Читать книгу Sullivan's Last Stand - Harper Allen - Страница 12

He hadn’t changed at all in one year. He was still the most gorgeous male she’d ever seen.

She might have known, Bailey thought in resignation, crossing her arms and waiting for him to see her standing in the doorway. Telephone receiver cradled on his shoulder, his eyes closed and a wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth, Terrence Patrick Sullivan was in full spate, slouched so far back in his leather chair that by rights he should have tipped the thing over. Long legs were propped up on the paper-strewn surface of his desk.

She gave an audible snort and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes fly open as his startled gaze met hers.

“Whoever she is, she’ll have to call you back,” she said dryly. “Hang up the phone, Sully. We’ve got to talk.”

She’d been right. He was even more heart-stoppingly handsome than she remembered, she thought with a spurt of irritation as he gave her a quick glance. Really, that was a big part of his problem. Would women have been throwing themselves at the man the way they had for most of his thirty-odd years if he hadn’t been blessed with those dark navy eyes and those thick sooty lashes? Would he have been able to have his pick of female companionship without that glossy black hair brushing the collars of his Armani suits, or the linebacker shoulders that filled out the jackets of those same suits?

Probably, she conceded in annoyance. Because even if he’d had nothing else going for him, Terrence Patrick Sullivan was a charmer. Women adored him. Men liked him. Children trusted him, dogs followed him home, and although he parked his Jaguar near a tree at the back of the building here, she’d seen with her own eyes that the pigeons that roosted in it would spatter everyone else’s car except his.

He was pond scum.

“Listen, something’s come up, sugar,” he was saying into the phone now. “But I’ll see you tonight like we planned. Uh-huh, seven o’clock. SWKA, baby-doll.”

“I see you still use the old sign-off, as well. But I must have rattled you, Sullivan—it’s SWAK, not SWKA.” Unfolding her arms and shoving herself from the door frame as he abruptly hung up, Bailey crossed the carpeted floor to his desk. She pulled out a chair and plopped herself negligently down in it. Swinging her own jean-clad legs up, she put her feet on a pile of papers next to his. “Unless you meant Sealed With Kiss A,” she added.

“Tara’s a great kid, but she’s not that big on spelling. I’m doubting she noticed.” He met her eyes. “My sister Ainslie’s twelve-year-old goddaughter, Bailey. I’m taking her and Lee out for pizza tonight.”

“Oh.” Now he’d rattled her, she thought. She’d known when she’d made up her mind to come here that she would have to hold on to every ounce of self-control she possessed, and already she could feel it slipping away. She took a deep breath. “Why don’t we skip the small talk and get right to the—”

“The ever-charming Ms. Flowers.” There was an unaccustomed edge to his voice. “It’s been—how long—a year?” He leaned back farther in his chair, and she found herself hoping that this time it would fall. “So to what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of this visit? Don’t tell me—you finally decided to pack in that little fleabag operation of yours and join a real firm of investigators, right?”

“Triple-A Acme’s doing just fine, thanks,” she said evenly. “In fact, I send you business every so often. I figure you need to keep the cash flow steady, what with those expensive tastes of yours. Nice suit, Sully.”

He followed her gaze and flicked a nonexistent speck of lint from the sleeve of his jacket. “Thanks,” he said complacently. “Those Milan tailors know how to do their job.”

“Too bad you don’t.” Bailey took her feet off the desk and planted them back on the floor with a thump. She leaned forward, her gaze hardening. “Your firm screwed up, Sullivan.”

“My firm screwed—” Abruptly he swung his own legs off the desk, all traces of good humor gone from his handsome face as his eyes met hers. “I don’t think so, Bailey, honey,” he said softly. “You can rag on me about anything else you please—my love life, my clothes, even my character. But Sullivan Investigations and Security is off-limits, unless you can prove what you just said.”

“Angelica was one of the cases I sent your way.” Her tone was as humorless as his. “And you’re right—whatever else my opinion of you might be, I’ve always admitted that you run one of the best agencies in Boston.”

