Читать книгу It Should Happen To You - Kathleen O'Reilly, Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 9

ON SATURDAY MORNING, Mickey donned the long blond wig. She pulled the boots from her closet and searched for something remotely sleazy.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In disgust, she slapped her hand against the hard wooden frame and immediately regretted it. Swift, Coleman, very swift. She was going to have to do something about her wardrobe if she wanted to continue her disguise in front of Dominic Corlucci—which she did. Her alter ego was going to need some more clothes. She should talk to Cassandra about that. If there was one woman who knew sleaze—a tasteful sort of sleaze—it was Cassandra.

Dejected, she leaned against the closet frame. There was only one reason for this loss of steely self-control. Sex.

And one way to fix it. Never again was she going to have sex.

If Queen Victoria could do it, so could Mickey. Some little particle of double circled inside her, due mainly to the nighttime sightings of Dominic Corlucci in her dreams. Dreams that were starting to impact her sleeping abilities. But what harm was there in a little idle fantasizing? Mickey had always had a healthy fantasy life. And fantasies were allowed under the steely selfcontrol regime. It kept the lonely Saturday nights interesting.

She shoved off the doubts and started strategizing her dress code, the pragmatic Mickey returning. If Dominic ever knew the real Mickey Coleman, he wouldn’t give her the time of day, much less an interesting Saturday night, so fantasies were all she had.

Another hour later and she was at Beth’s Starbucks in full regalia—creatively inspired by a Victoria’s Secret catalog and utilizing underwear in a manner for which it was not intended. The black camisole turned heads, which she hoped was a good thing.

She ordered a latte and then settled herself at his table. Prepared for all eventualities, she pulled out the latest issue of Scientific American—discreetly tucked inside a Playgirl—and sat back to read.

Half an hour later, he showed. When he walked through the door, she experienced that extreme tickling inside her that seemed so odd. Again. What was it about him? Was it the long, lean body that moved so gracefully? Was it the hooded eyes that seemed as deep and dark as the blackest night sky? Whatever it was, it was powerful and scared the smegaroo right out of her. Mickey didn’t like men to have power over her. She was arrogant enough to think she could make her way to the top on her own merits. Everything would have been fine except for John Monihan. Except for Dominic Corlucci. Maybe she was just doomed to be stupid with men.

Oh, enough already. She took one last confidence-building sip of her coffee and then stood, electing to operate from a position of dominance. “You’re late.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “If I had known you were so…anxious, I’d have come sooner.” He glanced over at the Playgirl and raised an eyebrow. “A little light reading?”

“For the articles only,” she said, and then winced when she noticed the front page, Seven Sensational Positions to Achieve the Ultimate O. She shrugged a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “We have a deal?”

He crossed his powerful arms over his chest, his T-shirt clinging to muscles that made her mouth salivate in a purely Pavlovian response. “Yeah, but there’s one little thing I need.”

At this point, Mickey would have promised him anything. “What?”

“I need an escort. Somebody to fill in for a while.”

Anything except that. “Let me think about it for a minute. No.”

Then he shrugged a shoulder, nothing nonchalant about it at all. “The deal’s off.”

A lesser woman would have stamped her foot. Mickey merely adjusted her glasses. “You’re willing to walk away from two-thousand dollars because I won’t decorate your arm?”

Evenly he met her eyes. “Yeah.”

She pulled herself up to her full five feet eleven inches and stared down her nose. He was taller than her by half a head, but the effect was still good. “What kind of wise guy are you?”

And she had him. His eyes flickered, not a big move, but she caught it. His gaze slid over her, a look she was learning to recognize, guaranteed to drop her stomach three megaohms. Then he slowly shook his head, regret marking his expression. “All right. We do it your way.”

She didn’t feel like woman triumphant, only woman stupid, but determinedly she carried on. “It’s a business transaction, Mr. Corlucci. I’ll pay a quarter of your fee up front, a quarter after the first visit to Monihan’s apartment and the remainder upon delivery of the tape.”

“Very professional,” he said with a smile.

“It’s a job. Nothing more,” she answered.

