Читать книгу The Wild Side - Isabel Sharpe, Isabel Sharpe - Страница 9

RILEY ANDERSON LOWERED himself into the grimy booth opposite Charlie Watson, captain in the Boston Police Force and primary supporter of the city’s greasy spoon establishments. Hands folded on the table, Riley greeted him and sat straight, regarding Watson evenly so as not to betray either interest or suspicion. Cops didn’t summon private investigators to out-of-the-way burger joints unless they were in deep.

“Thing is…” Watson tossed back the last French fry and looked wistfully at his empty plate. “Thing is, I wouldn’t come to you unless it was an absolute last resort. We’ve got plenty of people on the force who could handle this.”

Riley nodded, not rising to the bait, not moving, though the booth hit his back in uncomfortable places. Holding still and watching went a long way toward making people reveal things they weren’t planning to—if they were hiding anything in the first place. The jury was still out on the captain.

Watson took a gulp of soda from a gargantuan cup and plopped it down in what he probably thought was a powerful gesture. He narrowed his eyes, which were an incongruous shade of ice-blue against his pale, flabby face. “Truth is, we have a situation. Involving important people. Very important. Another situation at the station. Very bad. I can’t risk—”

“Captain.” Riley lifted one eyebrow a fraction, all he’d allow to show of his impatience. “The point. Get to it.”

Watson crushed a burger wrapper and tossed it onto his tray, pale eyes never leaving Riley’s face. “Okay, you want it straight? I’ll give it to you straight. I don’t like having to come to you—don’t like it at all. But we got a leak at the station. Someone has developed a big mouth, and his big mouth is jeopardizing the investigation. I can’t trust anyone. You, I trust. I don’t like you, but I trust you.”

Riley nodded. He didn’t like or trust Charlie Watson, but now was probably not the best time to say so. “What’s the job?”

“It involves the apartment of a certain woman named Rose. Just Rose. Like Cher is just Cher.” He pushed back a few combed-over strands of hair that had broken free of whatever glue he used to hold them in place. “We think she might have received stolen property, possibly unwittingly. Property we are anxious to return to…the previous owners. She reported a break-in recently, nothing taken. Someone knows or suspects she’s got the goods. We’re watching the place in case someone makes another move, but I don’t want my detectives poking around until I know who I can trust.”

Riley clenched his teeth. Getting information out of the captain was like playing twenty questions. He leaned forward and fixed Watson with an even stare. “What would I be looking for?”

“Art.” The captain groped in his pocket and came up with a roll of antacids, avoiding Riley’s eyes. “An antique miniature portrait. Jeweled frame. Supposed to be worth a ton, what the hell do I know about it? But it’s more than that. We want you to be Rose’s special new friend, and figure out what the hell she knows.”

Riley relaxed his jaw, willing himself to be patient. “Who is Rose and where does she fit?”

Watson looked around, as if the elderly couple on one side and the frazzled mom with four kids on the other could be undercover agents. He propped his elbows on the table, hefted his bulk forward and beckoned Riley closer. “Here’s the thing. She’s supposed to be a total babe. Different guy every night. You know the type. We talked to some of the guys she used to date. Get this. They all had a completely different description of her: clothes, hair, eye color, even personality. But definitely the same Rose. This chick completely reinvents herself for whatever man she’s with. Can you beat that? Dates ‘em for a while, they go nuts over her, shower her with gifts, then she’s on to the next one. When she reported the break-in, she had my toughest detective whipped in about ten minutes. Some operator.”

Watson blew out an admiring whistle that grated on Riley’s nerves. What the hell was there to admire in a woman like that? “So some smitten sop gave her the portrait for her personal enrichment.”

“Ha! Not likely.” Watson slapped his fist on his thigh, obviously missing Riley’s sarcasm. “His physical enrichment, more like it.”

Riley compressed his lips, which wanted to curl in disgust. Just the type of woman you’d like to bring home to Mom for Sunday dinner. But the case intrigued him for some reason he couldn’t quite pin down. Watson knew a hell of a lot more than he was telling. “Who were the previous owners of the portrait?”