“The best,” he interjected. “Just because you come first in the phone book doesn’t mean you beat me out in getting results and clients. Far from it, in fact.”

“I assume that’s a dig at the fact that Acme’s just a one-woman detective agency.” She shrugged. “I’ll admit that. The reason I sent Angelica to you was partly because Sullivan’s is such a large firm.”

“Multinational, now.” He shrugged, too. “I’ve expanded since you and I last chatted.”

On the mahogany desk he had an exquisite Waterford crystal paperweight. For a moment the impulse to grab it and hurl it at him was almost overwhelming. Chatted? Bailey thought with dull fury. Was that how he categorized their last encounter?

“I can see you’re doing well,” she noted tightly. “But that’s your problem, Sullivan—I think the company’s gotten so big you’ve lost touch with what’s going on. You didn’t even know Angelica was a client until I just told you, did you?”

“Your sister? Okay, I didn’t know, but what’s your point, Bailey?” He leveled an unconcerned blue gaze on her. “I can’t be expected to be on top of every file we’re handling.”

“My adopted sister,” she said shortly.

“Adopted sister.” His usual lazy tone was clipped. “She married Aaron Plowright four or five years ago, going from cocktail waitress to billionaire’s wife in one fell swoop, right? So why did you send her to me? Did she mislay some trifling object like a yacht that she wanted us to locate for her without the hubby finding out?”

“No. She thought hubby had a trifling object that he didn’t want her to find out about.” Impatiently she tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear. “But Angel never was the smartest girl on the block—just the most beautiful. She came to me first and asked me to tail him.”

His grin surprised her. In the tan of his face it was a flash of white, and it was devastating. Even now she could feel her own lips starting to curve in an answering smile. She bit the inside of her cheek sharply enough to keep her expression under control.

“Yeah, he might just have clued in, seeing his sister-in-law popping out from behind bushes everywhere he went,” he said. “You’re right—not too bright of our little Angelica. Although I don’t agree that she was the most beautiful girl on the block, honey. Not when the two of you lived in the same house, anyway.”

It took a moment for her to realize what he was saying. It took a moment only because her brain was starting to turn to mush, she thought in chagrin, the way it had turned to mush a year ago when she’d been around him. It was the grin. She was letting him affect her.

“I never was in Angelica’s league in the looks department, Sully, and you and I both know it. I didn’t come here for a dose of your patented Irish blarney. I came here on business, so let’s keep things on that footing and we’ll get along just fine.”

It came out more sharply than she’d intended. He held her gaze for a moment, his own as unreadable as she hoped hers was, and then he let out a long breath.

“So you sent the lovely Angelica to my firm to have her husband followed.” He pushed aside a stack of papers on his desk and leaned forward, lifting his shoulders a little as if his muscles were tense. “How do you figure we screwed up? Did Aaron make the tail?”

“Of course not. Your people aren’t amateurs.”

Her voice was nearly back to normal again, she noted with surprise. She felt oddly light-headed, as if she’d just picked her way through a minefield and couldn’t quite believe she was still in one piece. She’d done it, she thought. She’d finally gotten him out of her system.

“As a matter of fact, Aaron had to go away on an unexpected business trip last weekend, and apparently your—” She stopped abruptly, her breath suddenly short and her heartbeat speeding up.

“Go on.”

He’d stood up and shucked off the suit jacket he’d been wearing. Now he was unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling his sleeves back, his attention focused on the task. His forearms were a dark gold against the white material, and the same tan tone was echoed in the worn leather shoulder holster that slashed across the whiteness of his shirt higher up. He glanced over at her.

“What is it?”

How many times had she seen him shrug off his jacket and unfasten his cuffs in the past? she thought helplessly. The answer came to her immediately—three. Three times in the past he’d stood in front of her and lazily started to undress, and those three times he’d kept going. She’d once told him that if the investigation business ever went bust, he could probably make a darn good living as a male stripper. He’d given her a wide-eyed look of protest that had had nothing innocent about it at all, and then he’d taken so excruciatingly long to discard the rest of his clothes that by the end of it she was practically out of her mind with desire for him.