“Certainly Ms…? You never gave me your name.”

“Jones. Foxy Jones.”

His lips quirked. Okay, so it was a sham name, but he didn’t have to think it was funny. “Can I call you Foxy, or should I just stick to Ms. Jones?”

“Use whatever moniker you choose. When can you get the tape?”

“Not tonight. I have a wedding tonight.”

“A wedding?” How oddly domestic. Still, Italian-Americans were very family oriented, so maybe it was cultural rather than some subliminal yearning to find his life mate.

“I need a date…Foxy,” he said coaxingly, his voice silky as sin.

Her heart tripped right over itself in its hurry to pump blood into her nether regions. “Oh, behave,” she said, as much to her heart as to him.

“I’m being honest. Anthony Testa’s youngest son is getting married. I was invited. Black-tie.”

“No, I mean don’t call me Foxy.”

“I thought that was your name?”

“It’s a nickname. Call me…Michelle.” Very few people knew that Michelle was her real name. Her father had insisted on calling her Mickey—after Mickey Mantle. He said that her mother liked the way Michelle had sounded. Fragile and feminine and silly. Everything that Mickey abhorred.

“Michelle,” he said, his mouth lingering on the first part and then drawing out the rest, making it sound fragile and feminine and…completely not silly.

“Don’t wear it out,” she snapped. “So, can you get the tape tonight?”

“Will your…friend be home this evening?”

Mickey didn’t want to know John’s schedule; she didn’t want to think about knowing John’s schedule. Now he just made her skin crawl. “How the hell should I know?”

“Do you know of a time when he’s usually out? It’ll make my job easier.”

“During the day, Monday through Friday. He works business hours.”

“So he’s at home at night? Looks like I’m off the hook tonight, then. You can come with me to the wedding, can’t you? Not a business deal, a date.”

She had to try one last time. When Dominic Corlucci looked at her, he scared her, and not because she thought he would stuff her into a trunk. Her fears were deeper. Her sensible, logical, rational nature was careening out of control. Her father would never approve. She slammed that door shut, the noise reverberating in her brain. “I don’t do ‘black-tie.’”

“I’ll knock five-hundred dollars off my fee. Forget the up-front payment. Go buy something…” his gaze moved up and down, over thighs, breasts, arms and legs “…nice.”

She fought the urge to cover herself. Think bimbo. “Only pretend,” she said, the best warning she could muster.

He looked offended, the dark eyes holding secrets that no man should know. “Your choice.”

She nodded briskly. “Don’t forget it.”

“Should I pick you up at your apartment?”

“No!” God forbid he should know where she lived. Or what her name was. Or her real bra size. “I’ll meet you at the corner of Canal and Jackson, in front of Union Station.”

“Okay. Be there at five-thirty. I’ve got to buy a wedding present.”

A wedding present? No way. No way. On a good day, she hated to shop. In two-inch heels, it was stilettocide. “You think I can be beneficial?”

Again he looked her over. “Don’t know, but Anthony said something about Marshall Fields. I hate Marshall Fields. On the other hand, your sparkling companionship could get me through it.”

Mickey turned away, turned away from the dark, compelling eyes. Turned away from that mobile mouth that seemed to be terminally amused. She was halfway to the door when she heard his low voice. Deep, sexy words that tickled their way down her spine, one vertebra at a time.

“See you tonight—sweet cheeks.”

THE AISLES OF MARSHALL FIELDS were not where a virile, all-American man should be on a Saturday evening. It was embarrassing, emasculating and damned shameful. Still, Anthony’s son needed a wedding present, and Dom was determined to find something appropriate, yet suitably tough, no pantywaist gewgaws from him.

“Maybe we should get a bottle of Scotch?” he suggested.

“Are they registered here?” Michelle asked, surprising him with what she knew.

It was one surprise after another with her. She had showed up in front of the station in a dress that knocked him in the gut. It wasn’t her usual tacky outfit, not that it was demure, either. This dress smacked of sexuality. Some white silk thing that was cut short, so short it made a man itch to explore exactly how short it was. Michelle wasn’t stacked, but nicely curvy up top. Again, she just looked—right. If he ever got her naked, he’d spend about two hours just memorizing all her lines.