“That’s where I cut you off, Anderson.” Watson’s eyes narrowed into puffy slits. “This is police business. You get into her place and find the portrait. Report back to me on your progress. Don’t call the station, don’t talk to anyone else about this. If word got out among my men that you’re involved I’d have a mutiny.”

Riley nodded, blood pumping. This case had to be about more than wealthy art lovers wanting their precious portrait back. He wanted in.

He moved his jaw to fight back a grin. Slate would love it. Riley’s comrade-in-arms, partner and best friend was currently at the family cottage on the coast of Maine, mourning his mother’s death from cancer.

Riley and Slate had been a successful, and eventually highly decorated, Marine Recon fighting unit that had earned the respect of their peers and commanders alike. Gemini. The twins. In the field they’d developed such a bond that they barely needed to speak when they went on missions. If Riley’s instincts proved correct, and he’d need to do some digging to see, this case might induce Slate to return to civilization after the long year spent nursing his mom. It had been too long since they’d worked together.

Riley nodded again at Watson. “I’ll do it.”

“Not a tough assignment. I’m guessing the way you look, you won’t have any trouble getting friendly with this Rose character.” Watson sniggered and tipped back his soda cup, then cursed as an avalanche of crushed ice spilled onto his face and shirt.

Riley allowed himself a faint smile. If only justice got meted out so quickly all the time.

He stayed at the restaurant just long enough to agree on terms, preferring fresh air to deep-fat-fryer fumes, and preferring nearly anyone to Charlie Watson for company. Then he pushed open the bell-jangling door and headed for Cambridge street, inhaling the warm late-June air. Tourists flocked among the pigeons on City Hall Plaza; the breeze in his face brought the faint tang of the sea from nearby Boston Harbor. Riley headed for the Government Center T stop. Might as well take a look at this Rose woman’s apartment building this afternoon. Check out the scene, formulate a plan, then do some digging. Send Slate a telegram if he uncovered anything worthwhile.

The unmistakable nerve-burning sensation of being watched made him hesitate in his stride for a fraction of a second. He waited until he came opposite the low brick wall surrounding the entrance to the T, then turned, keeping the wall at his back.

A man. Clean-cut. Nice suit. Bulge for the gun. Government agent.

Riley set his feet slightly apart, hands at his waist and expression neutral as the man approached. His instincts had proved correct earlier than he’d anticipated. Coming so soon on the heels of the bizarre summons from Watson, this could mean only one thing. Whatever this guy wanted had something to do with Rose the Maneater and her art collector boyfriend.

“Ted Barker, FBI.” The man flashed a government credential from his wallet. “And you are Riley Anderson, private investigator, ex-Marine Force Recon, half of Gemini.”

“Yes.” Riley met the man’s eyes impassively, surprised to see what looked like a trace of admiration and respect in the FBI regulation sneer. “What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to talk to you.” Ted Barker, FBI, put away his ID and gestured to the black Lincoln Towne Car across the street. “We think you can help us.”

“WOW.” MELISSA ROGERS widened her eyes and leaned forward on the living room sofa in her Cambridge apartment, over the bowl of popcorn clutched in her lap. “Oh, wow.”

On her television screen, halfway through the movie 9 1/2 Weeks, a blindfolded Kim Basinger lay on her back in an open white shirt and white bikini panties, cigarette smoke swirling behind her in the blue-white light of a desk lamp. Mickey Rourke, smirking in devilish black, fished an ice cube out of his drink and held it for a camera close-up. Cold wet drips fell into Kim’s mouth, trickled between her lips, down her breasts, hardened her nipples, rolled into her navel.

“Oh, oh, wow. Look at how he…oh, wow.”

Her friend Penny grabbed a handful of popcorn from her own bowl and turned to Melissa in irritation. “Will you stop with the ‘Oh wow’ and let me watch the movie? You’re ruining it.”

Melissa forced her mouth shut, except when it needed to admit another influx of popcorn. And except when Kim was sitting on the floor in Mickey’s kitchen, eyes closed while he fed her—strawberries, cherries, olives, champagne—then squirted honey on her outstretched tongue, and onto her chin, and knees, and legs; used his hands to spread the sticky golden fluid around her thighs, around and in, and up, and higher….

