Читать книгу It Should Happen To You - Kathleen O'Reilly, Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 7

BY ALL RIGHTS, it should have been a glorious day in Chicago. After all, it’s not every day your best friend gets married. It’s not every day that your maid of honor dress actually looks good and—as an even bigger bonus—fits you well enough that you might actually want to wear it again. Mickey Coleman forced a smile.

It’s not every day that you’re videotaped having sex.

She allowed herself one quick shudder. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. And that from a woman who was decidedly not religious.

She looked across the church’s small dressing room where Jessica, in blissful ignorance, was adjusting her veil. Jessica, who’d never been videotaped having sex in her entire life.

Mickey spent all of two minutes debating whether to dump on her best friend on her wedding day. Eventually, guilt prevailed and she realized that not even Mickey the Idiot was that stupid.

“Anything wrong?” Beth asked, coming up beside her. “You look a little pale.” Beth, sweet, innocent Beth, blinked her huge baby blues.

Mickey pulled off her glasses and wiped the lenses, as if that was the problem. “It’s the dress. The color is a little off for me.”

“I think it looks great on you.”

Mickey’s mouth twisted into a pale imitation of a smile. “Yeah, I do, too.”

This stupid dress was more than half of the problem. They had Jessica’s bachelorette party right after the last fitting. Oh, Mickey, you should wear it out. You look fab!

Mickey didn’t wear dresses that showed more than the requisite one-third of her breasts. And she didn’t normally drink more than four beers in one night. And she didn’t normally have one-night stands with horny college interns who threaten blackmail.

The panic attack started all over again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Beth asked.

“I think I just need to sit down.” Mickey managed to choke the words out, and then collapsed onto a nearby folding chair.

“Want some water?”

“Yeah, that’ll help. Thanks.”

Beth came back with a paper cup and handed it over. “I know this has been hard for you.”

Mickey stared in confusion. How did she know? “What?”

Beth tilted her head in Jessica’s direction. “Jessica. Adam. The wedding. You know, you’re not losing a best friend. You’re gaining a whole new conduit to eligible bachelors.”

The sad thing was, Beth was completely serious. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Mickey said, completely honest.

“I know we kinda made this bachelorette pact promise, but we were kidding, right?” Beth blinked hopefully.

The Bachelorette Pact. Almost twelve months ago the four college friends had made a promise to revel in their single status. Free of men, free to do whatever they wanted. Oh, yeah, paradise. Right now the free-of-men part sounded great, because today her priorities were getting the tape, of a night she didn’t even remember—much. Then she could concentrate on the galaxy density differentiation presentation for Dr. Heidelman. Her ticket to fame and fortune in the scientific community. Well, not really fortune, but definitely fame among the Astrophysical Journal set. And maybe even respect in the eyes of one Dr. Andrew Coleman, MD, the man otherwise known as Dad. If Dad ever heard about that tape, or anyone at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center for that matter, she’d be pretty much astrophysical toast.

The day after the Bachelorette Party, John Monihan had approached her with vague references about their evening before. Apparently he was one of those video aficionados, just her luck. Now he had the tape of their night, and he wanted payback. Actually, he merely wanted more sex, which was very frustrating, because Mickey just didn’t remember it being that great.

Beth pulled up a chair next to her. “You know, we can do stuff together, too. I mean, if you want to.”

This time Mickey’s smile was legit. Beth, at her most earnest, couldn’t be denied. “Sure, Beth. Maybe we can go out after the reception.”

“Brick’s for a beer?”

Beer? Not in a million years. Still, there were always the uncharted waters of new territories, like, say, martinis. “Sure.”

The music cranked up from the chapel, and the wedding planner rushed them out into the foyer. Mickey walked over to where Jessica was standing in front of the mirror, twisting around to see her back. When Jessica spied her, she gave Mickey one last hug.

“Break a leg,” Mickey whispered.

“You’ll be next,” was all Jessica had to say.

Oh yeah, right. Slimeball antimatter was definitely prime husband material. Mickey held her tongue.

The ceremony was beautiful, she had to say that. White lilies, classical music and barely controlled tears that hung stubbornly at the corners of her eyes. When Adam kissed Jessica, Mickey nearly lost it.

Jessica smiled at her from under her veil, a tremulous smile completely ruined by the steely glint in her eyes that said, “You’re catching the bouquet.” That was Jessica. Always the woman in denial.

The exit music started, true love conquering all, a journey to a new life, yada, yada, yada.

Mickey sighed, grabbed the arm of the best man and followed the happy couple down the aisle and out the door. The best man smiled at her, a harmless, unpretentious smile, and Mickey just nodded curtly.