And the next time she’d paid him back in exactly the same way, Bailey remembered.

They’d made love three times together. Well, that wasn’t strictly true—they’d spent three nights together and made love all through each of those nights, time and again. They’d made love that last morning, just an hour or so before she’d walked in on the phone call that had negated everything she’d thought they had between them. She swallowed with difficulty.

“Nothing. I just want to make sure I don’t leave anything out,” she finally said, her tone as professional as she could make it. “Aaron went away on what he said was an emergency business trip, and your operative followed him. Apparently Angelica’s suspicions were correct, because when Jackson reported back to her—”

“Jackson?” He looked up quickly. “Hank Jackson?”

“Yes, Hank,” she said impatiently. “When he reported back to her—”

“You’re telling me that Hank Jackson screwed up on a job, honey?” Despite his casual posture, there was a tenseness about him. “It didn’t happen, sweetheart. Not Hank—he’s my best investigator.”

Gone was the man she’d walked in on ten minutes ago, the man whose easy charm had so irritated her. Gone also was the man she remembered from last year. Looking at his hard, set features, Bailey suddenly recalled that Terrence Patrick Sullivan hadn’t always worn Armani and driven Jaguars. He hadn’t always run a security and investigative firm that was doing so well he had to keep a string of girlfriends just to help him spend his money.

He didn’t hide his past, but he didn’t talk about it, either. She hadn’t known he’d been a mercenary until afterward, when she’d needed to find out everything about the man that she could in order to make some sense of his actions toward her. It had been astonishingly difficult to find anyone who claimed to know the real Sullivan, and even harder to persuade those who did to talk, but digging up information was what she did for a living. Eventually she’d pieced together just enough rumors and half-truths to realize she’d never known the man at all.

He’d been one of the toughest soldiers-for-hire available, she’d been told by a big man in a smoky bar one rainy night. An older man, trim and ramrod straight despite his advancing years, had met her on a park bench in the Common. While throwing bread crusts to the ducks, in a clipped British accent he’d informed her that Sully had been a maniac, always volunteering for the most dangerous missions available and never seeming to take anything seriously. When she’d asked him if he’d ever served with him, the faded gray eyes had met hers as if she was the one who was mad. Every damned chance he could, he’d told her. And if Sully came up to him today and asked him to join him on one last suicide jaunt, he’d sign on with him in a flash, he’d added wistfully.

There had been others she’d talked to—not many, just a handful—but slowly a picture had grown in her mind of a man who was nothing like the Terrence Sullivan he now presented to the world.

She was looking at that man right now, Bailey thought. But that didn’t change what she’d come here to tell him. She watched him walk back to the desk and sit down across from her.

“He might be your best investigator,” she said flatly, meeting his cool gaze with an even chillier one of her own. “But he made a judgment call that sucked big time, and that’s what I’ve got a problem with.”

Even in shirtsleeves and with that glossy black hair in need of a trim, he seemed suddenly remote. She found herself wishing that she’d picked out something more businesslike and intimidating to wear herself. Jeans and a Pearl Jam tee weren’t exactly power-dressing, she told herself ruefully. And her own hair kept falling out of the banana clip she’d pinned it up with this morning, in deference to the unseasonable—for Boston, at least—May heat.

Still she had one edge over him. She knew what had happened, and he, by his own admission, didn’t. His next action made it obvious he didn’t intend to let that state of affairs last much longer.

Leaning forward, he jabbed the intercom button on his phone. “Moira, ask Hank to come in here, will you? If he’s not in his office, have him paged.” He sat back, his expression grim. “I won’t conduct a court-martial of one of my own men without giving him the chance to tell his side of the story, Bailey. But go on. What exactly is it you’re accusing him of?”