He stopped so suddenly that Michelle crashed into him.

“Are they registered?” she repeated, as if he was a moron.

It primed his ego and made him want to act like the stupidity was a farce. As if “getting naked” thoughts couldn’t get him dead. “How do I know if they’re registered?” he asked, mentally undressing that long body once more.

He kept forgetting why he had wanted her here in the first place. To figure out exactly who she was.

She shrugged one elegant shoulder. “They just tell you.”

Dom tried to remember exactly what Anthony had said about the wedding. “Don’t know.”

“We can check,” she answered, and moved toward the china department as if she knew just where she was going. Who the hell was she? She walked awkwardly in her heels, looking as if she was unused to the usual busyness of every female he had ever met. Yet, damn, could she kiss. Still he could remember how she felt, how her lips parted so effortlessly. He shot a quick sideways look at her. Maybe somebody had brought out their big guns. One of those innocent-looking broads with the high-powered starters that knew men, and knew sex. Maybe “they”—whoever “they” were—knew Dom’s weak spot. Okay, it was every man’s weak spot, but still…

He followed her blindly into a demilitarized zone known as the bridal registry. As she walked, he found himself slowing, watching the swing in her hips, watching the long length of her legs. She was tall. Almost as tall as he was. Her bare shoulders emerged from the white silk. Pale, not tanned like a lot of the girls he knew. The blond mane had to be fake, but there was no disguising that face. It was lean, angular and the dark-framed glasses were a great touch. They gave her an air of arrogance—and mystery. Dom had always loved mysteries. It always got him in trouble. That, and poor judgment.

Michelle stopped in front of the kiosk decorated in roses and bells. “Here we are. What’s the bride’s name?”

Dom thought for a minute. “Mona.”

She tapped her foot. “Do you know Mona’s last name?”

What did she think? He was doing time with Anthony’s future daughter-in-law? “No.”

“Perhaps you know the groom.”

“Sure. Testa.”

“Is that a last name or a first name?” she drawled.

Playing with her was starting to get fun. “Last.”

He watched her fingers fly across the keyboard, like a secretary or something. She sure as hell knew how to type. He was a hunt-and-pecker when typing was required.

“Here it is.” With a single flourish of her finger, papers started flying out the hole in the bottom, and she handed him the list. “Crystal by Waterford, Dolmen, and china by Royal Albert. Hartington. Good stuff.”

“Okay,” he said, like he knew what she was talking about.

“Do you see a salesgirl?”

Dom looked around the empty store. “No.” He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The sound echoed in the quiet corridors, and one or two shoppers poked their heads out to stare.

Michelle glared at him, and for the first time he realized her eyes were blue. A sky blue that was barely noticeable behind her thick lenses. Right now they were noticeable because she was staring daggers at him. Obviously whistling was not the right way to flag a clerk.

“Don’t you ever shop?”

Dom shrugged. “Not if I can help it.”

She turned on her heel and gave him her back. Whoever she belonged to, he must be loaded. She knew the right brand names and she walked around without looking at the directory. This was a place she was used to, so he supposed he should trust her taste. “What do you think I should get?”

“How much did you want to spend?” she asked, neatly rattling him even more.

Oh, that was a tough one. His budget was tight, and he’d rather spend his money on graft and corruption than dinnerware, but he needed to make an impression. And he needed to look like he had money—but not too much money. “A couple of hundred.” That seemed safe.

“Go for the Hartington.”

An older saleswoman appeared, clad entirely in red. “May I help you?”

Michelle didn’t even hesitate. “We’ll take the gravy boat.”

“Would you like that wrapped or delivered?”

“Wrapped,” interjected Dom. He didn’t dare show up without a gift, even if it meant being late. Bad move.

Michelle shook her head, the blond curls moving as one. “It’s going to take a while.”

If he was lucky, they’d miss the entire wedding ceremony. “We can wait.”

“It’ll take half an hour, young man. Our gift-wrapping service is quite comprehensive.”