He was one of the enemy. He was a man, and right now she had little patience for human beings with an extra appendage. She’d been shot down by those flyboys one too many times.

“I bet you have a video camera,” she whispered under her breath, a reminder that harmless, unpretentious smiles could hide the nefarious heart of a debauchee.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “It’s in the car. Should I bring it in?”

Mickey didn’t answer, just gave him the patented Coleman growl, guaranteed to intimidate any man, woman or Department of Energy inspector. So was this a testosterone-laden man or merely an invertebrate munchkin? The age-old question reared its head.

He shot her one frightened look and that was the end of the conversation.

Mickey buffed her nails on the shoulder of the polished-silk dress. The man was nothing more than Milquetoast in a tux.

WHILE CASSANDRA DECORATED the getaway car with all sorts of suggestions and advice for every newly wedded couple, Mickey supervised. Eventually the wedding party—sans bride and groom, who were probably off doing the rumpy-pumpy—had managed to completely eliminate any possibility of driver-side visibility.

All in all, it was great bawdy fun.

But all good things must come to an end. The reception was winding down, the sun was starting to set, and finally the happy couple appeared, a telltale flush in Jessica’s cheeks. Sex had definitely been involved. Jess threw the bouquet at Mickey, who dodged and bobbed. In accordance with Murphy’s laws on weddings and other damned affairs, the thing hit her smack on the chest.

Using lightning-fast reflexes, which she’d never before possessed, she tossed it off to Beth.

Eventually Jessica’s Porsche pulled away from the curb. Mickey waved goodbye, wiping away her tears before anyone noticed. Her best friend was married. So why couldn’t she be happier for her?

It wasn’t as if she wished divorce or death on Adam; she just wished that things wouldn’t change. But already she’d noticed the little differences. Jessica tried hard, but she was becoming a clock-watcher when they went out. And worse, only once had she participated in Cassandra’s favorite sport, the ten-thousand meter, manly-man ogle. To top it off, she compared the subject in question to Adam—favoring Adam, of course.

It was all depressing.

In order to dispel some of her depression, and forget the whole tape-sex-blackmail-I-have-shot-my-career-to-hell debacle, she met up with Beth and Cassandra at Brick’s that evening.

Saturday nights were always packed, full of males and females on the make. Mickey traded in breast cleavage and heels for her favorite blue jeans and Polymorph T-shirt. Much safer.

Cassandra, spiffily attired in a fire-engine red sheath that revealed every single one of her Pilates-honed curves, shook her head. “Cinderella’s regressed back to rags.”

“Yeah, fairy tale’s over. Reality bites.”

Sometimes it was rough having an overabundance of brains and an underabundance of whatever it was that guys liked, she thought to herself. Everywhere she looked, the male eyes in the bar were glued to Cassandra’s parts.

A short time later two men in suits came over and began chatting with Cassandra and Beth, and Mickey wondered cynically who wore a suit on Saturday. Beth eventually broke free of the lesser suit and joined Mickey in the girls-gone-solo club, ordering chips and salsa for them both.

Beth fished in the basket for the biggest chip and wistfully studied it, shifting the golden triangle in the light. “It’s three points, but I’ve been starving myself all week. Tonight’s a celebration.”

“Oh, boy,” replied Mickey glumly, punching her chip in the picante. “Why’d you leave the potential life mate?”

“Too much cologne.”

“Yeah, I hate that,” Mickey replied, a little bit of snide in her tone, which covered the fact that she was envious as hell. Beth had never achieved envy-worthy status before. Out of all of them, Cassandra had the hot luck with the guys. Jess had the great family that understood how families were supposed to be. And now, she had the great new husband. As for Beth, Mickey had never spent much time being jealous of Beth.

Until now.

She crunched the chip with more force than necessary, a strong bite of jalapeño making her eyes water. Spitefully she swallowed the demon vegetable whole.

Mickey Coleman Cushing—jalapeño eater extraordinaire. Now there’s a talent.

She sighed. Now, see, this was the main problem with having a large ego. The falls from grace were light-years to the ground.

Covertly she studied Beth, who wasn’t as sexy as Cassandra, wasn’t as ambitious as Jessica, and wasn’t as smart as Mickey. Beth, who was completely happy with who she was.

“How do you manage to be so content with who you are?” asked Mickey.

Beth just grimaced. “I know you don’t think much of me…”

There were times Mickey didn’t think much of anyone; that’s what made her world such a lonely place. “That’s not true,” she said automatically, then popped a chip into her mouth.

“No, it’s okay. I know what you think and you’re wrong.”