His attitude was meant to put her on the defensive, but with a tightening of her lips she continued. “Jackson gave Angelica the gist of his findings over the phone on Sunday night. The written report was to follow, along with copies of the photos he’d taken, and apparently they alone were pretty damning. Aaron’s ‘business meeting’ was with a gorgeous brunette young enough to be his daughter. Of course, all of his wives after the first Mrs. Plowright have been young enough to be his daughters, so the age thing isn’t surprising,” she added. “But they weren’t exactly discussing a merger. According to Jackson, they were in the middle of one—a very personal, very intimate merger.”

“So what’s the big problem you keep talking about?” A moment ago, Sullivan’s wry smile would have seemed natural. Now she could discern the effort it cost him to hide his anger, and her own temper flared.

“The problem is that Angelica’s not the most stable person you could drop a bombshell like this on, even if she did semi-suspect something. Besides which, Jackson apparently gave her the bad news only an hour or so before Aaron himself returned.” Bailey’s eyes flashed. “A twobit PI with a mail-order diploma would have known better. He had to have realized what a volatile situation he was creating.”

“Then why didn’t you try to soften the blow, since you were so concerned about how she would take it?”

“I wasn’t there, dammit!” Her features sharpened with frustration. “I was on a stakeout all Sunday night and right up until noon on Monday. When I got home I took a shower and then crashed for a few hours. After I woke up I saw the message light blinking on my answering machine, and that’s when I heard Angel’s message from the night before. She’d wanted to talk to me before Aaron arrived home, but I—” Bailey hesitated “—I wasn’t there for her,” she finished, looking swiftly down at her hands.

He’d been watching her intently. Now he shook his head, his gaze still on her. “You can’t be around all the time. Besides, after she gets over the blow to her pride, your little sister’ll realize that she’s looking at a rock-solid divorce settlement. From what you’ve told me about her in the past, that’s probably more to her liking than a diamond eternity band and a bunch of red roses on their next anniversary, anyway.”

“That’s the way I thought she’d take it.” She looked up at him. “But the message she left on my machine was so hysterical I could hardly make out what she was saying. She said she was going to confront Aaron with the whole thing as soon as he walked in the door.”

“Not wise,” he said shortly. “Plowright’s got the kind of money that can erase memories. She should have kept quiet about it and let her lawyer get statements from anyone Jackson mentions in his report.” He frowned. “Today’s Wednesday. Aaron’s had time to do a lot of damage control already. Where’s Angelica been staying since she turned on the fan and watched everything hit it?”

“That’s just it—she’s disappeared, and no one seems to have any idea where she’s gone.” Her eyes met his and her voice hardened. “Jackson’s your man, Sullivan. I’m holding you responsible for anything that’s happened to Angelica.”

“ If anything’s happened to her and if Hank behaved un-professionally, then I’ll accept that responsibility,” he said curtly. “But maybe you should keep personal out of this yourself, honey.”

Bailey stiffened. “What possible connection could there be between my problem with one of your investigators and the way I feel about you personally?”

“You know damn well what the connection is. It’s not Hank Jackson who blew it as far as you’re concerned, is it? It’s me. I’m the one who screwed up big time.”

Raking his hair back with one hand in a suddenly frustrated gesture, he held her gaze intently. “I always wanted to call you up and apologize for the way I behaved, but I figured you’d just slam the phone down as soon as you heard my voice,” he said softly. “But you’re here now. I’m sorry for what happened last year, Bailey. No excuses. I handled things badly.”

She stared at him, taken completely off guard. Once she would have given almost anything to hear him say what he’d just said, she thought. For months after, her heart had skipped a beat every time her phone had rung, thinking it might—just might—be him. But as he’d said, he’d never called.

She hadn’t been able to forget him completely, but she’d gotten on with her life. His twelve-months-late apology shouldn’t have the power to rip away the scar tissue of composure it had taken her so long to build up.