Melissa opened her mouth and formed the words silently. Oh, wow.

The movie spun on, ended; credits rolled up the screen. A strange, almost angry longing charged through Melissa’s body. She smacked her fist on her sensible dark beige, Scotchgarded couch. “Why can’t something like that happen to me?”

“What.” Penny screwed up her face incredulously. “You want to meet a controlling, sadistic psycho who almost ruins your life?”

“No, no, no.” Melissa pushed the popcorn off her lap and stretched her bare feet rigidly out in front of her, trying to calm the emotional need for physical action. “I mean I want that kind of excitement, that danger. I want to be swept away by passion, even if it’s not sensible. Maybe especially because it isn’t sensible.”

“You and the entire population since man walked upright. Get real, Melissa. It don’t happen. By the time you get to sex, you and Mr. Whoever know too much about each other. There’s always baggage, always a power play, or at the very least you start worrying that your thighs feel too squishy, your arm is in the way or you’re taking too long to come and he’ll get impatient.” She pushed her oblong wire rims higher up on her nose. “Swept away by passion is for the movies. Trust me.”

“What about sex with a guy you don’t know? Someone you don’t have baggage with yet?” Melissa blurted the words out, shocked she’d admit considering such a thing, even to her best friend. Some hungry demon had recently invaded her personality and begun gobbling up her common sense.

“Huh? You want to risk messing sheets with a guy who turns out to be Mr. Diseased Serial-Killer?”

“Okay, look. I want a deep, meaningful relationship as much as anyone else. I want to get married someday, and I know the kind of guy that can make me happy. But marriage is like life was for the five years I dated Bill. Comfortable intimacy, predictable dates, same old fights about the same old issues.” Melissa gestured in the air and let her hand flop disgustedly into her lap. “I understand that. I don’t expect it to be a rest-of-my-life thrill. But I’m not married now. I want something different, a totally shallow and exciting and fabulous adventure with someone I know is completely wrong for me.”

Penny snapped her wide-open mouth shut. “Since when have you been Ms. Hot-to-Trot?”

Melissa sat up and curled her legs under her. “I don’t know. I’m tired of being sensible and dependable and predictable. I want to try being someone else for a change.”

Penny rolled her eyes. “Who, Mata Hari?”

“Why not?” Melissa stretched her arms over her head and grinned. “After all those years with Bill, and then the months of misery after he dumped me, I feel alive. Like I’ve been asleep all my life and I’m just waking up.”

Penny peered over the tops of her glasses, brows raised. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life?”

Melissa grabbed a handful of popcorn and lobbed it at her friend. “Many thanks for taking my late-twenties crisis so seriously.”

“Aw, hon, you know I care. I just think sex is not any kind of a cure for what ails you.”

“Then what is?”

“Love.” Penny nodded emphatically. “You need to fall in love.”

“Oh, please. I was in love with Bill. Look where that got me.”

“Ha! Bill was a habit, not love. Give yourself some time. Look around. Ask your friends. Not me, though. If I knew an adorable, single, straight guy I wouldn’t let you near him.” Penny heaved her well-padded self up to her full five-foot-two-inch height, shook off the popcorn in a gentle rain onto Melissa’s hardwood floor and scooped it back into her empty bowl. “Me, I must go. I have to be at the museum shop early tomorrow. We’re expecting a huge shipment of mini Thinker statues for the Rodin exhibit.”

Melissa saw her friend to the door and waved goodbye, then lingered in the hallway, listening to the giggles and booming laughter coming from the apartment across the hall. Rose must have brought her date home tonight. The woman never stopped.

Again that strange, wild yearning slammed into Melissa. Sort of a combination of lust, fury and panic. Like she’d been trapped in a tiny elevator with John Cusack and didn’t know whether to jump him, force back the doors with Superwoman strength or freak from claustrophobia.

The door to Rose’s apartment opened. Melissa stepped back and guiltily gave in to her voyeuristic mood by closing her door most of the way and gluing her eye to the crack.