Mickey stopped and swallowed, now more than slightly curious. “What do I think?”

“That I’m a weaker female destined to dilute the genetic line of females everywhere because I believe that man is necessary for the betterment of the species.”

It really did sound like something she would say. When had she gotten so bitter? Oh, yeah, she’d been born that way. “No, that’s not true. Exactly.”

“I think now is a good time for me to learn from you. You’re so focused and independent. You have your life together, and I feel so…needy. Maybe if we hang together, some of you will rub off on me? That is, if you want to.”

And here was Mickey, feeling all smug and superior, when her life was lower than a Jerry Springer show. She was being blackmailed. Because of sex. Sex which she hardly ever had. Oh, the irony. “If only you knew,” Mickey murmured.

“Knew what?” Beth asked, sipping at her wine.

“That focused, independent people whose lives are so together make some of the most nuclear mistakes in the world.”

“No!” Beth exclaimed, and such emphatic disbelief was almost refreshing. As if Mickey was not capable of mental burps. “What kind of mistakes?”

Now came the hard part. Admitting that she—who really considered her only true quality to be her brain—could do something so stupid. “Remember the bachelorette party the other night?”

Beth nodded.

“Remember how I disappeared?”

Again, the head nod.

Mickey took a long drink of alcohol. Even one-hundred proof couldn’t numb the embarrassment. “I can’t do this.”

Sensing imminent meltdown, Beth waved her hand. “Yes, yes, you can.”

Perhaps Mickey should keep her mouth shut. But she’d spent so much of her life needing to angst that silence was impossible. “Oh, all right. I’ve got to tell somebody. After I left the bar, I called up John, this intern at work—he looks all of thirteen—and asked if I could come over.”

“He’s not really thirteen, is he? I can see the headlines. Statutory Seduction: Physicist Charged In Boy-Toy Scandal.”

Mickey coughed as a straight shot of gin came back up her nose. “Oh, yes, that would look good. Thankfully, no, he’s a senior in college. But still…”

Beth nodded. “You know, that’s really very sexy right now. May, December. Woman in the dominant position. That’s not so bad.”

No, that wasn’t the bad part. Mickey took another long, brain-cell-killing dreg of the martini. “He videotaped me. Him. You know, when we were…”

There was no condemnation in Beth’s eyes, only a glow of admiration. “No joke? That’s so adventurous of you. I thought only Cassandra went down the red-light path.”

Adventurous? Yeah, that was one way of looking at it. “I didn’t know.” Mickey took another long drink. “Now he wants to do it again.”

Beth twirled her chip in the bowl of salsa, as if reading the future in the onions and tomatoes. “The taping or the sex?”

“The sex.”

“Just like Pamela Sue…” Then Beth looked up, and her eyes got huge. “Oh…and if you don’t, he’s going to put you on the Internet. Oh, man, I hope you don’t look fat.”

Mickey, who had never considered the fat aspect, shuddered in horror. “I’ve got an article to finish. I’m working the presentation for Heidelman. I’ll be the punch line in every joke for the next decade, playing into every stereotype that exists for the little woman.” She rammed her fist on the table, very un-little woman. “I’ve got to get that tape back.”

“Can you buy it from him?”

“No. I already offered. Stupid jerk.” She’d covered all possible aspects in order to salvage her career. Extortion, bribery, excessive pleading and murder. There was only one solution left. “I think I’m going to steal it,” she announced. It seemed better to state it confidently, as if she thought this could actually work.

“You could get caught,” replied Beth, pointing out the one elephantine flaw.

However, Mickey had already considered that. “That’s why I need a professional.” So Mickey wouldn’t get caught.

“A private detective?”

Mickey glanced around, checking to make sure no big ears were listening. “Nah. I mean a professional criminal. You know, a real thief. Unfortunately, now I’ve got to find somebody. You don’t meet many criminals in the lab.”

“I know just the man,” said Beth, quick as you please.

Amazed, Mickey stared at her with new appreciation. “You really know criminals?”

Beth lifted one eyebrow. “You meet people from all walks of life in a Starbucks. Come in tomorrow about ten. He hangs out at a table near the coffee-mug-clearance shelf in the back.”

Mickey considered it for a moment. It was so tempting. “What do you think he’s into? Drugs?”

Beth shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think he’s a made guy.”

Huh? The foreign terminology made Mickey wonder at the sheltered life she had led. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Part of the Outfit.”

Her jaw dropped open. “No way. A mafia guy?”

Beth preened. “Yup. Right in my own Starbucks. Venti latte. Loaded.”