But it did. And all of a sudden she was back there in his house, standing in the doorway of his study and clad only in one of his shirts, listening to him methodically pull her world to bits.

Bailey blinked. Her throat felt as if it had a drawstring around it and someone had just tugged the drawstring shut.

“You’re wrong, Sullivan. There’s nothing personal left at all between us. I’m over you completely.” Her voice was barely audible. “Want proof?”

She got to her feet and leaned over the desk until she was close enough to him to lightly grasp the pearl-gray silk of his tie. Sullivan half rose from his chair, his eyes dark with suspicion.

“What the hell—” he began, but she didn’t give him a chance to finish. With a swift movement she brought her lips to his. Her tongue darted out and flicked the corner of his mouth teasingly, and immediately she felt a tremor run through him and heard his sudden indrawn breath. Those eyes, which only a moment ago had been narrowed and wary, closed, the thick lashes fanning against the hard ridge of his cheekbones.

Bailey kept her own open with an effort and fought down the dazed languor that she could feel spreading through her. She couldn’t keep this up for more than a second or so, she told herself disjointedly. Already the taste of him was spilling through her like some kind of dangerous intoxicant, addictive and seductive.

It had taken long months to break that addiction the last time. She wasn’t going to let herself get hooked on it again.

Her hand tightened on his tie. She ran her tongue lightly across his parted lips, forcing herself to ignore the impulse to explore deeper, and finished up at the opposite corner of his mouth with another little flick of her tongue.

“Completely. Over. You,” she whispered against his mouth. Then she drew back from him and let go of his tie.

His eyes opened and he stared at her in disbelief, his gaze still slightly unfocused and his breath audibly shallow. She kept her own expression impassive, willing herself not to betray the shakiness she was feeling. She gave him a brief smile.

“So now that you know it’s not personal, what are you planning to do about finding my sister?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he slowly lowered himself to his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. “That was dirty fighting, honey,” he said softly. “You’ve changed.”

She sat down herself, her legs feeling as if they couldn’t support her a minute longer. “Maybe I have, Sullivan. Maybe you changed me.” She shrugged tightly. “You played me for a fool once. I came so damned close to falling in love with you that one more kiss would have done it. I looked at you and saw the person I’d been waiting for all my life—a sexy, gorgeous man with a wicked sense of humor who, by some miracle, was falling in love with me.” She paused. “I thought we were two halves of a whole,” she added. “I was wrong.”

For a moment she thought he was about to speak, but when he said nothing she continued, her tone brisker.

“Anyway, we both know how that turned out. I was a wreck for about a week after, and then for two weeks more I think I hated you. But after a while I realized that was simply the way you were, and to expect anything more of you had been unreasonable of me. You’ve got a reputation, Sullivan. I was well aware of it before I went home with you the first time.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve got a reputation,” he said shortly.

“Please.” Her smile was humorless. “Of course you do, and of course you know it. You never stay with the same woman for more than a month or so, but that doesn’t matter, because the women you date prefer brief relationships. You don’t like intense, you like casual. You say that you intend to settle down one day, but no one’s putting their money on the likelihood of that happening.”

“I see.” He looked away, and then back at her, his expression shuttered. “That’s quite a list, honey. Anything on the plus side that you can think of?”

She blinked, wondering if she’d imagined the thread of unsteadiness she thought she’d heard in his voice. Of course she had, she told herself impatiently. She hadn’t exactly hit the man with any painful revelations about himself.

“On the plus side, you’re a damn good investigator,” she said smoothly. “Or at least you used to be. That’s why I came—”

“Sully?”

The interruption came from the doorway and, looking over her shoulder, Bailey saw Sullivan’s indispensable secretary, Moira, standing there surveying them quizzically. The slim, dark-haired woman sounded hesitant.

“Jackson hasn’t been in to work for the past three days, and Shirley in personnel says she hasn’t been able to contact him at home. It seems that his line’s out of order.” Moira’s expression clouded. “You’d better send someone over to his house to see what’s wrong, Sully. I—I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”