A dark-skinned, tuxedoed man, probably once gorgeous, now handsome in a balding, middle-aged kind of way, emerged, pulling a laughing young woman behind him. Melissa’s eyes stretched wide. Rose looked like something out of a 1940s movie tonight. Her hair, undoubtedly a wig, fell carefully around her face in dark waves. She wore an unusually modest, rose-colored gown that showed off her fair skin, nipped in her already tiny waist and flowed down to a stunning floor-length skirt. Tonight, instead of the sultry pout she’d had on for her last date she glowed with girlish enthusiasm.

Every time a different man. Every time a new look.

Melissa’s body contracted with fierce longing. She wanted that. That ability to try out a new personality, to let loose, experiment, play. Just for a month or two. More than that and she’d get sick of it, for sure. But two months of wild, nonstop partying and blow-me-away passion would be fine.

The man swept Rose into an embrace and pushed her back against the wall, kissed her mouth, face and hands, and then ruined the entire mood by making a doggy growling noise deep in his throat. Melissa made a gagging face and closed the door noiselessly on Rose’s pretend-outrage squeal of “Oh, Your Majesty.”

Ix-nay on the oggies-day. Melissa didn’t need a “Your Majesty,” either. She wasn’t that picky, by any means. Just a nice parade of your garden-variety perfect studs who could go all night.

She slumped back onto her couch. Who was she kidding? A different man every night? Ick. But one would be great. One no-strings man who set her clock ticking, with whom she could explore things Bill had never shown her. One man who would do a damn sight more than climb on top of her, produce a lot of noise and sweat, then roll off, mumble an endearment or two and start snoring. Maybe someone tremendously talented with ice cubes and honey.

She looked down at her bare feet, ratty shorts and Toy Story T-shirt and pushed back her straight, bobbed hair self-consciously. Yeah, right. She was sex goddess material for sure. Men would throng to her door the minute she announced herself available. An entire squadron of supergeeks, fresh from their Star Trek convention. A brood of wholesome innocents brought up lusting after Mary Ann on Gilligan’s Island instead of Ginger.

Hardly the beefcake she had in mind. But the really amazing guys never gave her a second glance. She was always the cute little sister they never had. Aw…

Melissa sneered and threw a newly recovered brown couch pillow across the room. Fine. She’d been toying with the idea of a makeover for years, but Bill always insisted she’d look fake.

Well, tough. Bill was history. The time was right. If Rose could reinvent herself, so could Melissa. Not for nothing was she assistant director of marketing at the Museum of Fine Arts. Her job was to make things sexy that people might not think were sexy otherwise. If she could make ‘em line up around the block for a glimpse of shards from an ancient Egyptian cooking pot, she could make herself over into the kind of woman someone other than Elmer Fudd would find attractive. Right?

Right.

She grabbed the July issue of Cosmo off her coffee table and leafed through, noting the styles and attitudes of the models. Where to begin? If she was going to go on a rampage, even if she ended up doing so only mentally—an attitude change if not a real sexual odyssey—then she’d have to make sure she got a style she could live with. She stopped and stabbed her finger on the picture of a sleek pouty model with a cap of dark hair. Her all-black, figure-hugging outfit made her look casual, elegant, sexy and innocent all at once, exactly what Melissa wanted.

She shut the magazine and hugged it to her chest. The works. The whole shebang. The New Her. To celebrate her final thrilling freedom from loving Bill. To celebrate the need to explore that strange dark desire that had been thrashing around inside her for the past few weeks. To celebrate the birth of her female power and the chance to bring it to its fullest, most independent potential.

Now just one problem. Where was she going to find the man? The one who’d do all this investigating with her? Help explore the depth of her femininity? Help her overcome any and all inhibitions and take her places she’d never— “Oh, yes, Your Majesty!” Rose’s voice carried clearly from the corridor right into Melissa’s fantasy.

Melissa smiled. Right on cue, not that she would have taken long to think of Rose. What more could she ask for? The new Melissa was a done deal. She had the desire, the means—and the perfect mentor right across the hall.