Starbucks. It was a long way from The Godfather. Times had changed.

Mickey took another sip of the martini. The alcohol was beginning to make everything seem logical. “How do you know that he’s one of Them?”

“I saw his driver’s license once when he flipped open his wallet. Dominic Corlucci.”

Mickey still wasn’t convinced. “Just because he has an Italian name doesn’t mean anything.”

“Trust me, Mickey. A woman gets a sense about these things.”

A scientist would be laughed out of the lab on hunches and womanly instincts, but Beth sounded so sure, even in the absence of any conclusive evidence. Mickey thought instincts ranked right up there with the tooth fairy, and could rationalize the whole thing away with logic and science when she wanted to. That she had inherited from her father.

It all sounded glamorous and possibly real. The Mafia. She took another sip of her drink. She’d always had a major thing for Pacino.

Still, the Mafia.

It wasn’t exactly what she had planned. She’d been thinking of one of those penny-ante types that wore pants that were too short and hung out at the racetrack. In the end, did she really have a choice?

It was her career on the line. Her reputation as a professional and as an astronomer. No way were they going to take away her stars.

The mob ate guys like Monihan for dinner. That made her smile. It’d definitely be worth it. And worst case, she would lay even odds that the Witness Protection Program didn’t have one astrophysicist in their ranks.

Yet.

“BETH. PSSSSSSSTTT. BETH.”

Beth stared blankly, her face half-hidden by a cappuccino machine.

Oh, this was good. No recognition at all. The disguise was working. She’d had to leave her glasses on, because she was blind without them. Not that it seemed to affect the whole look. Mickey disguised as a bimbo had been a masterstroke. Who would suspect?

Mickey placed a hand on her hip, forming a nice isosceles triangle, just as she’d seen the other girls do.

“May I help you?” Beth asked.

“It’s Mickey,” she answered, twitching a little because the spandex skirt was hitting her butt in all the wrong places.

Beth emerged from behind the cappuccino machine and started to smile. “It’s always been a big, fat lie, hasn’t it?”

“What?”

“The whole ‘I hate men’ thing. Look at you,” she said, her hand encompassing spandex, lace and thigh-high boots. “You just jumped from the latest issue of Sluts R Us.”

Not exactly the look Mickey had been trying for. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

Beth finished up the coffee she’d been making and put it on the wooden bar. “I’m not, huh?”

Mickey shook her head.

Beth grinned. “Well, girlfriend, you’re going to be fighting the vice cops off with a stick.”

When Beth started thinking she was witty, they were in serious trouble. “Where is he?”

Beth cocked her head in the direction of the far corner. “That’s his usual table. He’s not here yet.”

“Okay.” Mickey, who’d secretly been looking forward to mingling with the wrong kind, felt a little disappointed.

She practiced her walk over to the small round table. Hip to the right, hip to the left, thrust, thrust, thrust. There was a certain samba feel to it, not that Mickey had ever danced the samba, but if she had, it would have given her that same all-over body tingle that she had now.

Three espressos later, he walked through the door. Instantly she knew who he was. He moved with a sleek, lean grace, no squeaky tennies here. The kind of man who could kill you before you even knew he was in the room. His shoulders were broad, probably from lifting bodies. All in all, he was one dangerous hombre.

What scared Mickey was that, although Beth had told her enough that she would be able to recognize him, Beth had failed to disclose how a woman’s body would react. A logical, intelligent, rational woman’s body.

Mickey sat up straighter in her seat. Her back, her chin, her breasts all snapping into place. She’d taken a course in body language, she knew what she was saying.

Come on, baby, light my fire was the same in all languages.

Cold dark eyes scanned the room, settling on her.

Uh-oh.

The room temperature dropped ten degrees. In that moment, it dawned on her this was a really stupid idea.

He was going to kill her. He had the look of a man who carried a tommy gun in his pocket, or even worse, a garrote. Automatically, her hand covered her throat.

The next thing she knew, this cold-blooded killer was looming over her table. “You got three seconds to move your pretty little ass clear of my table.”

My table. Her eyes narrowed. Nothing like arrogance to piss a woman off, especially Mickey. She had heard the tone before. Dr. Breedlove had tried it her rookie year at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center. Her nuclei and elementary particles prof at U of C tried it, too, and both had been easily shot down. That’s what happened when you could solve Maxwell’s equation at the age of eighteen.

Mickey pulled at her tortoiseshell glasses until she could stare down her nose at him. “I’m here on business, so you might as well stop your gawking and sit your pretty little ass right down.” She smiled innocently. “Sweet cheeks.”