Dom checked the time. Thirty minutes was perfect. “’S all right. We’ll wait.” He turned to Michelle. “We’ll get a cup of coffee.”

After paying for the gift and making arrangements for the “proper” bows and crap, they headed down to the Walnut Café. The dining room was more a place for women who had too much time on their hands. Dom sipped his coffee and watched Mickey, wondering if this was her element. “So what do you do in your spare time?” he asked, his curiosity rearing its head once more.

“Read. TV. Movies.”

Almost normal. Except for that reading thing. Dom couldn’t remember the last time he had picked up a book. Course, most wise guys wouldn’t be caught dead with a tome in their hands. “I like movies.”

She smiled at him politely, as if to say, “That’s nice, but not in your wildest dreams.”

Damn she knew how to step right on a guy’s more honorable intentions. Or maybe they weren’t so honorable, but he figured if she was a plant, then she knew what was what. He would be expected to make a play for her. It was all about the game.

He just couldn’t forget that it was nothing more than a game. She was fascinating, intriguing and just a little clunky, and the combination whetted his appetite like no woman he’d met in a long while.

The idea of spending long hours in her company, merely unwrapping her package—both in the figurative and literal sense—awakened something inside him, something that he’d kept dormant for a long time. Of course, that’s probably exactly what they’d figured he’d do, pegging him for the horny bastard that he was. Undercover work was hard on a man’s sex life. People really had no idea.

“Do you think you can try for the tape tomorrow?”

Ah, yes, the mysterious tape. It was always about the tape. To be honest, he wasn’t sure it existed. “I’ll go look on Monday when the scammer’s at work.”

“Maybe you could try tonight?”

“I thought your friend would be home tonight,” he said, wondering if he was supposed to get caught breaking and entering. It was a stupid setup, but guys had been brought down by lesser slipups.

She crossed her legs in front of her, the skirt riding up exquisitely high. Once again her packaging was calling to him, parts of him responding right on cue. Damn.

“Probably,” she said, all casual like. “Monday then. Here’s a cell-phone number. One of those disposable jobbers that can’t be traced, so don’t even think that it’s legit.”

He cracked a smile. “Whoa. Looks like you’ve covered all the bases.”

“Of course I did.”

“Why’s the tape so important?”

“It should never have been made.”

That was new. “It was one of those foot or farm animal things? You’re trying to be an actress, aren’t you?” He hoped that wasn’t true, because she’d never make it.

“An actress? What do you think I am? Some vacuous bimbo who can’t do anything more? You men are all alike.”

Dom hid his smile. The brain thing seemed to be a sticking point with her. “I’ve got a bad case of primordial regression.”

“Good. As long as you understand.”

“Sure.” He stood, thought about helping her up, but she looked so militant, so determined to be on her own, he just watched instead. “Ready to head out?”

She uncurled her legs from the small table, and he felt a twinge of something that was probably sympathy. Whatever got her here, she wasn’t happy about it. For just a second, her walk was brisk, no-nonsense, and then she glanced back.

He smiled at her open look of assessment.

The walk shifted, the hips swayed and he found himself watching once more. It wasn’t pretty, but damned if he wasn’t getting more than a little randy just by watching that eye-glazing swing. There was an odd rhythm. Just when you thought you had the beat, she gave it an extra ka-ching.

There couldn’t be much harm in a guy noticing a woman’s moves, could there? The voice that had kept Dom alive for the past two years had some objections, but content to watch the sway and pitch, Dom chose not to listen.

MICKEY SWORE QUIETLY to herself. The sandals were giving her a blister. She’d dressed nice tonight. Sexy, but nice. And every time she looked at Dominic, he was watching her with that speculative look, but she wasn’t so stupid that she didn’t notice the heat in the look, as well. And that was really ticking her off.

The clingy clothes and the long blond hair called into every male stereotypical fantasy. That fantasy was sooooo not Mickey, nor would it ever be. The other reason she was annoyed was that—well, that she was annoyed. It shouldn’t bother her. Nor should it thrill her. But it did and she wasn’t sure which was worse nor, to be honest, did she really care. She just needed the tape, and then this whole charade would be over.

