be silly. What could be more natural than olive oil, salt and milk?” Claudia pulled out a soup pot and poured the milk in a gallon at a time. “You’re allergic to so many things, I thought we’d try—”

“I’m allergic to milk!”

“You’re allergic to drinking it. This is for soaking our feet after we give them the salt-and-olive oil scrub. You’ve heard of milk baths, for heaven’s sake. Now, quit squinting at me and go get us a couple of towels, okay?”

Stacy rolled her eyes and headed for the linen closet. “I don’t know why I let you do this to me. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten the time you persuaded me to try out for the boxing team. I still have nightmares…. Hey, the printer’s finished.”

She darted into Claudia’s bedroom, which was affixed to the rest of the apartment like an afterthought about midway down the living area. And emerged waving the just-printed photo. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I told you what happened.” Claudia tested the milk with the tip of her finger. Still cold. She turned the gas up a bit.

“You said Ethan Mallory reminded you of a grizzly bear.” She slapped the image down on the counter. “Exhibit A: photograph of major hunk who does not look like any kind of bear.”

Claudia glanced at the photo. Crisp brown hair that would curl if it weren’t cut so ruthlessly short. Hazel eyes framed by dark, extravagant lashes, that might have looked pretty if they hadn’t been set in such an uncompromisingly masculine face.

“He’s very big,” she offered, trying to remember just why she’d thought of a grizzly bear when she met him.

“He’s an ex-football player, you said. From his college days. Of course he’s big.”

“Solid, too. And not just physically. I had the feeling it takes a lot to rile him. Not because he lacks a temper, but because he’s so insufferably confident that anything other than a direct hit just rolls off. I guess it was the way he loomed over me when he had me pinned in the chair that made me think of a grizzly bear.” Claudia headed for the pantry for the olive oil. “Are you going to get us some towels, or not?”

Stacy opened a drawer, grabbed two dish towels and tossed them on the table. “And just when did he pin you in a chair?”

“I told you he tried to intimidate me.”

“Humph.” Stacy grabbed a mixing bowl from the cupboard. “He can’t be all that bright. A runaway train wouldn’t intimidate you.”

“No, I think he’s sharp enough.” Claudia paused, frowning at the container of salt in her hand. “Too bright, maybe. And very stubborn. He isn’t going to be easy to work with. Oh, well.” She shrugged and put the salt and olive oil on the table. “I have to work with what’s available, not with what’s ideal.”

“Claudia.” Stacy’s tone was ominous now. “He’s smart. He wears his hair short. He’s got shoulders like a—well, like a football player. And he’s domineering. Is he successful? Leader of the pack in his field?”

“Confident and assertive are not synonyms for domineering.” She went to check the milk. Nice and hot. “He does wear his hair short, doesn’t he?” Claudia had an image of the surly Mr. Mallory with his hair grown out enough to curl, cherublike, around that hard face. She grinned. “Curls would interfere with his tough-guy image.”

“Oh, Lord. He’s big, sexy, macho as hell. He’s practically the archetype. Your archetype.”

“I wouldn’t say that Ethan Mallory is at the top of his profession. He’s made himself a nice little niche in the detective business here in Boston, investigating white-collar crimes, but…” Claudia decided not to think about that. “The milk’s ready.”

Stacy dragged out a chair, plunked herself down and fixed Claudia with her most repressive stare. Since Stacy’s eyes swallowed about half her face, she looked like a cute, green-eyed owl. The green, of course, was supplied by her contacts. Without them she couldn’t have seen who she was glaring at. “You are not to have anything further to do with this man.”

“Well, I have to. Besides, I’ve changed.”

“You’ve made one of your plans, that’s all. You decided to change. That doesn’t mean you have changed.”

“Quit worrying. I’m reformed,” Claudia assured her, setting out two plastic tubs for their feet. “On the wagon. I’m dating Neil.”

“Four, five dates—big deal. Besides, Neil is not a cure. He’s a symptom.”

Claudia paused with the pot of steaming milk in her hands, surprised. “I thought you liked Neil.”

“Of course I like Neil. He’s my type. But I like caution. I love caution. You don’t.”

“The Neils of this world are an acquired taste. I’m acquiring it. I learned to like coffee, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you still don’t like spinach.”

“I do, too. Sort of.”

“It makes you throw up.”

Since that observation was hard to dispute—Stacy had been at the restaurant when a serving of pasta Florentine had sent Claudia running for the ladies’ room—Claudia ignored it. She poured the milk carefully into each plastic tub. “Now for the exfoliating. Mix a heaping handful of salt with some olive oil.”

“I don’t know about this.” Stacy eyed the ingredients dubiously.

Claudia rolled her eyes. “You don’t quibble over spreading that green gunk all over your face, with who knows how many chemicals and preservatives in it, but you’re worried about rubbing a little olive oil on your feet?”

“If God had wanted us to put olive oil on our feet, She would already have put it in a lotion sold at Filene’s.”

“If you don’t trust me, trust my grandmother. She told me about this.”