The coolness in the dark eyes heated. Damn, he was a handsome devil. Handsome in the ways of those Italian boys with high cheekbones and dark, brooding looks that said, “Casanova was my grandfather.”

Not the sort of man that roamed the composite-floor hallways at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center.

Not that she was noticing, or anything. Defiantly she raised her chin.

“Say what you want to say. It’s a free country.” Then he sprawled into the tiny chair next to her, his legs comfortably apart. A pose designed to draw attention to his well-muscled thighs and his well-muscled other parts.

Not that she was noticing, or anything.

Mickey tore her gaze away from his parts. “I want to hire you.”

His reaction wasn’t quite what she wanted. His legs closed, his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes could’ve turned her to stone. “No.”

“You haven’t even asked what I want you to do.”

He stared up at the ceiling, doing a fine job of avoiding her eyes. “I don’t want to know.”

This was not good. “I could pay you,” she whispered. “Pay you well.” The dark eyes flickered back to earth.

“I don’t do anything illegal,” he said, slow and quiet, in a tone that implied that he did things illegal on a daily basis.

Mickey took a sip of coffee. “It’s not that illegal. I’ve got some property that needs returning.”

“To who?” he asked.

“Whom,” she corrected, now portraying the part of a bimbo grammarian. Focus, Mick. “To me.”

“You got the wrong city block for drug deals gone bad.”

“No drugs. It’s a tape.”

His dark eyebrows drew together at a perfect forty-five degree angle. “Who’s holding it?”

Mickey slid a piece of paper across the table. Slimeball Intern’s name and address were printed in twelve-point Arial type so that there were no mistakes. She’d seen that on Law & Order.

“How much are we talking here?”

“Two-hundred dollars.”

The eyes closed off again. “Sorry, lady.”

Quickly Mickey backtracked. The going rate for breaking and entering was not posted on CNN. “Two thousand.” It would kill her savings, but for a career-sustaining insurance policy, it was worth it. She needed muscle, and she was willing to pay for it.

Again she caught the flicker of interest in his face before it disappeared. “No.”

“Please,” she said. It was about the closest she’d ever come to begging in her entire life, but she needed help.

“How do you know there’s only one tape?”

Mickey closed her eyes. This was where things got tricky and moved into the realm of diplomatic finagling. “If there’s more than one tape, then work—of a more forceful nature—might be involved. You do any leg breaking? Whacking?” she asked, successfully imagining Slimeball Intern screaming in pain. She smiled.

“No,” he said, and the screams in her dreams drifted away.

“Oh,” she muttered softly, thinking it was probably a good thing that Slimeball Intern wouldn’t get hurt. Secretly she was still disappointed.

“So you’ll do it?” she asked, just as the door swung open. The bells on the top jangled, and a big man walked through. Big, beefy, with frown lines that were carved permanently into his face.

Mickey shot a quick glance in Beth’s direction to see if she’d been watching, but right now Beth was missing. And where was moral support when you needed it? Off refilling the Frappuccino mix.

Slowly the big guy lumbered over to where she was sitting.

“We’re done,” Dominic said to Mickey, as if she were nothing more than a nanofly.

Sensing the other man was a business associate, in the haziest definition of the word, Mickey stood. “You’ll do it?”

He didn’t reply, just grabbed her and dumped her in his lap.

Whoa.

“What—”

And he kissed her. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God…

An electrical charge fired everywhere he touched, and somewhere in her nether regions condensation began to form. What had she been missing out on by not kissing wise guys before? That was the last thing she remembered before her brain began to spark and fizzle.

Her body melted, draping over his in a nicely accommodating fashion. Another two nanoseconds and she’d be ready for sex.

He stopped before she really embarrassed herself, which was a good thing. Then he patted her bum and whispered in her ear, “You need to get out of here really, really fast. Meet me here tomorrow at ten. I’ll help you, but don’t say anything right now.”

Like she was capable of speech. Ha.

For a long moment she stared at him, trying to read exactly what he was thinking. This time what she saw in his eyes surprised her. None of the “leg-breaking” coldness, nor the “Come to me, cara mia” heat, but instead there was just—curiosity. The kind that she saw everyday at Astrophysical Sciences Research Center.

She blinked, and whoosh—it was gone and the cold was back.

“See you later,” he said, in a husky tone that implied all sorts of carnal treats. He spoiled it all by giving her another pat on the rear.

She should have socked him, but that “later” part was still echoing in her head.

Then she glanced at the big Gonzo that cast a long shadow over the table. “Yeah, all right,” she said, then pulled down her glasses, just so he didn’t think he could boss her around. “Sweet cheeks.”