And she’d never see Dominic Corlucci again.

Which brought in a whole new wave of emotions, which annoyed her even further. She looked back over her shoulder, noticed the Saturday-night smile. “Can you hurry it up?”

“Sorry,” was all he said, and they made it up the steps to the back of the chapel.

They had ended up at the church with about ten minutes to spare. Dominic drove a Honda, which seemed a little odd. She was expecting something bigger, something less fuel efficient. Not a Honda four-door that looked like it couldn’t hold golf clubs in the trunk, much less a body. But what did she know? If you cut off the head and legs, the human torso really wasn’t that long.

As they were rushed to some seats in the back, the sounds of the wedding march began, and everybody stood. It was a traditional Catholic wedding, striking up memories of Jessica’s recent nuptials. At least Jessica would be back in another week, although Mickey had pretty much decided to keep most everything to herself. It was one thing unloading her mistakes to Beth, who seemed to think the whole thing was a spectacular adventure, but it was another to admit weakness to Jessica, who would never, ever let her forget it.

The bride looked gorgeous, happy and content. Really content. Mickey wanted to holler out to her, “You’re marrying a wise guy. Is this what you’re reducing yourself to?” but wisely she held her tongue.

Stubbornly she looked around the chapel, looking anywhere but at Dominic. He looked good in his suit. Better than she wanted him to look. Mickey always prided herself on focusing on more than just the outer facade of the human appearance. A man’s mind was more important than a great set of abs. It was an edict that was easy to believe in when you were exposed to receding hairlines and physiques that were less than ideal. Confronted with such godlike physical attributes, it seemed shallow and a full-frontal betrayal of all her principles to be filled with lust.

Careful not to get caught, she gave him a quick onceover. Yeah, definitely lust. Black was his color. When contrasted with the dark line of his jacket, his hair shone without color at all. The truest black that swallowed up all the light around it.

And his mouth. This man had a mouth that should have been feminine. Should have made him look prissy. Instead, that mouth made her stop breathing. Wide, full, expressive lips. He was always moving them. Smiling, frowning, smirking. Like he knew about his effect on women. The cad.

He almost caught her ogling him, but she covered and concentrated on the stained-glass window just on the other side of him.

The church was packed with dark-haired men, perfectly coiffed women and screaming kids. Every now and then, one goombah type or another would nod in Dom’s direction. He’d send an answering nod, some sort of mob fraternity handshake.

Why couldn’t she be afraid of him? It was a mystery that she wasn’t going to solve right now, but as soon as she got home, she was going to sentence herself to six hours with Joe Pesci and GoodFellas.

Nothing like a little blood and gore to put the fear of God into a female.

Finally the ceremony was over, and she could concentrate on more important things, like walking in her heels.

The reception was a few blocks away and—of course—they walked. He made a point of putting her on the inside of the sidewalk. A nice touch, but she really needed more help with the walking.

The dress and the shoes were Cassandra’s. And while the dress was okay, the shoes were one size too small. She stumbled, and he grabbed her arm. It was only one touch. A polite, impersonal touch. But her body just responded with its own law of attraction. The force operating between two masses is equal to the two masses multiplied together, preferably in a carnal manner. Then the result was divided by the square of the too few inches between them. Lastly, the whole disaster was now multiplied by the Corlucci sexiness constant. Sadly, the constant was in triple digits.

For a moment she leaned in, using gravity as an excuse to get close. He looked into her eyes, and Mickey felt her flesh go even weaker.

“You doing okay?” he asked, as they entered the small hall, and suddenly they weren’t alone anymore. Mickey straightened, focused on the pain in her foot and condemned all males to perdition.

Yeah, that was easy, she thought to herself, ignoring the little snickering from the peanut gallery in her brain.

The reception hall was lit with candles and roses. Except for the one-hundred or so mafiosi, it would have been really romantic. Two weddings in less than two weeks. Her life was cursed. She shot a sideways look at Dom, looking sinfully delicious, and decided being cursed wasn’t without its rewards. He led her over to the bar and ordered two glasses of cabernet.