That worked—as Claudia had known it would. Stacy was nuts about Claudia’s Italian grandmother. Of course, it had actually been Claudia’s mother’s mother, the very proper Bostonian, who’d read about this in some magazine, not her father’s thoroughly Italian mother. But mentioning that wouldn’t help Stacy relax and enjoy herself.

The two of them rubbed their feet with gritty oil. “So do you think your plan will work?” Stacy asked. “The one to make Ethan Mallory let you tag along on the investigation, I mean. Not your other plan, with Neil. That’s doomed.”

“Not right away.” Claudia gave her heel a little extra attention. Calluses built up there so quickly. “He’s stubborn, like I said. He’ll try to wiggle or trick his way out.”

Right after her meeting with the detective, Claudia had e-mailed the photograph she’d taken of him to her cousin Nicholas, COO of Baronessa. He, in turn, had sent it to all Baronessa department heads and supervisors, telling them that no one, but no one, was to speak with Ethan Mallory or allow him onto corporate property unless he was accompanied by a Barone family member.

That family member, of course, being Claudia. They’d settled that at the family council two nights ago. She had the time and the energy to devote to this complication. The others didn’t. Besides, she was good at fixing things. And boy, did things need fixing right now.

“So what’s plan B? I know you have a plan B. You always do.”

“I’ll just follow him around, see what he’s up to, that sort of thing. That will annoy him.” Claudia eased her feet into the warm milk and wiggled her toes. “But I think I’ll enjoy it. I’ve never done detective work before.”

“You’re getting carried away here, Nancy Drew. You’re supposed to find out who this guy’s client is, not start playing detective yourself.”

“My family is counting on me.”

“They don’t expect you to turn into Nancy Drew.”

“Things are wrong. More wrong than I’d realized.”

“Of course there’s something wrong. Like arson, for one. Good Lord, your sister was nearly killed. Has she remembered anything else?”

“Nothing about the night of the fire. And of course arson is wrong, but…” The unease she felt went deeper than any anxiety about the family corporation. She pulled out one foot and began drying it.

Claudia was happy that Baronessa existed, both for the opportunities it provided several family members and the wealth it generated. She wouldn’t be able to accomplish nearly so much if she were tied to a nine-to-five job. But the core of her unease lay in the fallout from the sabotage—fault lines within her family she hadn’t known existed, and still hadn’t identified clearly.

Her sister had survived the bout with amnesia and met a delicious man while recovering; Emily should be head-over-heels happy. Mostly she was, but something was eating at her, something from the night of the fire that she couldn’t remember. Then there was Derrick.

Claudia sighed. Sometimes she thought her brother was a changeling. In a family of overachievers, he consistently…missed. Not by much. His failures, like everything else about him, were unremarkable, more likely to irritate than command attention. Poor Derrick. He did try. Lately, though, his muddled efforts to push to the head of the line seemed to have acquired an edge.

Then there was her cousin Maria, who had turned weird overnight, running off to who-knew-where. Uncle Carlo and Aunt Moira were worried. That was so not like Maria.

Stacy broke into her brooding. “You can’t fix everything, ’Dia.”

Claudia’s chin came up. “I can try.”

A muffled ringing announced a phone call. Claudia muttered at herself as she conducted a quick hunt. She managed herself quite as ruthlessly as she did everyone else, and did not understand why this one quirk of hers refused to vanish on command. The phone was never where it was supposed to be.

This time it turned out to be in the pantry. “Hello?”

“Cute trick with the photo. I’ve decided to accept your deal.”

The voice wasn’t one she could forget. Not this quickly. Not when it set up such a delicious resonance inside her. “I hadn’t expected to hear from you this soon.”

“It seemed better to call and capitulate than to pout and drag things out. I have to be able to speak with Baronessa personnel to complete my investigation.”

“I see. A commendable attitude. Ah, I do want to make sure we’re talking about the same deal. This is not about me sleeping with you, correct?”

Stacy’s eyes went barn-owl wide.

“That’s no longer a requirement.”

“Good. About your client—”

“That’s not part of the deal, either.”

“How shall we begin our collaboration, then?”

“I’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning.”

“All right. I’ll be waiting downstairs—the parking is impossible here. I assume you have my address in that file of yours?”

He chuckled, agreed that he did, and told her to look for a nondescript gray Buick.

A dangerous man, Claudia thought as she disconnected. That deep, rumbly chuckle had vibrated right out of the phone and into her belly. She tapped the phone with one finger. “That was too easy. He turned belly-up in less than six hours.”

“So? You got what you wanted. Not that I’m surprised. Or are you disappointed that he wasn’t more of a challenge?”

“Of course not. I don’t want him to be difficult to handle. That would be counterproductive.” Claudia put the phone down, a frown tucking a small vee between her brows. She had gotten what she wanted. So where was the slick, greasy feel in her stomach coming from?

The pizza, obviously. And maybe she was a teensy bit worried about what Ethan Mallory might be cooking up…and how she’d react the next time she saw him. She sighed. “I think the challenge is still to come.”